Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We had no way of knowing if the rumors were true.
Without an omega on Khanos, Roktusians largely relied on stories passed down through generations. Some of them made sense—that an alpha would recognize his omega’s scent immediately, even from leagues away. That their entire existence would shift, reorienting to hinge on one smaller, weaker being.
Others sounded quite impossible—like the idea of being able to lull an omega with a simple breathing technique. Or the notion that an omega’s alpha could sense another alpha’s musk if it got anywhere near his chosen mate.
Well.
Rask’s spiciness and Cylus’s salty scent put a rumble on the edge of my every exhale. Our Chief Healer holds himself taut, mimicking my own desperate fight for control.
Only there’s a difference, here. He has to hold himself back. Whereas I’m supposed to charge in there to tend to my new omega.
My mate.
Hells. The pain that roils through me at the thought is nearly as agonizing as having my wings Shorn. And infinitely more shameful.
Am I honestly going to let her suffer alone?
No, I realize.
Because she isn’t alone.
Again, it’s something I just know. The same indistinct way I know the time of day—an innate sense that tells me another alpha is in her chamber.
And, as deeper spice hits my nose, I know exactly who.
Rask.
The bastard didn’t leave. He stormed off to get a head start. With my omega. With my—
No. I refuse to think the word again. I can’t waste time being in pain. I have to save my energy for murder.
Barely turning my head, I summon a ruff and aim it at Cylus. “Leave us.”
Prime Alpha commands are automatically obeyed by weaker alphas. I’m surprised when Cylus resists mine with relative ease. Keeping himself planted at the mouth of the hallway, he assesses me with his icy gaze.
“As you wish,” he finally spits back, jaw flexing. “Zortaire.”
With a mocking bow, he lurches into a jerky march, both tails snapping. It’s the sort of offensive gesture that would have sent my father into a fit. Zazt wouldn’t have suffered it, either; though his reactions were usually more on the practically punitive side than mindless rage.
I watch the healer retreat, noting the empty crater where my anger ought to dwell. The phantom weight where my wings should be. Counting all the ways I lack.
But then the deepest sweetness—edged with mind-melting desperation—sweeps into the alcove outside my omega’s chamber.
And the only emotion I have the capacity to feel is desperation.
The need to protect and pleasure. To cover her in my seed and my scent. Stuff her so full she’ll—
Fucking hells.
This is a rut.
I can feel it.
“Oh!”
Her keen shatters what’s left of my reason.
Suddenly, I’m in motion. Knowing I’m only capable of leaving because I’m not running for my life.
I’m running for hers.