Page 29 of Generation Omega: Claimed
“Gideon,” Mr. Kilt seethes with raw power that inspires another surge of my perfume to fill the space, “she can’t handle another heat right now. She hasn’t even eaten.” His hand snatches Gideon’s thick neck, all bulging muscles and popping veins. “This pack can’t handle another heat. Stop now.” His accent is much less noticeable when he’s Mr. Kilt, a name that’s too comical for this monster of a man.
Fuck me, Gideon…please. I need you.
Yeah, I’ve given up being a good girl. I want to fuck and be fucked. I want to connect. I don’t want to think anymore. I don’t want to worry. I want the freedom… oh, I’m jealous of my omega. She gets the mindless explosion of sexual gratification, and I get the terror of living in a world that wants to kill me. I’m changing sides—let her work this shit out, while I grind on my alphas until we all collapse.
Gideon fiercely grips the counter. “Tillie,” he groans, “please, stop…”
Why? I send that right back his way. So, I’m officially naughty, and the thought of being punished rocks my whole damn world.
Because if we do this now, you’ll have a dozen bites—we can’t hold back anymore. Kazimir. Jameson. Thatcher. They will all bond you, and when you crash back to reality, all your worries will still be there, but your chance to consent to your bonds will be gone forever.
I absolutely deflate, my arousal vanishing instantly. Trembling now, I realize why Ethan didn’t do anything—he couldn’t, the alphas’ brutality locked him in place. But, freed now, he reaches and pulls me onto his lap, his arms surrounding me while Kazimir stands menacingly beside him.
I hide my face against Ethan’s neck and mutter, “Sorry.”
“Put that damn thing away,” Kazimir snaps, and I quickly turn and catch more than a glimpse of what Mr. Kilt is packing, only it’s not Mr. Kilt—it’s a blushing Mackenzie, who snatches up the towel and holds it in front of his ample offering.
“I’m getting my kilt, even if it’s still wet,” Mackenzie declares and moves quickly up the stairs where his kilt must be drying in the sun.
“Breakfast. Now.” Gideon, in full control and wearing his authority with authentic grace, winks at me, gifting me with an indulgent smile that communicates that, whether naughty or nice, I’ll always get breakfast.
Okay, next challenge, first pack breakfast with zero fatalities—sure, we can totally do this, but I still have questions. A, can the table actually hold so much food, and B, can my mind accept that this mountain range of men are, in fact, my pack? Even while I’m still on Ethan’s lap, the sight of the alphas taking their seats inspires more disbelief than is healthy.
Ethan’s body shakes and I gape at him, finding him grinning and fighting laughter. “Breathe in and breathe out, Till, or you’re going to collapse, and it’s all going to hell around here.”
Catching Thatcher’s disgust at seeing me on Ethan’s lap almost makes me change my mind about dismounting from my favorite seat, but if we’re doing this whole first breakfast thing, I want my own seat at the table. But once I move, I’m only gawkier and more nervous at the sight of the pack.
The text of the omega prophecy is suddenly in my head. I don’t know whether I put it there, or the omega legacy is reminding me why this group came together.
Every generation is promised an omega. Every omega is promised alphas who will claim, bond, and support their omega in all things. Every alpha is promised strength and connection like no other, a purpose like no other. And every soul in every realm is promised a better life and a better world to leave their children.
I sit proudly, like an omega queen even, and speak those words to my pack, knowing some of the men at this table might never have heard them before becoming members of this dangerous legacy.
“That’s why we’re here.” I manage to find the courage to hold each man’s gaze as I inwardly welcome a future I don’t yet understand, with a cast of characters I’m not ready to fully accept. But we have to start somewhere. “I know you’ve all met my wild and crazy omega side, but the rest of the time, I’m Tillie, your omega.”
Gideon’s pride strikes with such force, I might get blown right off the yacht.
“Okay, let’s eat. I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s dying for food.” Even after I say it, they wait for me to pile pancakes, waffles, and bacon on my plate and dig in before the alpha feast begins.
I don’t know whether Gideon’s still exerting control over them or they really are so famished they can’t multitask, but no one speaks. I don’t mind exactly, but it’s also a reminder that we don’t know each other well enough tosmall talkyet.
Between large bites of decadent carbs drenched in an obscene amount of syrup, I steal glances at my alphas, musing about their placements at the table. Gideon appropriately sits at the head of the table to my left, and Ethan is to my right, also perfect. Mackenzie, still bare-chested and now wearing his kilt, claimed the seat beside Gideon, directly across from me. I wonder whether Mr. Kilt played a role in that choice, since it’s clear which alpha can talk sense into Gideon’s inner alpha without dying.
Thatcher’s thick hair falls over his forehead as he takes another bite of bacon. He’s next to Mackenzie, situated in the best spot to glare at Ethan, though he’s fortunately more fixated on his breakfast. Jameson sends a sassy look my way when he catches me assessing his place at the end of the table. He casually sits in opposition to Gideon, having left the chair beside Thatcher empty. I can’t see Kazimir, who’s unsurprisingly seated beside Ethan.
My embarrassingly heavy fork pauses on its journey to my mouth. “Does Mr. Kilt have a name?”
Mackenzie’s cheeks lift, his amusement as lovely as everything about him. “Mr. Kilt? Is that what you’re calling my fearsome lodger?”
Why do I feel so light and free when I’m within Mackenzie’s appreciative gaze? More importantly, why don’t I feel the same about my other alphas? “Mr. Fearsome Lodgermight work, but does he have a name he’d prefer? I wouldn’t want to accidentally offend him.”
“You could never offend him, lassie—he knows why he’s here better than any of us ever will. But to answer your question, Igather his name is in a language that doesn’t exist anymore. I’m not sure he even remembers it.” Mackenzie pauses, a message clearly being delivered from within him. “He’d like you to name him, or your omega—whichever.”
Mackenzie turns his attention to the others at the table, beginning with Gideon and working around to the rest before returning to me. “I want everyone to know that I believe he deserves to be here. This pack is stronger with him. We’ll work through everything else later, but as you just saw, if there’s danger of any kind, he’ll step up and take care of it. It would really be best to watch yourselves, even when you think he’s not here, because he has fixed opinions on how an omega should be treated. It would be unwise to be on the wrong end of an argument with him.”
As if that weren’t impressive enough, he chuckles before adding, “He came from a time when villages were known by the number of heads mounted on poles beyond the front gates. In his mind, there is no subtle correction. Just something to consider.” He holds Thatcher’s belligerent stare a bit longer than the others, for obvious reasons.
Dr. Thatcher James Wellington the Third has already claimed the distinct honor of being voted the most likely pack member to end his life as a decorative head attached to a pole. But whether Kazimir does the deed or Mr. Kilt… that’s the real question.
