Page 41 of The Alpha's Fake Mate
I wasn’t surprised, but I could not say to him he wouldn’t have survived it. He wasn’t more than a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet. I’d never met Bosk, but I’d seen the report and his photo. He was huge, larger than I. Intimidating. I couldn’t imagine what Holland had been through with that Alpha.
The Alpha waiter came back to take our order then. When Holland ordered, the waiter asked him if he wanted soup or salad.
Holland looked taken aback, as if he’d done something wrong.
“It comes with the meal,” I said by way of explanation.
“Salad,” he replied, frowning upward.
“Dressing?”
“Italian.”
The waiter was a small Alpha, and very friendly. He did not ogle Holland. But neither did he defer to me when asking what Holland preferred.
As far as first times out and about in the world, this was a good practice session for Holland. He could see that Alphas came in all shapes and sizes here, and that they were not all monsters wanting to rape Omegas just for breathing.
Still and unfortunately, the world had a long way to go in ensuring Omega rights. Rarely was an Omega ever seen alone in public without Alpha protection by his side. Often, it seemed to me the world of beasts was more civilized.
Despite Holland’s order of water, the waiter still brought two glasses of wine.
“But you already had a beer in the limo,” he said to me.
“I did.”
“Do you drink a lot?” he boldly asked.
“Not really. At times I do to alleviate stress.” I stared directly into his eyes.
As if in answer, Holland picked up his wine glass and took a long sip. When he set it down, he said, “Interesting. I’ve never had wine before, either.”
“Well?”
“It tastes like a mix of things. But also dusty, almost salt-edged. I like it better than the beer.”
“Better said than some wine connoisseurs I know.”
I felt not a small amount of shame to again realize he’d been raised in such—well, for lack of a better word—captivity. Yet the farm was a small world to itself with gardens and a school and a gym. It was its own society where Omegas had their special activities, games, rules and social structure.
But shame suffused me. These living, breathing beings needed to live in our Alpha world, too, without confinement, fear or needing to be mate-bonded. Keeping them confined was wrong, and yet here I was, the owner of one of the most respected and high-end services for Alphas, an Omega farm.
“So,” Holland said, taking another sip of wine. “How is this really going to work?”
“The claim?”
“Of course the claim. You can’t just pretend forever. And then where will I be?” His eyebrows pressed so low they created shadows on the tops of his cheeks.
“I would never force a claim, you must understand that. And yes I can pretend forever. With good lawyers and enough money, the fake claim and mate-bond would never be challenged.”
He gave a little huff. His face took on a no-nonsense expression. “But my position, I’m sure you can see, leaves few choices wherein I am forced to choose the least worst possible scenario. You understand that, don’t you? In the end, it’s still force. And I will never be free to seek a bondmate of my own. Nor will you.”
“We can cross that bridge should we come to it.”
The restaurant lights and candles and shadows suddenly seemed to all converge on me, rushing into my vision.
I was insulted he saw me as no better than any other Alpha who believed Omegas were useful only as mates. I could not exclude the fact that he was attractive, or that I responded to him deep inside in not so altruistic ways, but I could control that. I thought I’d done a pretty good job of concealing said attraction, and keeping true to my own deep-secret pact of never showing him anything but pure motives.
I’d sworn my whole life never to take advantage of any Omega the way some Alphas seemed to. The way they talked and swaggered, all cock and no brain.
