Omegas weren’t wanted. Not really. That’s why we were sent here—to be shaped, broken, and trained into something useful.
Unwanted at birth. But wanted in other ways.
Craved, not cherished.
I knew that even if an Alpha claimed me, nothing would shift. Ownership didn’t mean freedom. It meant obligation.
I’d still be expected to serve. To bend. To meet every need, whether I wanted to or not.
Desire didn’t equal dignity. Not in this place.
After all, that’s what I, along with every other Omega here, was trained to do. Day in and day out, we were trained in nearly every manner to serve a man with a higher power than us.
Glancing at the clock, I mentally calculated how many minutes I had before I had to leave my room. I loathed serving clients. No matter how many times I showered or scrubbed my body, the lasting sweaty warmth of their hands would stay on my skin. The stench of their aftershave would stick to my nose and my stomach would roll from what I had to endure.
Sometimes, when an Omega became popular enough, an Alpha would send in custom garments. Things like underwear or nightgowns we wore underneath our everyday clothes.
Their choices. Their fabric. Their control.
We wore what they wanted us to. Even if no one else could see it, we sure felt it.
The fabric oftentimes clung like a second skin.
And over time, it stopped feeling like clothing.
It felt like branding.
A way to mark the Omega without a permanent scar, because most of the time, the Alpha got bored and moved onto a new, younger Omega.
I glanced at the mirror. Same dull brown eyes. Same hollow stare.
Whatever hope had once lived there was gone, beaten out, maybe. Or pulled loose, strand by strand.
My hair was slicked back, tight against my scalp. It made my cheekbones stand out more. Sharper. Like angles mattered. A like presentation could mask everything else.
Most of the time, I hated the way I looked. I was thin and scrawny. No matter the number of sessions on weight building I was allowed to do would change that. Not that I was able to do much of that type of thing. Because we weren’t being built to carry the world, we were to serve. The only strengths we Omegas needed were to be on our knees, take care of our Alphas, and keep a house clean. That didn’t include lifting heavy objects.
Leaving the room after straightening the white polo shirt and tucking in the edges underneath the black slacks, I mentally calculated the other Omegas that were in the hallways.
I kept walking. Eyes forward. No one would speak to me—not anymore. They’d tried.
The Omegas I used to talk to were gone. Moved off the property, or something worse. I didn’t know.
We didn’t have ways to reach each other once we were separated. No messages. No goodbyes. Just silence.
There was no longer any reason to have friends here. We weren’t here to be social. We were here to learn the way of how to be the perfect Omega. I wasn’t anywhere near that, but I tried to be good enough.
I was at least trained enough to have clients that kept coming back, unlike a number of the others. So that had to count for something.
The sun hit me the moment I stepped outside, sinking into my skin like it belonged there. Warm. Steady.
A breeze drifted through, just enough to keep the sweat from settling. Just enough to remind me I was still here.
The stone steps were smooth as I set my shooed feet upon them, letting my legs take me into the next building.
This place only had two floors, half the size of the one I came from.
It reminded me of a hotel. Or what I imagined one looked like, based on the handful of TV shows they let us watch.
