4. The Omega House

The Omega House

Sinclair

The chains swing as the van drives, the metallic clank constant and grating on my already overwhelmed senses. I'm sitting on a bench against the van's inside wall while two mercenaries sit on another one, facing me. A heavy metal chain connects the shackles on my ankles to the ones on my wrists. I tried to insist they weren't necessary. I mean, where am I going to go? Plus, it's not like they don't each have more than a foot and at least eighty pounds on me.

The man in the suit got inside a sleek black town car outside my apartment, and I wonder if I'm ever going to see him again. Or, like any other debt collector, does he simply collect and go, not caring about the wreckage left in his wake?

Less than twenty minutes later, I feel the van turn onto a rough surface, probably gravel, and the sounds of other traffic fade. The men across from me start checking their guns and straps, shoulders straightening like they're readying for something.

We come to a stop and they both stand, hunched to avoid the top of the vehicle. Shortly after, I hear the engine cut and one of them warns, "Run and we will fully be within our rights to shoot."

I narrow my eyes, trying to read theirs from behind the ski masks. They might shoot at me, but they can't kill me. Forced indentured servitude might not be illegal, but murder sure as hell still is.

As if reading my thoughts, he adds, "You're not a person anymore. You're property." He's cold and authoritative, but there's a hint of earnestness somewhere behind those dark eyes. "And unlike with a person, the boss can do whatever he wants with his property—"

The sound of keys jingling in a lock makes him pause, but the other man continues, "And if he says shoot, we will."

It feels like my blood is turning to stone when I hear the kind of power "the boss" wields. Not just over my body, but my life, my death. Thinking of everything he could do to me is making my stomach churn with nausea.

Not for the first time, a wave of resentful anger at my mother overcomes me. It makes me want to scream. And when the back doors open, it makes me want to run, to feel the metal of a bullet pierce my skin and tear through me.

When all my choices have been stripped from me, the choice to run could be all mine.

One last choice. One last fuck you.

With renewed determination, I hop out of the van, a spiteful fire inside me igniting. I take one stilted, shackled step and my blood buzzes in anticipation. My heart pounds. My lips tease a smile. My bare feet revel in the pain of standing on gravel.

I won't notice the pain once the bullet hits its mark.

I scope out the end of the alley we've parked in. I wonder how far I will get.

I inhale a deep, confident breath and my racing heart seems to slow down as I lift my foot—

"You look just like her. The spitting image." A deep, male voice makes me freeze before I can take my first stride. Behind me is a pale, smarmy man chewing on a toothpick. His hair is dyed black in what I assume is an unsuccessful attempt to not look his age.

I turn his direction and press the soles of my feet harder onto the sharp edges of rock. I need to feel something other than this burning desire to tell him to shove it. I am so sick of hearing about my deadbeat mother today.

I roll my eyes and ask who I assume is my new owner, "Who do I look like?"

"Your whore mother," he spits as if the answer is obvious. But then his face morphs from derision to angry fascination as he leans in close and takes a big, audible inhale, smelling me.

I hold my breath, knowing what he's looking for.

This time he addresses the man in the suit who I only now realize is here. "She's not an omega." The boss is pissed. I exhale in relief at his words.

The suited man doesn't let it phase him. Just as arrogant as he was at my apartment, he answers coolly, "Her designation is irrelevant to our agreement, Vincent. You didn't ask for Sinclair Ash, the omega. You wanted Sinclair Ash, daughter of Celia Ash, and that's what you got."

What, not who.

My new owner wrinkles his nose and stands back, looking down at me with a sneer. "Whatever, you still have three good holes."

The bars slide closed, and I'm left alone for the first time since the collectors stormed our apartment. I look around the cell, guessing it's no more than seven by seven feet. I was led straight down to the basement, but I saw enough of the inside to know what this place is: an omega house.

And not a nice one. Like any business, omega brothels range in quality, from glamorous and luxurious to sketchy and exploitative. Judging by the glass-eyed and hollow-cheeked omegas high on Lust Dust I passed on my way in, this is one of the latter.

Dust is a synthetic street drug that mimics bond lust, the hypersexualized euphoria omegas feel after bonding. In omega houses of this quality, it's the only way to make the work tolerable.

I begin to pace the red dirt floor and think about how the hell I ended up here.

Of course, it all goes back to the Echelon.

Everything begins and ends with the Echelon.

Once considered nobility, the five families were the ruling aristocracy for centuries until the people rose up and disbanded their collective power in favor of a democratic government.

The aristocracy was never truly killed, only reborn in the shadows as a clandestine organization that could now rule from the darkness: the Echelon of the Lourdes Bacleon.

Like the nobility, each family or clan of the Echelon is made up of several different lineages with superior biology. Not only are there higher rates of designation, but they have the strongest expression of alpha or omega traits. Their alphas are ten times stronger than a common alpha and twenty times stronger than an undesignated male.

And true-blooded omegas are the key to unlocking this higher alpha power. Only an omega of equally noble birth can trigger a true rut and allow the alpha to access the limits of his strength. Because of this, Echelon omegas are chattel from the moment they're born, used like pawns and traded among families. Each new pack of alphas is gifted an omega like a trophy for their shelf.

"A fate worse than death." I recall the words my grandmother told me repeatedly my entire life.

I lean against the cell wall and look at the old ring wrapped around my middle finger. A band of gold holds a gem of glass with a small, dried flower suspended in the center.

A Dusk Daisy.

