Omega's Hope: An MPREG Shifter Romance

by Noah Harris

  Omega’s Hope

  Noah Harris

  Contents

  Prologue

  Timothy

  Christopher

  Timothy

  Christopher

  Timothy

  Christopher

  Timothy

  Christopher

  Timothy

  Christopher

  Timothy

  Christopher

  Timothy

  Christopher

  Timothy

  Christopher

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Noah Harris

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Editing by: Jo Bird

  Prologue

  Timothy stands at an unremarkable five feet, five inches. He's short for a human but pretty average by omega standards. Small and slim, just like his kind expects him to be. He has messy brown hair he's never been able to tame, and ordinary brown eyes that help him blend into the crowd, hidden behind the round frames of his glasses.

  He's never spent this long standing in front of a mirror before, especially with his shirt off, but he has to make sure. He's been putting this off for a while now, but it's getting to the point where he can't hide from it anymore. Clearly willing the problem away isn't working.

  His hand trembles as it moves down the length of his torso, feeling where the flatness of his slim chests starts to curve outward at his stomach. He hesitates there, pressing into the roundness at his navel. There's a firmness there he can no longer brush aside as an excess of junk food and a few too many nights ordering take out. His other hand joins the first, feeling his belly with tentative slowness while his heart squeezes painfully in his chest.

  There's clearly a defined shape to his belly, small but growing. His hands shake, fingertips digging into the smooth firmness of his flesh.

  He doesn't know how this could've happened. It's…it's impossible. It's not that he's been abstinent for a couple months. It's that he's been abstinent for years.

  Ever since he left his pack, he's spent his time with his nose buried in the fine print of law books and the jumbled jargon of legal transcriptions. His time has been spent split between his apartment and the office, and the most exciting trips he's taken have been to the courthouse. He never goes out with his colleagues when they go for drinks, and he has a list of running excuses to avoid social gatherings.

  It's not exactly the lifestyle that would warrant a surprise pregnancy. Hell, he can't even remember the last time someone flirted with him, male or female.

  His chest squeezes, and his breath hitches, lungs shuddering as he tries in vain to take a deep breath. There's a burning behind his eyes as he looks at himself in the mirror. His arms wrap around himself, hands curling into fists. The sharp pain of his nails biting into his palms helps ground him.

  Yet despite the tears that gather in the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision, there's a fire in his chest, burning like a wild storm in his veins.

  This isn't fair. Nothing about this is fair.

  He went through so much to escape predetermination. To escape the subservient life it would have imposed on him. He's gone so far as to kill his wolf, suffering the pain of it every single day, and yet he still ends up pregnant. He still winds up caught in the trap of his species.

  His vision blurs, tears spilling over the edge to run warm trails down his cheeks. Still, he can't look away. He can't tear his eyes from the subtle roundness of his belly despite the fire burning in his veins, ravaging his insides.

  He's taken wolfsbane every night without fail, all these years, and still, the poison hurts. The nausea. The burning inside. The torture, every night, of his wolf. Feeling as if he's being shredded from the inside out. Feeling part of himself die.

  But still he's taken it because through that pain, he was able to build a life for himself. The death of his wolf has given Timothy the life he's always wanted. A life where he can be confident in himself, in his capabilities, and be able to help others. A life where he can be himself, independent and without the shackles of the pack. It's a life he could never have as an omega wolf.

  Never again does he want to return to the first night he took wolfsbane, dripping wet, alone, curled into a shivering ball as he heard from miles away the sounds of the wolves celebrating their new alpha. He never wants to howl again. The last time he had, his wolf hadn't been able to do anything other than pathetically howl in unison with the very pack that had humiliated and broken him, celebrating the alpha who betrayed him.

  That first time, the emotional pain had been more torturous than the physical, and yet he knows no greater agony than the burn of wolfsbane. Still, he would rather ingest the poison every night, and not only endure the horrible pain to his body, but also the haunting sounds of his wolf yelping in panic, feeble and barely clinging to life, than go back to the life he once had.

  And it's with a fresh wave of startling panic that he realizes he might have to.

  Male pregnancies are unheard of in the human world. He can't simply find a doctor, nor can he exactly be seen by any human once his belly gets too big to hide. And even if he were to return to his pack, he doubts he’d be able to find help. While he'd be able to find doctors, he doesn't know if they'd help him. Not only is a lone pregnant omega as taboo as it is scandalous, any doctor would be hesitant to help him for fear of meddling in the affairs of a nameless and unknown alpha.

  If he went crawling back, he'd be humiliated. He'd be ostracized. He has no doubt they hate him already for abandoning the pack, but to come crawling back pregnant without a mate or alpha in sight?

  He shivers at the thought of their sneers.

  He may, however, have no choice. His entire life is going to be put on hold. This has ruined everything. He just got promoted, just got his first real case as a lawyer, his own case, and yet now he'll have to take several months off to hide.

