2. Sweet Poison
Sweet Poison
~CARTER~
W hat smells so good?
The scent hits me like a shot of aged whiskey — sweet, dangerous, and entirely too tempting.
Vanilla and honey threaded through with something darker.
Blackberries maybe?
No... there's an edge to it.
Something that reminds me of the bitter chocolate my mother used to bake with, the kind that made everything else taste sweeter by comparison.
My Mama Dearest...
The memory surfaces unbidden, sharp as a blade.
Her in our sprawling kitchen, humming as she mixed batter in those massive copper bowls. The ones I'd later learn were bought with blood money, just like everything else in our lavish mansion that my friends envied.
"The way to a man's heart isn't through violence, Carter," she'd say, though we both knew that was a lie in our world. "It's through the kitchen. Through sweetness."
Then she'd laugh, sliding a tray of something decadent into the oven, filling our home with scents that almost — attempted — to mask the gunpowder and blood.
A naive little boy, thinking his mother just baked like any other mom would as the head of the home while daddy dearest worked and brought home the money.
A bunch of lies.
A fake world I wished wasn’t so poorly portrayed in shows and movies.
Maybe I would have been prepared to inherit it all with a pull of a trigger.
Yeah fucking right…
I shift in the auditorium's uncomfortable seat, trying to shake off both the memory and this maddening aroma that's been haunting me since I arrived at this joke of an institution.
The scent had even invaded my dreams last night, having trailed through the entire school like some signature scent. I did my best to keep my discomfort to myself for the sake of appearances but fuck. Maybe turning the smell into a confusing mess of my mother's kitchen and baking tendencies in the past would distract me from what I feel when I smell this tainted aroma.
Tame this sense of hunger from maddening my Alpha senses.
Not like an Omega can fluff my Alpha feathers.
No wonder why they call us the tainted trio. I’m sure if we weren’t powerful savages, they would enjoy pointing out our flaws and inability to be attracted to submissive pussy begging for us to claim them like prostitutes.
Begging a group of men to fuck you isn’t getting me to bow on my knees to eat you out.
The mere idea makes me cringe, forcing my aching body into protest of how tight and small this damn seat is.
Why am I even still here?
My fingers drum against the armrest as I resist the urge to loosen this suffocating tie. The uniform they've forced us into is a mockery — cheap polyester trying to masquerade as quality.
The blazer's too tight across my shoulders, the pants too short at my ankles. I won’t even get started with how it can barely fit my junk down under. Surely the rest of these Alphas have tiny cocks because there’s no way any Alpha with length is enjoying wearing these sorry excuses of attire voluntarily.
A costume for attack dogs trying to play at being pedigree.
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all.
This whole arrangement must be for shits and giggles because it’s insulting to think we’ve come down to this point.
I, Carter Giovanni, heir to the Giovanni Empire who owns billions in revenue in a magnitude of businesses and organizations, stuffed into department store clothing like some corporate intern.
The watch on my wrist cost more than the entire wardrobe they provided, yet we have to be here, playing dress up when we could be aiding the dark society like we have been since our youth — by force.
But that's the point, isn't it?
To strip us of our identities: our power, grace, and opportunities.
To remind us that within these walls, our empires mean nothing.
All because we won’t adhere to the rules.
Their rules.
A bunch of mediocre bullshit that shouldn’t penalize the mouth that feeds this useless hierarchy of “fake” importance.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a persistent drone that's been my only company for the past hour while Felix and Holmes deal with the mountain of paperwork this place requires. As if filling out forms somehow proves we're reformed.
As if checking boxes can erase the blood on our hands and the generations before us.
Better than the alternative though.
My jaw clenches at the thought.
Yeah, better than a cell or a bullet.
Better than ending up like…
The scent intensifies suddenly, cutting through my dark thoughts like a blade through silk. My nostrils flare, my cock tightening instinctively with a throbbing need that makes it almost hard to breathe.
Fuck…can I break a record at how fast I can get hard?
My head turns instinctively toward the stage as a voice echoes through the sound system.
"Next candidate for evaluation: Elizabeth Abercrombie."
I don’t know why I’m now acknowledging that I’m no longer the only person in this vast auditorium. Wherever this overwhelming scent is coming from is powerful enough to hide the scents of all these Omega further present down at the bottom rows before the grand stage.
One glance and I can tell this must be some sort of class, but seeing the table of judges makes me wonder if this is an audition for some sort of role or event.
The lighting shifts, forcing me to anticipate whoever is being summoned to the stage. I straighten involuntarily as the summoned individual appears. The source of that maddening aroma moves into the spotlight with practiced grace and something primal in my chest growls .
