Page 5 of Unhinged Omega

And there, looming over it all like some great beast of war, is Arthur Maybrecht.

Financier.

Oligarch.

Puppet master.

He cuts an imposing figure even in his finely tailored civilian suit. His salt-and-pepper hair is meticulously styled, not a strand out of place despite the chaos around him. His face is all hard angles and deep-set lines carved from years of cold ruthlessness.

He plays whichever role suits him best in the moment, slipping from one mask to another with practiced ease. But I know the truth of what lies beneath. A monster wearing human skin, driven by an insatiable hunger for power and control.

So what does that make me?

He doesn't look up as I enter, his eyes fixed on the map before him. His meaty hands trace potential battle lines, entirecities reduced to nothing more than strategic points to be captured or sacrificed. With a single, agitated flourish of his hand, he sends the soldiers scattered around the room running. The last one pulls the door shut behind her with a heavy thud.

"Report," he barks, still not deigning to acknowledge my presence directly.

I stand at parade rest, my voice steady and emotionless as I deliver the news he's been waiting for. "The Council chambers have fallen. What remains of the old guard is in full retreat. They're scrambling to regroup at the secondary location, but it's only a matter of time before the Surhiiran invaders flush them out."

Maybrecht grunts, finally looking up from his maps. His eyes, a muddy gray like stagnant water, fix on me with predatory intensity. "Casualties?"

"Extensive," I reply. "The Council loyalists were all scrambled to the Capital the night before the attack, as you ordered. I'd estimate approximately ten percent survived the onslaught and are prisoners of Surhiira now. Anyone essential was guarding the Council chambers."

"Good," he says, only the barest hint of satisfaction in his tone as he leans back in his chair, studying me with the bored patronization of a god analyzing a devotee. With the wings of the stone angel positioned perfectly behind him, he looks the part. "And the girl?"

My jaw clenches at the apathy in his tone. As if Cosima is nothing more than another pawn on his chessboard. His own flesh and blood.

Her face flashes through my mind. Those violet eyes that seem to see right through me. The curve of her lips when she smiles, a rare and precious thing. The way her silver hair catches the light, making her look like some ethereal goddess too pure for this world of blood and shadows.

I school my expression to careful neutrality, though I know it's futile. Still, old habits die hard.

"I have her location," I say, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "The Ghosts kept their word. She's in Surhiiran custody. And they would never harm an omega," I add, though the reassurance is more for myself than for Maybrecht.

A sneer twists his features. "How precious," he drawls. "Who knew, after all those years of isolation and brutal destruction of anyone who dared to get close, that the key to controlling the great Surhiiran empire would be one little omega?"

My muscles tense at his words, rage coiling in my gut like a venomous serpent. "I can fetch her as soon as you give me leave," I say, keeping my tone carefully neutral, forcing the bile down.

Maybrecht leans back in his chair, regarding me with those cold, calculating eyes. I can see the gears turning in that twisted mind of his. For a moment, I think he might agree. But then he shakes his head.

"Leave her for now," he says dismissively. "There are more pressing matters that require your attention."

I clench my jaw so hard the bone creaks. Every instinct screams at me to argue, to demand that we extract Cosima immediately. But I know better than to push him too far.

Still, I can't help myself. "Sir, with all due respect?—"

"Silence." Maybrecht cuts me off, his voice sharp as a blade. It takes everything I have to stifle the growl building in my chest. "You should consider yourself fortunate I didn't put a knife in your windpipe when I learned you were fucking my daughter."

I feel my eyes narrow a fraction, but otherwise, I keep my face a mask of stone. Unreadable. For all the good it does me. It seems fitting that the one time I've ever heard genuine emotion in his voice in regard to his daughter, it would be indignation.

Like I’d touched his property.

It doesn't last, though. His wrath fades as quickly as his occasional whims of mercy, and he's a paper figure of a man once more.

"In any case," he continues in a neutral tone, "now that Monty is out of the way, and you've risen to a position appropriate for the mate of an omega of her station, there's no reason you can't be together."

Wait… what is he saying?

Is this a trap? Some sort of bizarre test?

---