Option one: I could be kept as a decorative omega by whoever took over the clan. A living reminder of my father’s bloodline, locked away and controlled, used for political marriages or alliances when convenient. Basically what I was now, but with even less illusion of choice.
Option two: I could be eliminated entirely. Dead omega sons told no tales and made no inconvenient claims to inheritance. Clean, simple, and probably the most merciful option on the table.
Option three—and this was the one that made bile rise in my throat—I could be handed over to rival clans as a peace offering. A pretty omega with Yamamoto blood to sweeten whatever deals they were making over my father’s territory.
‘Here, have an omega! He comes with family connections and deep-seated daddy issues! Perfect for breeding or torture, depending on your needs!’
Or option four, which made my skin crawl: being sold to the highest bidder. Premium omega bloodstock with yakuza connections would fetch a fortune on the right market. There were wealthy alphas who paid obscene amounts for rare omegas, especially ones with my… pedigree.
‘For sale: one lightly used omega, comes with trust issues and a tendency toward violent threats. Great breeding potential if you can get past the psychological damage.’
The thought made my stomach churn and my heart race with something that definitely wasn’t arousal. Every option ended with me being passed around like a party favor, used and discarded by whichever alpha had the biggest wallet or the most political influence. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.
This is what happens to omega heirs. We become assets to be managed rather than people with choices.
The worst part wasn’t even the lack of options—it was the uncertainty. Not knowing who was making decisions about my future while I sat here like a prize waiting to be claimed. Were they already negotiating my transfer? Had bids been placed? Was someone coming to collect me while I wallowed in this cottage like a sitting duck?
Maybe that’s why they won’t let me go to the cemetery. Maybe I’m already sold and they’re just waiting for the new owners to pick me up.
I dry-swallowed two pills—fuck the recommended dosage—and tried to ignore how my hands shook like a caffeine addict in withdrawal. The stress of not knowing my fate had triggered my biology into overdrive, heat symptoms creeping in at the edges despite enough medication to tranquilize a horse.
Perfect timing, as always. Can’t even face my uncertain future without my omega biology staging a hormonal coup.
My skin felt hypersensitive, my body temperature running just hot enough to be uncomfortable. And despite enough suppressants to knock out a racehorse, slick was beginning to gather between my thighs—my body preparing for something my mind desperately didn’t want to acknowledge.
Because what this emotional crisis really needed was my omega biology deciding to throw a hormone party. Thanks, evolution. Really thoughtful timing.
But with the heat symptoms came something worse—memories I’d been trying to suppress for six months. Memories that had nothing to do with my father or my uncertain future and everything to do with three alphas who’d appeared in my life like a fever dream and then vanished just as completely.
Where the fuck are they?
The question hit me with unexpected viciousness, sudden and sharp and completely unwelcome. Stefano, Marco, Matteo—the three bastards who'd kidnapped me, spanked me like a disobedient child, and then disappeared without a trace the moment I'd fallen asleep. The same three alphas who'd awakened some twisted erotic monster inside me when they took turns torturing my nipples while finger-fucking me into sobbing surrender. Who'd made me discover my humiliating kink for being disciplined and praised in the same breath, my daddy issues manifesting in the most mortifying way possible as I begged them to let me come while calling them "Daddy." Who'd pushed me to the edge of consciousness as Marco's mouth worked my cock with devastating precision while Stefano's fingers stretched me open. Who'd systematically dismantled every defense I had until I was nothing but desperate need and shameful pleasure. And then they just fucking vanished—leaving me with cravings I couldn't satisfy and memories I couldn't escape.
Six months. Six fucking months since that night, and not a word. Did Father fire them? Did they get reassigned? Or did they just decide I wasn’t worth the trouble after they got their rocks off humiliating me?
My hand moved almost unconsciously to palm my hardening cock through the thin pajama pants, and I should have hated myself for the automatic response. Should have been disgusted that thinking about them still affected me this way.
Pathetic. Getting hard thinking about three psychotic alphas who treated me like their personal entertainment and then fucked off into the sunset.
But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that I missed it. Missed them. Missed the way they’d made me feel—owned, controlled, cared for in the most fucked-up way possible.
I miss being bent over Stefano’s knee like some naughty omega who needed discipline. What the hell is wrong with me?
My grip tightened around my cock as the memory crashed over me with crystal clarity. Stefano's large hand connecting with my ass, the sharp sting that had somehow transformed into molten pleasure racing straight to my groin. The humiliation of getting hard while being spanked, my body betraying every principle I had.
The way his palm felt against my skin, the controlled force behind each smack. How my cock had throbbed against his thigh with every strike. How they'd ordered me to count each one, how I'd fought it at first before the numbers spilled from my lips unbidden, mixed with curses and threats that grew increasingly incoherent as pleasure overwhelmed outrage.
I remembered being flipped onto my back in that luxurious tent, wrists bound with silk ties, legs spread wide and secured so I couldn't close them. Completely exposed as they took turns with my body—Marco's talented mouth swallowing my cock while Stefano's fingers found that spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyelids. Matteo's teeth and tongue working my nipples until I was sobbing with overwhelming sensation, my body assaulted from every direction by three alphas who knew exactly how to break me.
By the tenth slap I'd been completely undone, barely able to form words, reduced to begging for release while they praised me for taking my punishment. "Good boy," they'd called me, and those two simple words had hit something deep andbroken inside me, some pathetic need for approval I'd never acknowledged. I'd come harder than I ever had in my life, their synchronized assault destroying whatever remained of my dignity as I screamed their names.
And afterward, the tender care as they'd bathed me in that ridiculous copper tub, their hands gentle on my overheated skin, murmuring praise that made me feel precious despite everything they'd done. The humiliating reality that I'd found more comfort in the arms of my kidnappers than I had in years of isolation.
“Fuck,” I whispered to the empty room, my hand slipping inside my waistband. “Fuck you, Stefano. Fuck you for making me like it.”
I stroked myself with increasing desperation, chasing the memory of that night. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. My own hand was a pale imitation of what I really craved, what my sick omega brain had become addicted to.
I can’t even get myself off properly anymore. Not like they did.
