Page 40 of Generation Omega: Claimed
Gideon stands and carries me to the bed, settling us both there. He’s spooning me within an inch of my life, and I know why without being told. He misses me—he misses us. He’s probably remembering our time in his penthouse just like I am, when everything seemed simpler. It wasn’t. It was always going to end up like this, but that illusion was tough to beat, when it was just Gideon and me and a new life before us.
It’s about to be so crowded in my head. Three more bites. Three more bondmarks to tend. Three more members of myaudience, and three more bossy alphas who think they know how I’m supposed to live my omega life.
Gideon’s purr emerges, and I can’t keep my eyes open as sleep lures me away from reality.
But reality refuses to be denied. I wake suddenly, a scream torn from me at the sharp pain in my heart.
I search for the knife, because I can’t imagine anything else causing this agony ripping through me. But there’s no knife.
“Baby girl, I’ve got you. What’s happening?”
Gideon’s terror shocks me, but it shouldn’t. He doesn’t feel it—he doesn’t know. I only know because I’ve been here before, and it defies understanding how I could be here again. I hear the hostile voices reaching us from the main level. Chaos. Fury. Devastation.
My torment is too overwhelming for me to even know which of them did it—which of my alphas abandoned me.
CHAPTER 22
JAMESON
I finally had enough. I gave it my level best, whatever the hell that means. I simply couldn’t do it anymore. That professor is justawful… but maybe he’s not—maybe I just find his profession to be entirely grotesque. Intentional knowledge seeking…ick. Mostly, I was interrogating the snooty scholar, searching for a loophole, some way out of this literal clusterfuck. But the strangest thing happened after several rounds of questions. The more I learned, the less interested I was in escaping this bizarre destiny.
My affiliation with my father and his also-disgusting profession has gotten me into some exclusive clubs, no doubt. But this is fucking ridiculous. Five alphas in all the world, andI’mone of them? Analpha, which sounds disturbingly like a career. I’d dismiss it immediately—all this mystical bullshit—if not for that bright-eyed omega with a face the shape of a heart and lips to match, and what she said.
There’s something in you that made you the right choice.
Since arriving on this floating orgy mobile, I’ve been in a stupor, seemingly drugged while irritatingly sober. I blamed thewoo-wooforces of the omegaverse for my state, figuring they dosed me to keep me playing nicely with others. I’m an onlychild, and I don’tteam. I don’t even have friends—I have a roving appreciation society composed of either fawning leeches or others like me, professionals in the art of disappointing our families and avoiding all responsibilities, while looking damn good.
But I no longer believe I’ve been drugged, even though the scent of thatsweetpiece of ass is making my cock permanently and painfully engorged, not to mention the new knot that erupted on my already impressive dick. I now think something else is responsible for this haze that’s claimed me, and the worst possible culprit might be the most plausible one.
Has there been a longing in me to matter to someone? To be trusted with something precious. To be worthy of being chosen for a mission that truly matters. Am I afflicted with delusional grandeur, desperate to believe I’m not just here because I’m the only spawn of a powerful, corrupt man?
Only one person in my life ever thought I would be somebody, but after she departed, no one ever expected anything from me. I wholeheartedly encouraged their low expectations because it was much easier than challenging them. Then they all slapped their labels on me and forgot about me entirely. There’s some safety in that, but it’s also a hollow way to live.
If I was chosen—rather than the ninety-year-old Chairman of the Joint Chiefs or the military hero son of the CIA director—then what if there is a reason for that? That off-puttingly attractive omega seemed genuinely curious to know who I am and why I was brought here. I haven’t cared about anyone or anything in years, but I care about the answer to this question.
I want to know why, out of all the eligible men—or women, I’m not sexist—in the world, I was dragged away from another night of meaningless, drunken debauchery to join this omega-themed Bacchanalia of unrestrained fucking. Clearly, I havean aptitude for the most popular pack hobby, but is there something else, another reason why I was picked?
Thestalker-verseomega legacy is always listening to my thoughts and occasionally sends insults my way. So, I could just ask, but it could also just tell me since it knows I’m obsessing about this.
I swear it’s daring me to intentionally seek knowledge, and finally, after glancing around and ensuring I’m alone on the top of the ship, I mutter, “Will you tell me why I was chosen?”
No.
Fucking figures, douche-verse.
No, not because it annoys you… though that is a bonus. Discovering the answer to that question—one of the most meaningful questions of your life—is a journey you must take. Only then will you be able to accept the answer.
Shit… but dammit, I get it. If it told me I was born for greatness, I would roll my eyes, give it the finger, and hug my cynicism as close as my next lover. I need this to be a game I play. I need it to propel me to get to know this woman—fuck, it’s difficult to even use her name that’s meaningful in a way no other woman’s name has ever been.
Tillie. See, that didn’t kill me.
Yet.
Judgy fucking omegaverse. But then alarm flares inside me, the omega legacy in a total panic.
Stop him.
Stop him.