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I don’t know where to start as I take her in as a whole, my heart hammering hard against my chest like I’m about to have a fucking heart attack, racing for my life.
At least, it feels like I’ve been running for my life even though I’ve been sitting here.
She's all controlled power in that simple dance outfit — a white mesh top that does nothing to hide the artwork decorating her skin.
Tattoos.
Illegal ones, if the whispers I've heard are true.
I can only assume she’s an Omega like all the other female students waiting for her to begin whatever presentation she’s about to dive into, but Omegas aren’t allowed to have a bit of ink on them.
Marks them as tainted beings undeserving of an Alpha’s touch.
That’s what the government portrays at least.
Appearances are everything for Omegas in our society, meaning they have to look like innocent angels but carry a sense of sexual appeal whereas Alphas can flaunt like a trophy won after a tedious competition of blood, sweat, and tears.
Perfection is being flawless in the eyes of our society…and tattoos do nothing to accentuate an Omegas perfection.
Except in my eyes, it’s hot as fuck.
The unique thick designs across her flesh were like secrets written in forbidden ink, disappearing beneath fabric only to emerge again in unexpected places.
Her hair catches the light — platinum blonde with an almost silvery sheen pulled back severely from a face that's more striking than pretty.
High cheekbones, full lips painted a dark red that speaks more of blood than roses. Her complexion of porcelain, so beautiful and contoured in the right places. She’s truly a beauty that can catch anyone’s attention without much effort, but it's her eyes that grab me and won't let go.
Even from this distance, I can see their intensity.
Blue, but not the soft, welcoming blue of summer skies.
No, these are the blue of deep water.
Of drowning.
She takes her position with the kind of poise that speaks of years of training, yet there's something else there. Something wild barely contained beneath the classical stance that should have been simplistic and not project a sense of defiance.
Like nitroglycerine in a crystal vase — beautiful, but one wrong move, and boom. An explosion that ruins.
Very few knew of my commitment to dancing way back when the world hadn’t polluted me with so much sin. When I had aspiring dreams like any other in my field who aspired to move their bodies with passion that captivated an entire room.
That addictive spark you chase with each catching breath, moving like the world wasn’t hyperfocused on every execution, seeking nothing but perfection.
Some days, when things are dark and depressing, I miss it.
Yet, reality forces you to acknowledge that this world doesn’t run around wishful thinking. Our world thrives on bloodshed, chaos, death, and exchanges that can either make or break you and your entire bloodline.
The air around me feels charged, and heavy with potential. That sweet-dark scent that's making my head spin is only making it harder to think straight and not get lost in all these different emotions.
I grip the armrests harder, feeling the cheap plastic creak beneath my fingers.
Omega .
The word echoes in my mind, a taunt and a promise. I've been around enough Omegas in my life to recognize one, but this...this is different. Lethal? This one smells like danger wrapped in sugar.
Like every dessert that's ever led to sin.
It’s even more dire than I dare acknowledge because I feel as though I’d commit all the sins if it means that beauty of twinkling gold could be mine for the taking.
Be our Omega…
I have to cut the mere idea out of my mind or I’ll go insane.
We don’t do Omegas.
They pollute our minds. Taint us in a way we can’t disdain from. Until we’re consumed and that’s when we’re their collared pets and in their domain…
I swallow the lump forming in my throat, reminding myself that Omegas are off-limits for us.
We’re here for transactions only.
Nothing more.
Some of the other students filed into the auditorium while I was lost in thought, and their whispers reached me now, sharp with malice.
"The Forgotten One."
"Five years without a pack."
"Probably cursed."
Each comment makes my muscles tense further, though I couldn't say why.
I don't know this girl. Don't owe her anything.
Hell, I should be focused on finding a suitable, safe Omega to help secure my position here. Someone proper and controlled who can help convince the administration we're reformed so we can get back to our privileged lives.
Not this wild creature who looks more likely to burn the place down than play by its rules.
Though, I’d never met a rebellious Omega.
She could be the first.
As the first notes of music fill the air and she begins to move, I know I've already lost whatever mental battle I was confident in winning.
That scent, those movements, the charged air — they're weaving a net I'm not sure I want to escape from. A trap that has every intention of sweeping me in when I least expected it.
Sweet poison .
That specific combination rings in my brain as I watch her command the stage with a fusion of styles I've never seen before. Who in their right mind in the realms of dance mixes something as serene and perfected as ballet with a style of harsh dominance and projected passion like hip-hop?
Sweet Poison…that's what she is.
