5. Tribute

Tribute

Titus

2months later

Here's the thing about the Echelon: everything is a fucking mind game to them. They say they wear those tacky as fuck masks to protect their identities. Because technically, all noble-blooded alphas and omegas are legally required to take chemical suppressants to mitigate their superior biology that led to the aristocracy.

There may have once been the need for anonymity, but the Echelon is now powerful enough that they can get around any government mandate.

Members of the Echelon may no longer be the official government, but the current regime is just as corrupt, and the Echelon holds more power than most citizens know.

If an unsuppressed Echelon member were discovered by the government, strings would be pulled, the issue would immediately disappear, and they could go on living their life free of fear or restriction. Meanwhile, I have to race out of fights, Ecker has to wear colored contacts, and we all have to go by a different last name because if we're discovered, there's no one to back us up. We'd be locked up and forcefully suppressed.

And the fact that we've been waiting in this parking garage for twenty minutes, listening to the fights below rage on, is just another way for them to toy with us in their little game.

Bishop rests his head back on the cement wall, while Ecker fusses with the cut on his brow. Ecker fought last month, and tonight was Bishop's turn. Bishop's a strong fighter, but I was still relieved when his opponent chose brass knuckles for their weapon. You can survive a lot more blows from brass knuckles than you can a machete.

We grew up as brothers in every sense of the word except sharing parents, none of us ever having to fight alone. So, standing back and not jumping in is always nearly impossible for me. The feeling reminds me of the time I got scabies when we were living in a street camp for a stint. The itching was worse at night, like I could claw my skin off layer by layer and still not find any relief.

Doing nothing while Bishop took hit after hit felt like having that full-body, blood-burning itch and not being able to scratch it.

Luckily, while I fight with brawn, Bishop fights with his brain. He lets his opponent tire themselves out with powerful blows. Not an uncommon tactic, an experienced fighter can pick up on it and pull back before falling into the trap. But Bishop disguised his intent by convincingly appearing like the weaker one. My teeth nearly cracked with how hard I was clenching them when the crowd started laughing at him. They all thought he was a dead man, way out of his league.

But when his opponent started slowing down, Bishop used his conserved energy to take the big fucker to the ground. He stepped on their wrist with the knuckles with one foot and stepped on his esophagus with the other. The bones of their wrists and neck crunched in harmony.

Replaying the night's events makes me more ticked off that we're still here, waiting.

I scoff. "You know what? Fuck this, let's go." I shake my head and start toward our car.

Bishop pushes off the wall. "Not yet—"

A familiar black sedan rounds the corner, the sound of the rumbling engine bouncing off the low concrete above and below.

"Fucking dicks," I curse under my breath and look around the garage for cameras. I'd bet money someone in one of those stupid fucking masks has been watching us squirm this whole time, ready to show up right when we're fed up enough to leave.

Ecker and Bishop are standing on either side of me by the time the car comes to a stop in front of us. My hackles rise when the driver's door opens. I stand a little straighter when the chauffeur walks around the hood and opens the back door without a word.

Unease prickles my senses when not one, but two masked men stare back at us from the curved back seat. The driver nods his head at the open door, silently ordering us in. I can feel my brothers waiting for me to make the first move to follow.

The message is clear, but I'm not a dog to be ordered around. The Elders can tell me to jump, but I will never ask how high.

"Don't wait for Beckham to invite you to get in." I don't recognize the man's voice or his mask shaped like a stork's beak. "He doesn't have a tongue."

The man we've met before chuckles. "One of the consequences of not respecting his Elders." I hold back the snarl building in my throat.

I lift my chin and take a cautious step toward the car. "Where are we going?"

A conniving smile spreads on the man's face. "To pay tribute of course."

The seats in the town car are shaped like a limo's but without the space. Being back here with four other men is suffocating. Especially when I have to fight the powerful urge to rip two of their throats out.

I know there's no possible way to achieve our goals without infiltrating the Echelon. I know that, yet it irks everything in me to strive for these men's approval, to know that my power lies in the hands of their acceptance.

Doctrine states that exiled families must be given fair opportunity to attend the Trials after three complete generations in exile. We're the fourth. So while they have to permit it, it doesn't mean they have to welcome us or make it easy.

