My grin grows wider.
“You’re unstable,” she mutters weakly.
If only she knew…
Esme
Discipline doesn’t happen often, but when it does, no one steps in. An alpha doesn’t need permission to discipline his omega—he just does it. Sometimes that’s done over clothing, and sometimes it’s a belt or a hand applied to bare skin. All very casual, like the omega is not a person, just a pet that needs correcting.
Sometimes they do it because their omega bratted or taunted them. And sometimes just because they can.
The rest of the world—military and civilians alike—are used to it. They watch or they turn away. But, always, they tell themselves it’s none of their business.
Whatever helps them sleep at night.
“Don’t have time right now,” he says, his voice laced with promise. “But you know alphas… they don’t forget.”
My pulse trips over itself. My thighs clench. My slick is already soaking my clothes, and I hate that he knows it. That he counts on it. Damn him. Damn that voice, that look in his eyes, the way he says it like it’s not a threat, but a guarantee ofpleasure for everyone involved. And damn my traitorous body for being all in.
I tried to pull away, and look what that got me? Plastered closer to him, because alphas are universally assholes, and Zeb, though I thought he was different, is notthatdifferent in some way, it would seem he’s notthatdifferent. They don’t like omega resistance; it’s like they’re attuned to home in on every act of omega rebellion, and deliver the perfect countermeasure.
I’m fighting against biology, deep-rooted genetics, and the legacy of the Copper Virus.
Not a chance I’m winning this round. So I stand there, aching, furious, and desperate for more of whatever he has to offer… for more ofhim.
Chapter Seven
Zeb
The double doors ahead of us open. Esme’s arousal vanishes, replaced by fear as we slip on our helmets and shuffle forward. Inside the fake cargo vessel are rows of temporary seats that have been crudely bolted in.
We find our position, secure our harnesses, and the drop ship shoots out into space, careening through the bumpy atmosphere before plunging sharply.
The ride is rough, jarring, and brutal. Her hand grips mine the entire time. Those instincts, the alien ones that don’t quite belong, are riding me hard. I hate her fear. I want to drag her from her seat onto my lap and hold her.
It’s not remotely practical. It’s dangerous. Yet the need to protect her from not just this, but from everything and anything, is so intense and all-consuming that I can barely fucking breathe.
Do all alphas feel like this? This insanely hyper-focused, protective, possessive, destroy-the-universe-for-my-woman madness?
They must.
How the fuck do they function?
Worse, I know the hellhole we’re about to land on, and it’s not a place I want Esme on or even near.
Fracturous:a planet on the fringes, barely part of the Empire’s jurisdiction. It’s the kind of place where people go to disappear… or to make others disappear. The population consists of hardy miners along with thugs, deadbeats, and transient schemers who prefer to operate off the Empire’s radar. People here don’t ask questions. There’s an oil-processing plant that barely keeps the local economy alive. Surrounding it, a city sprawls in rust and concrete.
I went there once a few years ago and ended up in a bar brawl that cost me a month of regen after I lost an eye. But that’s another story.
We’ve found Uncorrupted operations on every major planet and system, even on Chimera, in the heart of the Empire. But they’re predominantly found out on the fringes. Patrolling these planets with any regularity is simply not viable when our military is already stretched thin. In places like this, survival depends on pretending not to see, and the people who live here make it their business to look away. But occasionally, the military passes through, and someone flagged their suspicions with command after overhearing a conversation in one of the shady dive bars.
The Uncorrupted have set up shop in a warehouse sector. On the surface, it’s a mining supply depot squeezed between other businesses that are likewise legit enough not to attract attention, or have the rudimentary government in their pocket. But beneath the fake facade, in the crumbling substructure left behind from the colonial expansion days, is a network of old tunnels that has been repurposed for their ‘research’.
They’re keeping dynamics down there. Experimenting on our people, locking them in cells, carving into their bodies and minds like they’re nothing but specimens to be studied.
Sick fuckers.
They are torturers dressed in lab coats, bent on data collection, attempting to reverse what the virus did to us. To them, we’re less than human, less than animals: a dynamic is an abomination—warped biology to be dissected, tortured, and undone. We’re test subjects, collateral in their righteous quest to eradicate what they see as a viral contamination of the species.
