The Alpha's Lottery

Chapter 1

----Sindy----

Three years later.

The front tire hit a pothole big enough to swallow a small dog, and my coffee nearly went flying into my face. I gripped the travel mug hard and swore.

“Jesus, Kalem, keep it on the road, okay?”

She didn’t even glance at me, just scowled at the wet street ahead. “They spend so much money on transportation s**t, and yet some of these streets are like driving on the goddamned moon.”

The rain pattered harder against the windshield, the wipers squeaking a little as they sped up. The whole city felt like this—cold, gray, and a little too unforgiving. A perfect match for my job, really.

I’d gotten maybe four hours of sleep last night—tossing, turning, staring at the ceiling—so this morning I was running on caffeine fumes and stubbornness. At least the coffee was strong and bitter enough to bite back.

Another pick-up. Third one this month. The year had been relentless—twenty pick-ups already and we weren’t even out of July. More than all of last year combined. I didn’t want to think about what that said about the state of the world.

Kalem’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Joson and Mire are on Two, Cover. They’ll watch the dorm parking lot exits while we make the contact.” She glanced over at me briefly, sharp as always. “You ready for contingencies? Let’s hear the parameters.”

Of course she wanted to go over them again. Kalem always wanted a final run-through en route. Normally, it helped center me, but today? Today my head felt like someone had been drumming on the inside of my skull all night. I was dangerously close to burnout—close enough that even her familiar quirks were getting under my skin.

Maybe I needed a vacation. A real one. Somewhere sunny, with no cell service.

I pulled up the file on the handheld and started reading. “Lola Theam, twenty-one. Five-four. One thirty-six. Excellent health, no known genetic issues. Classified as likely idiopathic, spontaneous presentation. FMB alerted by a mandatory reporter—oh, interesting. Her OB/GYN at her last check-up.”

Kalem made a low sound. “We get a lot of those, actually.” She turned into the university’s main entrance, past a too-perfect row of young trees and fresh yellow-painted curbs. The place was still clean enough that you could tell it hadn’t yet survived a decade of gum, cigarette burns, and frat week puke.

I checked the side mirror. The sleek black cruiser stayed three car lengths back. Joson had to be driving. Mire liked the people-facing part of the job; Joson preferred the shadows.

Kalem spoke again without looking at me. “What’s the rest?”

She didn’t need me to tell her—she probably had the whole thing memorized—but she liked hearing it out loud. Maybe it was her way of making me own the details.

“Family notified in advance. Appealed on both Education and Only Child grounds. Appeal commissioner denied both without comment. They told her this morning, per protocol, and agreed to keep her in place for pick-up or call us if she ran. Not many social ties. Communications major. No priors. Normal reproductive cycle, on hormonal birth control. s****l history unknown, but presumed active.”

“That it?” Kalem steered into the Walters Tower lot—a big block of concrete that passed for a dorm.

“Almost. Four years ago, there were three unrelated presentations here on campus in four months. Two idiopathic, one legacy hereditary. One freshman, two seniors. The legacy was one of the seniors.”

“Cluster,” Kalem murmured. “Don’t see those very often.”

She slid into a handicapped spot like she owned it, killed the engine, and slapped the FMB sticker on the inside of the windshield. Then she turned her head toward me, hand still resting on the steering wheel. “Ready for pick-up?”

“We’re ready,” I said automatically, even though I was way more ready for a nap than dragging another terrified omega out of her dorm.

Get through the day, Sindy. You can collapse later.

We got out of the car, both in our charcoal FMB suits, hair pulled into no-nonsense ponytails, sunglasses in place despite the rain. We could’ve passed for sisters if you didn’t notice Kalem’s longer frame and wider hips—or the fact that I’d always been a little more… generously proportioned up top.

Our sidearms were holstered, but Bureau policy was clear: if you had to actually fire your weapon, you’d already screwed up somewhere. We were here to preserve life, not take it. Even if some of the women we “saved” might have secretly preferred a quick end over where they were headed.

Not my problem. My job was to deliver them. What happened after was above my pay grade—and my ability to change.

From day one, I’d been told to keep emotional distance. Be polite, be firm, be efficient. That was the kinder way—for them and for us.

Some agents, though? They enjoyed it. Jim Cardle was one of them. Partnered with Mire today. He liked the process a little too much, especially the “processing reports.” I’d seen him grin like a kid with a dirty magazine when those came in—pages and pages of explicit detail about an omega’s transfer to the Wolf Nation. I didn’t need to imagine what he did with those reports alone in his apartment.

The Treaty of Cooperation claimed those reports were to ensure humane treatment. Everyone in the field knew they were worth less than the paper they were printed on.

Once an omega crossed into Wolf Nation hands, she might as well vanish into smoke. No one really knew what happened after, except for rumors. On the rare occasion one came back, she went straight into Witness Protection, locked away from interviews or follow-ups.

Dean Hamilton Westlin was waiting outside the dorm doors. Tall, painfully thin, with reddish hair retreating for the back of his skull. His brown suit hung awkwardly from his limbs, the cuffs riding short enough to show pale wrists.

Kalem took point, as always, extending a hand. “Dean Westlin. I’m Agent Thurmond.” She tipped her head toward me. “This is my partner, Deputy Agent Anderson.”

He shook our hands with a too-tight smile, then rubbed his bald crown like he wished he could disappear.

Kalem nodded toward the building. “Is the subject in her room? Records say six-sixteen, sixth floor.”

“That’s correct,” he said, glancing back at the doors. “Her sister’s in there with her. I… tried to ask them to, you know, before you…” His cheeks colored, and his gaze slid away.

“It’s quite all right,” Kalem said with practiced reassurance. “We handle this all the time. We’ll be in and out before you know it. If you’ll excuse us?”

“Of course.” He stepped aside quickly, relief flashing in his eyes. “Go on up.”

Let’s get this over with.

Kalem and I stepped inside, the warm dorm air smelling faintly of wet carpet and cheap soap. Another day, another job.