  His hands absently roam over the swell of his belly once more, but he can't detect any signs of life, even though he knows he should. He feels hollow. Empty. A loneliness creeping cold and numb to fill a void in his chest.

  He shakes his head, turning from the mirror to grab his shirt, shrugging it on and buttoning it up quickly and decisively.

  He has no time for self-pity. There are people who need him. Today is his first appearance in court, and sadly, it will probably be his last. But the farmers he chose to defend need him, and he won't let them down.

  His colleagues think he chose a terrible case. A bunch of poor farmers against a giant firm. A company with the money and resources to easily hide the fact that they're leaking chemicals into the river and inadvertently poisoning crops? Doomed to fail, everyone said. Timothy doesn't care.

  He'd been drawn to the case. It had been powerful and profound, and something he couldn't ignore. A pull and a fire within him. Something he almost dares to think might be lupine, with the snapping teeth and low growls of an omega protecting his pack. But no, that can't be the case. His wolf is weak and withering, nearly gone with his daily dose of wolfsbane.

  Still, it had been a gut feeling he couldn't ignore and couldn't fight. He chose to defend the farmers, for better or for worse. What can he say? He's always been one to cheer for the underdog.

  Wiping his face clean, he tucks his shirt in, grabs his jacket and
briefcase and heads for the door. His own problems still weight heavily on his shoulders but he pushes them to the back of his mind. They can wait. Right now he needs to focus on the problems he does know how to handle. Lifting his chin high, he leaves his apartment. Trial first, help the people he knows he can help, and deal with his own troubles later.

  Still, he can't help the nagging and miserable confusion that clouds the dark recesses of his mind. His pregnancy is a fact, and denial can't change that. But there's still the matter of how it happened.

  There's only ever been one time…

  Timothy

  Four years ago.

  "Willis Ramsey."

  "Here, sir!"

  "Tyreece Shelton."

  "Here, sir!"

  Timothy's right eye twitched, the contact there itched and burned, shifting just out of place enough to be uncomfortable. He should've started wearing them before he was shipped off to training, if only to get used to them, but he hadn't. Now he was paying the price. He lifted a hand slowly, tilting his head to try and discretely rub at this eye. The trainees around him seemed to notice, but he snapped back to attention before the sergeant looked up again.

  "Logan Tyson."

  "Here, sir!"

  There were thirty of them, all strong, virile young men, hand-picked as the best of the best to enter training. They stood in a block formation, six men wide and five deep. Timothy stood near the back, which thankfully kept him mostly out of sight, but it also gave him a good look at his fellow hopefuls.

  They were all impressively large. It was a sea of broad shoulders, tall statures, and well sculpted bodies standing straight and proud at attention. He felt extremely out of place, but that didn't stop him from standing as tall as he could, chin lifted like the rest of them. He might have looked out of place, but he was determined to be there.

  "Christopher Watts."

  "Here, sir!"

  Their voices were all strong and loud, barking out their presence as their names were called. They all looked crisp and clean cut in their new uniforms, and Timothy hoped he did, too. He felt a little strange in it, but maybe the magic of the uniform would make him look stronger and more confident than he felt.

  "Robert Whittle."

  "Here, sir!"

  There was a buzz of anxiousness beneath his skin. He knew his name was next. It had to be. A name he shared with one of the greatest and most well-known lupine generals of their time. His father made an impressive figure, and there was no one in the military world who didn't know his name.

  A man with such a legacy naturally had high expectations for his only son, and Timothy was finally going to live up to those expectations.

  "Timothy Wolski."

  The reaction was immediate. His heart leapt into this throat, pulsing hard and fast as the soft murmur started up amongst the trainees. They started glancing around as subtly as they could, an excited buzz snapping between them all as they tried to pinpoint the son of the legendary Michael Wolski.

  "Here." His voice came out weak and embarrassingly broken, cracking in the middle of it. He cleared his throat quickly, trying a little louder. "Here, sir!" Not great, but at least it didn't crack.

  He felt the weight of everyone's gazes as they all snapped to him, but it was the sudden burst of mocking laughter that caught him off guard. He glanced around, horrified as he found himself the subject of amused side long looks and lips curled into snickering mockery. He’d known he wouldn't stack up to their expectations of him, but he hadn't expected them to be so open about their sardonic amusement.

  His hands clenched into tight fists where he held them behind his back. He was glad to be in the back row so no one could see them shake.

  His eyes found the sergeant again, and he knew his gaze was pleading. The man rolled his eyes, lips curled into an exasperated scowl. "Silence!" he barked. "This is a roll call, not a cafeteria. Eyes forward and traps shut, you hear me?"

  "Sir, yes, sir!" The response was immediate.

  "Good. Now, I'm gonna try this again, and I expect you to answer like a man. Timothy Wolski."

