The Omega's Berserker Alpha

Chapter Four

PATRICK

The equations won't balance, and neither will my obsession with the woman who tastes like prophecy.

Three days since I brought Feilian to Balduran. Seventy-two hours of watching her move through my ancestral home like smoke through fingers, always present but never quite touchable. I've slept maybe six hours, spent the rest running probability matrices that dissolve the moment I factor her into them.

My MIT doctorate specialized in stochastic modeling—predicting chaos through mathematical frameworks. Twenty-eight years old with more degrees than sense, Magnus used to say, back when his head was still attached to his shoulders. But even my best algorithms can't capture what Feilian is, what she does to the careful calculations that have kept me sane since I found my father and brother's bodies eighteen months ago.

Through my office window, I watch her move through morning mist toward the eastern cliffs. Pack-issued training clothes cling to her curves when the wind catches them—she's gained weight these three days, her body remembering what it means to be fed. Her hair whips behind her like a war banner, and my c**k hardens just from watching her walk.

This is madness. I'm engaged to Lucinda in two weeks. The probability of true mate bonds between strangers: 0.0003%. The chance of me losing my mind over a traumatized omega I bought at auction: apparently f*****g inevitable.

Roland enters without knocking, and I taste copper rage at the intrusion. My beta's privilege, one I'm starting to resent like a splinter under my nail.

"Morning patrol found tracks. Southern border." His voice carries that careful tone he's used since Magnus died—like I'm fragile crystal about to shatter. "Tyler wants to double security."

I don't look away from Feilian. She's reached the cliff's edge, bare feet precise on wet stone, and my wolf paces beneath my skin. "Tell Tyler to use the Sinclair brothers. They're hungrier than the others."

"You're watching her again."

Ice spreads across my desk at his accusation. Roland held Magnus's severed head in his lap, earned the right to some familiarity, but not this much. "She has information about Genevieve."

"She's had it for three days. What she doesn't have is answers." He moves closer, bringing the scent of pine smoke and barely contained violence. "Five million euros for a broken omega who speaks in riddles and won't let anyone touch her."

Feilian spreads her arms at the cliff's edge like wings.

Steps forward into nothing.

The fall is balletic, her body arrow-straight as she plunges toward rocks that have shattered ships. I'm moving before thought, my wolf ripping through human form mid-leap. Glass explodes as I crash through the window, shifting completely before I hit the water seconds behind her.

The Atlantic in autumn is brutal, but my bloodline was birthed in Nordic seas where ice forms between heartbeats. I dive deeper, wolf vision cutting through murky water, searching for her broken body, for blood clouding the current, for something.

Nothing.

She should be here—should be shattered on the rocks or struggling against the undertow that's killed grown alphas. But there's only empty ocean and the thundering of my own desperate heart.

I surface, shift to human, dive again. The cold that never touches me suddenly feels like death itself crawling through my veins because if she's gone, if I failed to catch her—

Magnus would have saved her.

The thought cuts deeper than winter wind. Magnus was pure alpha, all instinct and action. He wouldn't have hesitated those crucial seconds, wouldn't have calculated trajectories while she fell. My father's favorite son, the one who inherited the real power while I got ice and mathematics.

I search for what feels like hours but the sun barely moves. When I finally surface, gasping, ready to howl for search teams, I look up.

Feilian stands at the cliff's edge, dry and whole, watching me with those hazel eyes that see too much.

The swim back takes forever, each stroke weighted with something that tastes like insanity. By the time I haul myself onto the rocks, she's gone. Her footprints in the morning dew lead away from the cliff, never toward it.

Holly finds me an hour later, still sitting on the rocks, drawing probability equations in sand. "You're hypothermic."

"I don't get hypothermic."

"Your lips are blue." She wraps a thermal blanket around my shoulders, healer's warmth spreading through her touch. "Even ice wolves have limits."

That afternoon, I try to focus on pack business. The trafficking investigation has stalled, Lucinda's father grows sicker each day, quarterly financials need review. But I keep finding myself wherever Feilian is—the library where she reads texts in languages I don't recognize, the kitchen where she makes tea she never drinks, the training grounds where she observes but won't participate.

"You're following me."

Her voice carries no accusation. We're in the archive room, surrounded by centuries of pack history. She runs fingers along ancient spines without touching, maintaining that careful distance she keeps from everything living.

"This is my house."

"Your calculation is wrong." She indicates my tablet where probability models spiral into chaos. "You assume linear causation. But some events exist in superposition until observed."

"Schrödinger's cat."

"Schrödinger's wolf." Her almost-smile makes my c**k twitch. "Your sister is both found and lost, saved and damned, until you collapse the probability wave through observation."