Like every other poison I've encountered in my life, I know exactly how dangerous she could be. How lethal she can become…and I’m not ready to get bitten yet.
The haunting melody of "Do You See Now" fills the auditorium, and I find myself leaning forward despite my reservations.
Coincidentally, I listened to this song in the car on the way here — the chilled fall air rushing through my hair, making me feel as though I wasn’t sinking into a world of impending doom by leaving my Ferrari nearby and having to walk the short distance to the gates of this atrocity of an academic institution.
Her movements are precise, calculated, yet there's an untamed quality to them that demands your utmost attention. It could take one’s breath away if she was in an environment that didn’t belittle her worth.
A space that’s desperate to make her spark shrink and dwindle until it poofs out of existence…
"Look at her, trying so hard." The whisper comes from somewhere to my left, dripping with disdain. "The Mangy Wolf, still howling for attention."
I resist the urge to stand up and silence the speaker. The instinctive need to protect this stranger is foreign, to say the least. In my former life, a word would have been enough to shut this bitch up permanently. But here? My status quo has “limits”. At least, that’s what they emphasize. We’ve yet to truly test the theory.
"Swallow my tongue. Back of my throat. Like it's finite. Only so long I can chew till I choke."
The lyrics seem to pulse through her movements, each word emphasized by a perfectly executed step. Her technique is flawless – anyone with eyes can see that. Even these jealous Omegas can't deny it, though they're trying their damndest.
"Five years," another voice whispers, and this catches my attention. "Can you believe it? Five years, and not one pack has claimed her."
Five years?
Something doesn't add up.
With movement like that, with that level of control and power, she should have had packs fighting over her. And that’s not considering how fucking hot she is. Hell, she should be performing at Lincoln Center of Performing Arts, not stuck in this glorified prison for society's rejects.
"Hide in plain sight. What have you done? My rabbit run. Caught in the headlights."
Her flowing hands follow the music, each twirl and leg lift demonstrating years of rigorous training. This isn't just natural talent – though she has that in spades. This is dedication. Countless hours of practice. The kind of discipline that reminds me of all those years I’d gone through fighting to perfect my art like all those who follow the bridges toward success in the art of dance.
The long hours. The endless sacrifices. The constant letdowns.
"I heard she tried to bribe a pack last year," someone says, voice thick with mock sympathy.
"Really? I heard she begged them on her knees."
The comments make my blood boil, though I keep my face carefully neutral. The off chance they’ll notice me when I’m blended so effortlessly with the shadows of my row is slim to none. These perfectly groomed Omegas with their regulation of everything, are too busy judging someone who clearly outclasses them in every way.
While I’m sure half of them aren’t even a quarter close to the Omega’s flawless execution of talent.
"And I'm bigger now. And I'm bigger now. So say my name like I'm 10 feet tall. Bow your head like I'm royal."
The chorus hits, and she seems to blossom at that moment. There's no other word for it. Her classical form melts into something else entirely — something raw, powerful, urban.
The transition is seamless, like watching water turn to ice.
One state flows into another while remaining essentially the same thing. To see someone blend completely different dance styles so flawlessly like this is such a rarity in a dump like this.
I hear the judges' sharp intake of breath and see their pens pause mid-note. The level of shock in all of their expressions is laughable at best because they really had their expectations as low as they could be for this Omega to impress them without yet a signature move that would set her apart from the plentiful copycats.
Yeah, they weren't expecting this…but how will their response be?
She drops into a freeze that would make any street dancer proud, balanced on one hand while her legs create geometric patterns in the air. The control required for that move alone... Christ.
She really should be at Juilliard or the Royal Ballet School. If she’s been stuck at this place for five years, they’ve just kept this talent hidden in plain sight…
What the hell is she still doing in this dump? Is she in a similar predicament as us?
"Show off," someone mutters, but I catch the note of envy beneath the contempt.
Damn right, she's showing off.
And she should be.
Her scent spikes with the intensity of her movement, that intoxicating blend of sweetness and danger growing stronger. It's making it hard to think clearly, stirring something primitive in my chest.
"And every day that I get older. I guess my blood's running colder..."
The music builds toward its climax, and I find myself holding my breath along with everyone else. She's preparing for something big — I can see it in the set of her shoulders, the focused determination in her eyes.
"She'll never land it," a voice declares with smug certainty. "Even Marina Collins needed ten years to master that sequence."
I don't know who Marina Collins is, but from the reverent way the name is whispered, she must be some kind of legend here.
The kind of benchmark others measure themselves against.
"What have you done, my rabbit run!"