Their derision has been evident every step of the way, like requiring us to fight to the death to even reach the Trials. But never more so than when we pull up to our destination.

Even behind the tinted windows, I can make out the glowing red bulb in the fixture above the building's door. It's a three-story commercial building in a rough part of Cape Aurelia, sitting on the corner of a rundown block,and a gravel alley disappears down one side.

Ecker is sitting closest to the curb and dips his head to get a better look. I presume he reads the business name and scoffs, "Baby Doll Omegas."

"This is a fucking joke, right?" My nails tear into the leather seat cushion. "An omega house? You're getting us a fucking whore?" The insult is more blatant than a slap to the face. Ecker gives me an indiscernible look before returning his gaze to the Elders.

The Cobalt Elder in the stork mask shrugs. "Unless they changed the prize from ten grand to two million dollars without my knowledge, then this is the only pedigree of omega your tribute can afford."

Ecker's face morphs into pure rage. I half expect him to reach over and throttle the dude. Even Bishop, who can always hide his emotions, flares his nostrils and the crease between his eyes deepens as he says, stilted, like he's struggling to keep his voice even, "We need a true-blooded omega. We won't find one . . ." He swallows bitterly before gritting out, "Here."

The driver opens the back door, and we file out, fuming. The Elders make their exit leisurely as Ecker begins to pace the dirty sidewalk, fingers running manically through his hair.

Once we're all standing, the Elder answers Bishop, "You're right, it is tradition for a pack's omega to be of noble blood, but there's nothing in the doctrine that requires it." His nasally, smug tone grates.

Other than the obvious offensiveness of this decision, I can see it for what it truly is: another form of sabotage. There's no way we can make it through the Trials without a noble omega to strengthen our pack.

My chest feels like a ticking time bomb, growing more and more tight with each passing second. Anger and thirst for retribution fill every empty space inside me. If I don't take control of this situation right now, I will detonate, ruining everything we've worked so hard for.

"We'll make it work," I say firmly and stride to the door, throwing it open and crossing the threshold. The cloying scent of pheromones wraps around my lungs, and I add under my breath, "We always do."

The dark trap music, which was faint when outside, is now so loud, I barely hear the front door open behind me as the others join me inside. To my right, an omega with a teased red wig and sunken eyes scratches at the skin under her silver collar while leaning in a doorway and greeting me with a limp wave.

I let the Elders pass and follow them farther into the brothel, the heavy bass getting louder and louder, like a debaucherous summon I can feel it in my chest. We reach a parlor of sorts bathed in a wash of purple and green light with assorted furniture. In the corner, a man fucks an omega from behind, bent over a faded pool table with a cue held across her neck. On one of the chaises, another omega snorts a line of pink powder off a man's thigh before taking him into her mouth.

I'm not surprised the whores here are strung out on Dust. I've worked as security for upscale omega houses in the past, and it wasn't uncommon for our girls to have worked in shitholes like this before getting clean.

Against the far wall is a bar, the strip of purple, neon light under its edge one of the few sources of light in the windowless room. It looks like it may have once been a nice piece, but now the wood is scratched and dull and one corner looks like it was shoddily rebuilt with cheap two-by-fours.

When he sees us, a man hops off a barstool, giving me a better look of the omega behind the bar. Her pale skin looks like she hasn't seen the sun in months, and her blonde, almost-silver hair hangs to her shoulders without any shine, dirty and unkempt. She looks up from drying a pint glass, and I'm struck with something strong and aware in her stare.

Unlike the other drugged-out omegas, her eyes are clear and sharp with a fierceness that shocks me when our gazes latch. She straightens her back when I don't break eye contact and sets the towel and glass in her hands down, as if freeing them up to defend herself.

I realize then why the look in her eyes strikes me harder than it should. I've seen the same fight that lights them up dozens of times in the mirror. The self-consciousness that it brings prickles my spine and has my chest tightening with anger. I clench my fists and break our connection, lowering my gaze.

When I do, I wonder why it wasn't the first thing I noticed.

Where her collar should be, a thick and gnarled scar is emblazoned across her throat.

Sinclair

In the last two months, I've seen every type of sleazebag come through these doors. I thought I was done being surprised when an alpha came in with three omegas of his own, leashed and crawling on the floor beside him.

