Page 13 of His Reward (Omegas After Dark: Omega Auction #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lucien

Five days later, I was back on the ice, but it wasn’t the same.

The ice felt different, hollower. I felt different, too, like something was missing.

I knew what it was, but I tried to ignore it as I picked up speed around one end of the ice, arms extended, glancing back over my shoulder, focused for the jump I needed to land smoothly.

My ass was still too bruised and battered to make falling on a jump anything but painful. And not in the good way.

I was way too far up in my head, which is why I popped out of the Lutz, making it a single instead of a triple. I didn’t want to fall, but I also didn’t have the concentration to follow through with the rotation the right way.

“What the hell was that?” my father shouted from the other end of the ice. He had his skates on for this training session and was working with a few up-and-comers whose parents had probably paid a mint for a few coaching sessions with the great Pietro Monteverdi.

I tried to shake off the aborted jump, rolling my still-sore shoulders and skating faster to regain my connection with the ice.

I could do this. I’d jumped right back into skating after hard play sessions a dozen times before.

I’d given myself four extra days of ice packs, aspirin, and movies on the couch to give the welts and bruises time to go down.

Some were still there in the form of red lines across my back and an ass that looked like some kind of abstract artwork, but it was the inner marks that were still throbbing.

I swore I could still feel my womb, even though I was a hundred percent certain Boston hadn’t gotten me pregnant.

Just thinking about how I’d failed my alpha by not conceiving sent my heart dropping into my skate blades and being sliced into a million pieces.

Which was wrong. So wrong. I wasn’t that kind of omega. I had ambition and a high-profile career. I was a national champion, and in three months, I would be a world champion.

“You haven’t landed a jump all day,” my father shouted, even though he’d skated super close to me.

His face was red and he had thunderclouds in his eyes.

“These singles and doubles are child’s play.

That beta could do a better job jumping than you’re doing.

” He flung his arm out to one of the young men who had come to the facility to train.

The beta, Greg, glanced up, his expression tight with the frustration of someone who was trying their best and still not mastering a skill after hours of repetition. Greg’s expression dropped even more into despair when my father made it look like he didn’t even remember his name.

“I’m just having an off day,” I said, too much emotion in my voice.

“You’re not allowed to have an off day,” Father snapped.

“You need to be on top of your game. You need to land every jump and push yourself harder than you’ve ever pushed.

I want that gold medal this winter.” He raised his voice on those last words, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind whose accomplishment he thought me winning the gold would be.

“Alright,” I said to appease him, then skated away, building speed as fast as I could.

“Don’t you skate away from me, Lucien Monteverdi!” Father shouted after me.

I ignored him. The only way to get my father to stop harping at me was with actions. I needed to prove to him that I was still in championship form, that a few bruises and a broken heart would not defeat my chances of winning that gold at the Winter Games.

Fueled by grit and determination alone, I sped around the ice, shifted to skate backwards, then threw myself into a triple-triple combination designed to shut my father up once and for all.

And I botched the landing of the second jump.

My tender body crashed to the ice, sending hellish pain throbbing through me where I landed hard on my bruises. So much for them healing and fading. I cried out with the pain and frustration of it all.

My alpha. I wanted my alpha. Where was he and why hadn’t he called or texted in five days?

“Useless!” my father bellowed as he skated over to where I was slow to get up. “What happened to my son the champion? Who is this useless sack of omega bones pretending to skate in his place.”

I sent him a scathing look as I forced myself to stand against the pain.

“Don’t you give me that look,” Father kept after me as I shook the fall off and continued skating.

He stayed close to my side. “Do you think you’re going to get special treatment just because you’re my son?

Do you think I’m going to be soft on you because you’re some delicate omega who needs coddling? ”

I gave my father another sideways look as we made our way around the ice. If he thought his coaching style was coddling, then I hated to see what he thought was going tough on someone.

Correction. He’d always been tough on me.

Sadistic, even, but not in the way I liked.

