Unknown Omega

by V T Bonds

  Similar to how the Chieftess’ palm cracked against my face, his attention sears my innards. His expression is neutral, but an air of menace and danger hovers around him.

  I shrink back as a keening cry joins the throbbing in my skull. On instinct, I try to yank my wrist from his grasp.

  Fresh pain bursts up my arm, reigniting the cacophony of miseries in my body.

  Fear and agony, my familiar companions. It doesn’t matter that this assault hasn’t been violent; it feels more potent. The visceral searing inside my mind pushes me off kilter, causing panic. The need to fight my way free almost steals all my senses, but memories flash through my vision and I freeze. His grip loosens, and it’s just enough of a change to snap me out of my nightmare.

  I look away from his gaze, searching our surroundings in hope of escape. Seeing no other option, I force myself to stand still. My terror of the humongous man makes me feel weaker than I’ve ever felt, and I hate the sensation of vulnerability.

  “Little thing, aren’t you? Going to market?” his deep baritone rumbles through my skull.

  Tell him the truth? Lie?

  Neither seems a good option.

  His grip loosens further, but his eyes continue to bore into me.

  “Ah, I see. I’ve frightened you. No worries. Even covered in dirt and rags, I can tell you’re a gem.”

  Even submerged in fear as I am, my eyebrows squeeze in confusion. A gem? Nothing so precious should be degraded by being compared to me. These worn, stained, ragged coverings match me, describing me to perfection. I am ruined, my soul as worthless as my threadbare sandals—broken and decayed. No human can spend their life being treated as I have and still have any worth.

  “I’m going to market. You have a bag, so you must be too. We’ll go together,” he says, and I can’t stop the hammering of my heart.

  Shock and fear glue my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I don’t know or trust this man. He is a giant stranger, touching my skin and invading my spirit.

  Without a word, he releases my wrist, turns, and takes four steps toward market. He stands there for a moment, then turns his neck, giving me a view of his profile. His eyebrow rises.

  I stand stock-still, battling the urge to run in the opposite direction. I know in my marrow that if I try to bolt away, he’ll catch me within two strides.

  If he wanted to hurt me, he would have done so before, when I wasn’t paying attention, right? I know that if he’d wanted to kill me, I would no longer be breathing. He gives off a distinct air of lethal knowledge and predatory skill. And he’s so much bigger, so much stronger than I am.

  How long was he following me before he made me aware of his presence?

  Does it matter? My choices are either attempt an escape or head to market.

  If I return to the Chieftain’s house without fruit, I can expect this evening to be worse than this morning.

  But the threat of my guardians seems vague amongst the danger of this man.

  I don’t have a choice, do I? He hasn’t hurt me, and I have to continue on my quest.

  It feels as though an eternity passes before I can force my bruised, sore muscles to carry me towards the market—towards the man.

  His eyebrow drops, and he faces forward, but stays in place. Do I walk behind him? Beside him?

  My fatigued body limps forward and I try to straighten my stride. I don’t want to show him more weakness. Entering the marketplace, especially at noon time, without my wits about me would have ended in catastrophe. At the very least, I would have been robbed. The coins in my pocket would have disappeared, along with the rest of my possessions. At the most, my life would have ended. The terrible acts that could have happened aren’t something I’m willing to think about. Those things wouldn’t cause much scandal here; it would be a normal experience in this section of the city.

  I take another step toward his back, but he doesn’t move. Giving him a wide berth, I skirt around his right side, struggling to understand what’s happening.

  Adrenaline and fear are strong motivators, but my injuries steal my attention, sucking me into a pit of suffering.

  Chapter Six

  Dirk

  She first caught my attention because she’s a female. Even though her clothes are ugly and shapeless, the wind gave hints of her curves as it pressed them against her frame. I missed my quota for female samples yesterday, so I had to approach her.

