The Lost Omega

Chapter Three

There was a woman there with a warm chocolate colored business suit that matched the hue of her complexion. Despite the fact that she did not appear exactly like a Cassie, he was able to see her defying her Alpha and calling the Marock. Instead, she walked in a way that made him able to watch her doing it. She was clearly looking for someone since it was obvious. She instantly showed an altered expression as she realized he was not the person she had been looking for as he prepared to advance.

When he heard a hesitant voice coming from directly to his left, he had just started his second search of the airport. The voice inquired, "Sir, have you just arrived from Montana?"

It was the young woman with the auburn hair. He must have been distracted when she approached, as she would not have been able to do so if he weren't standing in the midst of a stinking airport. She had to be cunning.

The fact that he was no longer required to hunt out his father's contact details brought him relief. Even the simulated gusts of wind couldn't hide the fact that she was a werewolf because they were so close together. But he didn't just rely on his nose to know that she was a very uncommon species.

He initially thought she was a submissive person. The bulk of werewolves occupied a position of dominance. Normal mild-mannered people usually weren't robust enough to survive the arduous transformation from human to werewolf. This indicated that there were initially not many werewolves who were subservient.

Then he realized that his abrupt outburst of rage and his inexplicable urge to protect her from the passing people were actually signs of something else. Despite the fact that many could misinterpret her and think she was a submissive, she was an Omega.

He knew then and there that whatever else he did in Jersey, he was going to make it his goal to get rid of whoever had given her that perplexed look.

He was much more striking when they were face to face; she could feel his energy licking delicately over her, much like a snake would taste its victim. Cassie remained fixated on the floor in front of her while she awaited his reaction.

He said, "Hello, my name is Levi Cronin. "The Marock's offspring. you must be cassie."

she bowed.

His wolf-brother had changed from a deadly anger brought on by the crowded airplane to a level of comfortable satisfaction that Levi had never known during the time that she was driving them along the expressway in the hired SUV. He had experienced similar things with the two other Omega wolves he had met over his long lifespan, but not to this degree.

To be a fully evolved human being must have felt like this.

Levi had never experienced anything similar to the wrath and cautiousness that his wolf had always possessed; all that was left was the resolve to take this one to mate. His wolf had harbored animosity toward the hunter for years.

She was attractive enough, but he still wanted to feed her and ease the tight wariness in her shoulders. He wants to fill her up. The wolf wanted to take her as his own and engage in s****l contact with her. He was more reserved than his wolf, so he would wait to decide to pursue a love relationship with her until he knew her a little better.

She said, "My flat isn't much," and it was obvious she was trying to break the awkwardness. He could tell she had a dry throat because of the little roughness in her speech.

He caused her apprehension, she knew. He was used to being feared because his father had given him the responsibility of carrying out executions, even though he had never enjoyed it.

Leaning against the door to give her some more room, he glanced out at the city lights, allowing her to feel free to steal a few glances at him if she so desired. He had been cool and collected in the hope that she would become used to him, but he had a sneaking suspicion that this approach might not have worked.

Don't worry, he said, assuring her. "I don't have any preferences. Whatever its design, your flat is undoubtedly more affluent than the Indian lodge where I was nurtured."

A lodge with Native Americans?

He added these words while wearing a slight smile "I'm a little older than I appear to be."

In Montana, an Indian lodge was seen as quite the opulent home choice two hundred years ago." Like most old wolves, he disliked talking about the past, but he discovered that there were worse things he could do to make her feel at ease than that.

She said, "I'd forgotten you might be older than you look," after making an apology. She showed a noticeable drop in her level of dread, so he reasoned that she must have observed the smile. This area of the pack is devoid of more experienced wolves.

He disagreed, saying, "A few," pointing out that she had said, "the pack," not "my pack." Jason was in his late 70s or early 80s, and his wife was considerably older. They were both of an age where they ought to have been able to recognize the value of receiving an Omega, but instead they allowed her to be treated like this ungrateful kid who squirmed anytime he gazed at her for too long. "How old a wolf is in reality is not always simple to ascertain. The vast majority of us decide against talking about it. It can be difficult enough to adapt to a new setting without having to constantly think back on the past."

She did not answer his inquiry, so he tried to think of another subject on which the two of them might converse. Since he struggled with conversation, he looked to his father and brother, both of whom were accomplished speakers. His strength was not in conversation.

What tribe are you from? she inquired before he could think of a topic to discuss. You said, "There's a lot about the Montana tribes that I don't know.

He said, "My mother's tribe was the Salish. "Belonging to the Flathead Tribe."

She dared to sneak a glance at his absolutely ordinary forehead. As soon as he realized he had a gripping story to tell her, he exhaled in relief. "Are you aware of the origins of the name Flatheads?"

She responded with a tinier nod. He was tempted to make something up to make fun of her because of the serious look on her face. He was honest with her since, on the other side, she did not know him well enough to accept that.

One of the few tribes in the Columbia Basin, the Flatheads did not flatten their children' foreheads, a practice that was widespread among the majority of the other Salish peoples.

So why are they the ones who are nicknamed Flatheads, she pondered?

"Because the people of the other tribes were more focused on making a peak on top of their heads than changing their foreheads. Other tribes referred to us as "flat heads" since the Flatheads did not. It wasn't even intended to be a praise."

