To Tame an Omega

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

Grant Tenereth shifted in his seat as he merged the SUV into highway traffic on the way to the omega facility. Something was making him itch. He glanced at the man in the passenger seat—nothing but dead silence from the moment they’d started this journey. There was something unusual about Rafael Vargas. Something Grant couldn’t pin down. The only thing he was sure of was the desire to know the man better.

Much better.

Intimately better.

Grant hadn’t had a reaction like that toward any man in ages. Oh he’d had pragmatic s****l encounters with betas—a means to an end on both sides. But Rafael was different. He smelled different. A pleasing masculine scent, even though it was sadly marred by some odd metallic note. Confusing.

Grant hated confusion.

He tried again to engage the man in conversation. “What do you think your chances are of finding the hacker?”

“Depends on his skill.”

Silence followed that unsatisfactory response. So much for discussing work.

Maybe flattery would make him open up. “Tell me, did you have to learn your craft from the bottom up, or are you one of those ‘naturals’ I envy who were born to make a computer sing?”

The silent interval was long enough Grant was close to assuming the man was ignoring him.

“I do have a natural affinity, but my mother taught me a lot of what I know.”

“Your mother’s a computer expert?”

“Computers were only one of her interests. Her true passions were botany and biochemistry.”

“Sounds like a brilliant woman.” Grant had noted the man’s use of the past tense. “She’s no longer with you?”

“She died when I was in high school. Breast cancer.”

“I’m so sorry.” How hard that must have been for Rafael. Grant couldn’t imagine losing a parent at such a young age. “Well, she must have taught you well. No offense, but you seem young to be such an expert in the field.”

At least Grant’s naiveté garnered a slight chuckle and a response. “The raw talent in the field is in the young people, like our new intern, Janet. She’s incredible.”

Trying to lighten the atmosphere, Grant smiled and said, “Well, you must be relieved to know someone’s ready to carry on your legacy as you suffer through your dotage.”

Rafael responded to the sad attempt at a joke by turning his head and staring at the raindrops rolling down the side window.

Message received. Conversation over.

But that didn’t stop Grant from covertly studying the man. The closer they got to the facility, the more Rafael’s tension seemed to rise: his shoulders tightened, and his hands fidgeted. Maybe that was it—maybe he was uncomfortable with the whole idea of sequestering omega children to protect them.

Grant, too, had had enormous doubts about it when it was first proposed. He still did. The prospect of surrendering his sweet omega sister to one of the farms had left him weak-kneed and gibbering. Thank God his family had been spared that trauma.

But in its defense, the plan had sprung from true desperation. Only omegas gave birth to omegas and alphas. When the number of omegas declined year after year with no apparent explanation, alphas had panicked. Their natural protective instincts flared to extremes to safeguard those omegas left. That instinct, combined with the alphas’ fear they might never find a mate and never reproduce, had demanded a solution.

From the outset, the protected isolation plan had provoked heavy, sometimes violent protests. Conspiracy nuts launched outlandish claims about the government trying to destroy gender identity or the betas plotting to prevent new alphas from being born. Pockets of protesters still cropped up from time to time, but, for the most part, they weren’t well-organized enough to cause a problem.

Rafael might be a sympathizer.

Hoping to reassure the man, Grant offered, “You don’t need to be anxious about the facility. It’s geared to be a wonderful, nurturing experience for these children.”

The sole response was a pitying glance before the man turned his attention straight ahead.

So, that was the problem. Rafael believed the anti-government propaganda. “Truth is, the facility has the best of everything. It’s a safe environment where they provide training tailored to each child’s particular talents.” Grant cringed. Seriously? He sounded like a damned recruiting poster. Wanting to get off the canned rhetoric and make it personal, he continued, “Take my baby sister, for example. She’s an omega and a fabulous artist. That kind of talent—” Grant’s words died as a pair of lethal green eyes targeted him.

“You sent your own sister to be warehoused and sold off as a breeding sow?” The caustic tone of contempt burned.

Unaccustomed to being on the defensive, Grant scrambled to justify himself. “Of course not! We were granted a waiver to raise Mandy at home because she was already promised to a dear friend of the family.” He felt a twinge of guilt at omitting the fact it was his family’s wealth that had ensured approval of that waiver. People of lesser means would have had no choice but to surrender their child. “My point is that talent such as hers would have flourished at an omega farm. Free from the distractions of mixed society, she could have devoted her time to it.” Summoning his job title’s air of authority, he used his best official voice to state, “I assure you the farms aren’t warehouses, and no one is sold off.”

“Oh? I thought you’d never been there.” The pure smug couched behind Rafael’s sweet smile stung deep, damn it.

“It’s true I haven’t visited in person—the alpha presence thing, you know. But I receive detailed reports quarterly. And I review the expenses to see the taxpayers’ money is well-spent and the children get what they need.”

Grant didn’t need Rafael’s quiet snort of derision to know how lame that sounded. Was he that much of an ass, defending a system he didn’t wholly approve of and had never even seen the inside of? He should have instituted better oversight protocols. He should have demanded access. Well, during this visit, he’d have a firsthand view of conditions at the facility at its darkest hour. If there were problems, he’d root them out and fix them.

Despite the nasty weather, he pressed hard on the accelerator, and the car shot forward. The sooner he got there, the quicker he could ease the nagging thought he’d badly neglected his duties.