Page 9 of Unlikely Omega

“I haven’t looked at his ass,” I say, taking once more my position for the dance. “He’s ugly. And annoying. And you’ll make me late.”

“Gods above, your goddess really is a prude,” Ismere sighs, and doesn’t even seem to register the blasphemy in her words. “The moment Priest Finnen arrived at the Temple, half the acolytes started panting like omegas in heat.”

“Not funny,” I mutter, taking up the position of the crouching lion and bowing my head to my goddess. “Comparing us to omegas like that—”

“I didn’t say you were panting,” she points out. “I said, half of us.”

“And the other half?”

“The other half were pretending not to notice him.”

“Ismere—”

“And in your case, convincing yourself you didn’t notice him. He’s sexy.”

“As much as a blind, one-winged bat! He’s not sexy. You’re seriously messing up my concentration, Isme. Go do your rituals.”

“I’m done with mine.”

Artume, give me strength. Gritting my teeth, I continue with the dance but my mind isn’t really in it. I’m thinking of Councilor Kaidan in Priestess Arleth’s apartment, the prophecy and the dismissal by Arleth of any danger.

What if the Fae came back somehow? Is it possible? What would it mean? Would there be another war? And really… if an omega rose and had some babies with some alpha Fae, then what? Why is that so bad?

Honestly, I don’t understand politics and this is obviously passing way over my head. What’s gotten the councilors’ fancy undergarments in a twist? What am I missing?

And why does Ismere think that the blind priest is sexy? I ask you. Why does she think I noticed anything even remotely appealing about the arrogant asshole?

Really.

The heat spreading through me has nothing to do with him. I mean, I barely looked at him! And his snarling, commanding voice did nothing for me. As it shouldn’t! I’m a follower of Artume. Not some… bitch in heat.

Oh my gods.

How is a girl to focus on her ritualistic, virginal dance like that?

By the time I enter the chapel of Nyx, he’s already begun the ritual dance. Not sure what I’m supposed to do, I stand at some distance, watching.

He has shed his loose robes for black pants and a shirt, his feet bare on the floor, a black sword in one hand. His hair is indeed white and long, caught in a topknot on his head, and he looks…

Dangerous.

Strange.

Albino, I think, a curse word in the villages, and I’ve been raised to find such children—such people—abhorrent, but…

He’s strong, for sure, muscles shifting smoothly in his arms as he turns and moves from stance to stance, the loose sleeves sliding back to reveal corded forearms, and his shoulders are broad, his back tapering down to narrow hips and… ass.

I frown, studying it, as he slowly turns and leans forward on one leg, stabbing forward with the black sword. Yeah, it’s… muscular.

Gods.

He grunts as I watch, faltering. I don’t know what is going on, but he stops and swings around to face me. “You,” he hisses.

“What?” I take a step back. He’s still holding that sword and despite the speech about protecting me, he doesn’t really know me and had no reason to offer anything to a lowly acolyte with discipline issues.

“Stop talking.”

I lift my chin. “Are you going to beat me, too?”

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