Omega’s Formula (Prime Match #3)

Chapter 1

“You’ve got post, boy.”

Mrs Kay’s voice carries up the narrow stairwell, sharp as always. She must have heard me coming out of the bathroom. I stop in the doorway to my twelve-by-twelve kingdom, my damp shirt still in one hand.

“Thanks, Mrs Kay. Be right down.”

“I’ll leave it on the hall table. Got a bowl of stew here too—figured you forgot to eat again.”

She’s not wrong. I glance at my phone. 9:47 PM.

My double shift at the hospital coffee shop ended at nine, and I spent the last twenty minutes scrubbing stains out of my work shirt in the bathroom sink because the building’s washing machine has been broken for three weeks and I can’t afford the laundromat.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I call down.

“Just eat, boy. I don’t need you starving to death in there. There’d be paperwork.” But there’s warmth in her voice. Margaret Kay might be the grumpiest landlady in the city, but she’s also the only reason I have a roof over my head.

My ‘apartment’ is supposed to be a studio, but it’s just a room.

My kitchen is a two-plate on the desk opposite, and I share the bathroom with two others.

Still, I pay almost nothing for it. Mrs Kay hasn’t put my rent up in years.

I suspect that if I skipped a payment, she’d not say anything.

So far, I’ve managed to pay on time every month even if it’s been close far too often.

I hang my shirt over the radiator to dry and head downstairs.

The envelope sits on the scratched hall table next to a big bowl of vegetable stew.

It smells incredible. Mrs Kay has already disappeared back into her ground-floor apartment, probably settling in for her nightly ritual of whiskey-dosed tea and whatever’s on TV.

The envelope is heavy paper with an embossed logo in the corner: St Mary’s Hospital, Barclay Trust.

I take a deep breath. I get a lot of hospital posts, but this is the one I’ve been waiting for.

I grab both the letter and the stew, climb back upstairs, and shut the door behind me. I shove the stew on the crate that acts as my bedside table and tear the envelope open.

Dear Mr. West,

Thank you for your application on behalf of Ellie West for enrollment in the Neurological Regeneration Trial. After careful review of the submitted materials, we regret to inform you that your application has been denied.

The words blur. I have to read them three times before my brain keeps trying to rearrange them into something different. Something that doesn’t mean Ellie’s dying and no one’s going to help.

Reason for denial: Failure to meet eligibility requirement 3.2(c): Applicant must demonstrate stable family situation and adequate support system. As primary caregiver is an unmarried, unregistered omega without partner or family unit, this requirement is not satisfied.

I sink onto my bed—a twin mattress on a metal frame that creaks if I breathe wrong. The stew sits forgotten beside me.

Unmarried, unregistered omega.

That’s what it comes down to. Not Ellie’s test results, which clearly show she’s a perfect candidate. Not her prognosis without treatment, which the doctors have made painfully clear. Not the fact that conventional treatments stopped working six months ago and we’re running out of time.

No. What matters is that I’m an omega without an alpha, and that makes me too unstable to be trusted with my sister’s care.

I keep reading, because I’m a glutton for punishment.

Please note: Per Federal Designation Act Section 2017, all unmated omegas over the age of 20 are required to register with the Omega Match Bureau unless granted specific exemption.

Our records indicate you have not completed registration.

Failure to register may result in additional penalties and further impact eligibility for government programs and services.

Yeah, yeah. I know that. Every omega in the country knows they’re supposed to be registered and the penalties that come when you refuse. The letter goes on, but I stop reading.

I’ve been running on exemptions for years. I’ve used every bureaucratic loophole I could find to avoid the Bureau. Right now, I’m exempt on the basis of my caregiver status, which is ironic considering the reason that the trial has turned me down.

Registering means matching, and matching means giving up the last scraps of control over my life to some alpha who’ll expect me to be grateful for the privilege. Grateful to be owned.

They can fuck off. All of them. I know what alphas are. I’m not letting them near me. Not as long as I have any say in the matter.

The thought makes my stomach twist. This letter means I may no longer have a say. Not in any real way.

On my desk, my phone buzzes and the screen lights up. I grab it instinctively. I only get calls and messages from Ellie and the hospital.

