Page 36 of The Omega Trials: Part One

I try to find my way outside and get lost in the process. This place is a goddamn maze. I mean, how many parlors does one building actually need?

Every room is furnished but unlived in. A ghostly quality haunts the space. Like this place isn’t meant for the living.

The only room I stumble upon that doesn’t immediately give me the chills is a billiards room under renovation.

Two pool tables are covered with drop cloths and the expensive rug is rolled away from the walls so painter’s paper can be laid down. Paint cans are stacked along the baseboards and a roller rests in a tray. The current gray walls are in the process of being painted over with a dusky rust color. There’s something comforting in the messiness of an unfinished job.

At some point, I manage to make it outside. The sunlight is warm and bright. I feel like it’s mocking me, teasing me with a golden mirage.

The back of the Estate seems like endless acres of winding gardens and manicured lawns. Soon, with mindless ambling, I begin to believe the sun’s lies.

I take off my shoes and sit under a tree. My feet stick out from the shade and the sunshine warms my toes. The refreshing smell of dewy grass lingers, but luckily the ground under me isn’t damp. I rest my head on the oak trunk and look up at the kaleidoscope of fractal sunlight breaking through the leaves. A charming chorus of birdsongs brightens the air, and the sun’s deceitful promise of peace feels within reach.

“Mind if I join?” My head jerks up to see Paisley silhouetted above me.

“Uh, sure.” I want to be skeptical of her friendliness, but as I search her face, I can’t find any duplicity. Her mate’s bite mark catches my eye again, and as she sits down, I ask, “Are you bonded with your entire pack or just . . . Sorry, what was your mate’s name again?”

“Griffin.” She crosses her legs under her. “And no . . . not yet, at least.” She gives me a sly smile. “But, uh . . . the ceremony changed things.”

“How so?”

“Well, for starters, they had permission to touch me.” I hold back another laugh. I can’t keep laughing at everything the only noble to show me kindness says.

Instead, I say, “Alphas who understand consent. You really are living a fairy tale.” She gives me a sympathetic look, and I dread her incoming pity. Her eyes fall on my bruised cheek. I checked it out in one of the hallway mirrors. It’s not horrendous, but it’s definitely noticeable.

She must see my hesitance because she doesn’t push but quips, “Though I kinda wish Griffin didn’t allow them—I didn’t know the carving would be so damn painful. In retrospect, it would have been nice for one of them to be hurting too.” She chuckles.

Her words remind me of Bishop’s that night in the bathroom:nothing like I’m hurting . . .

But I don’t think she means it that way. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“You didn’t grow up one of us, right?”

“No, I didn’t.” I want to ask what else she knows about me, what the others know, but I don’t want to bring more attention to myself. Maybe later, if her friendliness proves genuine, I will ask.

I’m not naive to the fact her niceness may have ulterior motives.

“So, you know how everything between noble-blooded omegas and alphas is heightened—tenfold—what a normal alpha or omega feels?”

“I’m beginning to figure that out.” I feel myself blush, sparks pricking my skin as memories of their hands on me, cocks in me, tongues laving me are brought to the surface.

When I speak again, my throat is embarrassingly dry. “I manifested during the ceremony, though, so I don’t have anything to compare it to.”

“Really?” she asks, shocked. If she wants to know more, she doesn’t ask. There’s a lingering spark of curiosity in her eyes as she explains, “For most designated people, ruts and heats are like being super horny: one-track mind and hyperarousal. It’s more than what undesignated people experience, but it’s still . . .” She searches for the word. “Human.” I nod. None of that is news to me.

“But between nobles, it’s something that feels past the boundaries of the human body. It’s this visceral, bone-deep need to rut—like you might actually die if you don’t. When you’re in heat, it’s not just ‘a one-track mind.’ It’s every damn cell desperate for only one thing.” My stomach swoops as I realize how accurate her description is.

Like when one of their cocks kisses my entrance, that feeling of not being able to breathe until they’re fully seated inside me. Stretched to the point of pain but still arching my back for more.

It’s not human. It’s animalistic, carnal, visceral.

“You know what I’m talking about.” She wiggles her eyebrows and smiles coyly. I realize I’m biting my thumbnail and rip my hand away, heat burning my cheeks.

“Yeah.” I laugh uncomfortably. Unlike her, the memories may make me blush, but my eyes aren’t doe-like and lovesick.

“Right, so to most alphas, mated omegas aren’t arousing—they won’t trigger a rut in an alpha that’s not their mate, and in some cases, it might even cause an alpha discomfort to interact with a bonded omega.”

“Right.” Again, this I know. It’s basic sixth grade sex ed. “But with nobles, everything is tenfold . . .” I repeat her words, getting an idea where this may be going.

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