But what surprises me most about the new arrivals isn't the freaks in gold animal masks and tuxes, but the three younger men with them who immediately give the air of alphas.

One has fair but sun-tanned skin with cutting cheekbones and sweeping flaxen hair. He surveys the room with his nose scrunched and a murderous glint in his eyes.

The second one has warm brown skin, against which I notice a flash of metal in his nose, a septum piercing. For some reason, that small detail stands out to me more than the fresh shiner marring, what I'm sure, is usually a very pretty face.

Vincent gets up, taking his half-drunk beer with him, and I'm left face-to-face with the hard, cold eyes of the third one. The brute stares back at me, unflinching, and the sudden, intense attention makes me uneasy. I stop drying glasses and refuse to break eye contact first, even though my chest pounds harder every second it's extended.

Everything about him sets alarm bells off in my head—the broad expanse of his shoulders and towering confidence in his stance. His hands are balled into fists with bruised and cut knuckles. The hard muscle is knotted at the back of his square, clenched jaw, and there's unrelenting determination in his gaze.

Even though I'm damaged and off the menu, customers still hit on me. I'm used to their lecherous leers. Their pickup lines range from slimy to obscene. I'm used to being looked at like a piece of meat. But this man isn't looking at me like he wants a taste of me.

He's looking at me like he wants to utterly devour me.

Finally, he looks down, breaking eye contact. I watch the only emotion I've seen so far flicker across his face as he notices my burn. I'm shocked by the unexpected and confusing urge that rolls through me. For the first time, I want to cover my scar. I don't want him looking at it.

I'm relieved when one of the masked men says something and snatches his attention. I can't hear him, but he seems to be introducing Vincent, gesturing to him with an open palm. Vincent holds out his hand first to the one with the piercing, and I can't help but smirk when he refuses to shake it. I'm disappointed when more words are exchanged and the three young men leave.

Well, I'm disappointed to see two of them go.

Vincent walks the men in tuxedos over to the bar. "Pour our friends beers," he barks at me.

I watch them out of the corner of my eye as I grab two glasses. Now that I can get a closer look, I see I was right in assuming they were older than the other three. Below their masks, smile lines etch into their skin.

I reach for the beer tap, and the one in a mask with antlers like a stag holds out his hand. "We won't be long."

I pause and look to Vincent for approval to proceed. His face flashes with hints of worry and insecurity. "Oh, it's on the house, gentlemen." He signals for me to continue with a flick of his chin.

I have to fight the urge to purposefully pour a large amount of head just to embarrass Vincent more in front of these men he clearly wants to impress. But it still hurts to sit from the last time I pissed him off, so I tuck the idea away for another day.

I slide the drinks onto the counter and bite back a laugh when both guests leave theirs untouched.

"Who is your youngest omega?" the stork mask asks, and I go back to drying dishes a few feet away.

"That would be Annie," Vincent responds then leans forward to add crudely, "She's nineteen but with the pussy of a fourteen-year-old."

One of the men's lip curls in disgust but he still turns around and asks, "Which one is she?"

Vincent points to where Annie bends over the pool table across the room. "Fine," the Stork says, unimpressed. "We'll take her for one hundred."

Even after months of it, my stomach still roils when I hear these men talk so casually about buying and selling women.

Vincent laughs, and I get the idea he thinks they're joking. Their straight face in response says the opposite as they up their offer to two hundred.

Realizing they're serious, Vincent clears his throat and says with his best attempt at tact, "I'm sorry, but I won't sell any of my omegas for less than five hundred grand. Most of their debts are half that." He holds out his hands and adds with a forced smile, "And they're broken in good, so really, half a mill is a deal."

The masked men exchange a look, then one says, "Who can we get for a quarter million?"

Vincent drums his fingers on the bar, and I can tell he's thinking hard on how to make this work, not wanting to disappoint these men. "I can give you my best whore for two months—"

"No, no," the stag interrupts. "A full and complete sale only."

Vincent grimaces. "I can't do that for what you're offering."

"What about the mangled one?" My head snaps up, and all three men are looking at me intently. My blood chills.

"Uh . . . ," Vincent considers. "I could be agreeable to that, but she's not an omega."

The two guests look at each other conspiratorially and chuckle. "Even better."