Page 9 of The Omega Trials: Part One

My chest feels like a ticking time bomb, growing more and more tight with each passing second. Anger and thirst for retribution fill every empty space inside me. If I don’t takecontrol of this situation right now, I will detonate, ruining everything we’ve worked so hard for.

“We’ll make it work,” I say firmly and stride to the door, throwing it open and crossing the threshold. The cloying scent of pheromones wraps around my lungs, and I add under my breath, “We always do.”

The dark trap music, which was faint when outside, is now so loud, I barely hear the front door open behind me as the others join me inside. To my right, an omega with a teased red wig and sunken eyes scratches at the skin under her silver collar while leaning in a doorway and greeting me with a limp wave.

I let the Elders pass and follow them farther into the brothel, the heavy bass getting louder and louder, like a debaucherous summon I can feel it in my chest. We reach a parlor of sorts bathed in a wash of purple and green light with assorted furniture. In the corner, a man fucks an omega from behind, bent over a faded pool table with a cue held across her neck. On one of the chaises, another omega snorts a line of pink powder off a man’s thigh before taking him into her mouth.

I’m not surprised the whores here are strung out on Dust. I’ve worked as security for upscale omega houses in the past, and it wasn’t uncommon for our girls to have worked in shitholes like this before getting clean.

Against the far wall is a bar, the strip of purple, neon light under its edge one of the few sources of light in the windowless room. It looks like it may have once been a nice piece, but now the wood is scratched and dull and one corner looks like it was shoddily rebuilt with cheap two-by-fours.

When he sees us, a man hops off a barstool, giving me a better look of the omega behind the bar. Her pale skin looks like she hasn’t seen the sun in months, and her blonde, almost-silver hair hangs to her shoulders without any shine, dirty andunkempt. She looks up from drying a pint glass, and I’m struck with something strong and aware in her stare.

Unlike the other drugged-out omegas, her eyes are clear and sharp with a fierceness that shocks me when our gazes latch. She straightens her back when I don’t break eye contact and sets the towel and glass in her hands down, as if freeing them up to defend herself.

I realize then why the look in her eyes strikes me harder than it should. I’ve seen the same fight that lights them up dozens of times in the mirror. The self-consciousness that it brings prickles my spine and has my chest tightening with anger. I clench my fists and break our connection, lowering my gaze.

When I do, I wonder why it wasn’t the first thing I noticed.

Where her collar should be, a thick and gnarled scar is emblazoned across her throat.

Sinclair

In the last two months, I’ve seen every type of sleazebag come through these doors. I thought I was done being surprised when an alpha came in with three omegas of hisown, leashed and crawling on the floor beside him.

But what surprises me most about the new arrivals isn’t the freaks in gold animal masks and tuxes, but the three younger men with them who immediately give the air of alphas.

One has fair but sun-tanned skin with cutting cheekbones and sweeping flaxen hair. He surveys the room with his nose scrunched and a murderous glint in his eyes.

The second one has warm brown skin, against which I notice a flash of metal in his nose, a septum piercing. For some reason, that small detail stands out to me more than the fresh shiner marring, what I’m sure, is usually a very pretty face.

Vincent gets up, taking his half-drunk beer with him, and I’m left face-to-face with the hard, cold eyes of the third one. The brute stares back at me, unflinching, and the sudden, intense attention makes me uneasy. I stop drying glasses and refuse to break eye contact first, even though my chest pounds harder every second it’s extended.

Everything about him sets alarm bells off in my head—the broad expanse of his shoulders and towering confidence in his stance. His hands are balled into fists with bruised and cut knuckles. The hard muscle is knotted at the back of his square, clenched jaw, and there’s unrelenting determination in his gaze.

Even though I’m damaged and off the menu, customers still hit on me. I’m used to their lecherous leers. Their pickup lines range from slimy to obscene. I’m used to being looked at like a piece of meat. But this man isn’t looking at me like he wants a taste of me.

He’s looking at me like he wants to utterly devour me.

Finally, he looks down, breaking eye contact. I watch the only emotion I’ve seen so far flicker across his face as he notices my burn. I’m shocked by the unexpected and confusing urge that rolls through me. For the first time, I want to cover my scar. I don’t want him looking at it.

I’m relieved when one of the masked men says something and snatches his attention. I can’t hear him, but he seems to be introducing Vincent, gesturing to him with an open palm. Vincent holds out his hand first to the one with the piercing,and I can’t help but smirk when he refuses to shake it. I’m disappointed when more words are exchanged and the three young men leave.

Well, I’m disappointed to see two of them go.

Vincent walks the men in tuxedos over to the bar. “Pour our friends beers,” he barks at me.

I watch them out of the corner of my eye as I grab two glasses. Now that I can get a closer look, I see I was right in assuming they were older than the other three. Below their masks, smile lines etch into their skin.

I reach for the beer tap, and the one in a mask with antlers like a stag holds out his hand. “We won’t be long.”

I pause and look to Vincent for approval to proceed. His face flashes with hints of worry and insecurity. “Oh, it’s on the house, gentlemen.” He signals for me to continue with a flick of his chin.

I have to fight the urge to purposefully pour a large amount of head just to embarrass Vincent more in front of these men he clearly wants to impress. But it still hurts to sit from the last time I pissed him off, so I tuck the idea away for another day.

I slide the drinks onto the counter and bite back a laugh when both guests leave theirs untouched.

“Who is your youngest omega?” the stork mask asks, and I go back to drying dishes a few feet away.

---