AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter 1
Char
My stomach twists as the people loitering on the other side of the shop’s barred service window scurry away. I wish I could join them. They’re free to go where they please, free to run from danger, free to go topside whenever they dare.
I want that freedom, even if it means living with half-starved betas under putrid conditions. Hell, my position isn’t much better.
I yearn to feel the heat of the sun and the salty ocean air brushing across my skin. Sometimes I stick my arm out of the porthole in my cell, but it’s not enough, and getting caught is never worth it. I glance over my shoulder and confirm the three shopkeeper’s doors are closed.
More people rush past the front of the shop, so I shove the can in my hand under the counter and pull the last one from the box on the floor.
Worse than the need for sunlight and freedom, my entire body aches for the comfort of a casual touch, even though I’ve never experienced it before. No one has ever held my hand, given me a hug, patted my head, or kissed my temple.
I can’t have these things. I’m an omega. I’m a curse—the reason humans are doomed to fail.
Pushing myself into motion as the noise from the hall increases, I rise with the empty, hole-ridden box in one hand and glimpse the boy from next door running down the hall on his way to alert Alpha Trik.
I tuck the box under my arm and open the jar of pickling rat meat on the counter before banging on each of the three doors on my way to the back room, alerting the beta shopkeepers of trouble.
Geeta swings her door open and glares at me, but I point toward the commotion in the hall and yank the curtain closed between us.
After setting the box on top of the stack of other empties, I scoop up the pile of rags I use as nesting materials and wind my way through the cramped storage room. The haphazard array of shelves and containers hold dirty supplies, while shiny buckets sit along the right wall, catching water as it drips from the mass of tubes and funnels Geeta used to create the purifiers.
Geeta’s sharp mind and sharper tongue earned her the privilege of being a shopkeeper, as well as the position of an occasional rut-buddy to the local alpha, Alpha Trik. He wouldn’t let just any beta handle rare things like food, water, and an omega.
I toss my armful of rags through the small opening tucked in the back corner of the storage room and crawl in before easing the iron grate closed behind me. The thick mesh door latches tight against the sturdy metal bars, locking me in with shallow pots of dirt and wilting plants, their sad leaves and brittle stems foretelling yet another unsuccessful growing season.
Bret, the second shopkeeper, welded the grate to this supposed sanctuary. His affinity for all things fire and metal earned him a place in Alpha Trik’s graces. His hard hands have featured in many of my nightmares, their normal abuse turning more sinister than in years past. He used to hit and push me, but lately he’s inflicted less obvious means of torture, seeking parts of my body I wish would go back to being flat.
I cram my nesting materials into the least rusty bucket and wedge the top tight against the underside of the lopsided table in the farthest corner, blocking most of my scent within before pushing my back against it and pulling my knees to my chest. A deep, rough voice carries through the storage room and into my cage, the menacing timbre making me curl my arms tighter around my knees.
It’s the same alpha who came by two months ago—The Tanker.
Chills run up and down my spine.
Heknows.
Despite the stench of fermenting rat meat wafting from the open jar on the counter, he knows. Despite Alpha Trik caging me away from the rest of the world, he knows.
I’m close to my first heat.
The tanker isn’t from around here. He lives deep in the bowels of the old oil rig welded between our vessel and the cruiser on the other side. Nausea builds in my stomach as I think about being locked away in the maze of dark, stench-filled rooms of the gigantic ship. At least here I have the small porthole to let in light and fresh air.
Fancy—the third shopkeeper—addresses The Tanker. I grind my teeth so hard my jaw aches as her syrupy voice drifts down the hall. Her words echo in my head, vicious, demeaning, and all too honest. She makes sure I know my worth, or lack thereof, every moment possible. As she tries to sweet-talk the alpha, I ignore the hurt pulsing within my chest from her latest jab.
She mocked me because my green thumb is failing. The plants I’ve loved since childhood die because of me. As my body buds and ripens for an alpha’s knot—aspubertyencroaches—my skills diminish. My miserable days only lead to one outcome: my slow, agonizing death underneath an alpha.
A laugh from Fancy yanks me out of my musings, but when the alpha’s low rumble stirs a weird sensation in my belly, I jump to my feet and slide between the tables below the porthole, rising onto my tiptoes and sticking my finger through the opening. I pull the window open a bit more, causing the wind to blow louder in the room, and freeze as the conversation stops. My heart pounds against my ribs as I suck down the briny breeze, trying to dispel the feeling of being cornered. In all my years of living here, no one has gotten past the thick metal door of the shop unless Alpha Trik invited them in.
I will the conversation to continue, hoping the rushing wind blocks out their voices, but the hairs on my nape stand on end.
A loud bang echoes through the shop before Fancy’s scream batters my eardrums, her agony ricocheting off the rusty walls. The sound ends in a gut-wrenching gurgle.
I wriggle out from between the tables and drag the nearest plant onto the floor.
Metal shrieks as the handle snaps off the shop’s front door.
My hands shake as adrenaline pulses through me, but I move a second pot to the floor, making sure it stays upright—I can’t stomach the thought of spilling something so precious—before pushing a third plant aside to clear enough space on the table.
