Page 3 of Happy Valentine's Day, Omega
I can admit I’m a poor loser and even worse at taking constructive criticism.
I stand from the table, smooth the wrinkles formed by my hands out of my skirt, and sling my bag over my shoulder. I turn my back on him, knowing the action irritates dominant Alphas.
It’s petty and childish, but I’m angry.
I stride out of the library with an unladylike stomp, and I feel his steely gaze drilling into my back.
My skin prickles pleasantly.
My Beta handler follows at a distance, knowing better than to chastise my behavior. The handlers have learned to pick their battles with me.
Arriving back in my dorm, I dump the contents of my bag onto the floor, searching for my chess strategy book.
A shiny glint catches my eye.
Buried under the heavy load of my textbooks on floral arrangement and Omega history is a fountain pen.
The pen is a work of art and has the most enchanting gold filigree etched into the shiny black body. It’s scratched, and the nib broken, the contents of my bag unforgiving against something so delicate.
It’s lovely, even in its ruined state.
Later, I slip it into the library’s lost and found box. I swallow the guilt of accidentally ruining something so expensive.
Wherever it came from, it certainly isn’t meant for the likes of me.
2
Winter settles through The Omega Academy, and inside its hallowed stone halls, the temperature is consistently cold as fuck.
That's a specific term. 'Cold as fuck' comes right after 'My nipples could cut glass.'
Sitting in my Advanced Decorum Theory class, I feel icy tendrils seep through the worn soles of my Mary-Jane shoes. The tattered and rough-spun socks my father purchased from the local second-hand store do nothing to stop the cold.
By the time lunch rolls around, I speed walk to the dining hall and arrange myself down on the edge of the giant stone fireplace heating the room. I hug my knees to my chest and wiggle my feet in front of the flames. My toes tingle as they defrost next to the crackling fire, and I moan in relief.
Unfortunately, a group of my least favorite Omegas are gliding past, their manicured hands primly held at their waist.
“Gross, Batty-Natty. Didn’t your mother teach you not to orgasm in public?” the ringleader Patricia sneers, her nose scrunched in disgust.
The three other Omegas trailing behind her snicker, watching the confrontation with glee.
Omegas rarely form friendship groups because our biology forces us to see each other as competition for mates. Yet Patricia's family has powerful political influence, and it draws lackeys to her like moths to a flame. If there is one thing Omegas are attracted to, it's power.
The comment about my mother is a bulls-eye hit. My mother died before she could teach me how to be an Omega.
I've been working at controlling my infamous temper, but the familiar anger curdles in my belly before I can stop it.
“I couldn’t resist, Patricia. I was hoping to get the dried-up clam you call your cunt to react tosomething,” I snap back with a little too much ferocity. When in doubt, Omega princesses like Patricia cringe away from crass language.
Theyreallydon't like the word 'cunt'.
So I use it liberally and take great pleasure in their discomfort.
"And you thoughtyoucould get me wet?" she scoffs, her manicured finger swirling at me, her steely gaze sweeping up and down my curled-up figure. "Look at you. You're a mess. It should be an actual crime that you're an Omega. Have some self-respect, and clean yourself up."
I don't have a retort.
Iama mess.