She begins a series of turns that seem to defy physics — fouettés, a word I haven’t heard in so many years but seems to pop into my mind in this instance. Each rotation is faster than the last, her form perfect, her focus absolute.
I don’t dare pull my eyes away, afraid one blink could make me miss the signature move she’s attempting to achieve.
The music reaches its crescendo, and suddenly she's in the air, her body splitting into a perfect line before landing and melding into a hip-hop freeze that somehow manages to look both classical and street at the same time.
"So say my name like I'm 10 feet tall! Bow your head like I'm royal!"
The silence that follows is deafening.
Even the whispers have stopped.
For a moment, all I can hear is my own heartbeat and the fading echoes of the music, leaving me to realize for the first time since my youth, I’m truly left speechless in awe of a performance.
Never have I seen such grace…talent…beauty…ever.
Until today, no other Omega could ever gauge a reaction from me on this tier of amazement. The entire performance was beyond outstanding.
This should be life-changing for her.
Within my mind, I’m actually rooting for her, a stranger who isn’t even aware of my existence, let alone know my name.
She holds her final pose with unwavering control, not a single muscle trembling despite what must be exhaustion. Then, with deliberate grace, she rises into first position.
The center judge, a stern-looking Beta with steel-gray hair, taps her red pen against her scoring sheet. I’m sure their objective is to show a sense of mutual unamuse, but after such a defying performance, I’m disappointed they can’t show a glimpse of slack.
The sound seems unnaturally loud in the hushed auditorium.
"Well," she says, voice carrying clearly. "That was...unexpected."
I watch Elizabeth's face, looking for any sign of reaction.
There isn't one.
Her expression remains as controlled as her breathing, though I can smell the spike of... something in her scent.
Not fear. Not exactly. More like resignation mixed with defiance.
"Miss Abercrombie," the judge continues, each word precise as a knife cut. "Your technical execution was..." She pauses, and I feel the tension in the room ratchet up. "...flawless."
Of course, it was . Anyone with eyes could see that.
"However.” There it is, the knife about to twist. "Technical perfection isn't everything. An Omega must also demonstrate... appropriateness. Suitability. Your choice to incorporate such...urban elements into a classical piece shows a concerning lack of judgment."
Has she lost her fucking mind?
The words hit their mark. I can see it in the slight tightening around her eyes, though her posture remains perfect.
The way my heart picks up in pace and anger shoots through my boiling veins makes me grip the ends of the armrest to try to tame my immediate urge to rebel against such obvious foolishness.
To hold back talent like this is an insult, and it makes me wonder if it is all because she’s an Omega that she’s obtaining such belittling treatment.
No. All those females there are Omegas as well. This isn’t an Omega problem.
It’s punishment for her projecting defiance to converge into what this society wishes for her.
The other Omegas aren't even trying to hide their satisfaction now, their scents thick with vindictive pleasure. Their giggles and attempted whispers of mockery only carried through this hollow auditorium with every intention of being heard by anyone who would listen.
Including this tainted star of the show.
"While we acknowledge your skill, Miss Abercrombie, we must question whether this type of performance truly serves your primary goal — finding a suitable pack."
Finding a suitable pack?
It takes me a few seconds just to let that sink in. To acknowledge that her performance didn’t matter. Her attire, grace, and all the effort she put into every executed move. None of that shit mattered.
All because she has no pack.
Complete and utter bullshit.
I force myself to stay silent, watching as she holds her position for three measured beats before executing a textbook curtsy.
"Thank you for your feedback," she says, voice clear and steady. Then she turns and walks off stage, her steps measured and unhurried.
I watch her go, that sweet-poison scent lingering in the air like smoke after a fire. Everything about her screams contradiction — classical training with street edge, technical perfection with wild abandon, sweet scent with dangerous undertones.
The kind of contradiction that could get a man killed if he went flaunting such a tainted beauty with far too much appeal.
The kind I've spent my whole life being warned about.
The type of contradiction that, despite everything I know better about, I'm already craving like my next breath.
Damn it.
I think of the paperwork Felix and Holmes are probably still wrestling with, of our plans to find a nice, safe, suitable Omega to help us convince this place we're reformed.
Then I think of that fierce grace on stage, of that perfect blend of discipline and defiance, of a scent that promises both sweetness and danger.
And my throbbing cock that’s leaking of precum that just wants to be buried deeply into this rebellious Omega’s pussy.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, rising from my seat as the next performer is announced. I hear the whispers asking who I am when my back is turned and I’m heading to the exit, but I couldn’t care less about whatever they wish to ask or say.
My body, mind, and soul are focused on one thing right now.
Sorry bros, but plans are about to change .