Page 56 of Generation Omega: Claimed (Originverse #3)

KAZIMIR

I’m not quite ready for my Mr. Humanity sash in the upcoming alpha pageant, not with how I’ve handled my new responsibility so far.

I was supposed to be coming to an understanding with my damaged rogue alpha, getting control, helping him work through his issues like I’m a fucking social worker.

It’s embarrassing to admit, even to myself, but I fully intended to try all that bullshit. What was I thinking?

If I were to evaluate my performance thus far…

well, I’d be fired for sure and more than likely criminally indicted.

But here we are. He’s still alive, and that has to count for something, though it’s a remarkably low bar, even for me.

One thing is undeniable. I shouldn’t use the omegaverse’s general disdain for my pet project as an excuse to do it poorly.

At least, that sounds reasonable, but what do I know about reasonable things?

I sigh—I’ve been doing that a lot since adopting my very own defective alpha.

I sigh. I moan. I groan. I’m basically an exasperated mother to six children who all managed to become teenagers in the same week.

Even an ego-driven assassin like me knows that I have never confronted a challenge like that.

My job is much simpler and less taxing than parenting teenagers, or so I’ve read.

A manual! That’s what I need, something like What to Expect in the First Few Days After Biting a Rogue, Pompous Professor .

Unfortunately, I’m the only living alpha to have embraced this odious task, so guidance is unlikely.

All the legacy does is snipe at me, reminding me that the professor could be permanently removed from my to-do list if I just deny him oxygen.

And yet, I’m quite fastidious about that detail, no matter where Thatcher is located…

whether in the trunk (twice), the trailer of a semi (three times), or where he’s currently located in a body bag in the back of the ambulance I’m driving.

I like keeping him in bags. I know how nice and dark they are, not that he’s aware since he’s been sleeping in all these locations.

I’ve actually done my fair share of escaping in body bags, coffins, and the occasional trunk.

It’s comforting to be ready for your grand finale.

You don’t have to worry about your bleached bones ending up in unpleasant places.

It’s a gift really, this opportunity I’m giving Thatcher to sample a variety of burial ensembles.

Of course, that’s bullshit, but I’m struggling to confront the truth about how unprepared I am for my rogue responsibility—exactly like I’m unprepared for raising teenagers or ever paying taxes.

I’ve been good at everything I’ve ever attempted.

Even alpha-hood came naturally in a way I didn’t expect.

But this test is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, and I didn’t comprehend the reality of this burden when I made my decision.

I relied on what I knew to be true—our pack’s chances are better with Thatcher than without. What I didn’t account for is just how uncomfortable it is to have no notion what to do, to not be guided by instincts because I had to ignore them to bite him in the first place.

I check the clock and grumble, knowing I have time to do something right before we’re due at our destination.

So, I pull into a drive-thru and order food for my pet and me, before driving to the nearest park.

After claiming a spot at a distance from any other vehicles, I move around to the back and open the door, climbing into the medically functional part of the ambulance.

I unzip the professor’s container and set the food beside me on the bench.

I want to excel at everything I do—that’s what I remind myself. I certainly don’t want to fail at anything. I can choose to do a substandard job if I want, but not because I lack the ability to triumph. Ugh, I guess it is all about ego with me.

“Wake up, Thatcher.”

He bolts upright, looks confused, glances at the body bag he’s seated in, and then slumps dejectedly. “How long?”

“A few days, more or less. I might have given you fluids through an IV, just to keep you going, and doused your wounds with alcohol to prevent infection. I did feed you a few times and then made you forget them. Our exchanges weren’t something to build a productive relationship on, so erasing seemed like a good idea.

” I’m a terrible pet owner—I shouldn’t even have a succulent. How depressing.

Thatcher’s brown eyes darken, and his unhygienic mop of hair has seen better days—not his fault. I need to let him clean himself up before we arrive. His condition reflects poorly on both of us. “Sage—do you know anything?”

“She’s fine.” Should I tell him the rest? Would it help? Meh , I’m going with no, at least for now. No sense stressing him out even more.

He squints, probably wishing rogue status came with lie detector abilities, but my vibe conveys that this topic is closed. Hunching more dramatically, he declares, “You can just kill me, Kazimir. It’s okay… it would be preferable.”

“I know, but I’m not there yet.” I hand him one of the bags of food.

Thatcher takes it, peers inside, scowls at my food offering like it’s apocalypse-only food, not his usual refined cuisine. “Thank you,” he murmurs dubiously.

I unwrap my hamburger and munch on a fry. “Here’s the thing—I can admit this because you literally can’t share it with anyone, unless I let you.”

He bites into his burger like it’s his first time slumming with fast food. I know for a fact that isn’t true, but he doesn’t.

Alright, here goes. “I have no idea how to help you, how to help us. Every time I consider it, nothing comes to mind. I can’t beat you into submission because that’s at the core of the baggage you’re carrying.

I know I need to convince you that you aren’t your fucked-up father or, at least, that you don’t have to be. ”

I take another fry and chomp it with an open mouth, just to annoy him.

I thoroughly enjoy his predictably snooty eye-roll.

“The trouble is that your default when under stress is to become what your father built you to be.” I gesture emphatically with a greasy fry.

“It’s not all on him, but that dude needs killing—just saying.

