Page 1 of Broken Alpha
Luke
According to society's standards, I’m broken.
The lineage of my family has been drilled into my head since I was four, with strong emphasis on the fact that we were Alphas of title and legacy. We could trace our line to the first colonists who landed in Plymouth, breeding little Alphas into the New World to fight for American independence and participate in every war since. From the age of nine, my future had been planned for me as a member of ‘The Great Ellis Family’.
However, what is expected of me and my reality are two separate things. Every child takes a designation test once theyenter puberty. With my classmates, I took the same blood test as everyone else, and, as expected, an Alpha symbol was handed to me on a piece of paper with my results. The first case of the ‘unexpected’ came with the dominant symbol beside my designation. Dominant Alphas are rare worldwide, with only about one in fifteen thousand of the Alpha population being dominant.
What makes dominants so different from their normal counterparts is that our pheromones are more potent and our knots are slightly more prominent. We can be a tad bit more aggressive and assertive. We also have better control over our pheromone levels and how much we expose ourselves to others, and we’re less likely to become more animalistic during a rut, keeping a clear head as if we were the leader of the pack. However, our sense of smell is more substantial as well, and therefore we’re more susceptible to the scent of an Omega. Technically, a dominant outranks the others, but that mentality slowly dies with each new generation of pups, regardless of designation.
Being a dominant was something that my parents could brag about, something that raised our social status among their elite circle of friends. So, if I’m so ‘unique,’ how am I broken?
Two reasons. The first is that I have never scented an Omega. Pheromones are how we recognize each other and help us find mates. Betas don’t have a natural scent, often using an artificial blend because they want to fit in. They don’t like that they’re ‘normal’ in a unique world. I had thought my first partner was a Beta until he went into heat three years into our relationship. That’s also when I learned about my second issue.
In order for a male Alpha to produce offspring, they develop a knot at the base of their cocks, ready to lock themselves to their Omega and breed the newest family line. Knots rarely reveal themselves during masturbation, so I never suspected I couldn’tproduce one until my partner. As teens, we learn through sex education that knots are just a normal response to sex, a much needed element in reproduction, and to take care of our distressed Omegas. I had a boyfriend in college, Anthony, but I wasn’t interested in pups at that stage in our relationship. After his suppressant failed, he went into heat and needed a knot to soothe the ache inside him. But a knot never formed, and we broke up after his difficult heat, with him stating that he couldn’t trust me to provide for his needs.
I should’ve been devastated; I loved him, but at the same time, I didn’t feel anything about our breakup. Regardless, I became desperate to know if the issue was as simple as we weren’t well matched or if the problem was me. I began sleeping around, partnering with Omegas, even Betas, and a random Alpha—all in the hope that something within me would correct itself. Naturally, the issue was me.
Despite excessive tests, the final outcome was that I was not a properly functioning Alpha. In the social circles established by my family, Omegas they deemed worthy of carrying on the Ellis line were practically thrown at me in hopes that I would bond with them and produce more little Alphas. Every single one of them were lovely people, but I could not scent them. My college buddies would talk endlessly about how their mates smelled. Gardens in full bloom, a coffee shop, spiced apples, frosted vanilla. I was making myself sick, straining to catch even the smallest whiff of an Omega scent. And nothing.
I used to dream of holding my Omega close, nose buried in their hair or neck as we snuggled close in the early hours of a Sunday morning, trapped in blankets, our legs tangled together. We’d enjoy each other's company, our pheromones mingling in the room, refusing to get up and greet the day. Refusing to let the real world into our bubble. But it was clear this was only a dreamand would never be a reality for me. I’m broken and therefore not worthy of any Omega, regardless of their status.
I have kept this secret from my family so they only view my refusal to find an Omega as nothing more than rebellion and plain stubbornness. In college, I changed my major, wanting to pursue a degree in Designation Science, and my family told me that was not an acceptable field for someone of our status. I was throwing my life away; no worthy Omega would lower themselves to marry a dominant with such a commoner profession. They refused to cover the rest of my schooling, but luckily I had seen this coming and had already invested in small properties at the advice of a financial planner who got me into contact with a real estate agent who happened to be his Omega. Through them, the properties were a huge success and allowed me to live comfortably now.
Sighing, I put my phone in my pocket, ignoring the text from my mother asking if I was bringing anyone to my father's birthday celebration at the end of the month—even though she knew very well I wasn’t seeing anyone per our last conversation a month ago. Standing up, I stretched before grabbing the filing box by my office door and exiting the room, heading for my classroom on the upper floor. A couple of students had arrived early, glancing up from their phones and pausing their conversation as I entered. Greeting them kindly, I set my box on the small desk beside my podium before picking up the whiteboard marker from its tray and wrote my last name on the whiteboard.
My ABO Psych and Biology – ABOPB, as some of the staff and students call it – was a general stop for most students who aspire to be a therapist or a doctor, and I was rather good at figuring out which students would be which. Those studying to be doctors had an annoying habit of trying to prove they knew everything, which they normally didn’t, and couldbe arrogant with their answers and how they addressed the class. I surmised they had a need to prove they were something—something special like the rest of us—because most of the world's doctors were Betas. Most suffered from horrible ‘middle child’ syndrome, complete with an entitlement complex.
