Feral Adaptation (The Controllers #12)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Zetas were the last virally altered dynamic caste to be categorized. Only a handful are known to exist.

Accelerated metamorphosis allows them to change biology and mimic other dynamic castes. Depending on the magnitude of the alteration, this process can take anywhere from a few minutes to several weeks.

It has been theorized that more of this caste exists, but that during early development, they latch onto a preferred alternate caste and remain in that form, effectively locking in the changes for life.

~ Doctor Lillian Brach

Zeb

Another day, another mission. They’re beginning to blur into one another. Am I addicted to the adrenaline rush? I think maybe I am. They deliver a flicker on an otherwise flatline of numbness.

Am I looking for death?

Hell no.

But maybe I’ve grown reckless. It does something to you, this lifestyle of war.

Fun fact: the war isn’t changing, but I recognize that I am.

I’m thirty-two. Not exactly old, but I sense I’ve been in this game too long.

I’m an anomaly in the world of dynamics.

Rarer than a delta. Rarer than the singular omegas.

To most, my kind is a myth—a rumor passed around military bunks.

I’m a misfit doomed to forever be on the outside looking in.

That happens when you live in a society with a caste system and don’t fit into a neat slot.

The zeta. The shapeshifter. I can become anything… almost.

It takes time, though. It’s not like the flick of a switch.

Muscle mass, posture—even scent changes.

Some things are easier than others and can happen in real time, and some can take days and even weeks.

Going bigger is easier than going smaller.

I’ve played most types of dynamics. Never tried an omega, and don’t aspire to, either.

I guess there are limitations as to what can fit.

I’m pretty open-minded sexually but taking an alpha dick and knot in the ass for the sake of a mission, that’s a hard pass.

But occasionally, like this operation, I play the role of an alpha.

My default body is that of a larger beta.

Lean muscle, deceptively strong, all optimized to the molecule.

I’ve been tested, poked, and prodded at, and they say I’ll live for a very long time—assuming I don’t die in the field, which is looking increasingly likely if they keep throwing high-risk missions my way.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe the stretch of a life with no end date scrambles the human mind.

I know I think too much. Sometimes I ponder these things alone in the dark of night. And sometimes I have an existential crisis during a pre-mission briefing.

Right before I break someone’s face.

Which, given the way this recruiter is irking me, is looking increasingly likely.

“Have you ever been with an omega?” the recruiter, Bob Billion, asks, a note of challenge, maybe snark, in his tone that I really don’t like. “Can you fake it?”

Is that his real name? Whatever… Bob is presenting himself as a good candidate for face breaking right about now.

His office is a bland box with a viewer screen on one wall showing a tropical rainforest, of all things.

Recruiters all appear the same to me. Not on the surface, because they can present in every color, race, gender and nuance possible.

But underneath, at their core, they all develop over-inflated egos.

They are non-virally altered, known as non-dynamics.

They should be at the bottom of the caste system, but some fuckwit in command decided they were uniquely qualified to be impartial when it came to allocating alpha and omega pairings on operations.

Spoiler alert: they’re not.

The spaceport at Primus9 isn’t the largest military port, but it has the biggest throughput.

Queues are everywhere. I bypassed most of them on my way here.

Pity I couldn’t skip Bob Billion and his snarky questions.

Unfortunately, my mission requires me to shadow a regular military operation where I will be allocated to a team.

Some other fuckwit decided, in their infinite wisdom, I needed to play not only an alpha, but a controller…

which means I need an omega allocated to me.

I did question the order… more than once.

I have a lot of training, and none of it involves their dynamic, nor how to control them.

But apparently, my last mission drew some chatter on the Uncorrupted networks when I played the part of a regular alpha.

Then there are the rumors that they have spies among our ranks thanks to their alliance with the thetas.

Being a controller would lend an extra layer of camouflage to my movements prior to going undercover.

Cue a fuckton of research, in what should have been my downtime.

I mean, I’ve got the basics of the controller-omega relationship. I’ve hung around military personnel long enough and taken part in enough operations to get the gist. And faking things is pretty much my forte, so I have this covered. I hope.

I indicate the data tablet on Bob’s desk. “You’ve read my resume, I presume, yet you’re asking me this question?” I add just a hint of incredulity. My smile is all teeth and no warmth.

He fiddles with his data tablet and doesn’t answer.

“I’m not an alpha. Alphas behave around your special kind of fuckery, at the risk of being allocated to a remote mining colony.

The kind where there are no sweet, needy omegas and the only action their dick will get is via their own hand or a fellow alpha, which, you know, doesn’t always hit the same spot.

Tends to help them focus on being polite. ”

I step closer.

He rocks back in his chair.

I plant my palms on the table, lean right in, and lower my voice. “No one will give a fuck if you recommend I shouldn’t be paired with an omega. Not my superiors. Not me. Go ahead and try it.”

My hand is already moving before I consciously decide what to do… I slam his face into the desk.

THUNK.

A wet crunch. The splatter of blood.

He jerks back again. This time, blood pours from his nose as he groans.

“You wanted to know if I can be aggressive enough for the role? If I can handle an omega?” I step back and wipe my hand on my pants. How did I even get blood on my hand? The splatter, I guess… I’m wearing combat fatigues, though, and it barely shows. “Does that answer your question?”

The door behind me swishes open.

My head turns.

And in steps a goddess. Long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, big dark eyes, long lashes, and plump, kissable lips.

Wearing nothing but that silk scrap they call a healer’s dress, with little matching slippers on her feet.

A vision of pure deviant temptation. Older than I expected.