  As she walked near, I figured she was just another sick beta. Most of them smell of disease around here, but she didn’t carry the stench of sickness. Something was off in her scent. Not wrong, per se, but not right. Almost like her smell was incomplete.

  She doesn't smell like an Omega, though. I don't expect her to, since only betas have lived here for decades.

  Her puzzle seems to be missing pieces. There's a quality in her aura that doesn't fit. It doesn't match her clothing or her surroundings. My senses tell me she’s way out of place here.

  She isn’t accustomed to being out at this time of day, that's for sure. No one in this society would walk around blindly like she is if they meant to survive.

  Although, if the skin around her eyes is any indication, she doesn't have a choice.

  When I grabbed her wrist and met her eyes, something in their depths held me captive. I can't decipher what I saw, nor do I have a name for what I sensed.

  It's annoying as hell.

  Her light blue eyes were overflowing with pain and fear, and she was pinching her rich brown eyebrows together. A few distinct freckles were visible on the bridge of her nose, and patches of skin under her eyes were a telltale contrast of color from her pale forehead. Ugly purple blotches grew in severity until her head cloth covered her left cheek, blocking my view. Her right cheek was less marred.

  An unexpected surge of protectiveness rolled through me. Something that only happens during my Rut when I hoard my females, or when a mission requires me to collect and deliver a child.

  So instead of finding a patch of skin, attaining the blood sample, and moving on, here I am following her to market. Her uneven gait and bruised face leads me to believe that she’s mistreated often. My blood boils and my hackles raise. I’m ready to protect her, whether she wants it or not.

  I follow her and observe, logging every bit of information into my mental files. Before I let go of her wrist, I knew I had to shadow her to market. Some driving force demands I usher her to safety.

  I review everything that’s occurred since I first saw her, trying to pinpoint what’s bothering me. I’ll have to give the team a report, but I don’t know how to relay what I’m sensing. We do not ignore instincts, since there’s always a reason behind our heightened intuition, but I have no clue how to identify her.

  Somehow, I need to uncover her face so I have a more detailed profile to give them.

  I stalk behind her, changing my gait so I make a normal amount of noise, and keep pace a stride away from her. The terror and uncertainty rises off her in waves. Her coverings are a mass of shivering, shaking misery, but her chin stays raised and she makes her way to the market by sheer determination.

  This whole city is in ruins. Crumbling buildings and half standing structures fill the cityscape while sand piles onto the surrounding stone walkways. Sand everywhere—in each groove, covering every surface, grinding down every rock, slowly returning each one to the dunes.

  Everything is a variant of brown. From a muted, murky black to a light, sandy tan, and every shade in between. That’s most likely why her eyes seem so ethereal—the blue is so light it stands out amongst the drabness of the world. Even the sky holds a brown tint, as though the sun rays rebound off the ground and carry the brown coloring into the atmosphere.

  She keeps shifting her eyes back toward me, checking my distance from her, proving her intelligence with her wariness. She’s also got guts, having her back to me. I didn’t give her a choice, but many people have lost the battle with fear and met disaster by running from me.

  We are
less than two blocks from the midday market when I hear three men in an alley up ahead. In their drunkenness they are boisterous and looking for an outlet for their aggression. If it weren’t for the little female in my company, I’d go knock their heads together, but as long as they keep to themselves, I’ll stay on mission and gather her info.

  Lo and behold, as we approach the mouth of their alley, one let’s out a catcall. They saunter out of the alley, over-confidant in their stupor. Half a whiff of their aroma and I fear my nose hairs are permanently damaged.

  They block our path, and the tiny female in front of me halts. She stands frozen, every muscle in her body locked in fear and uncertainty.

  What would she have done if she was alone?

  “Well, well, lookee here! Got us a well-used bitch and her man! What’ll it take fer a turn?” the idiot on the right calls out.

  She flinches, but keeps her feet in place.

  I stare into each man’s eyes and memorize their faces.

  “She ain’t fer sale,” I respond, matching his weird accent.

