He rocks back in his chair.
I plant my palms on the table, lean right in, and lower my voice. “No one will give a fuck if you recommend I shouldn’t be paired with an omega. Not my superiors. Not me. Go ahead and try it.”
My hand is already moving before I consciously decide what to do… I slam his face into the desk.
THUNK.
A wet crunch. The splatter of blood.
He jerks back again. This time, blood pours from his nose as he groans.
“You wanted to know if I can be aggressive enough for the role? If I can handle an omega?” I step back and wipe my hand on my pants. How did I even get blood on my hand? The splatter, I guess… I’m wearing combat fatigues, though, and it barely shows. “Does that answer your question?”
The door behind me swishes open.
My head turns.
And in steps a goddess. Long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, big dark eyes, long lashes, and plump, kissable lips. Wearing nothing but that silk scrap they call a healer’s dress, with little matching slippers on her feet. A vision of pure deviant temptation. Older than I expected. Most of them get snapped up, mated and bred by an over-enthusiastic controller before they hit twenty-five, but I’d say she’s closer to my age than most I’ve seen in the field.
My dick stirs. So that answers that… “I guess I hit the call button when I acquainted your face with the desk. My bad.”
Her wide eyes land on the bloody table, jerk up to take in the recruiter’s ruined face, then slam into me. She swallows.
I purr, place a hand gently on the back of her neck, and rub soothing circles with my thumb in the hollow just below her ear.
She softens under my touch, her body leaning into me like a kitten getting a pet from their favorite human. I’ve seen them make this move with alphas all the time, but I can admit it’s nice to be on the receiving end of their instinctive desire to soothe aggression.
The recruiter tries to stem the bleeding with a handkerchief, gives up, and tosses it in the nearby trash can. “Dismissed.”
I allow myself a smirk. With my fingers locked on the back of her slim throat, I direct her out of the room.
Esme
He just punched the recruiter. Correction, smacked his face into the desk.
I don’t even know his name. We didn’t get into any of the usual formalities before my controller hustled me out of the room. And now the same hand is wrapped comfortingly around the back of my neck. Like a well-trained little omega pet, my body goes haywire deciding I ought to be aroused.
Everyone knows what omegas are for: alpha control—keeping the biggest, baddest, most aggressive alphas in check. Sure, omegas have skills. Useful ones. I’m a healer. Every time I watch someone miraculously heal at my hands, I experience a sense of wonder. But the whole premise of our relationship with alphas, the temporary bonding and the investment, the subsequent dominance and submission games, is about tempering aggression in dominant men so they remain useful in the war.
I’ve yet to meet a personable recruiter, so I’m confident the asshole deserved being acquainted with the desk as my controller so eloquently put it.
Still, most alphas are wary about pissing the recruiters off. They hold a lot of power.
I glance at him from under my lashes. He’s really pretty. Which I know shouldn’t be a term used for an alpha, but heis. Everything about his looks is classic. Straight nose, lips that are neither thin nor full, cheekbones with just the right amount of structure. He’s big but not hulking. Posture straight but not rigid. His scent is alluring but not cloying. Nothing stands out. Which is odd now that I think about it. He’s almost… too perfect.
He is wearing a baseball cap pulled down low, though, so maybe he’s bald?
Not that I mind whether an alpha has hair or not—it can look hot either way—and if they want to, they can have a medical procedure. Still, I can’t help but feel he needs some failing, perceived or otherwise, to break up the monotony of his sheer perfection.
He catches me staring and his dark eyes, lost in the shadow of his cap, linger on me.
I snap my gaze away.
Aggression is still rolling off him in thick, cloying waves. None of it is aimed at me, but I’m well attuned to what an alpha needs and my body responds, eager to please.
Pumping out slick.
Which is inconvenient, given I’m wearing a ridiculous silk healer’s dress. By the time we’ve made it to our assigned quarters on the transport ship, the tops of my thighs are wet, and I’m practically panting.
