Omega's Hope: An MPREG Shifter Romance

by Noah Harris

  "My mom's dad was a shifter." His hands tighten around each other, knuckles white. He grinds his teeth, breathing heavily through his nose as he tries to keep his voice steady. "He was a bloodthirsty and violent wolf who terrified my grandma and my mom. My grandma prayed that my mom wouldn't be a shifter like him, and she wasn't. But the gene passed on to me."

  He lets out a long breath, eyes opening but unseeing as he stares at the table in front of him, thoughts far from this room. "We lived in an area that was extremely superstitious, and a lot of violent and brutal shifters, like my grandfather, terrorized humans into fearing and hating our kind. Persecution and wolf hunts had severely diminished our population by the time I was born. Those left lived in secrecy.

  "My parents loved me, and they took care of me, but it was too much for them in the end. I had a few incidents growing up where I couldn't control my wolf, and rumors started, angry mobs formed outside our house, and we ended up moving around a lot. But everywhere we went, rumors followed. My parents lived in constant fear. My mom abandoned her church and her faith. My father lost the job he'd had since he was fourteen. He lost himself in alcohol, and my mom tried to take care of me, but I could see how strained and tired she was.

  "They tried to teach me how to be indifferent. They tried to teach me to ignore the hostility of others and take their insults. They didn't want me fighting back and making things worse. They wanted me to run, hide and cower. We moved further and further into the woods, away from other people. Until we were completely isolated."

  He lets out a long, shaking breath, burying his face in his hands. He rubs his eyes roughly, trying to banish the telltale prickle he feels. He drags them down his face, steepling his fingers and resting his nose against them. "Mom, she…she wanted the best for me, but she was only human. She didn't know what to do. She did some research, and that's how she heard of wolfsbane." There's the soft sound of Timothy's gasp, and Christopher squeezes his eyes shut. "She brewed it herself. Into a tea. Always making sure it was a low enough concentration that it wouldn't kill me, b-but it still hurt like a bitch," he says with a bitter laugh. "It was excruciating, and she used to hold me through the pain, crying along with me. I know how much it hurt her to do that to me, but she thought it was the only way."

  He feels a light touch, opening his eyes to see Timothy leaning over the arm of the chair to brush his fingers against his wrist. His expression is set, determined and firm as he takes Christopher's hand, but his eyes are glassy and swirling with sympathy. He weaves his small, slim fingers between Christopher's, holding his hand in the space between them. His thumb lightly caresses Christopher's knuckles.

  "That's why I hated seeing you taking those pills," he says softly, eyes on their linked hands. "I couldn't stand to see you in pain like that. I know that pain. You should never have to go through it."

  "I understand," Timothy whispers, thumb still rubbing soothing circles. "H-how did you go from that to…to this." He looks up in time to see Timothy's brow scrunched and lips pursed as he gestures vaguely to Christopher. It's, admittedly, adorable. "You know, all alpha wolf and stuff."

  Christopher's lips quirk into a wry smile. "Thankfully, my wolf is very strong. In high school, it started to resist the poison. It started to reemerge. Unfortunately, I couldn't really control it because I never learned to, so it caused a lot of problems at school. I often had to skip class or run out of the room because I couldn't control my transformations. Sometimes I'd skip whole school days. But I never told my parents. I didn't want my mom to increase the wolfsbane dosage because, even though I couldn't control it, I liked being a wolf.

  "But my grades were suffering. No matter where we moved, someone always ended up hearing howling from our house or catch a glimpse of a shadow with a tail, or something. Word always spread around school, and I was always the new kid and the weird kid. Some believed the rumors and some didn't." He huffs another bitter laugh, this one softened by the amusement of hindsight and time. "One kid actually once asked to use me as a science experiment. But most were scared. A lot hated me. Anti-shifter movements were still going strong, so I took a lot of the brunt for that. And I dealt with it because that's what my parents had taught me to do. When it got too bad, we'd move. Simple as that," he says with a shrug.

