The Pack's Uncaged Omega

CHAPTER ONE - BIRDIE

I kneel outside the door, my gaze on my ragged fingernails as I listen to the murmur of voices inside.

You can do a lot of damage with something so broken.

Eyes, in particular, are an easy target for nails like mine.

They’re just blobs of squishy tissue, after all, and even the strongest of alphas are blind without them.

In the next room, two alphas are chatting over whiskey and cigars.

I can’t make out their words, but their scents leak into the hall; one thick and musky, the other sterile with a hint of sourness.

Both are repellent to me, and I dig my nails into the floorboards, leaving faint gouges in the gleaming polish.

Their voices drone on, as unappealing as their scents.

Silence, I’ve learned, is a rare gift, especially around alphas.

None of them can hold their tongues for more than a minute, so convinced the world wants to hear every random thought that enters their inflated heads.

And when you get two or more in the same conversation, they’re like wolves howling at each other across a mountain range, never wondering if the rest of us give two shits about their territorial disputes.

I dig my nails in deeper, watching one crack down the middle, blood welling under the ragged shell.

And still the alphas drone on and on…

Would they sound so smug and arrogant if their knees ached and their throats throbbed, and just the prickle of cheap cotton on their skin made their nerves dance with fire?

“Enter.”

It’s Doctor Reeves’ voice, and I can’t suppress a shudder as I brace my knees and crawl into the room.

The hard floorboards give way to a Persian rug that rubs against my bruised knees like a caress.

The crackle of flames warms my chilled skin, but I feel no relief at these small comforts.

Instead, my arms shake, my torn nails snaring on the rug’s silk threads.

Every atom in my body urges me to spring to my feet and run, but I don’t stop until I reach the armchairs set before the fireplace.

My nerves are so raw, the creak of leather reminds me of the warning hiss of a whip as the alphas twist to look at me.

“Here she is,” the doctor announces, like there was some other poor bitch kneeling out in the hall. “What do you think, General?”

“What do I think?” This is the man we’ve come to see, and I peek through my fringe at the row of medals gleaming on his chest. Even though it’s close to midnight, he’s still wearing his uniform, his back ramrod straight despite the soft chair and whiskey glass.

General Booth, the doctor told me, is the man who holds my life in the balance.

From the hint of confusion in his scent, I can tell he’s as in the dark as I am about what that entails. “She looks… ill.”

“Temporarily damaged,” Reeves’ purrs, his hand coming to rest on my head. I’m close enough that he doesn’t need to strain to reach me, but he still snags his fingers in my tangles, tugging until my scalp burns. “Which is why she’s the answer to your pack’s problem.”

The leather creaks sharply again, the whiskey glass landing on the side table with a thud. “This poor girl is your solution?” The general’s voice is full of scorn, and I catch the hard lines of his mouth through my lowered lashes. “Do I need to remind you that an omega already broke that pack?”

“I understand your misgivings, General, but haven’t you heard that the best way to get over an omega is to bite a new one?

” Reeves is as smug as ever, but Booth glares in disapproval at his flippant comment.

In the lab, the doctor is God, but here he’s in the general’s domain, and it warms my hard little heart to see him squirm for a change.

“I take your point, of course,” the doctor goes on, a little meeker now.

“But this isn’t just any replacement. Birdie has been trained for this kind of mission. ”

It’s only from the tug on my hair that I know he means me. Birdie must be my alias. Which he probably thinks is an insult, but hasn’t he seen what a crow can do to a rotting corpse?

“Explain.”

The doctor leans forward, his fingers finally loosening their grip. He wipes his hand on his thigh, and I bite back a smile at the greasy smear it leaves on the dark fabric. For such a twisted asshole, he’s meticulous about his appearance, and that stain is going to bother him a lot more than me.

“She’s one of the top graduates of our lab’s rehabilitation program.

At its core, we treat pack fragmentation by giving the individual members a common, unifying goal.

Given the Lawson Pack’s personality profile, our assessment is that the fastest way to pack recovery will be through healing a traumatized omega. ”

“Or it could just deepen their own trauma,” the general grunts. “Corporal Wallace wasn’t just any omega; he was their bonded mate.”

