Page 2 of The Dragon's Omega
Thad snorted to my left. “Yeah, some old-ass Viking name.”
The trio erupted in a symphony of alpha rumbles and chuckles, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and insist that, well, not everyone could be named some variation of Chad.
“You should see what you’re getting into as the future Synn omega,” Dewey mused when the guffawing died down. “Our world is a shitload bigger than everyone else’s.”
“Right.” I gulped, eyeing the decrepit warehouse with its dusty gray walls and shattered barred windows. “O-okay.”
Grinning, Dewey went for the main double doors and punched in a code on the padlock. It snapped open a beat later, and he took his time unwinding the bulky chains from the handles. After lobbing them aside, he shoved both doors open and ushered me in with a sweeping bow.
Dewey was the only Synn here by blood. Twenty-one, he’d been ice blond since birth, which he always wore short and slicked back. Bright grayish-blue eyes and a chiseled jaw paired with a sculpted body that wouldn’t quit—and was constantly flaunted on his social media. He was the heir to the empire. Everything was in his name, even if he had pack bonds sealed in bites and blood.
Meanwhile, Thad and Chad looked like twins but weren’t related. All three met in middle school, and the two brunets struck me as stage-five clingers who openly enjoyed Synn money, power, and prestige. While Dewey occasionally traveled for family business, these two stuck close to the West Coast, showboating the privilege their bond to Dewey offered. They even ditched their own familial pack names, as many alphas did when there was a social power imbalance in the dynamic, to adopt the Synn moniker.
Stuck in the middle of this trio made me feel especially small tonight. I had kept my distance on our past date nights, not wanting to feel like this, like a caged rabbit surrounded by dumb, drooling wolves. Heels weren’t my thing, but I wore them each and every time to cut down on the insane height difference between them and me. While I was tall for an omega, these three were hot-blooded, all-American alpha. Thad was nearly six-nine, and he liked to use it to make a point. Especially with waitstaff, valets, bartenders—other alphas just trying to enjoy their night out.
Here, in the gaping expanse of an empty warehouse, I felt even smaller than usual. Two inches tall compared to these six-foot-eight and beyond alphas who were more muscle than brain.
Except, maybe, Dewey. He played the himbo well, but the more I watched the Synn ringleader, the more I suspected it was all a façade to make people underestimate him.
Flashing a sharp smile over his shoulder, he led us across concrete floors, my heels and their smart dress shoes a symphony of crisp clicks. While these three rocked upscale, black-tie tuxedos, I had done my best to dress the part in a full-length strapless gown, deep purple to match the streaks in my hair.
Thad had told me the other day that boxed dye was so toxic it could impact my fertility, then followed that little pearl of wisdom with a guilt trip about the future of the pack, and maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t use it anymore.
Never mind that I had been dying my hair since I was sixteen—somehow my heat came, right on schedule, every three months, and, according to the specialist I had to see before I could join the local courtship registry, my fertility was, like all omegas, off-the-charts great.
Fucking idiot.
Then there was Chad, always insisting I swap the snack bowl of dried fruit and nuts that lived on my desk for raw liver. “For better gains, Lee. Think about it.”
Seriously, combined, these three had a massive digital following, and they spouted this same shit regularly to the sycophants who followed them. Their only education to back up their claims was that it worked for me, so it should work for thee.
Never mind that alphas were genetically gifted, destined to be large, muscular, and, most of the time, annoyingly gorgeous—peak masculinity. They were the apex predators of our society.
Being born hot, alpha, and rich, however, did not an expert make.
We all squished into a rickety elevator, and my palms spritzed a cold sweat on the slow grind underground. There was barely enough room for two bulky alphas, never mind three plus me. I tucked my elbows into my sides, breathing their combined citrus and myrtle musk through my mouth. It didn’t do it for me, the bitter orange and the sharp lemon, the hints of lime and sea breeze. Worst of all, their scents clashed with the base notes of my omega perfume, and, if I ever actually misted in their presence, their stomachs would probably turn too.
But this was for Dad.
For Louis.
For the survival of our family.
My heart leaped into my throat when the lift bounced to a stop and the door finally creaked open, revealing a corridor of raw stone and dirt, the air thick with the scent of summer bonfire smoke and?—
I sucked in a quick breath as I tiptoed out of the elevator. It should be all mineral and rock down here, but what stuck out to me alongside the bonfire smoke was—amber.
Cypress.
Maybe a hint of allspice?
Yum.
Heat gathered at the nape of my neck, and I shuddered as hot, fiery hands curled unseen around my throat like a collar.
“The… The dragon,” I stammered, mouth suddenly dry as Dewey beckoned me to follow him toward what looked like the opening of a cavernous but well-lit chamber. “Does he… have a designation?”
Chad snorted. “Obviously.”