  He leans back on the couch, arm still stretched out where Timothy holds his hand. He tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. His eyes still burn, but there's a numbness inside his chest. It's the numbness that comes with time and being far removed from a past trauma. It still hurts, but it's easier to deal with.

  "But it got so bad that our reputation started to precede us. My wolf kept getting stronger, and people seemed to know who we were before we even settled into our new homes."

  "What changed?" Timothy asks, and Christopher feels a smile tug at his lips fondly as nostalgia warms the numb knot in his chest.

  "One day, a man came to our door. His knock was sharp and loud, and we’d started to associate that with angry neighbors, so mom was very defensive when she answered the door. The man was tall and clean cut. He looked strong, and he stood straight and proud. He clearly didn't look anything like any of the rural neighbors we'd ever had. He asked if a wolf boy lived there, and mom slammed the door in his face. But right before the door closed, I saw this weird wolf logo on his jacket.

  "When mom stomped back to the kitchen, I peeked out the window. The man was standing at the end of our driveway, but when I looked out the window, he glanced up. When we made eye contact, he smiled, and put something in our mailbox. I snuck out that night to get it, and read it under my sheets with a flashlight. It was a pamphlet about wolves."

  He hears Timothy suck in a sharp breath, but Christopher continues. He can already feel the pride and warmth bubbling up inside him, chasing away the ache of his childhood.

  "The pamphlet was about a lupine General who was calling for wolves to stop repressing our natures and unite. It talked about how the wolves of the past had terrorized humans and been careless, and their lack of discipline had ruined the shifter community. The General was calling for us to go back to our roots and uphold shifter tradition."

  Timothy's thumb has stopped its soothing circles, and the fingers in his grip feel loose and limp, but Christopher doesn't stop. He gestures with his other hand as he starts speaking faster, that same fervor he felt as a child rising up once more at the memory.

  "The General was carving out places for shifter armies. Places where we could train and learn to harness our wolves safely and in peace. We could stay hidden from the fearful human eye, but still serve our country. He was starting a revolution by organizing us. By uniting us, we could be free. I stayed up all night pouring over that pamphlet. It talked about the value of power and self-discipline. About the wisdom of listening to our wolves and our instincts. Of the importance and necessity of maintaining packs and wolf hierarchy to avoid the problem of stray wolves, like my grandfather. It was the most amazing and inspiring thing I had ever heard." He sighs, finally looking at Timothy, smiling almost wistfully. "It was the first time anything had made me proud of what and who I am."

  He's not sure what he's expecting. A smile, perhaps? Timothy had been so sympathetic that he expected for him to at least share in some of Christopher's joy at finding his place. At finding his happiness. Maybe even some sort of proud acknowledgement of the General. He knows their relationship isn't the best, but surely Timothy can see the wisdom of his father.

  But Timothy's expression is carefully blank. It looks almost like a mask, carefully smooth and indifferent. But there's a swirling sorrow in his eyes and a strain around his mouth.

  Christopher squeezes his hand. "I left my parents when I was fourteen to join the army, and I've never looked back. General Wolski saved me."

  Only then does Timothy smile, but it doesn't reach the faraway look in his eyes. It looks fragile and dry, unamused despite its curve. "I know how much my father has done for our kind," he says, words devoid of emotion
and distant. "I know he helped us find a place in this world, and he's helped remove us from the stereotypes of the past." He then pulls his hand from Christopher's, leaving his fingers feeling cold. He looks away, wrapping the blanket around himself as he mutters, "It's a shame his ideas empowered only some of our kind and ended up being destructive to his own son."

  Christopher feels the warmth in his chest fading to embers as the cold tide of realization begins to trickle in.

  Timothy

  The topic of his father isn't one Timothy expected, nor is it one he was prepared for. He really should have seen it coming, though. With the tragedy of Christopher's childhood, and considering the strong alpha wolf he's become, he should have suspected that only someone like his father could bring about that kind of pivotal change.

