The Omega's Berserker Alpha

Chapter Six

The great hall fills with wolves who smell my weakness like blood in water.

I stand at the head of the oak table my great-grandfather carved from a single tree, watching them file in for the weekly pack meeting. Each face carries the same unspoken question: when will I become the alpha they understand? When will I stop calculating and start commanding?

Five days since I brought Feilian home. Five days of her jasmine scent driving my wolf to madness, of finding her wherever I don't expect her, of probability streams bleeding into my vision like watercolors in rain. The pack notices my distraction. They always notice.

"Patrol reports." Roland's voice carries that careful neutrality he's perfected since my father's death. My beta stands where Magnus's beta once stood, the position inherited like everything else I never wanted. "Three rogue scents at the southern border last night. Tyler's team tracked them to the mainland, but the trail went cold at the highway."

"Increase patrols. Double them near the ferry landing."

The room shifts restlessly. Magnus would have roared, would have shifted and hunted the rogues himself. They're disappointed by my measured response.

"With respect, Alpha." Lisa Cormac leans forward, her severe braid unchanged since Magnus trained her. "Showing force might be more effective than surveillance."

"Force without intelligence is waste. Or would you prefer we blindly chase shadows while the real threat slips past?"

The temperature drops ten degrees. Lisa's jaw tightens, but she nods. In her eyes, I see what they all think: Magnus would have known what to do.

"The Harvey pack sent another message about the engagement celebration." Roland smoothly redirects. "They're expecting confirmation of the venue."

"Tell them we'll host here. The north ballroom."

"Magnus always preferred—"

"Magnus is dead."

The words come out sharp enough to draw blood. Several wolves shiver as frost creeps across the windows.

Through the tall windows, I catch movement in the garden. Feilian walks the labyrinth path my mother planted, her fingers trailing along boxwood borders. She wears deep green that makes her skin glow like candlelight. Her hair catches autumn sun, and every unmated male in the room turns to look.

"Five million for Asian pussy." Richard Vance mutters, just loud enough. "Hope she knows tricks worth that price tag."

My hand moves before thought, slamming flat on the table. The oak splits down the center with a crack like lightning. Richard scrambles backward, submission rolling off him in waves.

"Anyone else have opinions about my financial decisions?"

Silence.

"Hell of a piece though." Mike Henley shifts in his seat. "That mountain wolf blood makes them flexible, I heard. Like those gymnasts—"

Ice spreads from my palms across the broken table. Mike's words die in his throat.

"She does smell incredible." Gary Fitzgerald, one of my father's old advisors, doesn't bother lowering his voice. "That heat coming on is making the whole house restless. When Magnus had omegas in heat, he'd sometimes share—"

"Magnus. Is. Dead."

The temperature plummets until breath fogs in the air. Even Roland looks startled—I haven't displayed this kind of violence since the night I found my father and brother, their heads separated from their bodies like broken dolls.

Before anyone can respond, Tyler bursts through the doors. His face is grim, clothes still damp. "Alpha, we have a situation. Three omegas at the dock. They stole a boat from Porcupine Island."

The room erupts.

"Ezekiel's omegas?" d**k Lawson's face drains of color. "Christ, if they're running from him—"

"He'll want them back." Roland's jaw sets hard. "Porcupine might only have three hundred and thirty wolves to our thirty-five hundred, but Alpha Ezekiel is... unpredictable."

Unpredictable. Pack speak for psychotic. Ezekiel rules through terror, through public executions, through making examples of anyone who defies him.

"Condition?"

"Rough. Malnourished, showing signs of extended abuse. One's barely conscious."

We find them at the dock, the stolen boat—a small fishing vessel—still rocking against the pier. Three women huddle together on wet wood, reeking of fear, salt water, and old blood. The youngest can't be more than sixteen, the oldest maybe thirty. All three bear marks of captivity—silver scars, defensive wounds, the hollow look of wolves who've forgotten they have teeth.

"S'il vous plaît." The oldest whispers through split lips, her Québécois accent thick with exhaustion. "On a entendu dire que le nouvel alpha... that you're different. Qu'vous gardez pas les omégas comme lui." (We heard that the new alpha... that you're different. That you don't keep omegas like him.)

Different. The word tastes like accusation.

"How long were you on the water?"

"Sept heures. Maybe plus." (7 hours. Maybe more.) She sways, barely standing. "Il allait nous vendre. Had buyers coming from West Virginia tomorrow." (He was going to sell us)

Feilian appears beside me, having followed silently. The three omegas react instantly to her presence, recognizing something in her stillness, her scent. The youngest reaches toward her with shaking hands.

