Page 32 of Generation Omega: Claimed (Originverse #3)

JAMESON

I finally had enough. I gave it my level best, whatever the hell that means.

I simply couldn’t do it anymore. That professor is just awful …

but maybe he’s not—maybe I just find his profession to be entirely grotesque.

Intentional knowledge seeking… ick . Mostly, I was interrogating the snooty scholar, searching for a loophole, some way out of this literal clusterfuck.

But the strangest thing happened after several rounds of questions.

The more I learned, the less interested I was in escaping this bizarre destiny.

My affiliation with my father and his also-disgusting profession has gotten me into some exclusive clubs, no doubt.

But this is fucking ridiculous. Five alphas in all the world, and I’m one of them?

An alpha , which sounds disturbingly like a career.

I’d dismiss it immediately—all this mystical bullshit—if not for that bright-eyed omega with a face the shape of a heart and lips to match, and what she said.

There’s something in you that made you the right choice.

Since arriving on this floating orgy mobile, I’ve been in a stupor, seemingly drugged while irritatingly sober.

I blamed the woo-woo forces of the omegaverse for my state, figuring they dosed me to keep me playing nicely with others.

I’m an only child, and I don’t team . I don’t even have friends—I have a roving appreciation society composed of either fawning leeches or others like me, professionals in the art of disappointing our families and avoiding all responsibilities, while looking damn good.

But I no longer believe I’ve been drugged, even though the scent of that sweet piece of ass is making my cock permanently and painfully engorged, not to mention the new knot that erupted on my already impressive dick.

I now think something else is responsible for this haze that’s claimed me, and the worst possible culprit might be the most plausible one.

Has there been a longing in me to matter to someone? To be trusted with something precious. To be worthy of being chosen for a mission that truly matters. Am I afflicted with delusional grandeur, desperate to believe I’m not just here because I’m the only spawn of a powerful, corrupt man?

Only one person in my life ever thought I would be somebody, but after she departed, no one ever expected anything from me.

I wholeheartedly encouraged their low expectations because it was much easier than challenging them.

Then they all slapped their labels on me and forgot about me entirely.

There’s some safety in that, but it’s also a hollow way to live.

If I was chosen—rather than the ninety-year-old Chairman of the Joint Chiefs or the military hero son of the CIA director—then what if there is a reason for that?

That off-puttingly attractive omega seemed genuinely curious to know who I am and why I was brought here.

I haven’t cared about anyone or anything in years, but I care about the answer to this question.

I want to know why, out of all the eligible men—or women, I’m not sexist—in the world, I was dragged away from another night of meaningless, drunken debauchery to join this omega-themed Bacchanalia of unrestrained fucking.

Clearly, I have an aptitude for the most popular pack hobby, but is there something else, another reason why I was picked?

The stalker-verse omega legacy is always listening to my thoughts and occasionally sends insults my way. So, I could just ask, but it could also just tell me since it knows I’m obsessing about this.

I swear it’s daring me to intentionally seek knowledge, and finally, after glancing around and ensuring I’m alone on the top of the ship, I mutter, “Will you tell me why I was chosen?”

No.

Fucking figures, douche-verse.

No, not because it annoys you… though that is a bonus. Discovering the answer to that question—one of the most meaningful questions of your life—is a journey you must take. Only then will you be able to accept the answer.

Shit… but dammit, I get it. If it told me I was born for greatness, I would roll my eyes, give it the finger, and hug my cynicism as close as my next lover.

I need this to be a game I play. I need it to propel me to get to know this woman—fuck, it’s difficult to even use her name that’s meaningful in a way no other woman’s name has ever been.

Tillie. See, that didn’t kill me.

Yet.

Judgy fucking omegaverse. But then alarm flares inside me, the omega legacy in a total panic.

Stop him.

Stop him.

Stop him.

I sprint toward the stairs, taking them a few at a time, until I’m on the stern deck watching as the professor races away in the boat I used to get here. The Russian assassin is beside me a moment later, working with Ethan to inflate a dinghy.

“What should I do?” I ask, my nerves twitchy as actual death waves at me through the omegaverse’s grim mood.

“Just stay here,” the Russian barks, as he and Ethan work smoothly as a team.

Gideon’s voice booms from the top of the stairs. “What the fuck is happening?!”

