His Marked Omega (Beguiled Omegas #3)

Chapter 1

“Get on your knees.”

Fenrir and the rest of the omegas lined up next to him across the stage followed the command without hesitation.

At least, not external hesitation.

Internally, his pride was screaming at him to gnash his teeth and tear out the annoying beta’s jugular. Alpha pride, as it were, was hard to shake.

Even if Fenrir was no longer an alpha.

But, alpha or not, he had a job to do, and he wasn’t about to blow this opportunity on petty anger.

“The curtain will lift in less than five minutes,” the beta instructor who’d been assigned to accompany them to the location of the auction stated in a firm voice.

Natural betas on this planet were unheard of, but Fenrir understood why the Mistress of the Wardrobe preferred one over other more common options.

The beta stood out amongst the rest of the population, sure, but his proclivity ensured no chance of developing unwanted ties to the product—aka, Fenrir and the five others who’d been transported there over an hour ago.

They’d been greeted at a secret underground entrance and brought straight to the baths.

Stripped, groomed, oiled…The full body massage portion of the evening honestly hadn’t been all that bad.

It wasn’t his first time being prepped for viewing, offered up to elite bastards who had more coin than soul.

He’d have a better chance of finding a dragon out in the crowds than he would of spotting a person with compassion and empathy.

The Wardrobe didn’t cater to those sorts.

Fenrir knew better than to hope to spend his heat with a kind or caring alpha.

Losing his omega virginity wasn’t the main point of this evening anyway, not for him. He was here with a greater mission, and if he completed it successfully, he’d earn himself the one thing he’d always wanted.

A seat at the table.

A chance at a better life. One without servitude or cages.

The experiments may have ended years ago, but his position within the Wardrobe had not. Fenrir was sick of being a plaything. A coveted trophy set high on the shelf for others to admire and envy. He wanted true freedom.

Autonomy.

After this, he would finally get it.

Just a few more minutes—an hour tops, if it took that long for someone to take a fancy to him—and he’d know his target. He’d be one step closer to pleasing his mistress enough that she’d loosen the reins and make him pack over product.

The curtain began to lift, and the other omegas around him straightened their spines and held their chins up.

There were no cowards here, even if they were meant to be little more than bodies for sale.

Heat auctions, while not strictly legal, weren’t unheard of even amongst pleasant society, and every omega here had been hand chosen by the Mistress of the Wardrobe, an honor, some might say.

Fenrir didn’t care about stuff like that. He was past collecting accolades or trying to get ahead amongst the other inmates, as he liked to think of them. When the curtain fully lifted, exposing them to the crowd, and the crowd to them, his focus was on one thing and one thing only.

Acquiring the perfect target.

His gaze pinged around the dark room, murky from hazy cigarette smoke and dim lighting. The atmosphere was frenetic, energy sparking, excitement palpable as the auction began.

There were several members of the White Frost in attendance, and Fenrir allowed his gaze to linger on them a little longer, hoping to catch their attention.

Since he’d presented as an alpha, his physicality was less delicate than that of those around him.

On the one hand, that meant he stood out, on the other, it could be for all the wrong reasons.

If someone wanted a more traditional omega, he wasn’t it.

At six feet three inches, he towered over most others, even a fair amount of alphas.

He had broad shoulders, but lean muscle and a tapered waist that could work in his favor.

His scent, altered after the fourth round of testing, was purely omega musk, though he followed the rules and kept a tight leash on his pheromones, not letting them seep out to coax any of the lounging alphas watching the stage with hungry eyes.

He could do this even without pheromones, he reassured himself. This night wasn’t about attracting a mate, it was about snaring a horny alpha, which should be easy enough, considering alphas were almost always ready for an omega in heat, and that’s what was on the table here.

Heated Hearts Day was the one day a year when the Imperial family and their government openly recommended the use of heat inducers.

The drug was legally sold at all pharmacies for a week leading up to the holiday, and people were encouraged to take off work and make big plans with their partners.

What had once been considered a romantic event had been warped into the sexual deviancy it now was.

