Page 2 of Shared Omega

It was not always this way.

I unfasten my leather loincloth and pull it aside to free my aching cock. The omega gasps, and her heat-dilated eyes cross slightly as she focuses on the tip, which is nodding up and down with the pulse of my blood. My piercing glints briefly. The omega licks her lips.

Her white-blond hair is longer now, much longer than when I first laid eyes upon her. A few more weeks, and I’ll be able to clutch a proper handful of it.

For now, however, I need some other handle.

I take my leather loincloth in both hands, and loop it behind her head, using it to steer her forward. Her lips part, accepting my hard meat into her mouth. The soft, wet pad of her tongue slides along the underside of my pulsating shaft.

As she sucks me, my eyes drift toward the three marks on her neck and shoulders.

She belongs to us now—all three of us. We are a pack, and she is our shared omega.

Ours to use.

Ours to protect.

Ours to breed.

It wasn’t always this way, though. We were all enemies once. And the omega, she was once an Outsider.

But we were joined together as mates by the power of the Source.

By the power of Fate.

PART ONE:

THE MISSION

CHAPTER 1: SLOANE

city hive Galadon-1; SynerGen central headquarters

several months earlier

I file into the briefing room behind my fellow marines to the sound of clomping boots and low, muttering voices. They are all joking and ribbing each other like oversized schoolboys. All except me, of course. As usual, I’m excluded from the testosterone-fueled camaraderie.

The briefing room is small, cold, and spartan. The charcoal gray walls are lined with acoustic dampening panels. A holographic image hovers at the front of the room displaying the SynerGen company logo—a DNA double helix morphing into a caduceus, the intertwined pair of snakes that compose the classical symbol of the medical field. The lines and vectors of the holographic image pulse and tremble with a laser-like glow.

A handful of civilians are already seated in cushioned chairs along one wall—medical nerds and corporate suits from the look of it. Weak, mindless sheep with their noses glued to their handheld devices.

In the middle of the floor is are two rows of hard metal folding chairs for us grunts.

By the time I get there, all of the seats are taken except for a spot on the very end of the front row, right next to Donovitch. That prick is manspreading so wide that his leg clad in black combat pants is blocking my access to the empty chair.

He looks up at me with a shit-eating grin on his ugly, pock-marked face, and bats his eyes. “Problem, Sloane?”

Same old story.

As a woman, I’m forced to take a lot of shit from all of the swinging-dick marines in this unit. Whatever. I’m used to it by now.

In fact, I’ve grown to enjoy it.

It just means I have to be that much tougher and meaner than all of these ugly sons of bitches.

Donovitch snorts as I gingerly slide my butt into the empty seat from the side. Then, with a sudden violent motion, I swing my knees around, slamming his legs out of the way.

“Ow, fuck!” Donovitch complains, rubbing his leg where I cracked it with my armored knee pad. “What gives, Sloane? You PMS-ing or somethin’?”