Stray Omega (Tormented Omega #3)

Chapter one

Lily

The fluorescent lights hum, a low buzz that scrambles your nerves.

I’ve been staring up at them for the last several minutes, counting the flickers, watching how the harsh white glare bounces off the examination room walls.

It beats looking at Dr. Turner. She’s sitting right across from me, my file open in her lap, her face pulled into that gentle, patient look I’ve gotten used to over the past few years. I know it by heart now.

The news is going to be bad. I already know.

I wiggle on the exam table, the paper underneath me crackling way too loud for how quiet the room is.

I’ve got the medical gown on, the one that ties in the back and makes you feel naked everywhere, not just on your skin.

My legs are bare, dangling off the edge of the table, and my real clothes are folded up on the chair in the corner.

That’s my usual spot for them. I’ve done this so many times.

Same room, same doctor, same little ritual where I wait for her to tell me the things she always tells me.

Your hormone levels are concerning. Your body is under stress. You’ve been touch starved and using suppressants for far too long. You need to bond soon. You need alphas, Lily.

But today is different. I can feel it before she says anything. Dr. Turner’s shoulders are tense in a way that says today isn’t just the same-old—it’s worse.

She’s a beta, in her fifties probably. Maybe that’s why she’s so good at handling freaked-out omegas.

She has dark hair with some gray in it, pulled back into a neat bun, glasses sitting right at the end of her nose.

She scans my chart, lips pressed together.

She's been my doctor since I came to the registry.

The registry pulls omegas in the second we present to help with medical concerns and new heats.

They lock us behind their doors so the wrong alphas can't get to us before we're ready.

We don't start matching with packs until we're of age.

So Dr. Turner saw me through all of it. The years of waiting, the dorms, the lessons on how to be a good omega for whichever pack eventually picked me.

Her job is to keep an eye on my health while I try, and fail, to find a pack.

Every time I come in, her worry gets a little heavier and her advice a little more desperate. The optimism is gone. Now she just looks scared.

“Lily,” she says, finally setting the clipboard aside. She folds her hands in her lap, and I know this posture. It’s her I-have-bad-news posture. “We need to talk about your test results.”

“Just tell me. Please.”

She takes her glasses off and rubs the bridge of her nose, buying a few more seconds before the words come out. Down the hall, I hear voices, footsteps, the sharp little cry of an omega somewhere in the middle of a heat exam.

“Your hormone levels have destabilized significantly since your last visit,” Dr. Turner says, glasses back on, her eyes locking with mine. My stomach drops. “The suppressants we’ve been using to manage your heat cycles aren’t working anymore. Your body is starting to reject them.”

I nod, but the words feel far away. I’ve known something was off for months. The exhaustion that won’t lift no matter how much I sleep. My emotions swinging from numb to despair and back. The constant ache in my gut, my body fighting itself.

“What does that mean?” I ask, not sure if I want to know. “Practically, I mean?”

Dr. Turner leans forward and her face softens.

Is it compassion or pity? I can’t even tell anymore.

“It means that the next time you go into heat, the suppressants might not work. We could try sedating you again, like before, but…” She stops, shaking her head.

“Lily, you’ve never allowed yourself to have a heat.

That’s pushing it. Your body wasn’t meant for this. ”

“I get it,” I say, because I do. Every omega does. It’s the first thing they teach us: our bodies need alphas like plants need water. Suppressants are a stalling tactic, not a fix. Time eats unbonded omegas alive. Biology’s a bitch.

But knowing it and feeling it happen are two totally different things.

“The strain is showing in multiple areas,” Dr. Turner says, flipping back to the chart.

“Your cortisol is high, so you’re under chronic stress.

Your reproductive hormones are bouncing all over the place, which probably explains your mood swings.

You told me yourself you’ve been getting sporadic headaches.

And your omega pheromones have dropped by almost thirty percent since you first came in, which could be affecting your ability to attract alphas. ”

That one stings more than I want it to. I’ve spent so many nights wondering why no pack ever comes around twice. Why every alpha pack I meet seems interested at first but never follows through. I always thought it was me, that something in me was wrong.

