Prologue

PROLOGUE

TRISTAN

It isn't the worst sex I've ever had.

Of course, it isn't the best, either.

That's not to say I dislike sex. I do. Conceptually. The orgasm part is nice, anyway. But when you've been taught to use your hole as a tool—as a defense mechanism, a weapon, a bargaining chip—it's a little hard not to feel somewhat indifferent.

"Stay with me, boy," the alpha behind me grunts against my ear. He wraps one of his burly arms around my shoulders and holds me close against his chest as he picks up his pace, pounding my ass like he's trying to turn it into a diamond. "Tell me what to do to make you feel good. Tell me how to make you come."

Oops. I guess my attention slipped. He can tell I'm not into this, that my mind is anywhere but here. In this room. On fucking. On him. And that's a shame. Really, it is. Mister … Mister Whatever-His-Name-Is-Because-I've-Already-Forgotten deserves better from me, especially considering what I'm about to do to him. I mean, he's not a bad man. It's not his fault Father made him my mark. And he means well. He cares about an omega's pleasure, at least. That's more than I can say about most alphas I've been with.

So, I grip the metal rail of the headboard tighter and try to moan more enthusiastically. Maybe if I put on enough of a show, Mister Whatever will finish faster. Which means I'll finish faster. Then, if I'm lucky, he'll fall asleep quickly and I can get the hell out of here with what I came for.

"That's it … That's it, my boy … You like my cock, don't you?"

"Y-yeah, there's no dick like yours," I whine, doing my best to mimic the breathless desperation of the omegas in the heat porn Dane watches late at night when he thinks we're all asleep.

I'd like to tell my brother it would be impossible for an omega to feel as horny for an alpha in real life as it seems in those movies, but to be honest, I'm not sure that's the truth. All bets are off when it comes to an omega in the middle of a heat—at least, so I've heard. I haven't had my first cycle yet to know for sure, and if I'm going to be reduced to a panting fool over an alpha, I'm not sure I want to.

Not that nature will give me any choice in the matter.

"There's no pussy—" Grunt! "Like yours, either—" Grunt! "Pretty one." Grunt!

For the record, I hate having my hole called a pussy. It's not a pussy. There's nothing cat-like about it, and a female hasn't been born in Arden for several millennia. But if that's what he's into, I guess I can play along.

"It's yours," I whimper. "My pussy's yours."

"Hell yeah. Gotta get you nice and slick for me."

Mister Whatever's other hand moves from my hip to my chest. He has a laborer's hands, cracked and calloused. I saw their roughness for myself earlier when he caught me picking the lock at his door. Despite this, his fingertips trail over my bare skin with surprising softness. He circles one of my nipples with the pad of his thumb, then ghosts over the rising peak.

Ah, my weakness.

Somehow, I manage to shiver and burn at the same time. My cock springs to life—finally. Maybe he'll be able to make me come after all. I certainly wouldn't be opposed. It seems a little unfair, though, for him to give me pleasure when I'm only here to take.

"Fuck!" His fingertips clamp down on my nipple, and I moan in earnest now. No acting needed.

Chuckling gruffly, Mister Whatever kisses down the side of my neck. "Never met an omega who didn't like his tits rubbed," he mutters along the way as he continues to tug and twist and tease.

Do I like my nipples to be called tits?

See my prior comments on pussy .

But I can only answer with another groan. Against all odds, I want him. I want more of those callouses on his fingertips. More of the reddish-brown bristles across his chin. More of that deep, gravelly voice beneath his Adam's apple.

And, most of all, I want more of that thick, heavy dick between his legs.

"Don't stop …"

The words slip from my lips as I push my ass back against him. Forget the shallower thrusts I allowed him earlier. They simply won't do. I need him deeper. Fresh slick dampens my hole, and Mister Whatever glides into me effortlessly, nudging my p-spot again and again and …

"Again!" I beg him.

A bead of sweat dribbles down from my temple as he gives me what I ask.

"Such a hungry little pussy … I have to feed it, don't I?"

"Please!"

Our skin slaps together. The bed squeaks and squeals louder than I do. My own cock bobs against my thighs, droplets of precum sprinkling my skin. I want to stroke myself. I could come in just another minute if I did, I'm sure of it.

But I don't.

That's another thing I can't do. In one of the awkward, flush-faced, mumbling lessons Father has had to deliver since Papa died, he taught me it isn't considered good manners for an omega to touch himself in front of an alpha during sex. It's insulting—a way of saying your alpha is an inadequate lover—and alphas must be made to feel exceptional. Always. Even, and perhaps most particularly, when they're not.

Then, abruptly, it happens. Mister Whatever's shaft jerks inside me just so, and I know—I know —it's over. His rhythm falters. His fingertips stop moving over my skin. He shouts incoherently. And before I can draw my next breath, my hole floods with pulse after pulse of his hot, sticky cum.

It seems never-ending.

"Such a beautiful boy … Such a gorgeous pussy … Everyone will want to breed you."

By the time he pulls out, my dick is going soft again. Mister Whatever flops onto the mattress, and even though his cum is still dribbling from my hole, he tugs me down beside him, tucks me against his side, and throws an arm over my torso.

Guess I'm not coming after all.

Like I said before, not the worst sex. But definitely not the best, either.

Maybe it's better this way. I can jerk off when I get home. That's what I prefer, anyway. Gods know Dane will be doing the same one room over.

"With an ass like that, you can stay here as long as you like, Oliver," Mister Whatever tells me with a husky laugh, oblivious to my disappointment.