"Je comprends," Feilian says softly, her French carrying a slight accent I can't place. (I understand) "Vous êtes en sécurité maintenant." (You're safe now)

She kneels before them, careful not to touch until the youngest omega practically falls into her arms, sobbing. Feilian catches her with infinite gentleness, murmuring comfort in that mix of French that marks Quebec's unique dialect.

"Bring them to the medical wing," I order.

"This is a mistake." Roland's voice drops low. "Ezekiel will come for them. He doesn't let property escape."

"They're not property."

"To him they are. Patrick, we have a thousand trained soldiers, yes, but Ezekiel has connections. Arms dealers, rogues for hire, wolves who kill for sport. If we keep them—"

"We have thirty-five hundred wolves total. He has three hundred and thirty."

"And one alpha who's been in charge for eighteen months versus one who's ruled through terror for fifteen years." Stan Fitzgerald doesn't bother hiding his skepticism. "Your father would have considered the political ramifications."

"Send them back." Sherry Vance crosses her arms. "It's not our problem."

The three omegas press closer together. The youngest whispers in French: "Il va nous tuer." He'll kill us.

"You want me to send them back to be sold? Or killed?"

"I want you to think about the pack." Roland's frustration bleeds through. "We can't fight a war over three omegas we don't even know."

"Watch me."

The silence stretches until Feilian stands, still cradling the youngest omega. "I'll take them to Holly. The east wing medical suite has windows and multiple exits."

She leads them away, positioning herself between them and any male who gets too close. The youngest clings to her like a lifeline while the other two follow, their movements screaming of wolves who've been trained to never turn their backs on alphas.

"Your little Asian piece has opinions." Jack Thornton smirks. "Bet she's got opinions about a lot of things. Like what position—"

I'm across the dock before he finishes, my hand around his throat, lifting him off the ground. His feet dangle, face purpling as ice spreads from my fingers into his skin.

"Finish that sentence. Please."

He claws at my grip, eyes bulging. I hold him until his lips turn blue, then drop him. He crashes to the wet wood, gasping and retching.

"The next person who refers to her as anything other than Ms. Chan or a guest under my protection will discover how much of their blood I can freeze while it's still in their veins."

"Jesus, Patrick." Roland helps Jack to his feet. "He didn't mean—"

"He meant exactly what he was about to say." I let ice coat my hands visibly, frost spreading across the dock planks. "Just like Gary meant it when he suggested I should share her like Magnus shared his omegas. Just like Mike meant it when he commented on mountain wolf flexibility."

Several wolves shift nervously, caught between fear and the conditioning of Magnus's rule, where omegas were discussed like wine vintages, rated and traded and broken for sport.

"The autumn hunt is next week." Jenny Wallace changes the subject carefully. "Will you lead it, Alpha?"

The autumn hunt. Magnus lived for it—the whole pack shifted, running down elk, blood and moonlight and primal celebration. Everything I'm not.

"I'll lead it."

She blinks, surprised. "And will Ms. Chan participate?"

"If she chooses."

"She's unmated." Lisa points out what everyone is thinking. "Her scent is already affecting the younger males. Eric and Dylan nearly killed each other yesterday over who brings her breakfast. During a hunt, with bloodlust running high—"

"Anyone who touches her without permission will lose the hand. Make that crystal clear."

Through the windows of the medical wing, I see Holly and Feilian tending to the rescued omegas. Feilian holds the youngest—Chloe, I hear her say—while Holly examines bruises shaped like fingers around her throat. The other two, introduced as April and Stephanie, huddle close, their body language screaming trauma.

"What about Ezekiel?" Roland presses. "When he comes—and he will come—what then?"

"Then I remind him that Balduran has been sovereign territory for three centuries. That we don't return refugees."

"Your father would have—"

"My father is dead. Decapitated alongside Magnus, if you've forgotten."

The words hang like ice crystals in the air. Several committee members look away, unable to meet my eyes. They were all there that night, all saw the bodies, all watched me kneel in my father's blood trying to understand how our strongest alphas could be taken down.

"Meeting adjourned."

They walk away slowly, reluctant, but I remain at the dock until I'm alone. Except for Roland, who hovers by a nearby tree like a shadow that won't dissipate.

"You can't protect every omega who washes up on our shores."

"No. But I can protect these three."

"Why? Because she asked you to?"

I turn to face him fully, letting him see the winter storm building behind my eyes. "Because it's right."

He laughs, the sound bitter as black coffee. "Right. Magnus would have evaluated them for fuckability, kept the pretty ones, and sold the rest back to Ezekiel for favors."

"I know what my brother was, Roland. Did you think I was really that blind?"

His face goes carefully neutral, a mask I'm starting to hate. "We tried to protect you from it."

