The Omega's Berserker Alpha

FEILIAN The Auction Block The converted monastery reeks of terror and expensive cologne. I stand naked except for the translucent shift that does nothing to hide my body, my wrists bound in silver-threaded rope that burns just enough to keep my wolf subdued. The stone floor beneath my bare feet has been worn smooth by centuries of monks' prayers, but tonight it hosts a different kind of worship. The kind that traffics in flesh and broken spirits. Six months since I've spoken a word. Six months since the mountain burned and Grandmother's screams echoed through smoke-filled halls. The silence has become my armor, each unspoken word another stone in the wall between me and this nightmare. Soon, my wolf whispers, restless beneath my skin. She's been whispering that for weeks now, showing me fragments in dreams—silver eyes like winter moonlight, hands that could shatter bone but won't, the scent of pine forests I've never walked through. The auctioneer's voice carries across the vaulted ceiling, speaking in three languages as he describes my bloodline like I'm a thoroughbred mare. "Lot twenty-seven, pure Himalayan mountain wolf lineage, one of perhaps three remaining. Note the unusual hazel eyes, indicating the dreamwalker trait. Intact. Trainable. Opening bid at five hundred thousand euros." I keep my gaze fixed on a point beyond the crowd of buyers, letting my vision blur until the men in their tailored suits become shadows. But I catalog them all—the Russian who smells like dried blood and vodka, the German pharmaceutical executive who wants my blood for experiments, the Japanese collector who already owns twelve omegas. And him. He stands at the back of the room like a monument carved from shadow and elegant violence. The candlelight doesn't touch him properly, as if even flame recognizes a predator that outranks it. He hasn't looked at me once since I was brought onto the platform, his attention seemingly fixed on the medieval tapestry depicting the conversion of wolves to Christianity. But I feel his awareness like pressure against my skin. Six feet and five inches of controlled power wrapped in a suit that looks tailored to his god-like physique. The fabric is midnight blue, fitting him so well it seems painted onto his broad shoulders. Everything about him screams old money, from the glimmering metal of his watch to the way he holds himself—spine straight, chin lifted just enough to convey superiority without ostentation. His scent hits me in waves: cedar and cashmere, aged whiskey and something darker, richer. Power. Not the base kind these other alphas wear like cologne, but the distilled essence of centuries of breeding, of bloodlines that traced back to when wolves ruled alongside kings. Him, my wolf says, stronger now. Go with him. The bidding starts. Numbers fly in multiple currencies while hands rise and fall. The Russian—Viktor Volkov, I heard someone call him—leads aggressively. He's the one who collects omegas like butterflies, pinning them to boards after he's broken their wings. His pale eyes rake over me with the kind of hunger that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with possession. "Seven hundred thousand," Volkov announces, his accent thick with confidence. "Eight hundred." The German. "One million." Volkov again, impatient now. The man in the midnight suit still hasn't moved. Hasn't bid. My wolf paces, agitated, showing me dreams within dreams—this room collapsing, blood on stone, my hands around Volkov's throat. But stronger than those violent visions is the pull toward the statue of a man who might as well be carved from winter itself. "One point three million," Volkov says, and I hear the finality in it. He thinks he's won. Already I can see him imagining what he'll do to me first. The thought doesn't terrify me—I'm too empty for terror—but my wolf snarls, prepared to make him work for every piece he tries to take. "Two million." The voice cuts through the room like a blade through silk. Smooth, cultured, with an American accent that holds traces of New England winters. Every head turns toward the back of the room where he's finally moved, stepping forward just enough for the candlelight to catch the sharp angles of his face. Mother of mountains, he's beautiful in the way weapons are beautiful—all lethal lines and dangerous purpose. Mahogany hair falls past his collar in waves that look accidentally perfect. His jawline could cut glass. But it's his eyes that stop my breath—silver like the moon when it's full and furious, like the blade that took my grandmother's life, like every cold, beautiful, deadly thing I've ever feared. Those eyes find mine across the room, and for one moment, the ice in them cracks. I see what burns beneath—rage so pure it could remake the world, grief so deep it could drown continents. Then the crack seals itself, and he's looking through me again, bored and distant as a winter star. "Two point five million," Volkov spits, his face flushing. "Three." The ease with which he says it, like he's ordering coffee, makes several buyers step back. This isn't about money for him. This is about something else, something that makes my wolf practically purr despite our circumstances. "Three point five." Volkov's hands are fists now. The man in midnight blue doesn't even blink. "Five million." Silence falls like a hammer. Even the auctioneer seems stunned. Volkov's face has gone from red to purple, but something in the stranger's stillness warns him off. After a long moment, the Russian makes a disgusted sound and stalks toward the exit, pausing just long enough to hiss something in Russian that makes my buyer's lips curve in what might charitably be called a smile. "Sold," the auctioneer manages, "to Mr. Daniels for five million euros." Daniels. A lie as smooth as his suit. Everything about him is a carefully constructed facade, but beneath it, my wolf scents truth—pine forests and winter storms, blood spilled in defense rather than sport, power earned through sacrifice rather than inherited through cruelty. Two handlers unlock my chains and push me toward the processing room. My legs shake—they've kept us drugged, fed just enough to keep us pretty but not enough to keep us strong. But I walk straight-backed, refusing to