Page 10 of Omega's Virtue: Part One (The Hartwell Sisters Saga 2)

I froze. Ten years ago, another alpha had uttered similar words to me the evening my heat broke. A naïve and romantic child, I’d believed him. I’d not make the same mistake again. What a fool I’d been to let myself be lulled into a false sense of comfort.

“You…” I clenched my teeth. I could not compare the two. One was shining, cold silver; the other was black ink bleeding across the page of my life. “I will never be your possession.”

“Is that what you think of me? You hate me for admiring you? For admiring your paintings?”

“Hate?” I asked, trying the word. I raised my chin. Even with the foot difference in our heights, I could still look down on him and his antiquated notions. “I do not hate. I’ve learnt life is too short to hate. The world too wide and full of possibility to hold on to anger. You are not worth my hate.”

I did not need my nose or eyes or ears to sense that he was furious. The air crackled with barely repressed fury that I so easily dismissed him.

“Leave, Vixen mine, before I change my mind and give you a reason to hate me. For I do not think you will like how I choose to demonstrate my displeasure at my omega wandering around unattended”

“You wouldn’t dare.” The sound I made was a pathetic omega’s growl. Nothing to intimidate a fully grown alpha. “How dare you presume?” I hissed my fury.

“I’ve never not gotten my way, little omega. I don’t expect that to change with you. But rather than force you to submit… I think I’d rather watch you come ‘round to good sense. I’ll have those paintings.”

“And keep them in the dark like the rest of them?” I indicated the crowded room. “You probably don’t remember a single one—“

“I remember everything I’ve ever desired. I only display what brings me, how shall I say it? I display those paintings that please me? No, that reflect my feelings on that day. Be careful there is a beautiful Caravaggio behind you. Take a step back and you run the risk of destroying one of my favourites.”

I froze. Jealousy unlike anything I’d ever known filled my breast and nearly brought tears to my eyes. This haughty man had a collection of artwork I’d kill for; had probably collected pieces during his travels across Europe. Probably had met with artists I admired, desired to learn from.

“That’s the fire I like.” His hand moved like lightning and cupped my cheek. My bitch of an omega purred under the gentle touch. I snarled at the traitorous thing inside of me, hating myself for craving him. “I’m going to kiss you, I think.”

“Don’t you dare. I bite.”

“There is a thought. Don’t struggle. I do not wish to reopen the wound.”

His kiss was swift and demanding, but for all that brief. Still my heart pounded, and I felt the traitorous slick gather between my folds.

“That is what an omega should taste like.”

I stumbled away from him and his scent and the way I could still feel his warmth.

“I’m rarely wrong, but tonight I admit I made a mistake. I hate you,” I hissed. “I pray those are the last words I ever say to you.”

Pax

I decidedthat the taste of Beatrice Hartwell on my lips paired perfectly with coffee, her sweetness blending perfectly with the dark, bitter drink. In a few short hours I’d be able to sample her taste with every other combination my mind could devise. Brandy was at the top of the list. Champagne warred with the taste of Jack after he’d fucked her mouth—not something I’d tried before but the concept intrigued me. Perhaps I’d create a cocktail of those flavours. My body thrummed with anticipation.

“My lord, would you care for more coffee?” Meeker, my man of everything, asked. His voice strained as he tried to speak properly rather than his rough London grumble. The man was missing an arm and, despite being in his mid thirties, completely deaf in his right ear from standing too close when a shell went off during action in Flanders. He’d been my batman and, after I’d left the army, he’d followed me saying there wasn’t much he was good for but to drink or stay sober and be my servant. To say my household had not taken to the rough about the edges rapscallion foisted on them could be considered… Well, better not to consider it. Thankfully Meeker kept his own company, and I heard irregularly from my housekeeper that he had been in the sherry. So I stocked extra, especially on rainy days when his arm—and in the future when my shoulder, for that matter—ached. I looked after my own. After all, when one stripped away the trappings of privilege, that was an alpha’s duty and purpose in our world. Alphas protected by virtue of our strength. Betas performed the lion’s share of the labour. And omegas nurtured and nested, safe and protected, to soothe alpha’s violence with their slick holes and submissive natures.

Except Beatrice Hartwell. And I of all alphas must decide a wild and reckless omega, who did nothing to soothe my feral soul, was the manifestation of perfection. Dammit but I should have claimed her last night. When she was mine, I’d not permit her to put herself at risk. I’d not leave her long enough for any injury to happen to her. The memory of my sisters…

She’d called my collection a hoard. Fair, I’d let her compare me to a dragon protecting his hoard, for I was going to add her to my collection of priceless works of art. The crown jewel set out to be admired by all. She’d grace my side, radiating that omega-soft defiance. Other alphas would envy me, knowing that they could not capture something so unique. And I would know that the omega who possessed an unnatural bravery would be safe, protected from all alphas but me… She drew out a snarling possessiveness I found almost distasteful. It grated with every civility drummed into me since birth evaporated when I was in the presence of Beatrice Jane Hartwell. I sent a fervent prayer to the Goddess that having her under me would dispel those baser feelings and I’d once again be the alpha I prided myself on. Controlled and above those alphas controlled by instinct.

“Meeker,” I scratched at my chin, dissatisfied by the stubble I was cursed with since I’d yet to shave. My valet was in a huff because he’d been insulted by the fact I was refusing to cut my hair. I’d made an appointment with my barber but for a shave rather than to have my hair trimmed. Before that I had business that needed seeing to. I’d yet to be accused of being a patient alpha.

“Yes, mi’lordship?”

“Go find Colonel Fordom. And do not forget the coffee.”

“Cap, if an’ you ain’t minding, it’d be simpler if the Colonel just moved in. Makes my job a whole lot easier than running after him. Remembering me with my busted leg and missing arm. ‘Sides—”

“If you don’t find him at Jackson’s or Manton’s at this hour, I’ll pay you a year’s wages today,” I snorted.

“Now, Cap, you ‘ought and give a body the opportunity to win a bet.”

“Yes, never bet on a sure thing. Off with you.”

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