Turns out it’s not in my head. My body is failing at the thing it’s supposed to do.

“Is that why…” I stop, swallow, try again. “Is that why I can’t find a pack that fits? Because my pheromones are… broken?”

Her expression shifts, pity warring with honesty.

“It’s possible the low pheromones are messing up the compatibility.

But Lily, when you started here, your levels were high—even higher than average.

What’s happening now is a result of your body being under stress.

It isn’t the reason you can’t find a match. ”

So I was normal, once. Before the registry wore me down to this: an omega with nothing left to offer.

“What happens if I don’t bond soon?” I say, even though I can already guess. I just need to hear her say it.

She puts the chart aside and looks at me straight on, no sugarcoating. “If you don’t find a pack in the next three months, maybe less, there are a few possible outcomes. None of them are good.”

She counts them off, finger by finger. “First: permanent damage to your reproductive system. Heats suppressed for too long cause scarring, hormone problems, maybe total infertility. Second: neurological risks. The hormone mess you’re in can affect brain chemistry.

That means depression, anxiety, dissociation, even psychosis if it gets bad enough. ”

I swallow hard.

“And third?”

She meets my eyes, and for a second she looks genuinely afraid. “In extreme cases, omegas die. Their bodies just… quit. They can’t keep fighting their biology, and everything shuts down. It’s rare, but it happens. With where you’re at…” She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.

The lights keep buzzing. The medical wing keeps humming along. I sit on the table, twenty-two years old, and start to wonder if I’ll make it to twenty-three.

“How long do I have?” I ask.

“I can’t say exactly. Every omega is different.

But I’d push, really push, for you to find a pack before your next heat.

That’s in three or four months at the most.” She reaches over and takes my hand, which she never does.

“Lily, the registry hasn’t been easy. I’m aware you’ve been selective.

But at this point, you have to be more open.

Your health is the most important thing. Your life is the priority.”

Selective. Everyone’s favorite word for me. The registry director uses it like an insult. My mom uses it when she’s crying. Even my sister, happy and pregnant and perfectly bonded, used it with that look when I turned down the Harrison pack.

Why can’t you just pick one, Lily? They were nice. They would have taken care of you. What are you waiting for?

It’s not that I’m waiting, or that I think I deserve better. My omega just shrivels up around certain alphas. There have been a couple of packs that looked twice. I just didn’t look back. But apparently I don’t have the luxury to be picky. Not anymore. Maybe I never did.

Sometimes I think I’m damaged. And maybe that damage is what’s going to kill me.

“Is there…” I pause, trying to get it out. “Any other option? Something temporary?”

Dr. Turner lets go of my hand and leans back, thinking. “You’re talking about substitute alphas.”

She knows. Of course she does. Every desperate omega thinks about it eventually.

“Yeah,” I say. “Would that work? Just to get me through one more heat?”

She sighs, takes off her glasses, polishes them. “Short-term, yes. A substitute alpha could help you through a heat without sedation and let your hormones reset a little.”

There’s a flicker of hope, but she’s not done.

“But,” she says, “it’s only a temporary fix.

Your omega biology needs regular alpha pheromones to really work right.

You’re touch starved, Lily. This isn’t only about the heats anymore.

You need purrs and teeth and a constant source of alpha scent.

Substitute alphas help in the moment, but it doesn’t solve the problem. It won’t last.”

Of course. Of course it won’t. The idea of letting a random alpha, or a few of them, touch me during a heat isn’t great. But what choice do I really have? It’s not like I’ve been pushing interested alphas away at every turn. They’re just not exactly banging down my door.

“There’s a gathering tonight,” Dr. Turner says, pulling me out of my spiral. “The Kennedy Estate gala. It’s huge. Pretty much every eligible pack will be there. I’m sure the registry already told you.”

I nod. I’ve been dreading it for weeks. Another night of forced smiles, packs looking me over and passing, Brennan Foster’s cold stare following me, his pack closing in like wolves on the hunt.

“Maybe try going in with a more open mind,” Dr. Turner says, gentle. “Focus on making a connection, not just on your usual criteria. Your instincts are important, but they might be off because of your stress. Sometimes logic has to win out.”