Page 65 of Your Wild Omega

“Yeah.”

I thought it was all coming from her, but now that this sensation has a name, I can sense two separate versions, one belonging purely to me. I smile and press on White Mine’s back. “In. Ask.”

I reach over to the side table and grab the little sheaths he taught me to wear, plus the bottle of fluid. I don’t need these with Mine, but White Mine isn’t an ohm.

He still hasn’t got the picture, so I reach around his waist and grab Mine’s hips, dragging her close until his cock bumps into her puss-he. White Mine chuckles and leans in, sliding his cock between her swollen lips. She moans softly and draws her knees up.

I fit the clear package over my cock and tilt White Mine forward. The liquid drizzles pleasingly over his cheeks when I squeeze the bottle, dribbling like tears. He gasps as I push as much of it as I can get into his hole, and then I press my cock against it.

He shifts forward under my weight as I thrust my way inside. Mine wheezes a little with the pressure as I crowd them together.This is my favorite place, with my pack beneath me, all of us locked together in the shelter of my arms.

I curl my hand around her arm. “Mine.”

“Yeah, I’m yours,” she says between soft pants, smiling at me.

“Love Mine.”

Her lips quiver and her eyes widen. A sweet sensation blows through my chest—all hers. I crane forward to scrape my cheek against the alpha directly under me. “Love White Mine.”

He gasps, and fresh tears leak from his eyes. Balancing on one arm, I turn his face and lick the tears up. Then I thrust hard, rocking him forward into my ohm. Our ohm.

Love. Pack. Very important words.

Later, when I’ve claimed them both as many times as possible, and White Mine lies sprawled on the pillows, Mine tugs my arm over her chest and snuggles her back into me. “I’m glad I’ve got you,” she murmurs drowsily, eyes already closed.

I feel her love in my chest, even though she hasn’t used the word. But despite my best efforts, an icy dot of pain still exists in the center.

And an instinct I can’t explain makes me think it will always be there, no matter how much I hold her close.

Because I drove out the other alpha, and that made her sad.

Chapter twenty-five

Callisto

Not pack.

Never have words cut me to the core like those two. Zack’s speech was clumsy, but I understood his meaning. Pack are willing to die for each other—and he doesn’t believe I’m at that point. I would’ve fought the fucker, except for one thing; Red doesn’t smile inside for me.

How can she, when I broke her heart?

I choke on the solid emotion trapped in my throat.

The worst part is that fucking feral alpha’s right. Nothing has ever seemed worth giving my life to. People don’t get that much effort from me. When exactly did I seal my heart away so nothing could touch it? When did I decide to lose myself in work so I didn’t have tofeelanything?

Dawn breaks over the private family crypt, catching in the pigeonholes and glinting gold on the urns resting within. Gives the illusion death is peaceful, but the kind of death Zack spoke about isn’t.

No, he wasn’t really talking about death at all. He was talking about life—a chaotic life.

Everything about my life is always orderly. I use the same dry cleaner for my suits, order the same food, and buy my furniture out of the same catalogues. My bills are all automated and so’s my investment plan. I never take vacations, a fact I always prided myself on.

Now I see it for what it really is—avoidance of anything that might be uncomfortable. A way to dodge the disguised anxiety riding my heart.

I slump forward, resting my hands on the stone shelf in front of me. “Guess what, Dad? You were a jerk. Weren’t you supposed to teach your son about life? Not how to hide from living.”

If Mom’s two other partners, Simon and Lector, had joined the pack earlier, would I have gotten a more balanced world view? They’re always trying new things. I let my head drop with a sigh. I know the story. Dad was cautious of anyone who expressed an interest in him and his omega, assuming it was because of his wealth, and he fought hard to keep the two brothers at arm’s length for years. By the time he finally gave in, I was already a teen and away from home more often than not.

I grip my upper arm with my right hand, massaging over the spot where a tattoo marks my skin. The clock face shows 9:46, the time listed on my father’s death certificate: a reminder that all time stops eventually. I took it as a warning, but somewhere along the way this lesson morphed into one that consumed me. You can’t get time back, so I figured if I earned as much as possible per hour, the expenditure would be worthwhile.

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