6. The Ceremony

The Ceremony

Sinclair

After months at Baby Doll Omegas, a.k.a. the Doll House, the polished interior of this town car feels uncomfortably sterile. The black leather seats gleam and the carpet doesn't have a fleck of dirt. I want to mess it up, but I feel so unbearably out of place that I sit with my hands in my lap and my knees squeezed together, trying to take up as little space as possible.

We arrive at a grand, wrought-iron gate between brick columns covered with crawling ivy. A man in a suit is waiting. He's not small, but he looks like a child pushing the tall, imposing gate open. No words or even a wave are exchanged between the driver and the gateman as we slowly crawl through.

Driving over the long gravel driveway feels nothing like the rough gravel in the alley outside the Doll House. You can hear the crunch of the pea gravel under the tires more than you can feel it. The rust-brown stones complement the flawlessly manicured and vibrantly green lawns framing the drive.

This feeling of not belonging grows exponentially as we approach something that can only be described as a castle. Judging by the numerous windows, I count at least four stories, five where there are towers topped with spires. From the center rises a bell tower with a magnificent clock on its face.

The car comes to a stop, and I feel as if I'm in an alternate universe or have somehow time traveled. Even when the driver opens the back door, I don't move to get out of the car—this is surely not where I'm supposed to be. Even the more modest, two-story wings to my right and left are grander than anything I've seen before.

The driver doesn't speak, doesn't even look at me. Like a soldier standing at attention, he's as unmoving as a statue waiting silently next to the open car door.

"Where are we?" I ask, taking in the even more verdant landscape now that I'm not looking through tinted windows.

Receiving no response, I tentatively slide across the back seat and swing my feet out of the car. Stepping out, it's hard to believe that the ground below me is real.

A young woman in a simple and modest white dress comes flitting out of the castle's giant front doors. Her brown eyes widen when she sees me, and she rushes into a curtsy.

I want to tell her to stop, but my bafflement has me tongue-tied. When she pops back up, swiping her dark hair back over her shoulder, I ask again, "Where are we?"

She tilts her head, and a flicker of confusion passes over her face. She rights it with a small, timid smile. "Welcome to the Estate, ma'am."

I don't think I've ever felt something so glorious.

Warm water runs down my back, my wet hair clings to my skin like a heated blanket, and the steam rising from the tub keeps my shoulders above the surface from chilling. I never earned the privilege of showering privately with hot water at Baby Doll's.

Instead, I was hosed down with frigid water in the basement. The dirt floors would turn to muddy puddles. My feet and calves were always dirtier after the shower.

But here, if I close my eyes, I can almost convince myself I'm free. There's a short lull when the attendant who met me at the car pours the water over my head and refills her cup. It's in this small space where there are no hands on my body but my own that I can pretend.

Pretend I'm not being bathed and pampered for the pleasure of my new owner.

Pretend I wasn't sold like cattle. Pretend that I know exactly what comes next.

But most of all, I can pretend that I'm not afraid.

The attendant massages shampoo into my scalp, her fingers deft and soothing. I lift my hand out of the water and look at my own fingers. It was three days before I was able to use a torn strip of fabric to tie my smashed finger to its neighbor. That was all it took for the bone to set crooked and never straighten.

I try to tell myself that whatever they will do to me can't be worse than what I did to myself. But it's a feeble argument. The lack of choice makes any pain infinitely worse.

"That's a pretty ring." It's the first time the attendant has spoken. Her voice is soft but not comforting. It's quiet and meek, like she's trying to shrink herself or hide from something bigger and scarier. "What type of flower is that?"

The question makes me stiffen. Even though I don't detect any pretense in her question, I still try to nonchalantly cover my ring and change the subject. "I'm not sure actually. So, what can you tell me about the men who bought me?"

When Vincent loaded me into a sleek sedan this evening, I wasn't given any information other than that I'd been sold and my debt transferred. I knew better than to ask questions. I wouldn't get any answers anyway.

After overhearing the conversation with the masked men the night before, I can only assume it's them who bought me. I tried to discreetly ask Vincent's other girls if they knew who they were but came up with nothing helpful.

My stomach knots when I wonder if the three young alphas will be with them again. I remember the cruel, icy stare of the big, burly one and my blood chills.

She hums as if trying to decipher my question. "I believe it's the Ceruleans who paid your tribute."

Shivering as if a bucket of ice water were dumped over me, my voice shakes. "The Ceruleans?"

"Yes, I believe so, Omega."