“There may be some resistance to her presence initially,” Reeves concedes, “but rescuer types like the Lawson Pack are typically action-oriented, desire control, and thrive from being needed. Give them a purpose, like taking a broken bird under their wing, and they’ll be too distracted playing the hero to dwell on what they’ve lost.”

I want to sneer at the sheer stupidity of his plan.

Does he really think he can distract a bunch of warrior types with a stranger’s sob story?

They don’t know me, and if they’re anything like the alphas I grew up with, they’ll be more likely to add to my injuries than to heal them.

Besides, when did bone-deep grief become so easy to set aside?

They lost their mate, not a goddamn stray kitten.

“Consider the alternative, General. Your finest military unit is left to wallow in their misery while this nation’s enemies go about unchecked.”

“You don’t need to lecture me on our enemies, doctor.” I can hear the cold disdain under his anger. “I know only too well what’s at stake.”

“Then isn’t it worth the risk of sending our little bird out to do what she does best?”

There’s a hint of something malicious in Reeves’ tone, although maybe I just feel that way because his hand is squeezing my shoulder like it’s a wishbone he’s tempted to snap.

There are old wounds under my thin shirt, and he digs a thumb into one, like my pain will convince the general that I’m the solution to all of his problems.

Maybe it works, too, because Booth falls silent, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. Even though I keep my head lowered, I can tell that he is staring at me, and his gaze feels as heavy as the doctor’s hand. “Where is she from? Before the program, where did she live?”

“We obtained her from the True Pack Militia.”

It’s hard to hide my scowl, because once upon a time, the militia were my family.

My refuge, when my fathers died in a car accident and my mother had to find someone to take us in.

Of course, the militia weren’t exactly the nurturing type, and by the time I presented as an omega, they were every nightmare brought to life.

The general must feel the same way, because his scent spikes, sour and ugly. “Those deluded nutjobs? I thought we shut their compound down.”

The doctor makes a humming sound. “I believe the Special Warfare Division saw a short-term opportunity.”

“Of course they did. Talk about another bunch of crackpots…” Booth huffs and swipes up his drink, but swirls it instead of drinking it, his gaze still on me. “So, why did the militia hand her over?”

If he was asking me, I could give him an answer that would probably make his eyes bulge out of their fleshy pockets.

But that’s not the way of alphas. Even undamaged omegas are expected to be seen but not heard.

My story is meaningless when there’s a high-ranking alpha in the room to tell it for me.

“She’s an orphan,” Reeves says, digging that thumbnail in deeper, “with some unfortunate dissociative tendencies. The militia tried to integrate her, but when she presented as an omega, they found her to be… disruptive was the word the compound leader used, I believe.”

By compound leader he means my stepfather and jailer, not that the doctor adds that bit of information.

“She doesn’t look like she could disrupt a fly.”

“Well, the militia put her through two years of behavioral conditioning, and then she spent the last six months in my lab. Whatever rebellious streak she once had has been firmly stamped out.”

Images flash through my mind, sharp as broken glass. Everything about the last six months has taught me that Reeves is a doctor in name only; in all other ways he’s the devil with a scalpel, inflicting pain at every opportunity.

“And what will stop her from ratting you out to Axel Lawson?” The doctor snatches his hand away, and I perk up, curious. “If he doesn’t take offense at the manipulation, he has a very strict moral code, and he won’t stand for mistreating an omega.”

I’m so glad that all the pain I’ve endured has taught me to disconnect from my mind.

It’s the only way I can stop myself from bursting into laughter.

An alpha with a strict moral code? It’s like saying a hungry wolf just wants to provide comfort when it comes across a bleeding deer.

And as for standing up for omegas, I’ll believe that if I ever see it, although I won’t hold my breath.

“She’s been trained to keep her opinions to herself,” the doctor says, like the part about morals and accusations means nothing to him.

And why would it? The man rarely leaves his high-security lab, and when he does, it’s only to mingle with other like-minded assholes.

“Besides, if she gets the urge to tattle, she can’t. ”

He pats my throat to make his point, and I can’t resist flinching at the promised pain. Booth leans closer, horror dawning in his glassy gaze. “You removed her tongue?”