Tormented Omega

Chapter 1

The zoo entrance smells like sunscreen, fried food, and too many people crammed into one space. Underneath all that human noise, my instincts pick up sharp edges—strange alphas, restless betas, omegas trying to corral their kids and keep their anxiety from spiking.

Normally, it would make me tense.

But today, I'm bracketed by my pack.

Drake is on my right, fingers laced snugly with mine, his athletic frame relaxed despite the crowd.

His scent—bright citrus and sunshine—radiates pure good mood.

He's wearing that smile that makes the hazel in his eyes catch the light, the one that crinkles the corners.

His wavy dark brown hair is getting long enough to curl behind his ears the way he hates but I love.

Eli is on my left, close enough his sleeve brushes my arm now and then. He's lean where Drake is broad, his short blond hair still damp from this morning's shower, green eyes thoughtful behind his glasses. His scent wraps around me like tea and clean linen—calm, steady, grounding.

And behind us, like a walking wall, is Ragon.

Pine smoke, steel, and that deep alpha steadiness that always makes my muscles unclench.

He's taller than both of them, muscular in a way that comes from actual physical labor rather than a gym.

His dark brown hair is pulled back in that man bun I tease him about, showing off the strong line of his jaw and those piercing blue eyes that miss nothing.

I'm small next to all three of them. Five-foot-four with blonde hair that's currently pulled into a messy ponytail, brown eyes that Eli once described as "honey in sunlight" (which made me blush for an hour), and a body that's soft in all the places omega bodies tend to be soft.

I don't mind. They never make me feel like it's wrong.

I inhale slowly, letting their familiar scents drown out everything else. My instincts soften, curl up, purr.

Safe.

It's been almost five years since Ragon brought me home from the registry. Five years since he sat across from me in that cold, sterile meeting room and said, "If we don't find our scent match in five years, we'll bond you officially. Mark you. Make it permanent."

Five years is next month.

I don't know if they remember.

I don't know if I want them to.

The thought of being bonded—truly, permanently bonded, not just pack-adjacent but theirs in a way that can't be undone—makes something warm and terrified twist in my chest. Because bonding without a scent match means something.

It means they're choosing me over the possibility of finding that perfect, fated connection.

It means they're closing that door forever.

Once an alpha bonds an omega who isn't their scent match, the scent match possibility dissolves. Gone. They'd never be able to have that perfect, effortless pull toward someone who was made for them.

But if a scent match is found and bonded into the pack first... then the pack can still take other omegas afterward. The hierarchy shifts, but it doesn't exclude.

I shove the thought down. Today is good. Today is the zoo, and them, and the careful way Drake's been looking at me all morning like he's storing up memories.

"I swear the flamingos are this way," Drake says, already tugging me in a direction that does not, in fact, look like the flamingo area.

"You say that about every direction," Eli replies, unfolding the map he picked up at the gate. The paper crinkles as he smooths it with careful fingers. "They are, in fact, on the complete opposite side."

"They moved them. I can feel it."

Ragon snorts under his breath. "Your 'feeling' got us locked in the aviary last year."

"In my defense, the sign was very small."

"It was not."

I giggle, pressed between Drake's enthusiasm and Eli's quiet patience. Ragon's mild exasperation hums at my back like a big, warm engine.

This is what being with them feels like: layered. Balanced. Drake pulling me forward into everything bright. Eli quietly grounding me. Ragon watching every angle, making sure nothing gets too close.

"Let me see." I reach for the map.

Eli hands it over immediately, his fingers brushing mine, scent rippling with a little pulse of fondness.

I scan the page. "Okay. If we go straight, past the snack stand and the gift shop, the flamingos are just after the small primates."

Drake leans over my shoulder and squints. "That's what I said."

"That is the opposite of what you said."

"You know what, details are oppressive. Vee has spoken. Onward."

He lifts our joined hands like we're leading a parade. I let him. My chest feels light. Hopeful. They've all been different today. Softer. More focused on me.

They're always good to me, but this feels like something extra.

Something special.

We work our way into the zoo proper, past the first cluster of exhibits. Kids race around with plastic animal hats on their heads. Somewhere, a toddler screeches with the kind of ferocity only a toddler can muster. A trio of teenage boys jostle one another, all alpha-scent and unshaped dominance.