Omega. Cerulean.

The room spins; my heart gallops. I can't breathe.

"I-I'm not an omega." My voice is scratchy, hollow, and distant to my own ears. "I'm undesignated. I'm undesignated," I repeat as if it will break me out of this horrible dream.

"Oh, um . . . I just assumed—"

"Seventeen!" An older woman pops her head in the bathroom and shouts, "Get her out of that damn tub! The ceremony is happening in minutes!"

My hands grip the edge of the claw-foot tub, but I'm shaking too much to lift myself.

"Let me help you." The attendant wraps both hands around one of mine, gently peeling it off the rim. As she stands, she removes one hand to grab my bicep and lifts.

I'm floating among the steam. Looking down on my broken body slowly rising from the water. Why am I standing? Why am I letting her guide me to my feet?

The questions come and go like puffs of smoke. Answers swallowed by one resounding thought:

The Echelon.

They own me.

Titus

I'm looking down at my hands, fingers intertwined in a tight ball as I try to avoid pacing in the small vestibule outside the Great Hall. God, I really need some coping mechanisms other than clenching my fists and pacing.

All the other families are already inside with their omegas, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Waiting fills me with anticipation, apprehension, and straight-up anxiety.

I watch Ecker tap his foot, the sole of his loafer beating a tattoo on the marble floors. I know if I look up, he'll be tracing his teeth with his tongue lazily and laxly drooping his shoulders. He's mastered the "I'm bored, so why don't you come entertain me" look and it works just as flawlessly for picking up clients as it does hiding his emotions.

The door to the corridor opens, a stream of light cutting across Ecker's bouncing foot.1

The first thing I notice is her bare feet. My eyes drag up her silky, ivory legs and my stomach somersaults with what I think are my first ever butterflies. I relax my fists as my gaze catches on the sheer black dress that hangs to midthigh but hides absolutely nothing.

Hit with a desire to savor this moment—this exploration—I don't rush trailing up her thighs, the soft, rounded muscles of her quads. Her trembling hands clasp in front of her right when I reach her cunt, and I smirk to myself.

That's okay, Omega. We can leave something for later.

I begin to feel the telltale signs of an impending rut. Sensations like crackling electricity dance at the base of my spine. I can't bring myself to care about the time I'm wasting or even the ceremony on the other side of the doors behind me.

I suck in a ragged breath as my eyes caress over the slope of her stomach, and protectiveness flares in my chest when I see her defined ribs, clearly thinner than a healthy weight. It's quickly replaced with lust when I reach her breasts, pale and peaked with rosy points.

I think I've forgotten how to breathe. I wonder in the back of my mind if I will pass out from lack of oxygen before I see her face.

Forcefully, I lift my gaze away from her small, perfect tits to her neck—

"Oh, fuck no!" My head wrenches up, and I can't hold back the growl in my throat.

She is almost unrecognizable cleaned up and out of that dank cesspool. Her blonde hair cascades to her shoulders in loose, shiny waves dotted with blue flowers.

But I'd never forget that fire in her eyes, the petulance in her glare.

Or the vicious scar collaring her throat.

I flare my nostrils to scent her for the first time and I'm hit with . . . nothing.

Bishop must have come to the same conclusion as he balks next to me. "She's not an omega."

"No shit," she spews with venom.

The dark-haired woman with her blanches, her fair skin going ghostly white. She tries to smooth over the girl's outburst with a polite but nervous answer. "Uh, you are correct, sir."

"Jesus," Ecker scoffs.

I can't even formulate my rage-clouded thoughts before two heavy knocks beat on the doors at my back. It's our time to join the ceremony.

"Fuck," I curse and grab the girl roughly by the arm. She yelps as I yank her into my chest and growl, "I hope you got good at faking it while at the whore house because you better put on the show of your goddamn life."

She tries to rear back, but I keep her locked in place. "I'm not a whore," she hisses defiantly.

"Yeah," I scoff, "and we're not royally fucked."

The entire Echelon is inside waiting for us. There's no option other than walking through those doors with our heads held high and a whore at our side.

As I push through the double doors, I look at my brothers to remind me why murdering everyone would be a very bad idea. In an attempt to calm down, I try to tell myself it doesn't matter who she is as long as I have them at my side.

The Great Hall is like a ballroom with polished marble floors, expansive windows, and ornate molding.2 Brass candelabras with tapered candles form a glowing ring half the size of a football field around the five packs being initiated.

