8. A Thrilling Connection With A Savior
A Thrilling Connection With A Savior
~ASTRAEA~
“ H EY!”
I’ve never felt the hypnotic effect an Alpha’s voice can have on an Omega until this very moment.
This is after my fist punches Alpha Fucker #2, aka Dirty Orange, because he had every intention of apprehending me.
Only I would get myself in a sticky situation like waltzing out of the backdoor, hoping to leave the establishment quietly, and meeting the very pack I got banned from the institute.
Heck. They’re banned from any Elite parties until that bankruptcy label is off their record. That takes a minimum of ten years in our society.
No wonder why they’re not only ready to rip my dress to shreds and do what a good chunk of Alphas do when they overpower an Omega amid the alleyway.
Sadly, I’m not like other Omegas who don’t know how to kick ass.
You want to rape me? Go ahead, but I’ll fight you until my very last breath.
It’s sad to have to mentally prepare yourself for the possibilities. Especially with a mother who constantly states your probability of getting raped is ninety percent since I can’t find a pack in my youthful age.
Despite me just reaching of age.
Instances like these remind me, once again, that I need to go back to therapy because fuck.
My train of thought is nothing but mindfuckery.
When my eyes land on the culprit who thinks he can interrupt what’s about to happen, my breath gets caught in my throat.
My eyes widen, attempting to take in the view of the 6’5” Alpha charging our way. Those familiar white strands. The enormous bulk frame full of muscle. The alluring, unique sapphire shade still leaves me in disbelief that they’re truly a man’s eye color.
My heart is pounding for different reasons now.
His Alpha scent hits me, the mixed scent of sweetness that has me craving chocolate-covered strawberries can make me purr any second. If I wasn’t still riled up on adrenaline, I’d be running into this man’s arms and climbing him like a tree.
Okay, maybe not into his arms because those are not only pulsing with bulging veins, but his fists are clenched like he’s ready to murder everyone standing here.
The mere idea of him raising a hand… err… fist my way makes me freeze, as if I’m the one in the wrong. I must have made some sort of noise because he freezes mid-stride, the action best described as a robot coming to a dramatic stop when the battery runs out.
Our eyes are locked in now, and how intense this sprouting connection is between us. It’s palpable, vivid, and makes me want to melt in his hold.
Stay there, knowing deep within, I’m untouchable in his grasp.
Droplets begin to hit me from above, and even those cold beads of water can’t break this lucid dream that I dare say is my reality.
When they explained what it’s like to meet your scent match, everyone made it sound like something out of a fairytale. The sense of peace, happiness, and excitement is matched with the essence of joy and pure relief that riddles you all at once.
Some described it as walking into a place of paradise and realizing among the fields of your favorite forms of fulfillment is someone you can share those admirable items with.
Whether it’s your favorite smelling flowers or unique sweet pastries. You conclude that in this vast world, there truly is a set of individuals sculpted to match you and be the missing links needed to make you feel complete.
Truly whole.
Mind-boggling, overwhelming, and slightly frightening to take it all in at once, but in this intense confrontation of stares, I can say I’m relieved that it’s him.
That he’s one of my Alphas.
Something yanks me roughly to the left, making me screech as I’m not simply pushed to the side. My whole body goes flying straight into the cement wall.
The action is intentional, and damn, it takes the breath out of me as I fall to the ground, gasping for breath.
Am I in pain? Fuck yes. However, on immediate impact with the ground, I’m very positive nothing is “broken.”
Good, because I’m about to fuck this man’s life up for touching me.
The grit of my teeth ignites a muffled war screech before I’m a second from pouncing from the ground and tackling this man to the ground. I realized in a second that the one who threw me was Dark Coffee Spinach—of course, his dirty hands would try to hurt me when he got humiliated.
I’m already envisioning punching his face into a flat pancake, but my eyes widen when a fist not only punches into his left cheek, but I hear the way his jaw cracks upon impact.
I cringe at the sound while mesmerized as I see multiple teeth shoot out in the same direction as Alvin’s soaring body. It happens in slow motion in my mind, but with two blinks, I’m turning my head to confirm Alvin’s loud crash into the wall, which follows with a ‘thump’ into the pile of trash bins and waste where I punched his other friend.
With two down, I realize there are three more, but I can’t even move before I’m watching limbs turning in odd directions while listening to the loud outcries of agony coming from these men who were ready to “teach me a lesson.”
Now, who’s being taught the lesson of not messing with an Omega?
It’s hard not to be in awe because watching Mr. Sexy Beast in action is truly enchanting. If you can even label fighting with such a fragile terminology.
His white dress shirt is gripping his bulging muscles for dear life as he moves them swiftly, despite his enormous frame. His speed is undeniably marvelous and executed with experience with every punch, kick, sidestep, and evade.
His stance and fluid movement proves he’s not only fought before, but he’s fucking good at it. I can envision him in the heart of a ring or a cage, in nothing but boxers, dripping in sweat as he’s ready to face his opponent with a scrutinizing gaze that promises suffering and misery.
By the time the final crunch of a broken bone—I’m assuming are ribs because the last Alpha is gasping for air as he crumbles to the ground — reaches my ears, I’m finally able to acknowledge all five men are down for the count.
And there’s only one man standing.
His shoulders move up and down as he catches his breath. I can tell, even by the depth of his inhales, that he’s barely worked up. Was that even a workout for him? His fists are clenched and bruised but still intact compared to his opponents, who all have some form of injury that’s going to take them a minimum of six weeks to heal.
Broken bones. Good luck when you don’t have money.
I realize these men really didn’t think properly before picking a fight because they’ll no longer get Alpha Health Insurance with them being bankrupt and banned from Elite events.
Making it harder for them to get an Omega, which, in turn, forces them to lose many privileges, making their lives harder in fulfilling their duties as Alphas.
I’m confident that’s only one of the many problems they’re going to face. Adding the obvious humiliation they’ll feel when they wake up in the hospital after losing to one Alpha makes me carry an ounce of pity for them.
Sympathy. Not Empathy because fuck them. They were going to hurt me if the opportunity was just right.
I try to get up, only to curse because that crash into the wall rattled my body up. I’m positive I don’t have any broken bones, but I have to be bruised or something because moving is a bit painful.
“Little Omega.”
I immediately lift my head at the title, realizing Mr. Sexy Beast of a Fucker is no longer steps away from me, catching his breath.
Oh no, he’s on my same level, knees on the cement ground, face inches from mine.
I must have hit my head because my Omega sense is not only in overdrive, but the closeness is giving me sensory overload. His aroma sweeps around me like a tornado, overwhelming me just like the excruciating need to move and make sure he’s okay. My mind wants to do multiple things at once: my body trying to balance the pain still thrumming through me versus the Omega need to be of sensual use to the Alpha in my domain.
It all feels too much.
So much, I’m seeing stars in my line of vision.
“I’m okay,” I try to say and even attempt to scramble up, but that’s the tip of the iceberg I need to send me crashing down.
Right into a pair of muscled arms, catching me even as I descend into darkness.