Ragon shifts closer to my back as they pass, his scent thickening, dominance flaring just a little. It wraps over me like a shield, and the teenagers instinctively veer around us without understanding why.

The part of my brain that's always scanning, always wary of unfamiliar alphas, relaxes further.

Omegas can't go anywhere alone. Not legally, not safely.

The world outside pack protection is full of uncivilized alphas who see an unbonded omega as an opportunity.

I learned that young. The registry taught it to every omega who came through: You need a pack.

You need alphas. Without them, you're vulnerable.

My first pack taught me that lesson too, just in a different way.

They were kind when they sent me back. Gentle. It's not you, Vee. You're wonderful. But we found our scent match, and... well, you understand. She’s not willing to share.

I understood.

I went back to the registry and waited in that cold, clinical place until Ragon walked in. Until he looked at me with those blue eyes and said, "You bake when you're stressed, right? The registry coordinator mentioned it."

I'd nodded, confused.

"Good. Our kitchen could use that. The guys and I work long shifts. All three of us have demanding jobs. We come home exhausted and eat garbage. You bake, we eat. Fair trade."

He'd made it sound practical. Logical. Not like charity.

I'd been in his house two days when I stress-baked my first batch of cookies at two in the morning, unable to sleep, terrified I'd mess this up too. Drake had wandered in around three, coming off a double shift, and ate half the batch while telling me terrible jokes until I laughed.

Eli found us an hour later, shook his head at the sugar carnage, and made tea.

Ragon had come home last, taken one look at the kitchen, at me flour-dusted and shaky, and said, "You're staying."

Just like that.

I've been baking ever since. When I'm anxious, when I'm happy, when the week has been brutal and I need my hands to do something useful. The kitchen is mine. My territory. The one place in the house that's always felt like it fits me.

The guys benefit from it, sure. They get cookies and brownies and bread that actually tastes like bread instead of the cardboard they were eating before. But it's more than that.

It's the way Drake lights up when he sees a new batch cooling on the counter. The way Eli brings me tea while I'm elbow-deep in dough. The way Ragon stands in the doorway sometimes and just watches me work, scent going soft and satisfied.

It's the way they make me feel useful. Wanted. Not just tolerated.

"Look." I point as we round a corner.

The flamingo lake opens up in front of us—bright, ridiculous birds preening and wading, their reflections rippling pink in the water.

I step up to the railing and lean forward, bracing my hands on the warm metal. The sun glints off the water, and a soft breeze carries the dusty, grain-scented air toward us.

"That one's got your legs," Drake murmurs, pointing at a flamingo that seems to have more leg than body.

I elbow him lightly. "My legs are not that skinny."

"They're better. But the vibe is there."

"Graceful?"

"Chaotic yet elegant. Majestic chaos."

"Oh my God." I laugh, shaking my head.

Eli stands on my other side, forearms resting on the rail, watching the birds with that intent, thoughtful look he gets.

The breeze pushes his curls off his forehead.

I catch a whiff of his scent—tea, sun-warmed paper, the faintest edge of something floral that always makes me think of pressed flowers between book pages.

"You like them because they're balanced."

I glance at him. "Hmm?"

"Flamingos." He nods toward them. "They look fragile, but they're not. They stand in water that would make other birds sick. They sleep like that—on one leg. They adapt."

My throat tugs a little. "You think I'm like a flamingo?"

"In the best ways. You're stronger than you look. And more determined."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. My omega instincts roll over, fluffy and pleased.

Drake makes a soft "aw" noise. "Our resident poet."

"Eli's right," Ragon says, his voice low from behind us.

I hadn't even realized he'd moved up so close. His chest is right at my back, solid and immovable. His scent folds over Eli's and Drake's, deeper, heavier, grounding everything.

"You keep your footing. No matter what's under you."

It's not a romantic declaration. Ragon doesn't do poetic. But coming from him, it feels like one. My heart tugs. I swallow, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of how much I love them.

Five years, I think. Almost five years.

I push the thought away before it can turn into a wish.

We spend longer at the flamingos than I intend, mostly because Drake keeps giving them terrible backstories and Eli keeps correcting his made-up facts.