"Thank you, sir," I say. "That's very generous."

And no, my name's not really Oliver. It was only the first thing I could think of when his porch light flickered on and I had to make an excuse to keep him from calling the cops. In that moment, I became Oliver: the down-on-his-luck runaway trying to find shelter for the night. So much for there being no one home, the way Dane and Blaise said.

It'll be a quick job—in, out, and over, Blaise had promised.

He got the in, out, and over part right, I guess.

Imagine my surprise when a man so large he'd give both my brothers a run for their money very much turned out to be home after all.

Nights like this are why Father always makes me do the dirty work—because I'm smaller and lighter and quicker. Because I'm innocent-looking. Who would suspect a mild-mannered, submissive omega? Father finds clients and researches marks. He sends Dane and Blaise to scout in advance. Then, they make me enact their plans. And if I'm caught? I'm supposed to simply look surprised and flirt or fuck my way out of it. Alphas can always be relied on to become distracted by the attention of an attractive and willing omega. That's what Father says, anyway.

And if that fails … Well, let's just say I can't let it fail.

I hate it.

Fortunately for me, Mister Whatever bought my story. He took me in, fed me soup, and brought me a blanket so I could sleep on the couch. He was only too eager when I looked up at him, wide-eyed and blushing, and asked to share his bed instead.

See? Not a bad man. Just too trusting … and a little unrefined.

Now, Mister Whatever brushes a kiss against my shoulder, his stubble scratching slightly. In seconds, he's snoring.

Still, I wait a moment longer. Just in case. Just to be sure it's safe.

And when I'm certain, I slide out from under his arm, hurry to wipe away his cum on the bedsheets, and pull on my clothes. Then, I slip back downstairs in the darkness.

The TV is still on in the living room, exactly the way we left it. Instead of a gameshow, though, the news plays. The anchor chatters away softly.

"Trouble already lies ahead for newly elected senator Mason Dawes."

Wait. What was that?

As I cross toward the bookcase in the corner, the words catch my attention. I glance at the screen and watch footage of a golden-haired man in a navy-blue suit crossing the stone steps of Arden's capitol. So young. So handsome. For an alpha like Mason Dawes, I might turn into one of Dane's moaning porn stars after all.

"Today," the announcer continues, "opposition leaders have threatened to block Senator Dawes's first proposed legislation, a law that would prohibit alphas from claiming omegas as their mate, regardless of consent. The claiming ban was central to the senator's election campaign."

I wince as if I'd just been kicked in the guts. Omegas can't vote until they're too old to have heats—we're thought to be too irrational—but Mason Dawes would have earned my support if I could have given it.

"Dawes ran on a platform of omega rights, taking forward the work begun by his alpha-father before his retirement last year. Some have called Dawes this generation's greatest champion of omega rights. No response yet from the Dawes team on this blow to the promise that helped him gain the omega vote?—"

Sighing, I turn back to the bookcase. So much for hope.

But I can't think about that now. There's a job to be done. So, I reach for the pale green vase off one of the shelves. I noticed it earlier, when Mister Whatever was getting my blanket, precisely where Blaise said it would be.

At least that part of my brothers' reconnaissance was right.

The stupid bastard doesn't even realize what he has, Father had laughed days ago, when he'd told us about the alpha who'd walked into his art gallery with a box of family heirlooms—old paintings and sculptures—hoping to find out their worth. Father had pretended not to recognize the rare porcelain for its true value, all the while scheming in secret and sending Mister Whatever on his way.

Without delay, I slip the vase under my jacket, hugging it against my body. And even though I know Mister Whatever will never fully realize what he's lost tonight, I leave a small, handwritten note in its place.

I'm sorry.

It's the same note I leave behind whenever I steal. I leave it because it's the truth. I am truly, very sorry. If Father didn't make me do this, I never would on my own.

Outside, I look for Dane's car in the shadows. Within minutes, I find it right where he and Blaise dropped me off nearly two hours ago: parked across the street and around the corner—close enough to make a quick getaway but far enough to avoid raising suspicion. Honestly, I'm a little surprised they didn't just drive off without me. As soon as I slide into the back seat, Dane scowls at me in the rearview mirror.

"What the fuck took so long, Tristan?"

"He was home," I explain, closing the door.

Dane shakes his head as he starts up the engine and turns on the head lights. "Impossible. We checked before dropping you off. He was scheduled to work at his job in the Warehouse District all night."

"Well, he must have come home early then," I say softly, averting my gaze. Arguing will only make my night worse. "He seemed suspicious at first. I had to play it safe and fuck him."

As I take the vase out of my jacket and pass it up to Blaise in the front passenger seat, my brothers scoff. Blaise's nostrils flare.

"I thought you smelled especially rancid tonight," he says with disgust. "Father won't like that you were seen, but at least you got the goods, I guess."

I smell?

I sniff at my shirt collar while Dane pulls onto the road. Mister Whatever's scent still lingers in the fabric, on my skin. Leather and spearmint. I suppose the odor might be repulsive to another alpha … But it's also possible my brother is only being mean.

Either way, as Mister Whatever's house fades from view outside my window, I think about him and how confused he'll be in the morning to find me gone and his supposedly worthless vase missing. I wonder if he'll ever put the pieces together and, if so, whether or not he'll hate me.

I also wonder how long I'll have to keep doing this.

I'm sorry.

The story on the news about Senator Dawes replays in my mind, and I try to resign myself to doing Father's dirty work indefinitely. At this rate, Mason Dawes won't be saving me anytime soon.