"You tried to protect him from me finding out." I move closer to the health center, watching Feilian work. She's braiding Chloe's hair now, her movements careful and practiced, speaking soft French that makes the girl relax incrementally. "How many, Roland? How many omegas did Magnus break while I was at Harvard pretending our bloodline meant something noble?"

"Does it matter now?"

"Everything matters."

He leaves without answering, and I'm alone with the ghost of my brother's legacy. Through the glass, I watch Feilian tend to wolves she doesn't know, offering comfort despite her own trauma. The three omegas have gravitated to her like planets finding their sun.

A branch snaps behind me. Violet Marsh approaches, our eldest council member, ninety-three years of survival written in every line of her face.

"You're going to war with Ezekiel over three omegas you've known for thirty minutes."

"If necessary."

"Your little mountain wolf is quite the catalyst." She settles onto a log with careful dignity. "Five days here and she's already got you splitting tables and threatening committee members. Your grandfather did the same thing once—split that very table when someone suggested his omega mate wasn't pure enough bloodline."

"I didn't know he had an omega mate."

"Lots you don't know. Lots they kept from you, trying to protect the spare." Her eyes are sharp as winter stars. "That girl—Feilian—she's got old blood. Mountain wolf lineage. They see things."

"She sees probability streams."

"And you're starting to see them too, aren't you?" At my surprised look, she chuckles. "Boy, I've lived through four alphas. I know what it looks like when fate starts meddling. She's changing you."

"She's only been here five days."

"Sometimes five seconds is enough." She stands, bones creaking. "Ezekiel will come. He'll bring mercenaries, rogues, maybe worse. All for three omegas he considers property."

"Let him come."

"You'd risk everything for principle?"

"I'd risk everything to be different than Magnus."

She nods slowly. "Good. This pack's been sleeping too long, thinking strength means violence, power means domination. Your brother collected omegas like trophies. You're collecting them like family."

After she leaves, I make my way to the medical wing. The three omegas are clean now, dressed in borrowed clothes, eating soup with mechanical precision. Feilian sits with them, not speaking, just present. Her hand rests on Chloe's shoulder, and the girl leans into the touch like she's starved for gentleness.

Feilian looks up when I enter, and heat flashes through me—inappropriate, unwanted, undeniable. Sixty-two hours until her heat. I can smell the change in her, sweet jasmine mixing with something darker, richer, a scent that makes my c**k stiffen and my wolf pace.

"Ezekiel kidnapped them from a little town north of Laval," she says quietly. "He killed their father."

"He kidnapped them to sell them?"

"Tomorrow. Buyers from West Virginia were offering fifty thousand each." Her fingers tighten slightly on Chloe's shoulder. "They speak Québécois and a little English."

Rage crystallizes in my chest, sharp as winter ice. "They're under Balduran's protection now."

"Your pack disagrees."

"My pack will learn."

She stands, moving closer, and her scent wreathes around me like smoke from a fire I want to burn in. "You threatened your committee for talking about me."

"They were being crude."

"They were being honest. To them, I'm just expensive p***y you haven't f****d yet." The vulgar words from her soft mouth make my c**k throb painfully. She notices—of course she notices—and her pupils dilate, going dark with something that might be desire or might be fear.

"You're more than that."

"Am I?" She steps closer, close enough that I feel her fever-heat radiating. "In sixty-two hours, when my heat breaks, when I'm begging for an alpha's knot, what will I be then?"

The image slams through me—Feilian writhing in my bed, skin flushed and slick with need, begging me to claim her. My control cracks, ice spreading from my feet across the floor.

"Protected. Safe."

"Liar." The word is almost affectionate. "Your wolf has already chosen, even if your mind hasn't accepted it. I can smell it on you—possession, desire, the need to mark me so thoroughly that no other alpha would dare look at me."

"Wanting and taking aren't the same."

"No. But sometimes the wanting is worse." She reaches up, fingers hovering near my jaw, and I stop breathing. "Ezekiel will come for them. Six days. Forty wolves and hired guns. I've seen it."

"Multiple versions?"

"In some, you kill him. In others, he burns Balduran to ash." She drops her hand, and I can breathe again. "The variables keep shifting based on choices not yet made."

"What determines the outcome?"

She meets my eyes, and I see futures reflected there—violence and passion tangled together like lovers in sheets.

"Whether you're still pretending to be Magnus when he arrives, or whether you finally become what sleeps under your skin."

Before I can ask what she means, she's turning back to the omegas who need her more than they need safety, more than they need promises of protection. They need someone who understands the particular horror of being traded like currency.

I watch her help April to her feet, speaking soft French that makes the woman attempt a smile. Chloe hasn't let go of Feilian's hand, and Stephanie keeps touching her sleeve, as if confirming she's real.

Five days, and she's already changed everything.