Most of them get snapped up, mated and bred by an over-enthusiastic controller before they hit twenty-five, but I’d say she’s closer to my age than most I’ve seen in the field.

My dick stirs. So that answers that… “I guess I hit the call button when I acquainted your face with the desk. My bad.”

Her wide eyes land on the bloody table, jerk up to take in the recruiter’s ruined face, then slam into me. She swallows.

I purr, place a hand gently on the back of her neck, and rub soothing circles with my thumb in the hollow just below her ear.

She softens under my touch, her body leaning into me like a kitten getting a pet from their favorite human. I’ve seen them make this move with alphas all the time, but I can admit it’s nice to be on the receiving end of their instinctive desire to soothe aggression.

The recruiter tries to stem the bleeding with a handkerchief, gives up, and tosses it in the nearby trash can. “Dismissed.”

I allow myself a smirk. With my fingers locked on the back of her slim throat, I direct her out of the room.

Esme

He just punched the recruiter. Correction, smacked his face into the desk.

I don’t even know his name. We didn’t get into any of the usual formalities before my controller hustled me out of the room. And now the same hand is wrapped comfortingly around the back of my neck. Like a well-trained little omega pet, my body goes haywire deciding I ought to be aroused.

Everyone knows what omegas are for: alpha control—keeping the biggest, baddest, most aggressive alphas in check.

Sure, omegas have skills. Useful ones. I’m a healer.

Every time I watch someone miraculously heal at my hands, I experience a sense of wonder.

But the whole premise of our relationship with alphas, the temporary bonding and the investment, the subsequent dominance and submission games, is about tempering aggression in dominant men so they remain useful in the war.

I’ve yet to meet a personable recruiter, so I’m confident the asshole deserved being acquainted with the desk as my controller so eloquently put it.

Still, most alphas are wary about pissing the recruiters off. They hold a lot of power.

I glance at him from under my lashes. He’s really pretty.

Which I know shouldn’t be a term used for an alpha, but he is.

Everything about his looks is classic. Straight nose, lips that are neither thin nor full, cheekbones with just the right amount of structure.

He’s big but not hulking. Posture straight but not rigid.

His scent is alluring but not cloying. Nothing stands out.

Which is odd now that I think about it. He’s almost… too perfect.

He is wearing a baseball cap pulled down low, though, so maybe he’s bald?

Not that I mind whether an alpha has hair or not—it can look hot either way—and if they want to, they can have a medical procedure. Still, I can’t help but feel he needs some failing, perceived or otherwise, to break up the monotony of his sheer perfection.

He catches me staring and his dark eyes, lost in the shadow of his cap, linger on me.

I snap my gaze away.

Aggression is still rolling off him in thick, cloying waves. None of it is aimed at me, but I’m well attuned to what an alpha needs and my body responds, eager to please.

Pumping out slick.

Which is inconvenient, given I’m wearing a ridiculous silk healer’s dress. By the time we’ve made it to our assigned quarters on the transport ship, the tops of my thighs are wet, and I’m practically panting.

The door clicks shut. I brace for the question.

Are you going to invest, Esme?

It doesn’t come. Instead, he walks me all the way to the couch in the compact suite and gently presses me down into it.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says. His voice is low, faintly cultured.

Now that I consider it, nothing in his outward demeanor projects the aggression I sense when he touches me. The removal of his hand severed the link, and all I get now is a cold, blank slate.

Interesting.

He turns, grabs a data tablet from a dock in the wall, uses his thumb print to open it, and takes a seat at the tiny table beneath the fake viewport showing a looping image of space.

Am I dismissed?

Yes, I think I am.

The rejection cuts deeper and sharper than I expect, maybe because I’m already wallowing in my failure as an omega.

I’ve been with many alphas. It’s part of being deployed.

I enjoy the sex. Who wouldn’t? Controllers are universally skilled when it comes to tending an omega’s needs, hardwired to wring pleasure from us until our bodies sing.

But I’m twenty-eight, and no one has ever claimed me.

Not even a close call.

The hope is always there during the transit time for operations, which can take anywhere from a day to several weeks. Just enough time to form a temporary bond before the bullets started to fly.

Forced heats.

I wish I’d never heard of them, wish I didn’t know it was a thing that happened between alphas and omegas as they while away the hours spent in transit.

Controllers don’t always suggest it, though, and lately, I’ve started asking for it myself.

My desperation is not attractive. Yet I keep hoping one of them will finally bite me—mark me—during the frenzy of the moment, because if an alpha bites an omega, even during a forced heat, it can forge a life bond.

It happens all the time. Certainly not approved, and definitely frowned upon, but when heat, fake or otherwise, is upon you, rules and obligations to the Empire go out the window.

When I first joined the healer ranks, I was the youngest. Now, I’m one of the oldest. Not because omegas have fallen.

War rarely claims our lives, although it does happen.

But more that they exit stage left when they’re claimed as a mate.

No longer allocated on the whim of a recruiter, they stay with the same alpha during deployment, until pregnancy.

I want that. A bond for life. A partner and a real connection I can claim as my own. Along with a child, one day, to nurture and love.

I’m like a cat in heat, growing more restless with every operation. I know no shame once they touch me. I beg and plead, first to be forced… and then to be marked.

None of them do.

Worse, if they won’t, I try to bite them, to force them.

My behavior makes me deeply uneasy once the moment has passed. I’m better than this.

Maybe it’s my healer mix. I’m not a pure physical healer, but a blend of mind, body, and spirit healer.

Am I broken? A faulty omega, doomed to be passed over, never quite enough to tempt an alpha to claim.

As I stare at the overly perfect alpha sat across from me, completely absorbed in his data tablet, I believe that I am.

I burst into tears.