Page 1 of The Rejected Omega

CHAPTER ONE

I hatedConnor Masters as much as it was possible to hate someone.

I hate the smile he so seldom gives. The carefully uncareful swoop of his hair. The soft tone of voice he uses on the select few he cares about. The stretch of his shoulders beneath his shirts, broader every year.

He has a set rotation. Heather grey, olive green, black, white—god, the white against his tanned flesh.

I hate him because it makes loving him easier.

I hate him because he doesn't know I'm his.

He should know.Even through the suppressants that give me horrible migraines, even beneath long sleeves and leggings that keep my irritated mating gland and injection bruises hidden.

We've been drawn to each other since we were children.

He should know.

But he barely looks at me these days.

He looks ather.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO WEEKS AGO:

I lineup with the other omegas in the clearing in the woods and twist my hands together.

Community elders are still flitting about, setting up for the mating ceremony. An omega elder wearing latex gloves lines up pieces of clothing scented by the alphas on a table in front of us.

Across the clearing, a row of alphas await items drenched with omega scent. An article of clothing from each ceremony participant is lined up perfunctorily. Destiny, just one inhale away.

The plain t-shirt I wore to bed last night is among them. This morning I rubbed it on my scent glands and between my legs to infuse it with my pheromones.

The anxious pacing on both sides of the clearing reminds me of the starting gate at a horse race. Testosterone-filled thoroughbreds raring to go, waiting for the horn to signal the gates breaking open.

My gut twists with tension as the omega elder nears the end of our table.

I don’t want to be mated. The only alpha I’ve ever been interested in exclusively dates betas.

My mind flits back to my conversation with Connor yesterday. We were doing our usual routine of eating lunch in his car in the school parking lot—a guilty pleasure he allowed me on non-red sauce days.

I loved to crank the plush leather of his passenger seat back, prop my feet on the dash, and soak in the warmth of the sun through the windshield. Connor hated it, but not enough to ask me to stop.

It was my preferred way to avoid the cafeteria, where the smell of milky mop water and old laminate always put me off my food.

“You excited for the ceremony? Dad won’t get off my back about it,” Connor had said.

“I don’t know. What if something goes wrong?”

“Like getting matched with you-should-smile-more Derek from health?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not going to happen. You won’t match with someone you’re incompatible with. And I’ll be right there with you if you need to make a great escape.”

“You promise?”

“Of course, Lana. Where else would I be?”

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