Part of that was because deep down inside, or maybe not so deep, he was prejudiced against omegas.

But most of it was because he’d been both disappointed Mom had given him an omega son instead of two alphas, and that I was a better skater than he’d ever been.

“I’m focused,” I told him curtly. “I’ve got this.”

“It doesn’t look like you’ve got anything but a case of feeling sorry for yourself,” Father kept after me. “If this is how you perform after one of your reward weekends, then I’ll forbid you to take that time off in future.”

I stopped short, spraying flecks of ice from my skates, and turned to face him. “I’m not some kid you can bully, Father,” I said, anger and hurt and a desperately empty feeling fueling my words. “I’m my own man, a grown man, and I’m a champion.”

A few seconds of indignant surprise lit Father’s expression, but he got over that quickly and sneered at me. “You’re not a champion yet, but if you want to throw a tantrum and declare your independence, then go right ahead, the door’s over there.”

He was bluffing. I knew he was bluffing.

Even though he stared me down and pointed toward the arena’s exit door.

I thought it was funny that the lights flickered for a second, as if he’d ordered them to do that, too.

He was showing me the door, but he was the one having a temper tantrum.

Father didn’t want me to leave. He wouldn’t let me leave.

I was his legacy, his ticket back into the spotlight that he missed so badly.

Without me, he was just another good skater turned coach from yesteryear.

I met his challenging look with one of my own, then skated off.

Determination alone powered me through a series of crossovers to pick up speed, then into a relatively clean triple Axel.

I landed a little on the hard side, jarring my sore body, but sheer stubbornness had me striking a pose at the end of it and sending him a look of defiance.

“That’s better,” he called from the other end of the ice, where I’d left him. “Now do it again a dozen more times. I don’t want you leaving this ice until you’ve landed twenty jumps cleanly.”

I sighed, my insides sagging, even though I kept my posture stiff and proud, and started skating around the perimeter of the ice again.

Every professional at my level had days where they questioned whether it was worth it.

All of my friends had days where they wanted to give up and find some sort of normal life.

It was part and parcel of competing at the top level.

To say it was hard was the understatement of the century.

I didn’t want to give up. I loved skating, despite the bad days.

But fuck, it would have been amazing if Boston marched through the door, all decked out in his mafia boss persona, grabbed me off the ice and hauled me off over his shoulder to some dark sex lair.

It would be poetic justice to have him tie me and spread me and fuck all the way into my womb until he put a baby in there for real.

It would serve Father right if a better alpha than him claimed me and bred me and cut my skating career short.

I shook my head to clear those tempting thoughts and skated harder to gain speed for another jump. I didn’t really want my career to end. I actually did want to win the gold medal at the Winter Games. My father really was the best coach to take me there.

But once I had that jewelry around my neck, I would need to seriously think about pulling back from international competition, or at least getting a new coach.

“You made yourself look like an idiot out there today,” Marco told me once I finally stepped off the ice an hour later. The lights flickered again, making his sour face look even more comically jealous.

“At least I was on the ice,” I said, stepping past him to the bench where I’d left my skate guards.

“Why can’t you just work and train like every other skater out there?” Marco asked, following me to the locker room once I had my skate guards on.

The lights in the hallway were all flickery, too. Something must have been wrong with the rink’s electricity. Maybe the storm we’d had the night before had something to do with it.

“I am working like all the other skaters,” I snapped, not really wanting to get into it with my brother. “I’m working harder than the other skaters.”

“Falling over and over isn’t working hard,” Marco said with a smirk. “You’d think that you were still in elementary school skating classes.”

“At least I can still land a quad when I need to,” I told him just before opening the door to the locker room and stepping inside.

The room was dark. I wondered why no one had turned on the lights.

It was the middle of the day on a weekday, and aside from the premium time my father reserved for training, the rink was busy all day.

I reached for the light switch, but it was already in the on position.

I flicked it down then up again, and the lights sputtered on. Weird.