  “Look, gigantor, we can kill you and take her, or you can let us each have a go, then we’ll give her back. All nice and peaceful like. Think of it as a toll fer passage,” the guy on the left says.

  “Fuck off,” I reply.

  The men look at each other, then pull gleaming knives from their belts. Two apiece, each weapon gleams in the sunshine.

  They close in, the two on the outside moving to our flanks.

  The female in front of me backs away, knocking into me. When her shoulder bumps my arm, a terrible pain-laced hiss rushes from between her teeth. Her agony-filled eyes meet mine, a blatant plea emanating forth. Fuck, her eyes are beautiful. There’s fear, confusion, and calculation in them, and I respect the courage she’s shown so far.

  “Is that pussy worth dying over, shithead?” the man to our front asks.

  I harden my eyes and look away from her, make eye contact with the speaker, and retort, “You sure seem to think so.”

  A moment of confusion passes between the three of them, but then anger mars their features and they all attack.

  I push her behind me and snap the first wrist that comes within reach. As his howl of agony fills the air, metal gleams in the sunlight. I reach past the blade and strike my forearm into the descending limb, hitting the pressure point on his wrist, pinching his nerves and making his hand go lifeless. He loses his hold on the knife. I snatch the handle from the air and thrust it into his guts.

  The man on my left has taken a different tactic. He’s going after the female. I reach out and snag the ends of his fraying garment. He jerks to a halt for a second, but then the fabric tears and he lurches forward.

  He had a fistful of her head covering, and when I grabbed him, it flew off her head. When his clothes tore, his momentum sent him crashing down on her legs. The sight of her small form falling to the ground under the male is disturbing.

  I launch forward into the cloud of sand and grab his ankle. Her grunt of pain is followed by sounds of intense struggle. I yank his ankle and he bellows in pain. A quick twist of my wrist and his bones crunch in my grasp. He screams, but keeps fighting.

  He twists away from her and reaches for his belt. As he unsheathes a new knife, she kicks him in the ear. I snatch his wrist and plummet his own blade into his intestines. He writhes on the ground, his blood welling up from the hilt of his weapon. The sand becomes saturated, but the pool doesn’t grow larger; the loose grains suck down the crimson liquid.

  She scrambles out from under him, but stays crouched in the sand a few feet away. She braces her feet and hands against the burning sand, her arms visibly shaking. Her wild curls create a curtain around her head, shielding her face from the world.

  Two of the men lay dead on the ground. The other wails in pain, stumbling away into the alley.

  “Are you hurt?” my voice comes out gruffer than intended.

  She flinches, but otherwise stays motionless.

  I walk over to her, ready to help her up. As my shadow falls onto her, she tilts her head and looks up at me.

  Seeing her full face for the first time, I see how much damage her head cloth covered. Swollen and red, both of her cheeks have been abused, the blows so harsh that splotchy bruising covers the left side of her features. The swelling hides the natural line of her cheekbones, but can’t disguise her beauty. Even with the left side of her mouth busted, her upper lip has a deep Cupid’s bow, and her lower lip is almost overly full. Her hair is a mass of silky waves, some tighter than others. It reaches to just below her shoulders. The wind sends it whipping around her.

  “Why did you help me?” she asks in a shaky voice, her pitch feminine and sweet.

  I shrug and extend my hand. She ducks a bit, as though she expects me to hit her, but quickly looks back up at my hand. Her gaze shifts past my palm to my eyes and she considers me for a moment.

  She decides that the best option is to take my offer. She doesn’t want to, but self-preservation is a strong motivator. Her palm slides against mine. My massive hand engulfs her tiny one. I pull her up, but instead of placing her on her feet, I pull her flush against my body.

  She’s much smaller than me—her head doesn’t quite reach my upper chest, but I get a good feel of her shape. She’s trim, but has feminine curves. Small, high breasts, too narrow waist, and hips that taper down into thin legs.

