Page 75 of Single Omega Dad
What Alpha isn’t an immature little shit at eighteen?
I remembered good times. I had tried to put them all out of my mind, but that was impossible
Kris and I used to sneak out of Father’s house when we were kids and play catch with a ball in the cool, crisp grass of the estate. Trigg was more studious of the three of us, always reading, always drawing. But Kris and I were mischief-makers together. We hid from our tutors. We stole food from the cooks and left our dirty dishes and clothing and toys everywhere for the staff to pick up. We were brats together.
When we were ten, we stole money from Father’s petty cash safe—breaking into it was no small feat—and put the bills in with the personal effects of the servants we hated. It got them fired and Father never found out they were innocent and that we’d played a nasty trick.
One time we constructed elaborate rope ladders to swing out our bedroom windows at night. We never used them. Where would we run to? We had no friends but each other. But we did it to make Father think we were sneaking out. He had a fit and punished us—making us eat dinner alone in our rooms for a week, such a hardship—but he also fired more servants for not keeping a better eye on us.
What Kris and I were doing was messing with the household simply to get Father’s attention. When we finally had it, we competed for his favoritism, often trying to one-up each other. It was fun when we were younger. It became more serious the closer we came to having our first Burns.
But one night very close to our birthday, before our yearly exam by the old Alpha doctor Kris liked to call Doctor Pokeme, Kris started bragging a little too much. He said he swore he could feel his knot starting to form and he was going to mature into a tough Alpha, he just knew it. I was mortified. I hadn’t felt anything near to what he was describing, but of course I lied and said I had the same experience, and I was going to go to the chattel farm when my Burn hit and have the time of my life.
It bothered me more than I would consciously admit to myself. Soon after, Kris was diagnosed as Omega and right around that same time I faced my first Burn.
Father had been horrible to Kris, locking him away. At first I was both glad and sympathetic. I thought maybe Father would simply fix the problem—like with surgery or something—and everything would be the way it had been.
But Kris remained a prisoner and my Burn hit. I had the fever hard. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t see. My cock hurt more than it felt good.
My first time, though the Omega was experienced and did everything right, didn’t go well for me. I came too fast. Or I had trouble coming. It seemed like a never ending series of me being a stupid Alpha boy. On top of that, I had looked forward to finally knotting. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to know firsthand the incredible sensations we Alpha boys were all taught would shake us to our cores.
It never happened. I never knotted. The Omega never commented about it, but I noticed. I noticed every time. I tried to make myself feel it, to understand that maybe I was holding back because I was virginal and young. Still, nothing.
I told no one about it after my Burn.
I went home and bragged about how good my Burn experience was to Father and Trigg, who both seemed truly happy for me.
But inside, I was seething. Kris, who was an Alpha with atrophied Omega parts, had said he could feel his knot forming. He wasn’t even a full Alpha and he was still better than me!
I hated him. When he attacked Father I didn’t listen or care that it might have been in self-defense. I saw only his beauty, and his ethereal honey scent that had possessed him once he’d hit maturity, and I felt my Alpha self bristle to aggressiveness. Putting Kris in his place was all I could think about.
So I vented. I told him he was no one, unworthy, an Omega who was nothing but a hole now. A hole that was meant for Alphas, and nothing beyond that mattered. I told him I could rape him and it wouldn’t matter. That I could have him and no one would care. That honey scent of him. It got me. Combined with the aggression I felt, it made me hard, for which I blamed him all the way. Blamed him in my thoughts, memories and dreams for years after. That his beauty and his Omega nature and scent made me shamefully want him? That was all on him.
My words crushed him.
Now I sat and looked at the house where he now lived quite happily according to Trigg, and the memories came on strong, making my heart beat fast until the ache was so pronounced I began to rub my fingers against the muscles of my chest.
My rage twelve years later still sparked red when I thought of the incident that had finalized the break between us. But that rage was so much less. And for what reason did I feel it? Kris had done nothing. It was my own mad stupid teenage hormones out of control.
I was no more whole of an Alpha than Kris. Father liked to think of us as his perfect, purebred Alpha sons. Kris had disappointed him, through no fault of his own. And all this time I myself functioned flawed and unwhole, an Alpha unable to knot. To do what Alphas did and carry on the seed to Omega chattel or mates, either way, that wasn’t going to be me.
Three weeks ago the doctor had given me hormones. But he told me they only might work to help me knot. Beyond that, he could do nothing about the fact that my condition, after twelve years, had predisposed me to being infertile.
Doctor Pokeme all those years ago had said he’d checked that part of our Alpha status on all three of us. Were all Father’s sons fertile? Turns out, Kris and I, his pride and joy and trouble-makers galore, were not. But he’d either been mistaken about me, or lied when he’d told Father I was virile and ready for my first Burn. In truth, Trigg was the purest Alpha of all of us. And he was the one who fucking didn’t care.
Head down, eyes closed, all the memories played out in my head over and over.
A sudden pounding on my passenger side window made me jerk my head up to see a face peering at me, a surprised look on a man more beautiful than my mind ever imagined him now at age thirty. His voice came muffled.
“Mathias?” More tapping. “What are you doing here? You’re blocking our driveway.”
I quickly flicked the switch to roll down the window of my Ferrari. I said one word. Just his name. “Kris.”
“Mathias? Are you okay?” He pulled at the door handle but it was locked. “What’s wrong?” He looked down, his hand going into the car to find the button on the panel to unlock the door.
I heard a click.
The door opened and he came into the car, the door still open, and sat, turning halfway to face me. His honey scent filled my vehicle.