So, what we need is to work with your stress response until it’s not out of your control.

” I glance at him, cringing. “What do you think?”

Thatcher’s eyes widen, and the mop on his head skews strangely. “You’re asking me ?”

What the fuck?! “You’re the damn patient here—you have some responsibility too.

I’m not trained for this. I kill people and, apparently, bite people, but nurturing and loving Ethan is a whole lot easier than repairing your damaged past. You think Beta Dominion operatives attend therapy? ! Come on now.”

I can’t miss how angry the bites on his neck are and how the ripples of his anguish form a current always flowing through him, beginning at those bites and traveling his body in a never- ending circuit. Again, I marvel at how much crueler this legacy is than I’ve ever been.

“Sorry, yes, I am responsible too. Your…” He struggles to say the words, but I don’t mock him—I can’t.

It’s not compassion that’s afflicting me; it’s responsibility. I can’t do anything that doesn’t serve the mission, and the mission right now is Dr. Thatcher James Wellington the Third . Damn my work ethic straight to hell.

Finally, he manages to speak again. “Your generosity in doing this, attempting this… I can’t fully wrap my mind around it, but I think you’re onto something.

When I’m in control, I’m not exactly the man I want to be, but I’m not a world apart from that person either.

When I’m backed into a corner—before all of this began—that’s when my rage owned me, along with the alluring freedom of losing myself in violence.

” He winces when he swallows a small bite of his burger.

Muttering inwardly and then outwardly, I admit, “I can’t stop your torture. I asked the legacy and then tried anyway, but it didn’t do a thing.”

“The Mark of the Rogue Alpha is legendary, the worst punishment that could be inflicted while not killing the alpha. The true horror of the reprimand isn’t its severity—though it’s beyond anything I’ve known—but in its consistency.

Even when I’m not conscious, the pain continues unabated.

It’s all I know now, an endless reminder of my failings. ”

His expression twists into pure torment.

“I used to say that I never imagined being an alpha, but that was a lie. I always hoped. What’s true is that I never imagined failing so appallingly that I would earn this fate.

But I did. I did this. I can’t hate you for it.

I earned the worst imaginable fate for a fallen alpha. ”

Thatcher releases a breath that sends shock waves of discomfort through him.

Then he meets my gaze, wearing no armor at all.

“You may not have considered it, but I have. I will never know the warmth of my omega’s touch.

I will never reclaim my honor. This sentence is forever.

During heats, I will experience the most excruciating agony—pain that will make my current state like nothing more than a scratch. ”

His ragged attempt to swallow is disturbing.

“That’s what this is. It’s living every single minute unable to forget exactly how I failed and how I’ve been ejected from the only home I’ll ever have.

Failure was always my greatest fear…” When his oppressive grief overwhelms him, he releases a constricted sob.

“… and now, it’s the air I breathe through a choking, burning throat. ”

“Thatcher,” I say in a gentler tone than I’m accustomed to, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think this is a fair punishment. Death would be better.”

“Yes, it would.”

I have to ask, but I can’t decide whether sadism is inspiring the question. “Is that what you truly want? I’m not saying I’ll just do it—I’m still the boss of you, and I get to decide how long you remain animated in your body bag. But is it what you would prefer?”

Thatcher considers, the weight of the question heavy on him. “I wish that was my honest desire, but I can’t lie to you or to myself, as it turns out. But you’re the reason I want to stay. If you still believe I can be of service to this pack, then I want to try.”

He scoffs, giving his fries a dismissive assessment.

“You’ll put me out of my misery if we’re both delusional, and even if I live long enough to confront how I became this monstrous version of the man I could have been, it will be a gift.

To die in your failure is very different than knowing you managed to evolve, even by some small measure.

But only if you can stand to look at me that long. ”

Now, I’m chuckling like the lofty humanitarian I am.

“I’ll have you know that I looked at my evil brother for thirty-four years before killing him, so I think I can stand to look at you a bit longer.

But I can’t stand to smell you for even another second, so finish your lunch.

Then we’ll dump this vehicle, claim our next ride, and stop at a motel to get cleaned up.

In a few hours, we’ll be back with the pack and see what happens next. ”

Thatcher’s fear ignites. He’s not afraid for himself, but all the ways he could hurt Tillie and the pack. The pack—that’s how he thinks of it now, not his pack.

“You can’t hurt her. I won’t let you, and you don’t want to. I know it’s probably the worst thing that’s ever been asked of you, but I’m going to ask anyway.”

“What?”

“Trust me. I want you to live, heal, and serve our pack—that’s what I want, and I get what I want. So, eat up, stinky . I can’t take you anywhere like this. You’ll scare people.”

His eyes reveal a tiny sliver of hope, and knowing I put it there makes me a little more comfortable with all the ways I’m going to fuck this up.

But hey, I fed him and let him out of his designated carrying case, and soon, he’ll get a bath.

Who says I can’t get a goldfish someday? I’ve totally got this.

As I climb back into the driver’s seat, I slip—not my footing, but the character I’m playing.

Who I’m pretending to be. Who I need the omegaverse to think I am.

Who Ethan deserves for me to be. It’s just for a moment, one that might destroy everything.

But it hits me, just how much I’m going to miss this when my facade cracks open and they all know exactly who and what I am.