Knowledge of their existence is suppressed among the general population, but those higher in positions of government are aware of the possibility.
Male Omegas are considered abominations, unnatural. Too emotional for command, too weak for combat, yet not feminine enough for traditional Omega roles. They're drummed out of service, arrested on trumped up charges and sent to die in work camps.
Or worse.
Anything to prevent the possibility of a male Omega breeding a female of any designation and passing on their genetic abnormalities.
"The suppressants usually work," he continues, voice cracking. "I miscalculated the dose after the battle."
My body responds to his heat scent against my will, blood rushing south. I've never been this close to an unbonded Omega in heat. The pull is magnetic, almost painful in its intensity.
"You should go," Cillian says, reading my reaction. "Find one of those betas downstairs."
I take a step forward instead. "Who else knows?"
"No one.” The orphanage matron who first discovered my designation and helped me source suppressants died years ago. His breathing quickens as I approach. "Logan, don't?—"
"You're my commander," I say, the realization of what this means washing over me. "The royal guard commander is an Omega."
"I've proven myself," he snarls, a flash of the Cillian I know breaking through his heat. "I've killed for you. Bled for you."
I kneel before him, close enough to see the sweat beading on his upper lip, to smell the desperate sweetness radiating from him.
"If anyone finds out..." I begin.
"I know." His eyes lock with mine, filled with vulnerability I've never witnessed before. "So either kill me now or get out."
This is my closest friend. The man who has saved my life more than once.
It really isn't much of a choice.
CHAPTER 2
Cillian
FIVE YEARS AGO
Falling in love with your boss is never a good idea.
The only saving grace is that he has absolutely no fucking idea.
I plan to keep it that way.
TWO YEARS AGO
I stand at attention by the window, watching Logan flip through yet another stack of files from the Enclave. His fingers linger on each page, methodical and deliberate. The late afternoon sun catches on his signet ring as he lifts a small fabric swatch to his nose, inhaling deeply before setting it aside with a dismissive grunt.
"This one smells like artificial cherries and desperation," he mutters, reaching for the next file.
I keep my face carefully neutral. After years of military discipline and suppressants, I've mastered the art of appearing unaffected. But inside, something twists painfully.
It wasn't difficult during our campaigns. The women Logan took to his bed were temporary diversions—beta soldiers looking for a night with royalty, village girls dazzled by his uniform, courtesans paid handsomely for discretion. Those encounters never threatened what we'd built as a pack, as a unit.
This is different.
"You've been at this for hours," Poe complains from his sprawl across the leather sofa. "They're all the same anyway. Institute-trained, properly submissive, virgin Omegas ready to spread their legs and pop out heirs on command."
I flinch internally at his crudeness, grateful no one is looking my way.
