Page 5 of The Omega Trials: Part One

The Omega House

Sinclair

The chains swing as the van drives, the metallic clank constant and grating on my already overwhelmed senses. I’m sitting on a bench against the van’s inside wall while two mercenaries sit on another one, facing me. A heavy metal chain connects the shackles on my ankles to the ones on my wrists. I tried to insist they weren’t necessary. I mean, where am I going to go? Plus, it’s not like they don’t each have more than a foot and at least eighty pounds on me.

The man in the suit got inside a sleek black town car outside my apartment, and I wonder if I’m ever going to see him again. Or, like any other debt collector, does he simply collect and go, not caring about the wreckage left in his wake?

Less than twenty minutes later, I feel the van turn onto a rough surface, probably gravel, and the sounds of other traffic fade. The men across from me start checking their guns and straps, shoulders straightening like they’re readying for something.

We come to a stop and they both stand, hunched to avoid the top of the vehicle. Shortly after, I hear the engine cut and one of them warns, “Run and we will fully be within our rights to shoot.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to read theirs from behind the ski masks. They might shootatme, but they can’t kill me. Forced indentured servitude might not be illegal, but murder sure as hell still is.

As if reading my thoughts, he adds, “You’re not a person anymore. You’re property.” He’s cold and authoritative, but there’s a hint of earnestness somewhere behind those dark eyes. “And unlike with a person, the boss can do whatever he wants with his property—”

The sound of keys jingling in a lock makes him pause, but the other man continues, “And if he says shoot, we will.”

It feels like my blood is turning to stone when I hear the kind of power “the boss”wields. Not just over my body, but my life, my death. Thinking of everything he could do to me is making my stomach churn with nausea.

Not for the first time, a wave of resentful anger at my mother overcomes me. It makes me want to scream. And when the back doors open, it makes me want to run, to feel the metal of a bullet pierce my skin and tear through me.

When all my choices have been stripped from me, the choice to run could be all mine.

One last choice. One lastfuck you.

With renewed determination, I hop out of the van, a spiteful fire inside me igniting. I take one stilted, shackled step and myblood buzzes in anticipation. My heart pounds. My lips tease a smile. My bare feet revel in the pain of standing on gravel.

I won’t notice the pain once the bullet hits its mark.

I scope out the end of the alley we’ve parked in. I wonder how far I will get.

I inhale a deep, confident breath and my racing heart seems to slow down as I lift my foot—

“You look just like her. The spitting image.” A deep, male voice makes me freeze before I can take my first stride. Behind me is a pale, smarmy man chewing on a toothpick. His hair is dyed black in what I assume is an unsuccessful attempt to not look his age.

I turn his direction and press the soles of my feet harder onto the sharp edges of rock. I need to feel something other than this burning desire to tell him to shove it. I am sosickof hearing about my deadbeat mother today.

I roll my eyes and ask who I assume is my new owner, “Who do I look like?”

“Your whore mother,” he spits as if the answer is obvious. But then his face morphs from derision to angry fascination as he leans in close and takes a big, audible inhale, smelling me.

I hold my breath, knowing what he’s looking for.

This time he addresses the man in the suit who I only now realize is here. “She’s not an omega.” The boss is pissed. I exhale in relief at his words.

The suited man doesn’t let it phase him. Just as arrogant as he was at my apartment, he answers coolly, “Her designation is irrelevant to our agreement, Vincent. You didn’t ask for Sinclair Ash, the omega. You wanted Sinclair Ash, daughter of Celia Ash, and that’s what you got.”

What,notwho.

My new owner wrinkles his nose and stands back, looking down at me with a sneer. “Whatever, you still have three good holes.”

The bars slide closed, and I’m left alone for the first time since the collectors stormed our apartment. I look around the cell, guessing it’s no more than seven by seven feet. I was led straight down to the basement, but I saw enough of the inside to know what this place is: an omega house.

And not a nice one. Like any business, omega brothels range in quality, from glamorous and luxurious to sketchy and exploitative. Judging by the glass-eyed and hollow-cheeked omegas high on Lust Dust I passed on my way in, this is one of the latter.

Dust is a synthetic street drug that mimics bond lust, the hypersexualized euphoria omegas feel after bonding. In omega houses of this quality, it’s the only way to make the work tolerable.

I begin to pace the red dirt floor and think about how the hell I ended up here.

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