Page 40 of Knot Their Soldier: Part One
Shivering as the cold water bites against my bare skin, I hop from foot to foot and hastily scrub myself down with suppressant soap. It leaves my skin feeling uncomfortably tightand raw. To distract myself, I let my thoughts drift back to the mysterious encounter with the enigmatic Alpha.
Blaze.
The name suits him. He appeared like a wildfire, his energy engulfing everything in its path. Mischievous, bright, and dangerous.
Recalling his sharp features, I’m struck by a startling amount of puckered scars marring his skin. Burn marks, if I’m not mistaken.
Remembering the big scar across Prime Asshole’s face, and I wonder how much action this team sees. Enough to receive permanent scars on skin that’s supposed to be impenetrable.
Digging through my pack, I drag out the military-issued uniform I’m supposed to wear from now on. I hold up a pair of camouflage patterned trousers and sigh in frustration.
Just by looking at the new trousers, I know it’s going to be a struggle to fit.
I rub the fabric between my fingers, and sigh. It’s rough, made of thick, tough fabric. It’ll feel like sandpaper on my sensitive, soft Omega skin. Biting my lip, I tug them on and huff in frustration as they get stuck on the wide curve of my upper thighs.
Yeah, definitely not designed for voluptuous curves.
The battle begins, and I jump up and down and wiggle my hips like a woman possessed until they finally slip over my bottom. I hear seams pop, but they hold together. My narrow waist, another trademark of an Omega, means the button closes easily but leaves a large gape of fabric at the back. They’re also much too long for me, fabric pooling around my feet comically. Fracking brilliant. I roll up each trouser leg so I don’t trip over the excess fabric.
The shirt is made of simple cotton with a round neck and short sleeves. The olive green color matches what the Alphas werewearing, except I don’t have a stitched name tag. I guess I don’t need one. My ‘name’ is hanging from my throat in the form of an actual rut-damned dog collar.
I stuff my breasts into the shirt like a tube sock, then wrestle my arms into the sleeves. I bend at the waist like a circus contortionist trying to pull myself inside out. Finally, after some serious wrangling, the shirt hugs my breasts tightly and molds to my torso.
There isn’t a mirror, but I know if I could see myself, I’d look ridiculous. Scandalous even.
My nipples are straining through my bra, erect and determined to be seen. The shirt is so tight, there is even the faint outline of my puffy areolas.
These clothes clearly aren’t designed for someone with my body shape. They’re for a female Beta with standard womanly curves. I briefly consider putting my filthy uniform back on, but after Prime Asshole’s insistence I follow his orders without question, I decide to maliciously comply.
Sucking in a deep breath, I gather my frustration into a shield around me.
Want me to follow your rules? Sure, you’ll have to deal with the curvy consequences.
Leaving the shower block feels like walking out into enemy territory. The base is just as eerily silent and still as it was when I arrived this morning. I wish there were more people around. My instincts are twitchy. I can’t shake the sensation of being watched.
I drop off my bag on my sad looking bunk.
My stomach growls loudly, and I clamp my hands over my midsection. I’m beyond hungry. If Prime Asshole isn’t going to feed me, then I’m going to do it myself.
Exiting the bunkhouse, I follow my nose towards a delicious smell and peek my face through the doorway of the tent next door.
Bingo.
There is a series of camp cooking material set up within – temporary but functional. A pot of steaming stew sits on a table emitting the most wonderful aroma. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone without three square meals a day, and I’m no longer used to the gnawing bite of hunger.
“Finders keepers,” I mutter to myself, pluck a bowl from the table and ladle myself a healthy scoop.
I sit down at the metal table and shovel the stew into my mouth, barely pausing to chew. It’s delicious and I think I might cry at the glorious taste of food. Whoever made this has a serious talent for taking basic, military-issued food supplies and making it delicious. As my blood sugar rapidly restores, my body fills with warmth and my head clears.
I sense them first.
A tingling feeling starts low in my belly and then a mix of scents curl around me. My hand freezes, the spoon halfway to my open mouth.
Deep, rumbling voices reverberate from outside and are coming closer. The crunch of gravel of multiple footsteps halt right outside the food tent’s entrance.
“When were you going to tell us our pretty little guest had arrived?” It’s Blaze, and the sound of his rasping voice makes my body hum with attraction.
“You need to pay better attention during briefings… better yet, turn up for them,” Knox grunts.
