Page 41 of The Omega’s Nest

“And …” Terry goes on, lips ticking up. “If necessary, we’ll hire the Reapers.”

For the first time since this all went down, I snort a humourless laugh. The Reapers—Grim Reapers—are a now retired special forces unit that, according to the myths along the grapevine, work for hire on missions in the civilian world.

“I can’t afford the fucking Reapers.” If they’re even real. Well, I know they were real, their missions are the stuff of legend for a reason, but I don’t know if they really continue to operate. And if they do—and again, this is according to the rampant gossip on the base—they’d charge a small fortune. There’s six of them plus their intel operative and their WMD, their working military dog. The fee would have to cover seven men and probably a juicy steak for the dog.

“It’s an option,” Terry says, face sobering. “That’s all I’m saying. They’ll get him out.” He says it with so much conviction, I wonder what he knows.

My phone rings again.

“You gonna get that?” he asks me.

“No,” I reply shortly. “I’m gonna sell my car to Stephen—he’s always wanted it.”

Stephen’s in the squad, and the guy who’s been my wingman the most. He’s been salivating over my car since I turned up in it right out of basics.

“Pay you back. Then I’m gonna sit with Addie in my …” I gesture at my chest and know he’ll get it.

Terry sighs, his hand tightening on Kai’s nape.

“Maybe try and get some sleep,” Kai says. “Spare’s made up.”

I stop myself from snorting, and excuse myself as Terry says not to worry about the money. “I know you’re good for it.”

I know I am too, but I’m about to blow the chance of getting that bond money back, and I don’t want him to be in debt because of it.

Chapter 15

Adrian

Thirty-eight hours since I saw Leo, and before the doors have officially opened, the first client to walk through my door makes my jaw drop. He looks like Leo. The same outline—tall, built, hazel eyes, well-proportioned face—but he’s etched with decades of bitterness, and it makes him, for lack of a better word, ugly.

“I’m not here for that,” he says gruffly. “So you can close your mouth.”

I snap my lips shut. Leo’s dad has never been subtle with his dislike for me, and his presence here cannot mean anything good.

Benji had pronounced that I’d be getting back to work tonight. I’d been seized with terror before quickly shoving it down—Leo could feel that.

Tristan and Cammie argued with Benji about my bond sickness. They’d waved at the sweaty, shaking mess huddled on the couch, as if to say, “You can’t be fucking serious!”

Benji was serious. Said he’d secured my first client. And here he is.

“So …” Leo’s dad—Carl, his name is Carl, though I’ve always addressed him as Alpha Hale—begins. “He bonded you.”

I jerk my chin up proudly, because regardless of anything else, Leo did and I’m not ashamed of that. I can feel him down the bond—he’s angry, exhausted, anxious. I send a weak pulse of love and hope it covers up what’s going on here.

“It’s no secret Leonard could do better,” Carl says and looks around the mostly bare walls of my room. His gaze lands on the sole painting of the ocean. I’d picked it when I first arrived, when the other omegas helped me decorate from the stash in the basement. I’ve never quite had the heart to take it down.

“And I’m not giving up on that dream for my son.”

He meets my eyes and I force myself not to shrink back under his disgusted look.

“You’re the son of a drunk and a whore,” he says plainly.

My lips part. Yes, my alpha was an alcoholic, but he wasn’t a bad man, nor was he a bad alpha. He was more the negligent variety of alcoholic, docile and absent, not violent, never cruel. A fisherman by trade, he, like the other alphas and betas who lived on our side of Hollow Point, bore the results of overfishing by trawlers owned by the corporations in Celo City. And when the government tried to organise them into a cooperative, it was a bust—rife with corruption, high taxes, and paying the fishermen the smallest cut. This reached its height before I can remember and my alpha hit the bottle.

And my omega was not, by any version I’m aware of, a sex worker. Granted, he left when I was five, so my memories are hazy, but the photos of him all over the house, the way my father laughed sometimes, listening to him down the bond—he seemed like he was nice.

“No one kinder,” my father used to slur. “And quick! That wit …” He’d trail off, smiling.