I cringe. It rattles my fucking soul when he gets ragey. Tillie’s in the arms of the feral kilted one. She’s shrieking, her torment fracturing my organs, my bones, everything inside me willing to tear itself apart so that I hurt as much as she does.

Bond her. Now. The more bonds she has, the more protected she will be from those she doesn’t have. Two now, with three unfinished. Three now will matter.

I’m about to offer my bite services when Gideon bellows, “Jameson, get up here! Bond her and fuck her. Ory will help. Her omega is willing to take the pain, so Tillie doesn’t have to.”

I rush up the stairs like I’m a trauma surgeon with the skills to save her life. “Where?” But I don’t even listen. I snatch her away from Ory and carry her to the table where she sat there and looked at me like I was more than my sex tape, unfortunate father, and low-life reputation.

She’s wailing, clearly not her omega yet. I’ve met that chick, and she would dance on the graves of all she slaughtered—a sweetly blooming flower, she’s not.

“Please,” Tillie cries. “It hurts.”

“I’m here, babe.” But I’m just standing there, looking at her while I search within myself for something I can’t even define.

Ory is near, hovering with murder in his eyes. “You must bond Tillie, not her omega. Then I’ll help her, if you can’t.”

I want to brush away her tears. I want to say something that will inspire confidence and trust. But that earnest declaration isn’t in my toolbox, and I certainly wasn’t chosen for my good intentions.

My sneering grin fires up like a muscle car engine, ready to race. “Hey, baby, look at me.” I don’t have confidence or trust to give, but I have something that might be better.

She’s trembling, gripping my arms with her quivering hands.

Let’s try this out and see what happens. “Say my name, sweetheart.” My voice is low, but the threat is unmistakable.

“Jameson Matthieu Farraway,” she stammers between choppy breaths.

“And who am I to you, darling?”

“My alpha.” Tillie winces from the invisible enemy ripping her apart.

“You’ve got that right. I am your alpha. Now, omega, beg for it,” I bark. Holy fuck—I barked and her eyes widen, abruptly distracted from her agony. Even a second of freeing her from that torture feels like an epic win.

Her eyes declare her prideful resistance, so I bark again, “Beg for my bite, right now. Seriously, if you want me to take you on as my lifelong omega ball and chain , you better be ready to beg. I love eating pussy. I love fucking raunchy and recklessly. My cock is a legit thrill seeker, and now you want me to join your team and share just one snatch for the rest of my life. It’s a gorgeous snatch you’ve got there, but still, sharing ?

Honey, you better start begging, and do it now. ”

When Tillie’s words don’t immediately flow, I snap, “Bad omegas get punished.” I jerk her off the table and sit on the same chair as earlier, this time with her still-clothed body over my knees and struggling against my bruising hold.

But she’s not crying now, though she may take a chunk out of my leg.

“You’ve got this,” Ory murmurs. “Off-balance, just keep her off-balance. She needs to trust that we’re her foundation, which means she doesn’t get to have one without us.”

I don’t respond because her ass is so fucking perfect and entirely spankable. I let loose on her. There is no pain I could inflict with an open hand on her sumptuous ass that could compete with what’s happening inside her. She screams, trying to escape me.

“Stay there!” I roar, and her body responds, even while her mouth issues some disparaging statements about me, all well-earned and music to my ears.

“One fucking pussy shared with six fucking men—are you kidding?! Who do you think you are, sweetie?” Behaving like a sinister villain has never felt this good.

“I didn’t ask for this!” she shouts, and I spank her three more times… no, four. No, five. Six is definitely the magic number.

“Neither did I! So, tell me why I should do this. Tell me now.”

I lift Tillie, tear off her dress, and set her luscious naked body on the table, forcing her onto her knees. The hard surface won’t be comfortable, but this discomfort should help distract from worse. “So, let me hear it, my little, feral kitten.”

I raise my hands and hold her face, giving her no choice but to look into my eyes.

I move closer, practically purring, “I can smell you right now. You’re dripping wet for me.

Your breasts are aching for me to taste them, to pinch them, to force sounds out of you that you’ve never heard before.

That clit of yours is ready to beg for you, isn’t it?

” I aim my wicked smile at her. “You are deliciously slutty and that’s a compliment, but I still want to hear why you deserve my bite and your well-used cunt deserves my knot. ”