Ellie asking for you. Everything okay but she wants to talk. —EB

Dr. Evelyn Burke. Ellie’s primary physician, the only person in that entire building who treats me like I am a human being instead of just some omega getting in the way.

I type back: On my way.

The stew sits on my desk, steam curling into nothing. My stomach rumbles. I’ll eat it later. It’ll still be good when it’s cold.

The walk to the hospital takes all of three minutes. This is the other reason that I took the ‘studio’. Before I rented it full time, Mrs Kay made money from renting the room out to family of visiting patients. I guess she still does.

I’ve been Ellie’s sole caregiver since I was nineteen years old. That was when Mom died. Our dad was never really in the picture. He and Mom had an on again off again relationship that was mostly off. When I was fourteen, he went out for cigarettes and didn’t come back. Such a cliche.

I ran into a friend of Mom’s last year who told me that he was shacked up in Baton Rouge with ‘some bimbo’ so I guess he’s still alive. He’s never bothered to get into contact and I certainly wouldn’t care if he did.

Then Mom died five years after Dad left and it was just me and Ellie. She’s nineteen now, the same age I was when I started taking care of her.

And now some government agency is telling me it’s not enough. Apparently, without some alpha to validate my existence, I can’t be trusted to make decisions about my own sister’s care even though I’ve been doing it single-handed for a decade.

My stomach tightens with fury. This isn’t good enough. If they think I’m going to take this lying down, they’ve got another think coming.

I stomp over the crossing to the hospital entrance and its only when I see someone in the waiting room do a double take when she sees me that I realise I am frowning and muttering to myself. I must look like a complete maniac.

I take a deep breath and school my face to stillness. I am a calm, relaxed person. Or at least I can be with a little effort. I’m not going to let the bastards grind me down.

Ellie’s room is on the fourth floor. Despite the maze of corridors, I know this place so well I could navigate it blind. Dr Burke is at the nurses’ station when I arrive, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she reviews charts.

She looks up, and whatever she sees in my face makes her expression soften. “Nolan. She’s okay. She just wanted to see you. Sorry, I thought I said it wasn’t urgent.”

“I got the letter.”

For a moment, she says nothing, just taking in my expression which clearly isn’t as relaxed and calm as I’d intended it to be. Understanding flashes across her face. “I’m sorry. I pushed for her as hard as I could, but the committee—”

“I know. It’s not your fault.” I scrub my hand over my face. “Can I...?”

“Go on in. She’s awake.”

I nod but I don’t go in straight away. Ellie can’t know about this. I can’t tell her that the federal government has decided that me being an omega means she can’t get into the trial.

I definitely can’t tell her that in the short walk over here I already decided to register with the Bureau and sell myself to whatever alpha they match me with, all so she can have a chance at living past twenty-five.

I wait outside for a moment before I enter, trying to make the big fat grin on my face feel real.

I tell myself that there’s nothing wrong.

Everything is fine. As far as Ellie knows, we’re still waiting on confirmation on whether she can have the treatment and there is no reason that she shouldn’t get it. We made a good case.

The only thing she needs to worry about is getting better. Everything else is my problem.

I take a deep breath and step inside.

Ellie’s sitting up in bed, her laptop balanced on her knees. She’s gotten good at hiding how bad she feels, but I can see it—the tremor in her hands and the way she shifts constantly trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. The dark circles under her eyes look deeper than they did yesterday.

She looks up when I enter, and her smile is immediate and genuine and breaks my fucking heart.

“Nolan! I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“Got your message. What’s up, kiddo?”

“You didn’t have to come straight away and don’t call me kiddo. I’m nineteen.” But there’s no heat in it. She pats the bed next to her. “Come look at this. I found this article about a new therapy they’re testing in Germany—”

“Sounds promising. Let’s take a look.”

She slides the laptop over to me, the tab open to the article.

“Of course, if we get into the Barclay trial, then it won’t matter. That one is far more promising. Have you heard anything yet?”

“I got a letter today. More bureaucratic bullshit,” I say conversationally. “Just need to jump through some more hoops. I’m going to get working on the additional paperwork tomorrow.”

It’s not a lie. Registering with the Bureau requires paperwork.

As much as I hate the Bureau and as much as I don’t want a damn alpha, I’d marry the devil himself if it would get my sister into this trial.