The students studying to be therapists tended to be Omegas, given their nurturing nature and overwhelming need to comfort. They dominated in that field and were the students who took the most notes but didn’t participate in the majority of the discussions; it was easier for them to watch it all unfold and form their own opinions before supplying their input.
There were many, mainly traditionalists, that believed that Omegas wasted their money by getting a higher education. Heats often made it difficult to hold down employment, and prolonged use of suppressants could be damaging to an Omega’s health. That being said, there were several laws in the works that, if passed, would legally give Omegas ‘heat time’ and protect them from the unemployment line. This wasn’t to say I didn’t have Alphas in my class; in fact, they outnumbered the Omegas who took my course. They were loud and opinionated, children from wealthy standing and influential parentage. They were probably never told the word “no” in all their lives, and they enjoyed lording their statuses over the Betas in the class, knowing full well that it was their parents who would be employing Betas to ensure their hospitals ran smoothly.
Placing my phone on the podium and checking the time, I cleared my throat, eyeing the now mostly filled seats.
“Good afternoon, class,” I began, forcing a fake smile and stepping before the podium beside my tiny desk. “Welcome to Alpha, Beta, Omega Psychology and Biology. Normally, class starts at 1 pm, but since it appears most of you are here already, I will start about ten minutes early and get you guys out of here earlier, too, since this is just introductions.”
This generally earns me a few cheers of excitement, as the first day back is exhausting for most students. The fake smile remained in place while I moved toward the first person in the row of tables in front of me, holding up a piece of paper in my hand.
“Every day you come to class, you will be required to put your name on a sheet of paper at the front of the class. Attendance is 5% of your grade in this class, so make sure you sign the paper before or after class. For today, though, please pass the paper down the row, and I’ll collect it after class. Purchasing the textbook is a must for my class; you can’t wing it on lecture notes alone. I hear the textbook is cheaper if you buy it digitally on Amazon. I don’t care which version you get as long as you get it by next week.”
I moved back to the front of the class, popping off the lid of the file box and grabbing a stack of papers. Counting the number of students in each row, I handed each student a stack of paper, instructing them to pass the handouts backward.
“Quizzes are 5% of your overall score, with participation in class discussions equating to 10%. Class papers are 20%, the midterm is 25%, and the final exam is 35%. I know we have a lot of shy students, and you may not feel comfortable participating in debates and discussions; I get it. You can make up the percentage from class discussions by doing well on your homework and tests and still pass the class with an A. Since today is orientation, I know you’ve heard the same university policy from each of your teachers, but in case you haven’t, I have to mention it as a precaution.
“This university is open to all designations. However, Omegas are required to take their suppressant every day before setting foot on campus. Much like the real world beyond these halls, we don’t make allowances for bonded Omegas. If you’re not on them already, talk with your Alphas and find the best methodfor you and your pack. This class has an online variant in spring, which may be better suited for you if that is the route you wish to take. If you’re not a bonded Omega, you’re required by federal law to be on them, so I guess this doesn’t apply to you.”
If I were honest, I hate the discussion of suppressants. They have been around for decades, effectively suppressing the heats of Omegas, acting as a form of birth control. However, they have had to constantly evolve as Omegas became more and more immune to the formulas used to craft them. I also struggled with the idea that the university and the country could dictate what an Omega put in their bodies, even if it didn’t affect me as a broken.
Clapping my hands and rubbing them together, I put the false smile back on my face. However, before I could continue, the scent of a thriving forest exploded in the room, followed by a loud bang at the front of the room as a late student entered my classroom.
His cheeks flushed pink as all eyes focused on him. His blond hair stuck to his face as he panted, his round glasses sliding down his nose from sweat. It was clear that he had run through the halls not to miss the class, his backpack slightly open in front of his body as he held it by the strap. He wore jeans and a white tee shirt beneath a plaid overshirt. The white tee shirt clung to his chest as he dipped his head in embarrassment. Muttering an apology, he walked past me to the empty seat on the right-hand side of the classroom toward the back.
Every classroom was equipped with neutralizers, but they were powerless to stop the onslaught of earth and pine. Under the enticing scent was something chemical, almost like rot. Something foreign and sour, sterile like a hospital. As the student took his seat, I couldn’t stop staring, my brain finally piecing together what was happening. At thirty-one, I wassmelling my first Omega, and my cock was painfully hard behind the podium.
Aidyn
“Well, your results are in the realm of what is normal for you, but you said you’re getting dizzy spells?”
I looked at Doctor Easton, who sat across from me while I sat on crinkly paper on an uncomfortable blue medical exam table. I had been feeling nauseous and dizzy for about a month as I adjusted to yet another round of new suppressants. I thought I could struggle through the side effects until I passed out in the bathroom a few days ago, bruising my hip.