  He wasn't lying when he said he knows his father has done a lot for wolf kind. He's given them an empowerment that they’d lost. He'd preach order and pride to their people, teaching them that there's strength in self-discipline and disgrace in losing control of one's self. It's helped carve out a better standing for them in this world over the past couple of decades. Shifters are gaining more respect, and the violence of the terrorizing lone wolves remains in the past. It's not completely fixed, but they're getting there.

  Unfortunately, while his father's reformations and ideas have been good for their people, and while his intentions are in the right place, there are a lot of his ideas that do far more harm than good. Specifically, the emphasis he puts on strength. How he glorifies it and prioritizes it. He raises strong wolves up by beating down the weaker ones, claiming that this hierarchy is best for the pack as a whole. That the weak must, for some reason, sacrifice more in order to keep the pack healthy.

  And as a strong wolf himself, he never suffered because of that mindset. He never saw the drawbacks to it until his son ended up being one of those weaker wolves.

  Unfortunately, even then he didn't change his mindset, preferring to just alienate his own flesh and blood rather than reform his own steadfast opinions.

  Timothy lets out a shuddering breath, reaching up with a shaky hand to run his fingers through his hair. It's a nervous tick, and he knows it, but that doesn't stop him. Not when he needs those nervous ticks to help ground himself. To keep the prickling sensation beneath his skin and the tightening of his chest under control. He can feel how shallow his breaths are, and there's that itch of fear at the back of his mind that's hauntingly familiar. If he doesn't get himself under control, he's going to have an anxiety attack. Just how pathetic is he that the mere mention of his father and his reformation can send him spiraling?

  But he's as uncoordinated in his frazzled state as ever, and he ends up knocking his hand into his glasses. They go tumbling off his nose, sliding off his nest of blankets and clattering to the floor. He freezes, hand still in the air, blinking at the suddenly blurred room, feeling the heat of embarrassment surge to his cheeks.

  Christopher chuckles, soft and light as he leans over, picking them off the floor. As Timothy sits there, completely dumbstruck, Christopher sits on the edge of the couch, leaning over to gingerly place them back on his nose. When he can see clearly again, the man is so close. There's a small smile on his lips that dances in his eyes. Breathing doesn't get any easier, but this time it's for entirely different reasons.

  "I like the glasses," Christopher says, voice quiet but genuine. Almost shy in his delivery and fond in a way that has Timothy's heart stuttering over a beat. "They look good on you." It lightens the mood that had been hanging heavy and suffocating over them.

  Timothy's hands come to rest in his lap, and his eyes drop to them, fingers restlessly weaving and tightening around each other. He can't help the small smile that curls at the corner of his lips any more than he can help the fluttering feeling of butterflies in his chest. "Thank you," he breathes. "That, um…that means a lot to me."

  It's such a simple thing. An incredibly simple thing. But no one has ever told him they like his glasses, and he hadn't realized just how much of an impact that would have on him until it happened.

  "Really?" Christopher asks, and Timothy can tell by his voice that he's surprised. By the statement itself or Timothy's earnestness, he's not sure. Maybe a combination of both.

  Timothy purses his lips, nodding once. "Yeah, I-I don't hear it a lot." A surprised, almost bitter laugh escapes him, short and quick. "Or ever, really. But thank you."

  "I don't remember you having them," Christopher says, and Timothy glances up to see him cocking his head to the side, brows furrowed in innocent curiosity. It makes his heart thump. How can a strong alpha wolf be so unabashedly cute? "Did you have them at the training camp or are they new?"

  Timothy takes in a deep breath, letting it out through his nose as he says, "No, I had them back then. I've had them since I was nine." He looks back to his fingers, idly cracking his knuckles and picking at his cuticles. "I didn't want to wear them because I didn't want to look weak. So I wore contacts instead." He huffs a short breath. "Not that it mattered much. Everyone realized how weak I was on the first day."

  He purses his lips, trailing off as he loses himself in thought. Silence settles over them, and he's not sure if Christopher just has nothing to say or if he knows that there's something Timothy is teetering on the edge of saying. Either way, he remains quiet, still leaning forward. He rests his elbows on his knees, staying strangely close to Timothy and his personal space. He's surprised to find it doesn't make him as nervous as it should.

