Page 10 of The Omega Trials: Part One

“That would be Annie,” Vincent responds then leans forward to add crudely, “She’s nineteen but with the pussy of a fourteen-year-old.”

One of the men’s lip curls in disgust but he still turns around and asks, “Which one is she?”

Vincent points to where Annie bends over the pool table across the room. “Fine,” the Stork says, unimpressed. “We’ll take her for one hundred.”

Even after months of it, my stomach still roils when I hear these men talk so casually about buying and selling women.

Vincent laughs, and I get the idea he thinks they’re joking. Their straight face in response says the opposite as they up their offer to two hundred.

Realizing they’re serious, Vincent clears his throat and says with his best attempt at tact, “I’m sorry, but I won’t sell any of my omegas for less than five hundred grand. Most of their debts are half that.” He holds out his hands and adds with a forced smile, “And they’re broken in good, so really, half a mill is a deal.”

The masked men exchange a look, then one says, “Who can we get for a quarter million?”

Vincent drums his fingers on the bar, and I can tell he’s thinking hard on how to make this work, not wanting to disappoint these men. “I can give you my best whore for two months—”

“No, no,” the stag interrupts. “A full and complete sale only.”

Vincent grimaces. “I can’t do that for what you’re offering.”

“What about the mangled one?” My head snaps up, and all three men are looking at me intently. My blood chills.

“Uh . . . ,” Vincent considers. “I could be agreeable to that, but she’s not an omega.”

The two guests look at each other conspiratorially and chuckle. “Even better.”

The Ceremony

Sinclair

After months at Baby Doll Omegas, a.k.a. the Doll House, the polished interior of this town car feels uncomfortably sterile. The black leather seats gleam and the carpet doesn’t have a fleck of dirt. I want to mess it up, but I feel so unbearably out of place that I sit with my hands in my lap and my knees squeezed together, trying to take up as little space as possible.

We arrive at a grand, wrought-iron gate between brick columns covered with crawling ivy. A man in a suit is waiting. He’s not small, but he looks like a child pushing the tall, imposing gate open. No words or even a wave are exchanged between the driver and the gateman as we slowly crawl through.

Driving over the long gravel driveway feels nothing like the rough gravel in the alley outside the Doll House. You can hear the crunch of the pea gravel under the tires more than you can feel it. The rust-brown stones complement the flawlessly manicured and vibrantly green lawns framing the drive.

This feeling of not belonging grows exponentially as we approach something that can only be described as a castle. Judging by the numerous windows, I count at least four stories, five where there are towers topped with spires. From the center rises a bell tower with a magnificent clock on its face.

The car comes to a stop, and I feel as if I’m in an alternate universe or have somehow time traveled. Even when the driver opens the back door, I don’t move to get out of the car—this is surely not where I’m supposed to be. Even the more modest, two-story wings to my right and left are grander than anything I’ve seen before.

The driver doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at me. Like a soldier standing at attention, he’s as unmoving as a statue waiting silently next to the open car door.

“Where are we?” I ask, taking in the even more verdant landscape now that I’m not looking through tinted windows.

Receiving no response, I tentatively slide across the back seat and swing my feet out of the car. Stepping out, it’s hard to believe that the ground below me is real.

A young woman in a simple and modest white dress comes flitting out of the castle’s giant front doors. Her brown eyes widen when she sees me, and she rushes into a curtsy.

I want to tell her to stop, but my bafflement has me tongue-tied. When she pops back up, swiping her dark hair back over her shoulder, I ask again, “Where are we?”

She tilts her head, and a flicker of confusion passes over her face. She rights it with a small, timid smile. “Welcome to the Estate, ma’am.”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt something so glorious.

Warm water runs down my back, my wet hair clings to my skin like a heated blanket, and the steam rising from the tub keeps my shoulders above the surface from chilling. I never earned the privilege of showering privately with hot water at Baby Doll’s.

Instead, I was hosed down with frigid water in the basement. The dirt floors would turn to muddy puddles. My feet and calves were always dirtierafterthe shower.

But here, if I close my eyes, I can almost convince myself I’m free. There’s a short lull when the attendant who met me at the car pours the water over my head and refills her cup. It’s in this small space where there are no hands on my body but my own that I can pretend.

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