My great-great-grandmother risked everything so that one day, I could wear this ring. She didn't know when she escaped her Echelon pack 100 years ago that I would end up exactly where she fought so hard to keep me from.

Locked. Caged. Owned.

By the time I hear approaching footsteps down the dark hallway, my ire is burning hot and indignant. The smarmy man from before, Vincent, comes to stand on the other side of the bars.

"Strip," he orders blandly.

I don't even consider it. "No."

He bellows a laugh. "Oh, you are your mother's daughter." He clicks his tongue. "For your sake, I hope it doesn't take you as long as it took her to learn the consequences of the word no."

"Celia was never my mother." He arches a brow, and I add, "Whatever you see of her in me is purely coincidental. Do not mistake us for the same person." Celia was selfish and weak.

He chuckles as he unlocks the cell door, flipping open a switchblade. "I recommend taking your clothes off before I cut them off. You don't want to start your contract by adding to your debt when I have to buy you new clothes."

I bite my tongue and begin removing the old cotton T-shirt and boxers I slept in. His lecherous gaze soaks in each additional inch of skin I reveal. I push down bile when he tells me to spin. I can feel his eyes like claws on my backside as I slowly turn.

Stepping up to me, he lifts the necklace off my neck. I can smell the sour odor of beer and sweat as he dips down and bites the single pearl pendant.

"Fake. You can keep that," he says but doesn't let go. I swat his hand away, and he catches my wrist.

My heartbeat spikes when he holds out my hand and his greed-filled eyes light up as he takes in my ring. "But this is real, isn't it?" he drawls.

I reply with nothing but a scowl. He chuckles again and rolls his eyes as if amused by my defiance, then holds out his palm and says starkly, "Give it to me."

"No." His eyes widen as I refuse him once more.

"Stupid bitch," he curses. I see his fist coming.

Dipping down just in time, I dodge his blow and sprint the short distance to the cell door.

"You're even dumber than her if you think you'll get far."

My mouth curls into a smirk. I was never planning on running.

Standing in the hall, I glower at him inside. I don't give myself time to think about it or him time to figure out what I'm about to do.

Pulling the gate open wider with one arm, I inhale sharply before slamming it closed.

The howl that rips from my throat is like nothing I've heard before. It's a pained wail and battle cry in one.

My breath comes in fast pants. When I raise my hand with the ring, it's now my turn to laugh. The sound is rough and scratchy but victorious.

The man's face twists as he looks at my raised hand. My middle finger has already doubled in size and is turning an ugly purple. It zigs unnaturally where I slammed it in the gate, making it impossible to take off the ring now.

"You want it?" I stare at him brazenly through the bars. "Come get it."

It didn't take long for me to end up back in chains.1

At the sound of my yell, two of Vincent's guards came running to the basement and quickly wrestled me to the ground. They weren't particularly big men, but I could tell by their strength they must be alphas. Fighting the two of them felt like fighting four normal men.

I huffed into the dirt, feeling it blow back and stick to my sweaty face. My hand trapped under me screamed in pain, and I thought I was going to pass out. I might as well have. The pain overrode almost everything, my memory of being dragged deeper into their underground prison just a blur.

I don't know where I am, but I'm strung up, arms stretched wide. My heels dangle an inch from the ground, and the only thing taking the weight off my shoulders are my toes grazing the ground. There isn't much slack in the chains, and my bare back scratches against the rough wall.

Unlike the previous part of the basement I was held in, there isn't any electricity here, just a flickering wall torch.

It's this fire that casts Vincent's face with ghastly shadows as he enters. My stomach knots when I see the gratified smugness written across his features. One of the guards from before looms in the doorless archway that connects this dank room to the corridor. He stands with his feet wide and hands behind his back.

"It's bad business to damage your own property, but seeing as you've already done that . . ." Vincent's black eyes flash up to my swollen hand and a cruel smile plays on his lips. He laughs with a jovial shrug. "I don't see why I can't."

Without taking his eyes off mine, he puts out his hand and the guard places a wide silver circle in it. Vincent holds it out in front of him as he takes a predatory step toward me.

"All my girls get the privilege of wearing this." I swallow deeply, realizing it's a crude collar. "It's a reminder to everyone who visits these walls that they belong to me. Fuck with what belongs to me, and I'm the one you'll have to deal with." His tone is threatening and matter-of-fact.

"And you, my darling"—he drags the cold metal along my cheek, and I fight the urge to wrench my head away—"have fucked with my property."

He moves so fast, I don't see it coming. In a quick, but no less powerful strike, he hits my injured hand with the collar.

"Ah!" I howl then grind my teeth together, forcing myself to contain the staggering pain. I hang my head to gather my composure, sucking down air through my nose.

Slowly, I raise my chin to find him watching me with a cocked head, as if he's waiting to continue until he has my full attention. Smugly, he holds out his hand again and a heavy pair of blacksmith prongs are placed in it.

He uses them to grip the collar and hold it in the torch's flame.

Despite the cool, damp air, even more sweat beads on my brow as my stomach plunges.

It doesn't take long for the metal to glow an incandescent yellow. I'm going to be sick.

The guard passes him another set of prongs, and Vincent uses it to hinge the collar open. My heart beats faster than a hummingbird's wings, and I forget how to breathe as he stalks toward me. I can feel the intense heat when it's two feet away.

"And it seems you also need a reminder of who you belong to—"

All I know is glowing red and blazing agony before everything goes dark.

1. Play "In My Blood" by Tommee Profitt, Fleurie