The Last Omega in the Galaxy (Scales and Tails of Fate #1)

Chapter Four

Noel

Eyes opened. Mine.

The scenery? Different. White. Sterile.

The smell? Antiseptic.

Surrounded by? Dilute male. Needle held. Equipment poised.

Determination? Harvesting.

Dilute male, approximately 8 percent, based on weak scent and categorical features. Lab coat. A surly male nearby skulked off, his scent clinging to me in ways I didn’t like. Dilute. Nineteen percent. Inferior. Handsy.

Oppose? Weak target?

Muscles didn’t cooperate, not at first. Movement brought pain, restraints, potential punishment.

“Rank.” My voice cracked as the weaker dilute male’s hand ran up my thigh. His touch held no ill intent, but I did not want it.

“We don’t have rank. I’m just Doc.” His eyes narrowed as he pulled the hem of my research garment up.

My body!

Not mine. Property. I had to remind myself.

Strength. It returned in a wave. Anger flared. Limbs moved on their own. The doctor went away with a clatter.

Voices raised. More noise. Officers coming? More harvest. Frozen in place.

Hands on body. Dilute hands. Dilated pupils. Heavy scents.

Arousal.

Dilute eyes locked onto me. I scented the urge to breed. No. Not allowed. Not permitted. I do not permit.

Beyond my control.

I, myself, ceased to exist. Lost in the din of noise, the clang and clash after years of silence, I isolated. Mind separated from body. Training took over. I do not exist. Only the soldier and age-old training rode my body like a vessel.

Hands reached for me. Hands went away just as quickly. My body reacted like a coiled spring, operating on energy and efficiency that it did not have to spare. I needed rest.

My mind—it spun.

Today is very different.

Real or nightmare?

They said nightmares did not hurt, but who are they , and what is a nightmare? And who are they to determine what I feel? I am inconsequential to all but myself.

I wanted hands off me. I wanted quiet, warmth, and dark. I wanted—a scent pricked my senses. Warm arms embraced me. My face pressed into a chest that brought darkness and comfort.

My nostrils flared. Alpha. No… Alpha? No. Beta? No. Yes? “Nefil.” He was both.

“Not Nefil!” He glanced around as if surveying what I’d done. Destruction. What a Naleucian was good for.

No. Cannot relax! Trap. “Identify and release me!”

“N01-5-2. Identify yourself,” he said. Fifth iteration of Raziel, my alpha patron. Seventh born. Technically, of more worth than myself.

“N03.” When I said it, I flinched, but he didn’t react.

“Generation and designation?” he asked, as if I’d been used to create more hybreeds.

“Gen zero.” My voice cracked.

“So, you are pure Naleucian.” Arousal, heady and thick, rolled off him. He was compatible with me. It was of no surprise. Most of Raziel’s progeny were. After all, I’d been born for him.

It was a complicated question at the best of times. “Yes.” Hesitancy flooded me. While true, I was pureborn Naleucian; I was not a genetic donor. I was a host and facilitator. I was redundant. His lack of reaction calmed me as my adrenaline reached its end and my implant kicked in. Freezing hadn’t deactivated it, only delayed the rush of controlling drugs to calm me. Eventually it’d run out. Hopefully.

“I’m not,” he said, as if it were hard to tell.

“I know.” I scented the Tal in him, the human, just enough to stabilize him. Enough for me to be genetically compatible, and enough to birth pureborn Naleucian children. It would be my mRNA, of which his was tainted. “Eighty-nine percent.”

“Sixty-four,” he said, like an omega’s contributions mattered. He had Tal cells, not Naleucian. Still, he would be suitable. The impure parts he carried were my parts to contribute.

“They are calculating in terms of trichromosomes. It’s impossible to get over 60 percent if you classify your makeup on three.” He didn’t get it. Humans didn’t. They toyed with us like children.

“Shh.” His warm words were kinder even than Nirem’s had been before Raziel grew resentful. Very compatible. My pheromones called him. “Focus on healing. We can talk later.”

“No! No. No, you’re…” I didn’t want him to leave. He could give me purpose. I belonged to him. He could care for me. “You’re like me. Stay. The…the dilutes.”

“We don’t use that word,” he said, anger in his tone. I froze. I had said nothing incorrect? Perhaps I had offended his subordinates. I could only pray they’d still have worth for me. I vowed they’d never carve me open. Not again.

“I don’t think that you know how things work. We’re all equal.” He used a saccharine tone that meant he had another purpose. He wanted something from me.

“Don’t harvest. I—please. If I—if you do it. Kill me. Put me all out. The mind,” I said, clawing at my head in ways that made him struggle to hold me.

Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry. I apologize. Sorry. My hearts shuddered in my chest as tears pricked my eyes.

“Fuck…” He sighed heavily and settled onto the medical table. The structure creaked, but anger melted from him with a promise. “I’ll be here. Please rest.”

With permission given, I could close my eyes. Whether I’d wake to find myself cut open, I wasn’t sure.