Each pack is in the same ceremonial position. White silk is wrapped like a shallow nest in front of where my brothers and I stand, and in the center of our circle kneels our omega—as far as anyone else knows. Large, cylindrical candles encircle each pack. With no holder, the white wax melts directly onto the floor while the flame is reflected in the shiny stone.

A balcony overlooking the floor is filled with Echelon members. Like the personification of night terrors, they all wear black cloaks and gold masks, their faces flickering with creepy, twisted reflections from the candles below.

Recalling the little information we learned about the Echelon from our parents, I identify each family by the animal depicted in their masks. Storks for the Cyans, Elephants for the Beryls, Wolves for the Cobalts, and Stags for the Azurites, the most powerful of the families.

The only animal missing is the bear.

The Bear for the Ceruleans.

An eerie stillness falls on the already silent room when everyone except a single Elder steps back from the railing.

I almost imagine a gust of cold wind before the Azurite Elder speaks, projecting to the vast hall. "Before the ceremony can commence, we must handle some unpleasant but necessary business."

I watch a shiver rankle down the back of the girl kneeling in front of us.

A scrawny guy covered in dirt and wearing torn rags stumbles out from the shadows underneath the balcony. His hands are shackled in front of him. A person in a black cloak and matching full-face mask follows after him, a guard I assume.

Everyone, including the terrified prisoner, looks back up at the balcony when the Elder begins speaking again. "Family is the highest held value of this noble Echelon. Which is why, when we are betrayed, we do not go after the guilty."

He steps aside and two cloaked men behind him come to the railing, seemingly carrying or dragging something between them.

"And it is why the guilty party does not bear the brunt of his punishment but . . ." The pair on the balcony hoists a large, awkward form over the railing. The prisoner wails wretched sounds of despair, collapsing to his knees. "It is his family who does."

Spinning at the end of a rope is the badly beaten body of a woman. As she rotates, deep, bloody lashes on her back can be seen. Equally brutal are the burns and bruises coloring the rest of her corpse.

The prisoner, still violently shrieking, is yanked to his feet by the guard. He reaches for the dangling feet of his lover—sister? Wife? His fingers just barely graze them before he's being pulled back, kicking and screaming, into the shadows.

The Elder doesn't continue until the man's cries become faint and distant. "For family is why we're all gathered here today, to welcome these young and hopeful packs to our noble ranks."

A murmur of agreement rolls through the room and the pit in my stomach deepens. Being in this room is my birthright, yet I've never felt more like an outsider.

Why did my brothers and I have to risk death and humiliation just to be here? Why did we have to fight for every scrap of food, every flea-infested room just for a place to lay our heads at night?

I look at the other packs' alphas and the resentment that has become my life force rushes in my veins. They look strong and healthy, their natural alpha physiques honed with premium diets and fancy gym memberships. Unlike ours, forged in the streets, fighting for survival.

They're fucking fakes. All of them.

I'm so distracted with anger, I miss the ceremonial instructions. I only realize any were given when the other omegas bend forward on their knees to present themselves, elbows and forearms folded in front of them on the silks, backs sloped.

The leader of each pack kneels behind his omega while the other two members go to kneel in front, facing her.

Ecker nudges me, clearing his throat, and I fall into motion, mirroring the other leaders' positions while he and Bishop go to the other side of the silk nest.

Our "omega" is the only one still sitting up, a defiant arch to her back as she rolls her shoulders back. Kneeling behind her, I order quietly but no less harshly, "Present, Omega."

She flinches at the command in my growl but remains upright. "No."

"Present." I put as much force into my command as I can without raising my voice, even knowing an alpha's command only works properly on an actual omega. To an undesignated bitch like her, it's just a threatening tone from a scary dude. I'd probably be impressed with her balls if she wasn't fucking ruining everything.

I've been avoiding pushing her down, not wanting to show the room that I can't control my omega without force. As the seconds painfully tick by, I'm left with no choice.

With a heavy palm between her shoulder blades, I fold her over like a sapling despite her bodily resistance. As soon as she's on all fours, Ecker and Bishop hold her in place with firm hands on her shoulders and forearms.

The short dress rides up the back of her thighs with her ass in the air. Milky, white skin meets the soft blush of her cunt, and despite all the grief she's given—and will continue to give—my cock throbs and swells with blood.

I slip my hands under the see-through fabric and glide my palms up the side of her thighs to her hips. My fingers automatically dig into her flesh, and I'm hit with a wave of dizziness that makes my temperature spike and the room spin.