Singles flocked to the clubs, and dating agencies turned into hookup agencies, promising to match an alpha or omega with the perfect fling.

For the rest of the year, things like heat auctions had to be conducted from the shadows, but not on a day like this.

Today, the Wardrobe was Imperial-sanctioned, and they’d made sure to dress the location and the product to look the part.

Fenrir and the others had been dressed in silks and glittering metallic chains, a whisp of shimmery sheer fabric tied around their necks in a mock collar meant to entice even further.

Not that any of the omegas on stage were fools; they knew better than to assume any of the viewers eyeing them like meat were interested in gifting a claiming bite.

Mates gave true collars.

For Fenrir and the rest, this scrap of silk would have to suffice.

There were rut auctions as well, but tonight was all about heats.

An omega's first heat, nonetheless. A bit archaic, but there was still appeal in that, in things like virginity and ownership, even if it was just on a piece of paper. The crowd here tonight would pay a premium for the chance to spend an omega’s first heat with them, especially one trained by the Wardrobe.

The company used to be the city’s best worst-kept secret.

A high-end escort service that catered to the elite of society.

Their Royal clientele ensured they were never in trouble with the law, and a few years ago, when it was revealed Synastry was at risk of dwindling birthrates, the Wardrobe was even given the opportunity to step into the light.

The mistress and CEO, Michelle, ran things with a business-savvy mind, and had increased sales by forty percent with her additions to their offerings, like auctions and Play Dates.

Fen had never had to suffer through either himself before, but that was because she kept him on a tighter leash than most. Unlike the others on stage, he hadn’t been trained in lovemaking or flirtation. No one had ever expected him to be allowed to seduce or make money for the company.

He’d been a pet to the mistress.

An amusement.

A weapon.

Now, he was finally getting the chance to prove his loyalty. Was it a loyalty that’d been manipulated and manufactured? Sure. But such was his reality, and Fenrir had long since given up on fantasizing about impossibilities like escape.

Michelle had seen to it that even with his abilities, Fenrir was forever trapped to her side. Shackled to her throne made of bone, blood, and the stolen innocence of hundreds who’d had the misfortune of crossing paths with the Wardrobe.

Technically, Fenrir was a part of this auction of his own volition, but not all the omegas were. Product didn’t typically get a choice in what events they partook in, or how often they were offered up to the highest bidder.

Most had been cornered long ago, waking one morning to discover their lives forever altered by some shitty family member or an ex-lover.

A few, he’d grown up with at the facility.

He knew their names, had watched their old hopes and dreams fade from their eyes as time passed them by.

As things were, Fenrir could do nothing for them, but perhaps if he was successful in this—

No. Not if. When.

He was pretty enough despite his stature, with deep brown hair and vibrant orange eyes. His eye color was unique enough that it might garner him some favor, and he set them about the room, lingering on the White Frost members who seemed to show even a modicum of interest.

That was the one stipulation. He needed to be bought by a member of the mafia. Michelle’s promise to him only held true if he was successful in that, and like the cocky fool he was, he’d taken the gamble and agreed to her terms.

But there were many other alphas in this room. More than he’d anticipated.

What would happen if one of them bid on him instead? If one of them won?

There’d be no escaping their bed.

And no escaping the shelf.

Product remained on the shelf, pack worked the floor.

That was how the Wardrobe was run. Fenrir was never going to be free of the place entirely, but he’d worked so hard, had kissed Michelle’s ass more times than he could count, just to be here.

What if he’d fought and clawed his way to this stage to lose in the end?

What if it’d all been for nothing?

Would Michelle punish him? Refuse to offer her soothing pheromones the next time he was at risk of influx? She’d cut it close a few times this past year, always when she wanted to underhandedly teach him a lesson.

Remind him who held his leash.

There was nothing more frightening than the thought of losing oneself. Of slipping away, having their memories wiped clean and control over their words and actions.

What if he failed and she was displeased enough to send him back to the compound? If he lost control there, he’d end up murdering innocent people. Or worse.

What if he—

“Wolf,” Nadia, a female omega he’d known for a couple of years, hissed under her breath, catching his attention. “Your pheromones.”