  Timothy swallowed hard, feeling his pulse in his throat as he called out. "Here, sir!"

  "Louder!"

  "Here, sir!"

  "Better. Don't make me repeat myself tomorrow."

  "Yes, sir," he said, wincing at the undercurrent of low chuckles echoing around him.

  Before he could dwell on it, however, the sergeant was already moving on. He tucked the clipboard beneath one arm, clasped his hands behind his back, and stood tall and firm in front of them. "Now listen up, maggots. You're here because you represent the best of the best, but the special wolf forces don't take just anyone. You've got to prove yourself worthy of the title if you expect to get anywhere. As such, don't expect me to go easy on you." His eyes seemed to pause on Timothy, and he lowered his gaze to the ground. "Now you'll notice we have two barracks for trainees. There's the winners’ barracks and the losers’ barracks. The results of every day's training will determine where you sleep that night. The losers' barracks is old, stuffy, and has no hot water. We're not here to waste federal funding on a bunch of clowns, got it? So work hard, and maybe you'll get a hot shower at the end of the day. Now let's get started."

  The sergeant split the thirty of them into two teams, splitting right down the middle alphabetically. Breaking their block formation, the lot of them stepped into their groups, mingling and muttering to themselves. Timothy stayed off to the side of his own group, trying not to make eye contact with those he knew where watching him.

  They got given wrist bands for each team. One team red the other blue. Once they all had their bands, the sergeant led them to the starting line. "Today we're doing an obstacle course so I can get a feel for what you can do. First team to completely cross the finish line gets to sleep in the winners' barracks tonight, so don't take it lightly."

  Timothy eyed the field of tires stretching out before them, feeling the prickle of anxiousness beneath his skin. It twisted into a heavy leaden knot in his stomach, weighing him down and making him feel nauseous. He’d never had great physical prowess, but maybe being small and light on his feet would work out for him.

  And the others were also newbies, so they were probably all on the same page, right? He had nothing to worry about because they were all beginners here, even if the others were far bigger and far stronger than he was. It probably wouldn't be as bad as he was anticipating. Surely his worries and insecurities were just a by-product of years of his father saying he wouldn't be able to do it.

  The voice in his head at least sounded a hell of a lot like his dad.

  You can't do this.

  You're wasting your time.

  You'll never amount to anything.

  Worthless.

  He shook his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he flexed his hands. He eyed the tires again, gaze narrowing and lifting his chin as his lips curl into a scowl.

  He could do this. No matter what everyone had always said. Just because he didn't have the physique of his father did not make him worthless. Timothy had practically begged his father to use his influence to get him into his training course, just so he could prove to his father that he was worthy of carrying his name. It had taken a lot of convincing, but his father had finally caved.

  And Timothy wasn't about to let this chance go to waste.

  He was here to win. There was no reason for him to fear his fellow cadets just because this training camp usually only took in not just the strongest, but highly skilled and seasoned military men.

  He could do it, too. Right?

  They lined up on the starting line, teams mixed together, hunched low and preparing to take off at a moment's notice.

  "Ready?" The sergeant holds his hand high. "On my mark." He put a whistle to his lips. There was a long pause. Tension filled the air, buzzing like static as everyone stood frozen and poised, ready to snap like a bowstring. The wind rustled through Timothy's hair. His heart beat
loudly in his ears, and he hoped the others couldn't hear.

  There was the sharp blow of the whistle, and one of the trainees shot off like a bullet.

  All Timothy got a glimpse of was dark hair and a uniform stretching over a broad back as he took off into the tires. He watched in confused awe, mouth embarrassingly open, as the man sprinted through the tires at top speed, never once tripping over any of them. In fact, he ran as if they weren't there to begin with. It was strangely graceful. He was glad to see the man wore his own team's colors on his wrist.

  He was already past the tires and halfway up the rope net by the time the rest of the group snapped out of it and charged after him, though it was clear they had all been in awe and intimidated by the quick display.

  So caught up in staring, Timothy got a late start, only stumbling forward as the group around him shoved past. He dove into the line of tires, eyes fixed directly in front of him to watch where he was stepping. When it became clear he was being left behind, he tried to pick up the pace, only to find himself tripping over the tires instead.

  When he fell the first time, he barely managed to catch himself before going face first into another tire. As he lifted his head, he could see some cadets were already far ahead, but none so far as the first soldier, who…Timothy's breath left him in a rush as he watched a large, powerful black wolf sprint across an open field, running at speeds he hadn't even thought imaginable.

  There was no way anyone was catching up to him.

  At a shout from the sergeant, Timothy was jarred back into the moment. He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled his way through the rest of the tires, but he was the last one to reach the rope net. It hurt his hands, and his body swung, making him cling to it desperately to keep from falling. By the time he reached the top, he was already panting and sore, arms shaking and knees feeling weak.