  She gasps in shock and her eyes widen further, more pain filling her visage.

  Shit, she’s injured.

  She doesn’t fight me, but her rigid state declares her wish to be free of me.

  “Where are you hurt?” I demand.

  “It’s from before. Nothing new,” she says with worry and fright in her tone.

  “Understood. Where are you hurt?” I repeat.

  Her eyes shift to the side, and too many emotions flash through her eyes for me to name them all.

  “Face, ear, shoulder, back,” she lists.

  “You can walk?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she whispers, even as her body shakes in the grip of adrenaline withdrawal.

  I make sure she has her feet under her. Before I take a step back, I shift my right palm under her sleeve and wrap my fingers around her tiny elbow. I release my left hand and tap the band around my right wrist. A microscopic needle deploys into her skin and takes a sample. It returns into the band and logs the info. The process takes less than a second.

  She stands on her own and shifts away from me, not noticing my odd movement because of her haste for more space between us.

  We stand there, eyeing each other for a moment.

  I step to the side and motion her towards the market. With obvious effort, she begins walking. Passing by the dead man, she reaches down and retrieves her head covering. She dusts it off and pulls it over her face, hiding her unruly hair and enticing lips.

  I follow her to the stall she needs, watch as she buys fruit, then continue to shadow her a few blocks away from the market area.

  She turns to speak to me, but I’ve hidden around the corner. She stands there, bewildered for a moment. Then she turns back toward her destination.

  I continue to follow her, unseen. She enters a compound that looks better than the rest, but not into the front door. She walks around the side of the fence and goes in through a little gate. She’s a servant, then. Or maybe a slave.

  Now I know where she lives.

  Chapter Seven

  Her - Unknown

  The Chieftain has been increasingly difficult the last few days. It’s almost as though he’s frustrated with every breath I take. I'm so sleep deprived and hurting that everything has an odd blur at the edges.

  I'm surprised I haven't chopped a finger off and served it in supper. Maybe I did and just haven't noticed. I glance down at my hand to see if it still has all of its digits and startle.

  I'm clutching my abdomen like it hurts. Like it hurts more than the back of my legs and shoulders. I don't know, maybe it does. I
can't tell. Everything hurts. Every molecule within my body throbs in pain.

  Maybe I ate something bad. Or I haven't eaten at all. I look over at the shelves to see if I’ve eaten any of my allotted food.

  All of it. At some point I ate all of it.

  A vague memory of wolfing it down as fast I could blurs through my mind.

  That's not like me. I've learned throughout the years to hoard my food and slowly eat it throughout the day. Even the previous kitchen maid did this.

  No wonder I’m grabbing my stomach. I’ve already absorbed and expended the nutrients.

  And I still have laundry and dinner chores to complete.

  What was I supposed to be doing? What task did I just finish? Where was I headed?

  The wash basin and a mound of fabric waits next to the water pump. Laundry.

  I put my body into motion, knowing there's no relief for my stomach.

  I lift the basin to carry it outside and a twinge in my lower back makes me falter. The internal ache confuses me for a moment. I’ve never felt such an odd sensation. But then the memory of backing into the counter during the Chieftess’ attack resurfaces, and I shrug in acceptance.

  I set it out in the sun and then begin preparing to wash the clothes. Fill the bucket at the pump, lug it outside, and pour it into the basin. After several trips, I refill the pail one last time and set it in the sand beside the basin. Rinse water. I go back inside, gather the laundry, and pick up the soap.

  By the time I’ve returned outside, the water is scalding—the sun is so hot it heats it to almost boiling in minutes. I drop the material into the water, kneel, and start scrubbing. The water instantly turns my skin bright pink. I work as fast as I can, knowing it will only get worse.

  The soap stings my flesh, and tears gather in my eyes. The recent lash marks on my arms flair in pain, and I can’t help but take a moment to grimace. Then I force myself back into action.