14. Lazarus
Lazarus
I’m in hell. I’ve died and crossed to hell.
It’s torment. It’s vile.
It’s agony, and I don’t even care.
The lust I’m experiencing goes against the scripture.
She screamed out, first in pain and then in pleasure. Those sounds haunt me.
I experienced their joy once. But I was ripped from the nest. It was the will of the apostles.
This is the first time I’ve had to bear such witness to an omega in season.
She’s far too young; I’m twenty-two years her senior. She’s not mine to covet.
Honey cries out again, and I can hear the pleasure. The way she gasps and moans has me gripping the handle of the wooden spoon. It’s too much temptation. I can’t allow myself to stop the ministration of cooking them food.
If I step away from the kitchen, I have no doubt I’ll end up at their door and in the nest. I do not know if I possess the strength to stop myself if I cross that threshold upon approach.
Fox inoculated me to prevent a pregnancy despite my objections. I don’t need it. I won’t step foot near the omega. I won’t do her the disservice of being drawn to someone who cannot give her what she needs. I’ve felt the love and responsibility for an omega. It’s not for me to do again.
The wooden spoon cracks in my hand. The splinters cut into my palm as I jerk it away from the pot I am stirring. My shadow wraps around it as I check that the pot remains free of blood.
Not that the boys are fully ready to care for an omega. I abandon that thought. It’s unkind. It’s unjust.
I clean my palm in the sink, my shadow mending the flesh quickly, patching me together. The most luscious moan floats from the bedroom.
It’s unholy, but I picture what it must look like, her speared on their cocks, their shadows moving around them, guiding the pack through the warmest parts of her season.
The twins would work together, like they always do, dedicated to anything they put their minds to.
To orchestrate them, to watch them . . .
My eyes close, and I draw a deep breath.
The sinner in me embraces the fantasy for a minute longer: what it would be like to take one of them as well.
To go against scripture and have more than just a platonic pack should be the furthest thing from my mind.
It’s wrong. This very thought has led me to this place in my life.
Yet no matter the prayer, no matter the penance, I cannot push away the desire for that life.
A life bound with other alphas to our omega, all of us enjoying each other’s bodies.
I catch my shadow slithering toward the bedroom door once more. I draw it back and demand it help hold the bowl while I begin mashing the not-quite-soft-enough potatoes into the right consistency.
She screams out in ecstasy again, and I push forward against the counter. The swelling of my knot is unpleasant, and the pain is barely alleviated by the pressure of it held tight against the cabinet. Sweat breaks out across my neck.
My shadow gathers my hair up off my nape, holding it while I continue mashing.
It’s ten minutes before the moaning and screaming stop.
It’s another five before I’m able to breathe again.
Heavenly Father, I am but a servant in your court. Do not deny me in a time of need.
Prayer feels wrong. So I stop and let my shadow wander while I coat the thickened stew with the mashed potatoes for a shepherd’s pie. After covering the top with cheese, I place it into the oven. Then I slide down the wall in the kitchen to sit on the floor.
I cannot turn to God like the teachings would have me do.
I cannot service an omega like the rest of the outside world would.
Honey. I picture her soft features, her warm and curvy natural beauty. I crave her. That sickly sweet honey and cider scent is heavy and straight from heaven.
She smells as good as it feels to have both boys back under one roof again.
This is the hell the apostles banished me to as they cast me out. It was this sort of suffering they condemned me to.
My affliction, which cost me everything, was that of too much questioning, not enough faith, and my affection for the omega far too great for any alpha in a pack.
Perhaps nothing has changed. I still yearn far too much.
The three of them are my cross to bear.