Page 84 of Carmichael's Omega

"You know, my pack has a tradition about Omega mates," he begins in a voice low enough to be heard only by me

My head drops to my chest. I don't need this. I didn't need this wolf following me home, getting in my business, bringing the reminder of my mates to my doorstep. But, here he is.

"What is it?" I ask, defeated.

"Most northern wolves, we expect strength. We need it. Those born as Omegas... we used to call them 'Blessed Ones.' Did you know that? They are rare, beautiful, unexpected."

I nod as if I'm back in class. "And?" I prod him.

"They say only the strongest wolves are mated to the Blessed. They say that the goddess chooses those mates because they alone are powerful enough to protect her most precious wolves."

"Sí?"I suck down the remainder of the beer. "I have two omega mates," I confess in a harsh whisper. "Cassidy has a twin,sí? Amale."

Devel looks mildly surprised for a brief moment. Then he nods, shrugs. "Yeah, I know Mattie, of course." He studies me. "Did you reject him?"

"No," I croak out. It's all I can manage. I need more alcohol. "They're mine, and they're both so fuckingscared." I stand up, weaving a little. Pounding my chest with the flat of one hand, I snarl, "they're afraid of me."

"They're afraid you'll reject them," Devel replies.

"I told them they are mine," I repeat it, slowly, so that the hard-headedpendejocan understand. "I won't reject either of them because they're mine,sí?"

Devel raises an eyebrow. "Did you take them home?"

"No. Won't," I tell him, satisfied with my plan. I take another drink, smug in the idea that has been growing as long as I've been sitting in this dump.

"Oh?" Devel prods.

I pause, swaying. What was my plan? "I'm going to take over the Diamonte Cartel," I announce proudly. I smirk at Devel's astonished face. "Sí, I know. It's a good plan."

"You need more'n big balls to take down the Cartel," the bartender rasps out in his chronic smoker's voice.

Devel and I are at his throat a moment later. Devel's hand hard on his shoulder, mine on his shirt, ready to strike.

The old man doesn't even flinch. He chuckles, the sound just as painful as his voice.

I take in his scent. He's human, just as I thought at first. Devel realizes it at the same time I do, easing his stance and sitting back.

"You'ns remind me of better days," he snorts, then coughs violently. "Cartel," he says when he catches his breath, "versus Cartel, ey?"

"Which Cartel is Diamorte up against?" Devel asks.

The bartender's voice drops. "Had some trouble with the Carabonas over down in Mexico," the bartender wheezes.

“The Carabona,” Devel states in a voice colder than the artic.

The bartender grins, displaying two missing teeth and yellowed gums. "Carabona is like you'ns," he gestures to me, "some badass motherfuckers."

"Why have they failed to destroy Diamorte then?" I ask.

The bartender grimaces. "Bad shake-up a few years back in Carabona. Nows, they got new leadership. Truth be told, years of them Diamorte running straight through them deserts in the west of 'ere didn't help none. Carabona won't go that ways," he explains.

My territory. The Diamorte Cartel has been running through LoboGris land. That's how they've survived.

"Heard tell they been having some trouble out there these days. Wolves keep getting 'em mules," the bartender says.

I smirk. "Wolves are vicious creatures. Very territorial."

"Ey, sure, sure," the bartender grumbles. He heaves a sigh. "This place used to be right on their path. Livelier days. Now, I'm just looking to survive, same as everyone else."

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