Page 100 of Unhinged Omega

Broken.

Humiliated.

Empty.

I don't know how long I lay there, trembling and crying. Time loses all meaning. But eventually, Madame's assistant, Wyatt, comes to collect me. I'm barely even aware of myself as he goes through the motions of scrubbing me down and rendering me presentable for whichever client she's offering me to this evening. I'd hoped she would give me an evening to recover, but that would require her seeing me as something more than a doll to be used and discarded when it ceases to be convenient.

All I can do is hope, desperately, it's not the alpha from earlier. Anyone but him.

Whoever it is, he's warranted himself an evening in the Royal Suite. It's a joke of a name in a shithole like this, no matter how luxurious the veneer may be, but it's a rare honor for the patrons who pass through the brothel all the same.

Wyatt, who doubles as my warden, nods to me as we stand outside the blood red doors.

I smooth down the new outfit I've been changed into and push open the doors, walking inside. I can't make out the man seated in an armchair by the bed, since his upper half is concealed in shadow, but I notice the blood red coat that nearly brushes the floor by his well-worn leather boots. A tremor runs through me at the sight of the gun on his hip after my recent encounter.

The man drums his fingertips on the curved wooden arm of the chair, watching me with what feels like bored interest as Wyatt closes the doors behind me. I jolt at the sound in the otherwise silent room.

"Nervous?" the man asks, his tone knowing. There's something in his thick Vrissian accent that makes my skin prickle. A rough edge that speaks of authority and danger. But it's his scent that makes me freeze where I stand.

I'm more attuned to other alphas' scents than most alphas are. I've never felt the immediate rage and territoriality that seems to affect the others. It varies from alpha to alpha, but in general, I find other alphas' scents as pleasant as an omega's. Just different.

This alpha isverydifferent.

I've never smelled anything like him.

He smells like…

Blood.

And metal.

It shouldn't be pleasant, especially in light of the coppery taste lingering on my tongue from earlier, but it's intriguing in its own right.

And dangerous.

I push that all aside and put on my usual mask of charm and submission, letting a practiced smile curve my lips even as my heart pounds. "No, sir."

"Come closer," he orders, and I comply, moving forward with carefully measured steps. But I stop while still maintaining what I hope is a safe distance from the chair, lowering my head submissively and folding my arms behind my back, waiting for him to command me. It doesn't usually take long, but some snakes like playing with their food first.

"What are you doing?" he asks, a note of curiosity in his voice.

"Waiting for permission, sir," I reply softly, keeping my gaze fixed on the ornate carpet beneath my feet.

"Permission for what?" The question holds an edge of amusement now.

I hesitate, resisting the urge to look up at his face. It's still shrouded in shadow. My throat feels tight as I force out the words I've said countless times before: "Permission to serve you however you see fit, sir."

The silence that follows feels heavy. The man shifts in his chair, leather creaking beneath him. I tense, waiting for whatever comes next, but maintain my submissive pose.

"Is it true what that hag said earlier?" he finally asks. "That you respond to an alpha's commands like an omega?"

My blood runs cold as I realize he must have been one of the observers watching from the shadows during Madame's earlier demonstration. Fresh shame burns through me.

"Or was that little show just a stunt?" he adds, his tone casual but probing.

I clench my jaw, warring with myself. Anger and embarrassment fight against bone-deep fear as I force out my answer. "It's true."

He leans forward then, elbows coming to rest on his knees as he emerges from the shadows into the dim lamplight.

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