stumble, refusing to give these monsters the satisfaction. The processing room is all clinical white tiles and harsh fluorescent lights. They hand me a bundle of clothes—designer jeans, a cashmere sweater, boots that actually fit. The message is clear: I'm expensive property now, to be packaged accordingly. I dress mechanically while a woman with dead eyes processes the payment on a tablet. "Your buyer is waiting in the private hangar," she says in accented English. "Don't make trouble. Men who spend that much expect obedience." I don't acknowledge her. Haven't acknowledged anyone in six months. But my wolf is singing now, a freedom song I don't understand. The walk to the hangar takes us through the monastery's original corridors. Religious artwork watches our progression—saints and demons locked in eternal battle, wolves bowing before crosses, the virgin mother weeping tears of blood. My bare feet are silent on the stone, but his presence pulls at me like gravity, growing stronger with each step. The hangar is modern, all glass and steel jutting from the ancient stone like a parasite. The private jet waiting there is ivory and silver, elegant as everything else about him. He stands at the base of the stairs, having changed into dark jeans and a black sweater that does nothing to diminish his aristocratic bearing. "Ms. Chan," he says, and I freeze. He knows my name. My real name, not the number they assigned me. "My name is Patrick Delacroix. You're safe now." Safe. The word is meaningless from a man who just bought me like cattle. But my wolf believes him, is practically rolling over for him, which should terrify me more than Volkov ever could. My wolf has kept me alive for six months, has been my only companion in the darkness. If she's wrong about this man with silver eyes and winter in his veins... "I have a medic on board," he continues, his tone as distant as if he's discussing the weather. "You'll be examined, treated for any injuries. There's food if you're hungry. A bed if you need rest. You won't be touched without your permission." That last part makes me look at him, really look at him. There's something flickering in those silver depths—not warmth exactly, but a recognition. He knows what it is to be touched without permission, to have choice stripped away. The knowledge doesn't live in his aristocratic bones but in the shadows that cling to him like a second skin. He gestures toward the jet's stairs, maintaining a careful distance. "We have a ten-hour flight to Boston. You can lock the bedroom door from the inside if you prefer." Boston. Half a world away from the mountains where I was born, from the ashes of everything I've ever loved. But my wolf doesn't care about geography. She's focused entirely on the man who smells like salvation wrapped in enough danger to end worlds. I climb the stairs on legs that barely remember how to work. The jet's interior is all cream leather and polished wood, understated luxury that whispers rather than shouts. There's a bedroom at the back, a full bathroom, a sitting area with seats that looked new and expensive. Patrick doesn't follow immediately. He stands at the base of the stairs speaking rapid French into his phone, something about "secured" and "the sister" and "burn it all." When he finally boards, he takes a seat at the farthest point from where I've curled into a leather chair, my knees drawn to my chest. The engines roar to life, and within minutes we're airborne, leaving the monastery and its horrors behind. I stare out the window at the lights of Geneva falling away below, trying to make sense of what just happened. "You're wondering why," he says suddenly, his voice carrying despite the engine noise. "Why I paid so much. Why I'm taking you to Boston." I don't respond, but I turn slightly toward him. He's removed his watch, his cufflinks, small gestures toward informality that somehow make him seem more dangerous, like a weapon being assembled. "I'm looking for someone," he continues, staring at his hands. "My sister. Taken eight months ago. The trail led me to tonight's auction, but she wasn't there." His sister. The crack in his ice makes sense now—the rage, the grief, the willingness to spend five million euros on a stranger. But that doesn't explain my wolf's reaction, doesn't explain why every cell in my body is leaning toward him despite the chasm of space between our seats. "I won't hurt you," he says, and for the first time, heat enters his voice. Not warmth—heat. The kind that burns cold, that leaves frostbite scars. "I won't touch you. Won't force you to do anything. When we land in Boston, if you want to leave, I'll give you money, documents, whatever you need to disappear." No, my wolf snarls. Mine. The possessiveness of the thought should terrify me. This man is everything I should run from—alpha to his bones, wealthy enough to buy and sell lives, cold as the winter that killed half my pack five years ago. But beneath that ice... Beneath that ice, something burns so bright it could immolate the world, and my wolf wants to dance in those flames until we're both nothing but ash and ecstasy. I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the leather seat. Ten hours to Boston. Ten hours to figure out why my wolf is singing home, home, home when home burned to nothing six months ago. Ten hours to understand why a man who handles me like I'm made of spun glass makes me feel more alive than I've felt since the night I stopped speaking. The jet climbs toward cruising altitude, and I dream of silver eyes and winter storms, of a sister I've never met but whose location burns behind my eyelids like a brand, of the trafficking routes I could draw in my sleep if anyone bothered to ask. But mostly, I dream of the fire hidden beneath Patrick Delacroix's perfect, icy surface, and how it might feel to watch that control shatter like mountain ice in spring. Trust him, my wolf whispers as sleep takes me. He's ours. I'm too broken to believe in belonging to anyone ever again. But as the pharmaceutical-grade sedatives they've been feeding us finally start to fade from my system, as my wolf stretches and tests her bonds for the first time in months, I think maybe—just maybe—he might belong to us. The most dangerous thought I've had in six months.