  It takes him a moment of internal deliberation. He's not sure if he should elaborate. He's not sure if it would be worth it. It was just a compliment, after all. They're just glasses. Christopher doesn't need to know why it struck such a nerve over something so, arguably, minimal. Especially when Christopher's past is so much harder than Timothy's.

  Part of him feels remorseful. Here he's been, complaining and wallowing in self-pity about his life, just assuming Christopher has always had it good because he has it good now. And yet everything Timothy has ever had, everything he's ever taken for granted and even resented having, Christopher has striven for and worked for. He's fought to have the life Timothy was granted with his birth. Yet he would've traded his life for Christopher's in a heartbeat. Growing up with human parents, hiding his wolf, sounds like a much better life than being shamed for the wolf he has and being treated like dirt. He thinks he would've been much better suited for Christopher's childhood, and Christopher for his.

  There's no point in telling Christopher about the whole glasses thing. He'll just sound ridiculous. It was an offhanded compliment, and glasses of all things shouldn't be rooted in something so deep. What if he explains it and Christopher sees it as trivial, as his father does? What if he explains how his glasses make him weak, and Christopher realizes Timothy's father is right, and he no longer likes his glasses? What if he opens up about his own childhood, and he just sounds like a broken record that doesn't measure up to Christopher's own trauma?

  But as he glances up through curls that have fallen in front of his face, he sees Christopher watching him, expression open and patient. There's nothing but innocent curiosity there, flavored with encouragement and…worry.

  No one has ever looked at him like that. Patient and earnestly interested in what he has to say. Waiting for him to be ready to say it.

  Christopher was open with him, so maybe it wouldn't hurt to return the favor? He's still not sure if Christopher really cares about him, and he's not sure if he trusts the alpha. Maybe this can help him decide.

  He inhales a sharp breath, lifting his chin as he sits up straight and turns to face Christopher. He meets his gaze, determined and defiant, trying to remain resolute in his decision. He clenches his fingers together in his lap to keep them from shaking.

  "The day a child learns they need glasses shouldn't be the worst day of their life, right?"

  Christopher blinks clearly confused by the abruptness of the question. He sits up a little straighter
, brows furrowing as he considers. "I suppose so? They're just glasses."

  Timothy nods. "Exactly. They're just glasses. It may seem like the worst day ever when they show up to school with new glasses, but the worst thing that happens is maybe they go through a day or two of teasing. Maybe a few weeks or a month or so, if they're unlucky. I've…" He sighs, posture shrinking a little as he does so. "I've always envied human kids because of that."

  Christopher lifts a brow, lips tilting downwards as he says, "I…I don't understand."

  Timothy's lips quirk into a wry smile, a dry amusement in his voice as he says, "I'm surprised you don't, to be honest. You of all people should know that poor eyesight is a detrimental sign of weakness for a wolf." Christopher's expression shifts from surprise to understanding to pity in a matter of seconds, but Timothy pushes on before he can hear that pity in his voice. "The day they told me I needed glasses was a catastrophe in my family. I was only nine. The entire drive home from the eye doctor was tense. Mom immediately went and shut herself in her room. She tried to be subtle about it, but I could hear her crying through the walls. You probably don't know much about my mom, do you?"

  Christopher shakes his head. "No, I know the General has a mate, but…she doesn't come up much."

  Timothy nods, head turning as he looks away, eyes distant. His wry smile fades. "That's probably because she's all about silently supporting her alpha mate. Strong and silent. But, honestly, she's just as bad as he is. She's supported him the whole way, and she believes in all the same ideals he preaches." He doesn't say it with any sort of anger or regret. He's far past that. He's accepted the way his parents are, and while it twists his gut with sorrow and anxiety, he's fairly numb to most of it. Does he wish he had different parents? Yeah, sometimes. But he knows wishing won't make it true. So he's just…moved on. "She was a kind and nurturing mother in the beginning. She used to read me stories about glorious wolves, and she used to say that I would grow up to be just as strong as my father someday. But the day they told me I needed glasses was the day she stopped being my mother in all but name."