Her nervousness started to dissipate more and more as she listened to his story.

We were the cousins who were the ugliest and most primitive, as you can see. He laughed out loud. "The fact that the white trappers mispronounced the name is an amusing turn of events. We were notorious for a very long time because we disobeyed a custom. The white folks, including our cousins, thought of us as barbarians as a result."

You mentioned that your mother was of Salish ancestry, she said. Do Marocks Originate in North America?

He seemed to be lost in thought. "Father is a native of Wales. He arrived here during the fur trappers' era to go fur hunting, but he ended up remaining since he was in love with the aroma of the pine and snow." His father conveyed it to him in this manner. Levi noticed that he was smiling again, this time insincere, and that she was unwinding even more. He also noticed that his face didn't ache at all. It was now his responsibility to call his brother Samuel and inform him that he had finally discovered a way to smile without breaking his face. He had learned everything he needed to know from an Omega werewolf.

She turned down a side street and parked at the back of one of the several brick, four-story apartment buildings that dotted the older suburbs of this area of the city.

What city are we in at the moment, he inquired?

Oak Park, she uttered. Edgar Rice Burroughs, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Fangs all called this site home.

"Fangs's?"

She jumped out of the moving car after giving a head nod as a signal. "My current workplace" and "the most authentic Italian dining experience in all of Jersey."

Ah. She smelled strongly like garlic as a result.

He let out a satisfied sigh as he got out of the car. After pulling his suitcase from the trunk, Cassie used the key fob to lock the car. He jumped when the car honked once, and he gave it a frustrated look as he did so. Cassie was concentrating intently on the ground when he turned around once more.

She muttered, "I'm sorry. She would have been burying her tail under her body while running away if she had been a wolf, cringing.

He was unable to control his anger, which produced an octave drop in his voice as he responded, "For what?" "What for?" "as a result of my sensitivity to shock in moving vehicles? I don't blame you."

The man battled to recover control of the wolf and realized that he would have to be very careful this time. When his father sent him out to handle a situation, he was usually able to do so in a cool, composed manner. But he was going to have to control his rage because there was a wounded Omega wolf close by to whom he discovered that he was responding on a number of different levels.

He said, once more in complete control, "Cassie." "I am my own father's assassin. It is my duty as his second to accomplish it. This does not, however, mean in any way that I find it enjoyable. I make a commitment to you that I won't harm you in any way."

It was evident she did not believe him, but she answered, "Yes, sir."

Any additional attempts to reassure her, he reasoned, would probably have the opposite effect. She would have to accept that he was a man of his word before she could move forward. He would give her a question or a notion to mull over in the meanwhile.

"My wolf is more interested in courting you than in asserting his power," he said, whispering softly to her.

As he passed her, he grinned as he observed how her rage and panic had been replaced by shock and perhaps the beginning of her intrigue.

She led the way through the lobby and up the stairs without so much as a glance in his direction, equipped with the keys to the main entrance of the building. She was no longer emitting any other emotions save exhaustion by the time of the second flight.

He said that he was an executioner, sent by his father to settle conflicts among the werewolves. To have survived performing that job, he must be much riskier than Jason. Because she had experienced being domineering herself, she could feel how powerful he was. She needed to keep her guard up and be ready for any possible aggressive actions he might take. She needed to be ready to handle the discomfort and the anxiety in order to prevent running away and making things worse for him.

But, what was it about his presence that made her feel safer the longer he stayed, then?

She did not apologize to him once again for her flat, and he remained silent as he followed her up each of the four flights of stairs. After all, he was the one who had offered the invitation. It was entirely his fault that he would end up sleeping on a twin-sized futon instead of a plush hotel bed. She had no idea what to feed him and could only pray that he had eaten while traveling. She had the check from Fangs's waiting to be deposited in the bank on her refrigerator, and tomorrow she planned to go shopping.

The only furniture in her house was a futon, a card table, and a pair of folding chairs, making it look messy and empty. The polished oak floor was the only thing that made it look appealing.

He was cautious to maintain a neutral expression as he passed through the doorway behind her, but she managed to steal a quick glimpse in his direction. She couldn't see what he was thinking, but she had the feeling that his eyes lingered briefly on the futon, which was great for her purposes but would be far too little for him.

She made the uncalled-for comment to him, "The bathroom is through that door," even though the door was open and the bathtub was visible.

In the weak light produced by the light fixture above her, he nodded to show that he understood while continuing to cast an ominous look her way. If you were obliged to work the following day, he questioned it.

"No. not till the Saturday after that."

"Good. So the best time to talk would be in the morning." He had his tiny bag with him as he entered the restroom.

She had squatted on the floor, as far away from where he would be sleeping as she could reach, making a makeshift mattress out of the blanket when the door opened. When she turned back, a big werewolf with a reddish-brown coat was standing directly in front of her. You're welcome to use the bed, she said.

He smiled at her and waggled his tail at the obvious surprise on her face before he swept by her and snuggled up on the blanket. He wriggled for a moment, then placed his head on his forepaws, closed his eyes, and at first glance, seemed to have no trouble at all falling asleep. She should have known better, but he didn't say anything when she entered the restroom by herself or came out in her coziest pair of sweats.