Page 1 of Omega’s Fever (Prime Match #2)

Kellen

I spot the punch coming from six feet away. Roberts telegraphs everything. His shoulders bunch and his weight shifts back. His eyes give away his target before his fist even twitches.

Amateur.

I sidestep. His knuckles whistle past my ear, close enough that I feel the displaced air. The circle of inmates pressed around us groans. They want blood. They always want blood.

Roberts stumbles, momentum carrying him forward.

He’s a big guy, but he’s no fighter. I know his type.

He’s relied on his size to win against unskilled opponents.

Unfortunately for him, I’m not only bigger.

I’m better. He spins back toward me, face flushed red with embarrassment and rage and I smirk.

He started it and if he wants to start a fight, I never object to finishing one.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Here I am, charged with running illegal fighting rings, while guards place bets on prison yard brawls right in front of the security cameras.

“Come on, Hayes!” someone shouts from the crowd. “Put him down!”

The concrete is rough beneath my feet, damp from the morning rain dripping from the chain-link overhead. Cold air bites at my exposed arms through the thin prison uniform.

Roberts charges again. This time his right hook has some power behind it, aimed straight for my jaw. I catch his fist mid-swing, fingers wrapping around his knuckles. One twist. Applied pressure to the right spot on his thumb.

Crack.

He drops to the concrete, howling. It isn’t broken, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“And I’m done,” I say. I step back, hands raised where the guards can see them.

Officer Woods takes his sweet time strolling over. “Break it up!”

Roberts is on the ground, cradling his hand against his chest and whimpering like a baby. “He broke my fucking hand!”

“I dislocated his thumb,” I correct. “The nurse can pop it back in.”

Woods extends his palm toward Officer Antonini without even glancing away from me. Antonini peels off a crisp fifty-dollar bill, slaps it into Woods’ waiting hand. They don’t bother hiding it.

“Pays to bet on the pro,” Woods chuckles, tucking the money into his uniform shirt pocket.

“Hayes!” Antonini’s bark lacks any real bite. The guards like me well enough. I’ve made them a fortune over the past eighteen months. “Back inside. Transport in twenty.”

I nod once and scan the yard. Roberts wasn’t the first this week to try his luck. Word travels fast in here.

My retrial starting means I might be out of here soon. That means fresh meat looking to make their reputation by taking down the biggest guy in the block without having to deal with him afterwards. I’m tired of it, but I’d be lying if I said the exercise wasn’t welcome.

Besides, jokes on them. I’m never getting out of here.

The other inmates part like water as I walk toward the door. Even the hard cases suddenly find the concrete fascinating. Six-foot-six and two-ninety of solid muscle tends to command that kind of respect.

Inside, the familiar cocktail of disinfectant, unwashed bodies, and institutional food hits my nostrils. Home sweet home. The irony is that prison doesn’t bother me the way it should. Three meals a day, a roof over my head, and clear rules about what’s expected. I’ve had worse.

“Hayes, move your ass,” Antonini calls from behind me. “You know the drill.”

I do, indeed. I get handcuffs and leg shackles that make walking an awkward shuffle. I stand patiently while they fit me up.

“You ready for round two?” Woods asks as he checks the cuffs. There’s something almost sympathetic in his voice. Almost.

“Ready as anyone can be for a rigged game.”

He snorts. “Still claiming you were framed?”

I don’t bother responding. What’s the point? The first trial ended in mistrial after seven of the jurors were mysteriously followed home by the same man. Coincidence? Sure. And I’m the Easter Bunny.

I knew who frame me. There’s no question about that. I’m fairly sure the cops know it too. Maybe even the last judge. The trial looked like it was going my way, so it had to get shut down.

Cobb Sewell has connections. Money. Influence. Everything I’ve never had and never will. He needed a fall guy for his operation when the feds started sniffing around, and I fit the bill perfectly. Big, scary, and stupid enough to trust the wrong people.

The processing room smells like stale coffee and fear-sweat. How many men have sat in these plastic chairs, waiting to learn their fate? How many walked back through those doors as free men?

“Van’s here,” Antonini announces, checking his watch. “Let’s go.”

