Page 57 of Generation Omega: Claimed
Rogue alpha bites aren’t tended. They don’t heal—ever—so as to properly remind the rogue of their failings. If you do this, you’ll have total power over him, know his every thought and action. You’ll be able to end his life at any moment because he won’t draw a breath without your approval.
That sounds exhausting.
Which is why rogue alphas are rare—culling them is more efficient.
If I really…blech, I can’t even say it. How would keeping Thatcher alive affect Ethan?
Ethan is your bonded beta, carrying enough of your power that he would also control Thatcher. A bonded beta is superior to a rogue alpha. A rogue alpha is lower than the lowest beta, because he betrayed the omega. But why are you even considering this?
I stare up at the darkening sky as though the cursed omega legacy lives there and is watching us right now. I will never admit it to anyone, but I shake my fist and scowl ruthlessly.
You just listed all the reasons you chose this foul, tea-drinking, pompous jackass. So, why are you now asking formyreasons? I mean, if this pathetic wretch has an important role to play in the future of the omegaverse, doesn’t it serve Tillie to keep him breathing?
I suddenly wish that magic existed in the omegaverse, because Thatcher’s bones would look adorable in a little leather pouch, maybe worn by our Scotsman. We could take them out and toss them on the ground, have Tillie wave her spirit fingers over them, and then divine the message from Thatcher’stortured soul in the great beyond. Fuck, that would be awesome, and magical dead dudes would be a huge improvement on this annoyingly chatty, judgy, disembodied legacy.
Like I’ve thrown open the door to all my unauthorized musings, I’m considering other upgrades to the omegaverse. Namely, imagining Ethan and me as wolf shifters, getting all rowdy with each other—fangs, claws, and fur flying, and the sexy brooding energy when we’ve locked down our wild sides and are attempting to hold fast to our roles in the real world. Dammit, shifter romance should have a black-box warning or, at the very least, come with virtual reality simulations for shared sexual and sensual pleasure. That would be the best role playever.
Kazimir, are you still with us?The damn omegaverse should be called thevoyeur-verse… nosy, boundary-violating shits.
Fuck them. I’ve got zero shame about anything involving my desire for and devotion to Ethan, especially when it serves as a lovely respite from the decision that’s been forced on me. Oh, fuck, it could have been Gideon here. It totallyshouldhave been GideonDo the Right Thing All the Dang TimeBlake. Then he’d have to bite this sniveling, shattered Englishman, and I could remain content with my beta and eventual omega. Butno, I had to listen to the omega legacy and the lure of professorial homicide—or is thatprofessoricidefor short?
I’m stress panting, before seizing a few deep breaths and forcing my mind to come back online.
If Thatcher increases our likelihood of success, and if the price of his survival is annoying the shit out of me—when I’m alreadysuperannoyed with all of this—then what kind of alpha would I be if I sacrificed my pack’s future because I’m too delicate to take on an unpleasant burden? If you tell me—one more time—that Thatcher is necessary for our success and he won’t be able to hurt Tillie or Ethan ever, then I don’t see what choice I have.
I think I broke the omegaverse with that one. It’s clearly regrouping, and I’m loitering, while mourning the days of simple murder goals. A life of nuance and good deeds really sucks.
Thatcher has surprised us in the worst way. You have surprised us in the best. To answer your question, your pack’s future—the entire legacy’s future—is served by keeping Thatcher alive, but if you don’t claim him, we’ll find a way to drown him.
The omega legacy really laundered its reputation in the prophecies, presenting itself as lofty and benevolent when it’s actuallymurderyenough to compete with Beta Dominion and me.
Okay, how do I do this?
The legacy plants an image in my head, and I recoil because the idea of biting him—and potentially being infected with poncy professor cooties—inspires another virulent inner uprising. But that’s the thing about assassins. No matter how much we might complain, we do what needs to be done.
Thatcher is still a weepy mess, but I don’t delay, knowing it will only get worse the longer I think about it. Instead, I lunge at our defective alpha, clamping hold of his neck and biting the front. Then I jerk back, studying my effort, before using my top teeth to puncture him again below the first bite and again at an angle a little to the right.
Thatcher’s gaping at me, frozen like an actual statue, but maybe it’s more than just shock.
It is. Give it a second.
I grab a lantern and shine it on him, revealing that I did well in creating the perfectRwith my bites. If it doesn’t heal, then it will always be an angry, red declaration of his rogue status, likeThe Scarlet Letterof the omegaverse. After a few seconds, I’m inundated with every single detail of Thatcher’s life, wave afterwave of his personal horror show. He chokes when he attempts to talk.
He can’t speak without your permission. He can’t breathe without your permission. One order and it will be taken care of, but he will suffocate if you just keep staring at him.
The legacy is sadistically pleased with that idea. It certainly knows how to hold quite the grudge.
“Breathe, Thatcher, and go ahead and speak.”
He’s gripping his throat, unable to release it now that it’s been violated. “What did you do? Why?”
His disturbed life story is making me queasy. “You are a rogue alpha, now and forever, bound to me. Another delightful day in the omegaverse for both of us, huh?”
“What?!” His voice is rougher now, competing with my gravel. “Rogue alphas… theMark of the Rogue Alpha—it’s real?”
“Yup, and you’re now the proud owner. Congrats.”
His hands still clasping his throat, he stammers, “But what does it mean?”
