Page 2 of Broken Omega

Probably the most stubborn, too.

Finding an Alpha was never going to be an easy task, and it doesn’t help that Goldcrest is so damn picky about who they let through the doors. Only the progeny of the wealthiest Alphas with the best connections are allowed to attend the socials and meet the Omegas here.

It makes Goldcrest sound elite, but really it means the majority of the Alphas are entitled pricks who treat the academy like a brothel their fathers pay for them to visit.

Sure, some decent Alphas have come and gone, formed connections and become bonded to an Omega. Some of them even claimed to have met their one true mate in this very building.

Those Alphas are a rarity. They’re the exception, not the rule.

All we have left are the entitled pricks, and it’s been like that for a while. Four months, maybe six.

Fresh blood is getting rarer. The academy’s going to have to widen its net.

Or else the head of the school needs to step in and do something differently to fix the problem.

Geraldine doesn’t seem concerned right now, but I’m sure I’m not the only one with an irritable father who expects results. I doubt all the Alphas who come here are under zero pressure to find a mate. After all, that’s what the academy’s supposed to be for.

It’s no use telling my father there are no good Alphas left here.

To him, these men are perfect matches that I’m ignoring.

They have the means to give me a comfortable lifestyle. And, of course, Omegas who bear the children of Alphas are guaranteed to have Alpha and Omega children to keep our bloodlines trapped in the same vicious cycle that I’m stuck in right now.

I can’t think of anything worse than settling down with one of the assholes who come to the socials.

My mother probably had the same thought about my father.

She never seemed happy. All I can remember about her was that she spent a lot of time crying in bed while I was a kid.

Of course, my father put that down to her inability to give him more children, which he absolutely blamed her for, as if she was personally refusing to give him what he was due.

In reality, she got sick the year after I was born and was quickly bed ridden.

He didn’t look after her like he should have. He was too busy working.

When she died a few years later, I felt relieved for her.

She’d be in a better place with people who loved her now.

If there was one thing I was sure of, it was that.

For a while I expected I might get sick and die, too.

The housekeeper told me I wouldn’t, but I didn’t believe her.

I got obsessed with the idea and Dad noticed once he actually paid me a tiny bit of attention.

He ignored it to begin with, telling me and everyone else it was a phase I would outgrow. Eventually he took me to the doctor who examined me and told me I was healthy.

Death wasn’t imminent. I didn’t need to worry about closing my eyes at night and never waking up again.

He had that part all wrong.

I wasn’t afraid to die.

When I realized I could have the same sickness as my mother, I’d felt that same relief I felt when I was told she’d passed on. If I was next, I’d get to see her again and I knew she’d be happy this time.

It would make me happy to see her happy.

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