Her slick. I scent it.

Confusion and exhilaration make me momentarily forget that she's not an omega.

The instant head rush begins to fade, and I take an experimental inhale, sucking down the smell of her undeniable arousal. Every muscle in my body flares with energy and the burning desire to rut.

I shake my head and try to clear the intoxicating fog. It must be the other omegas in the room triggering me. It can't possibly be her I'm scenting. An omega's slick is different, more potent and alluring than an undesignated woman's wetness.

I'm barely following the ceremonial gibberish spewing from the Elders. Some rubbish in Latin about obedience and honor.

"Get your fucking cock out," Ecker whisper-yells, and I look up still in a daze. "Stick your dick in her, idiot!"

A quick glance around the room explains why. As the Elder continues to ramble, the lead alpha of each pack thrusts into his omega from behind while the other two members hold her down. Though, unlike ours, their omegas aren't fighting it.

Hurriedly, I shove down my pants, freeing my cock. My entire body burns when I take the hard length in my fist. She tries to wriggle out of Bishop's and Ecker's holds now that I'm not gripping her hips, but all it takes is dragging the head of my cock along her heated wetness for her to freeze.

If I was burning before, I am fucking blazing now. Her slick makes my cock glide between her legs and everything inside me screams for me to bury myself into her tight, hot cunt.

"No, no, no," she pleads under her breath all while raising her hips and arching her back. Presenting.

My gritty exhale mingles with the others in the room as I force my dick into her entrance. And fuck, she's so tight. I hit a resistance and a weird and unexpected urge to protect her from pain makes me halt mid-thrust.

"Titus, what are you doing?" It's Bishop who hisses now. He sounds miles away.

I look down at where I disappear into her cunt, pearled with arousal, and my need to fuck her is stronger than any desire to protect her. I punch my hips forward, and she screams as I tear through her hymen, some sick part of me lighting up at knowing I'm the first to have her.

If I were thinking clearer, I might realize this means she couldn't have been a whore, but logic is nonexistent as the rut overtakes me. It consumes me, stronger, fiercer, and more wholly than anything I've ever felt.

Her sweet pussy clenches around me, and I throw my head back.

God, it feels so good . . . too good.

This shouldn't be happening. She's not even an omega . . . .

Her plaintive whimpers of pleasure change abruptly to cries of pain, even more so than when I pierced her virginity. The desperate sound strikes me sharply in the chest and my hips pause.

"Keep going, don't stop," Ecker encourages me. His eyes are wide and streaked with gold. He flicks his chin at the other packs, and I notice all the omegas are sobbing as their alphas have to put effort into holding them in position.

I let the rut overpower the strange urge to not hurt her. Soon, her pained noises become an aphrodisiac. Nothing can diminish the full-body euphoria of this rut.

She rocks back into me despite her vocal protest, and the way our bodies slap together makes my gaze roll to the ceiling, eyelids fluttering. I can feel my balls growing heavy, and each stroke inside her brings me closer and closer to the edge.

Being unbonded, my knot hasn't manifested, yet for the first time, it's not just release I am chasing. It's this fierce, carnal desire to knot an omega. My gums ache and my mouth salivates at the thought of biting her, claiming her, bonding with her. There's pressure at the base of my cock where my knot will be. I want to let it swell. I want to sink my teeth into her delicate skin.

But I can't. I won't.

I refuse to give that part of myself to her.

Trying to regain some semblance of control, I grit my teeth and look back down. I lock eyes with Bishop as I do, and I'm shocked to see something I've never witnessed before.

Bishop's normally hazel eyes are completely overrun with shining gold. His jaw is grinding together, and the muscles of his arms are flexed and veiny.

He's never gone into a full rut like this before.

Her body under me tenses as her screams suddenly stop. Then she's mewling and shaking, her pussy milking my cock as she comes. The contractions of her muscles around me are the final blow to send me rocketing toward release. But before I fully give in and pump her full of my cum, I delve my fingers into her hair at the nape of her neck.

Ecker and Bishop let go at the same time as I yank her head back so I can see her face.

I roar, shooting hot and deep inside her as I stare into brilliant, golden irises.

Golden.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. The most consuming rut I've ever experienced, the way my muscles feel like they double in strength, my misplaced urges to protect her . . .

The realization hits me harder than my climax.

She's an omega . . . a noble omega.

1. Play "River" by Bishop Briggs through ornamental break

2. Continue playing "River" by Bishop Briggs