Page 9 of The Rejected Omega

I lose all sense of myself but for my aching center, my utter emptiness. I’m more creature than human. I get on all fours and present, desperately working my fingers over my dripping pussy until my skin is raw. I try to materialize Connor with my mind. Imagine him following my scent through the woods to this clearing and sinking his thick knot into me. I would forgive him for all of it if he came.

Alpha doesn’t want us. Alpha chose another. Alpha isn’t coming.

Everything aches. My lips are cracked and dry, and there’s a large puddle of slick beneath me, mixing with the dirt.

Wasted. Wasted.

More slick and cramps come in waves. I lose track of the passage of time. I whine and beg, calling out for someone to help me. Calling out forhim.

I rub at my aching clit until it’s bruised, seeking relief that never comes.

I curl up against the cold earth and cry. The fall air begins to bite at my naked flesh, and I’m wracked with shivers.

It hurts to even think his name.

Why didn’t he come for me? Am I not good enough? Have I been a bad omega? Will he ever like me, accept me?

The rift in my chest cracks wider.

Hours pass in a fog of pain and unquenched lust.

I’m a hollow, aching wound. I want to bury the shirt with his rapidly fading scent, to fling it away. But I hold onto it like a lifeline, inhaling like a deep sea diver desperate for air.

Alpha.

With his shirt, I can almost pretend he’s here, lingering at the edge of my vision, his scent drifting forward on the wind.

It’s agonizing. I wish I never came to the ceremony, wish I never went near his fucking shirt. I’ve been reduced to a pitiful creature brutalized by my own biology.

I want it to end.

The sun rises twice before my slick begins to dry up, turning tacky between my legs.

I’m broken, balled up on the cold earth, a mess of slick and blood from my battered hands and torn flesh. My nails are ragged and split. I clawed furrows into the earth, my skin—anything to try and distract myself from the pain. It feels like someone yanked my heart out of my chest and didn’t bother to stitch up the wound.

I try to stand and discover I can’t. My limbs won’t respond to me. My body’s one big mass of aching muscle. My fingers are numb, all the tips of me icy and red from the cold.

The clearing smellswrong. Like pain.

There’s a distant sound. Someone calling my name. I burrow tighter in on myself. This is the most vulnerable and exposed I’ve ever been. No one can see me like this.

My first instinct is to stay silent. To hide here and fade away. Surely that would be easier than confronting the aftermath of this and risk ever having to repeat it.

But survival is a hard instinct to quell, and I let out a feeble cry.

My throat feels like daggers.

A crunch of leaves, and a familiar figure appears.

My omega pricks up immediately.Alpha?!

Some naive, animal part of my brain still expects Connor to appear out of nowhere. To come for me, find me, save me.

But it isn’t Connor.

He is familiar, though. Connor’s father—Mac Masters. It hurts to look at him. They resemble each other too much.

Mac rushes forward and slides to his knees in front of me. He begins yanking off his jacket and wraps it around my tender skin.

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