The walk to the transport vehicle is awkward with the leg shackles, but I’ve learned to manage the shuffle-step rhythm. The van waits in the loading bay, engine idling. Two guards I don’t recognize sit up front, probably borrowed from another facility for the day.

“Morning, sunshine,” the driver calls back as I’m loaded into the cage section. “Heard you’re quite the fighter.”

I don’t respond. Let them think what they want.

The van lurches into motion, and I watch the prison walls slide past through the reinforced window. For a few brief minutes, I’ll see sky that isn’t framed by razor wire or chain-link. Trees that aren’t surrounded by concrete. It’s pathetic how much I look forward to these trips.

“So, what’s the real story?” the passenger guard asks, turning in his seat to study me. “You really run those fighting rings?”

“Supposedly.”

“But did you?”

I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I fought in them. Never organized a damn thing.”

“Right.” He doesn’t believe me. Nobody ever does.

The courthouse appears ahead, all glass and steel reaching toward gray October sky. Last time I was here, my third public defender barely managed to introduce himself before jury selection began. This time will be number four. Or five. I’ve lost count.

Poor bastard, whoever drew the short straw this time.

The van stops at the security entrance. More guards, more procedures. Out of the vehicle, through the metal detector, pat-down search number three of the day. The courthouse guards eye me like I might explode at any moment.

“This way,” one of them says, gesturing toward the elevator bank.

The handcuffs bite into my wrists as we wait. A group of lawyers in expensive suits cluster nearby, talking in the low, urgent tones that probably cost their clients five hundred dollars an hour. One of them glances my way and quickly looks elsewhere.

The elevator ride is silent except for the mechanical whir of machinery. Fourth floor. Courtroom C. Same place where my first trial fell apart six months ago.

“Judge Melkham’s courtroom,” the guard announces unnecessarily.

Judge Melkham. Sixty-something alpha who makes no secret of his disdain for anyone who isn’t wearing a three-piece suit. During jury selection last time, he looked at me like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe. Today probably won’t be any different.

My escort guides me to the defendant’s table. I settle in to wait. I don’t have to wait long.

Judge Melkham emerges from his chambers like a vulture in black robes. His gaze sweeps the courtroom, lingering on me with barely concealed disgust.

“Another one,” he mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Another what? Another criminal? Another trial? Another waste of the court’s valuable time?

I don’t flinch. I learned early that showing weakness only makes things worse. Foster homes taught me that. The streets reinforced the lesson. Prison hammered it home.

“Where is counsel for the defendant?” Judge Melkham checks his watch with exaggerated impatience.

The bailiff shrugs. “Should be here any minute, Your Honor.”

“This court’s time is not to be wasted by tardy attorneys.”

Right. Because the judge’s schedule is so much more important than my life.

The courtroom door opens again. I hear footsteps on polished wood, quick and purposeful. I don’t turn to look. Whoever my new lawyer is, they’ll be just like all the others: overworked, underpaid, and counting the minutes until they can dump my case on someone else.

But then the scent hits me.

Every nerve in my body goes electric. My nostrils flare involuntarily, drawing in more of that incredible smell. Clean soap and expensive cologne, but underneath... something warm and sweet and utterly perfect. Something that makes my chest tighten and my pulse hammer against my ribs.

Omega.

Not just any omega. This one calls to something deep in my hindbrain, some primal recognition that bypasses rational thought entirely. My muscles tense. My hands clench into fists behind my back. Heat spreads through my body like I’ve been dosed with adrenaline.

I turn.

He’s younger than I expected. Mid-twenties, maybe. Honey-brown hair styled with expensive precision. Sharp blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Tailored gray suit that fits him perfectly. He’s beautiful in that polished, untouchable way that screams money and breeding.

He’s also looking at me with an expression of pure horror.

Our eyes meet across the courtroom. His pupils dilate. His pale skin flushes pink from collar to hairline. His briefcase trembles in his grip.

The scent intensifies. Arousal now, sharp and unmistakable beneath the sweetness. My mouth waters. Every instinct I possess roars to life, demanding I claim what’s clearly meant for me.

Mine.

The thought hits with brutal clarity. This perfect, terrified omega belongs to me.