I move closer, her jasmine scent making my mouth water. She doesn't retreat but her breathing changes, becomes deliberately controlled. The pulse in her throat accelerates, and I want to press my mouth there, feel her heart race against my tongue.

"Is that what you do? See the superpositions?"

"I see what might be. What was. What never happened but could." Her eyes unfocus slightly, pupils dilating in a way that makes her look drugged or aroused. "You dove into the ocean this morning. Your wolf form is beautiful in the water, all that dark fur silvered with frost. You searched for forty-three minutes."

"You jumped."

"In one probability stream. In another, I never left my room. In a third, I died six months ago in my grandmother's arms." She blinks, focusing on me with disturbing intensity. "You can't trust what you see around me. The streams... they bleed."

Movement catches my peripheral vision. Roland, creeping through the archives with a silver blade. The knife enters her back with a wet sound that makes my wolf surge. But when I blink, Roland isn't there. Never was. Feilian stands whole and untouched, watching me with something like pity.

"That's why you don't touch anyone. You see their deaths."

"All of them. Every possibility." She turns away, but I catch the tremor in her hands. "Touch is... loud."

The next hours blur into probability streams I can't parse. I find her body in the wine cellar, throat torn out, blood pooling on stone that's absorbed centuries of violence. But when I run back with Holly, there's no corpse, no blood, just dusty bottles and my racing heartbeat.

She appears on the mansion's roof at sunset, balanced on the peaked edge like something out of my wet dreams and nightmares combined. I climb up, dress shoes slipping on slate, certain she'll fall before I reach her. But she just watches me approach, unblinking, a creature of stillness in a world that won't stop spinning.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"I'm not doing anything. You're seeing the streams because you're..." she pauses, searching for words while wind molds her clothes to her body, outlining breasts that would fit perfectly in my palms. "Your mathematics make you sensitive to probability. Most people see one timeline. You're starting to see others."

"Since you arrived."

"Since you got close to me." The confession seems to hurt her. "I'm sorry. I'll leave—"

"No." The word comes out sharp enough to draw blood. "You're the only lead I have to Genevieve."

She laughs, soft and bitter. "Liar."

Before I can respond, she's moving with that liquid grace that makes my hands ache to grab her hips, hold her still, make her real. Her hands frame my face, careful not to touch skin, and then her mouth is on mine.

The kiss destroys every probability model I've ever built. She tastes like jasmine tea and dark prophecy, like the moment before lightning splits the world. Her tongue traces my lower lip and my control shatters—hands tangling in her hair, pulling her against me with desperate hunger that's been building for seventy-two hours.

She makes a sound—part moan, part sob—that goes straight to my c**k. I'm hard against her stomach, and when she rocks into me, I feel her gift activate through the contact.

Probability streams cascade through our connection: us f*****g against the archive shelves, her legs wrapped around my waist while I drive into her wet heat. Us fighting with lethal intent, her teeth in my throat as she tears out my jugular. Us married with children who have silver eyes and prophecy gifts, her belly round with my pup. Us dead in each other's arms as the mansion burns, my c**k still buried inside her as we burn.

I see my own death seventeen different ways in the space between heartbeats. Beheading like my father and brother. Poison slipped into whiskey by Roland's steady hand. A silver bullet from my beta's gun. Old age in a bed that smells like jasmine and s*x. By her hand, her teeth in my throat while she cries my name and comes on my c**k.

My hands slide down to cup her ass, lifting her against me, and she wraps her legs around my waist. The position grinds her against my erection, and she gasps into my mouth, fingernails digging into my shoulders through my shirt.

"Patrick." My name on her lips sounds like prayer and curse combined.

I press her against the wall, my mouth finding her throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks. She arches against me, and I feel the heat of her through our clothes, smell her arousal mixing with jasmine and prophecy.

"I want to f**k you." The words come out raw, honest. "I've wanted to f**k you since you walked onto that auction platform."

She moans, grinding against me harder, and I see flashes of us in different positions—her on her knees with my c**k in her mouth, bent over my desk while I take her from behind, riding me in my bed while moonlight turns her skin to pearl.

"Which timeline?" Her breath hot against my ear. "The one where you're gentle? The one where you f**k me like you hate me? Or the one where we break each other?"

"All of them."

I slide my hand between us, finding her c**t through her training pants, and she shatters. The orgasm rips through her with enough force to activate her gift fully—probability streams exploding around us like fireworks. I see us in a thousand different moments of ecstasy, feel ghost sensations of being inside her, of her mouth on me, of our bodies joined in every possible way.

Blood runs from her nose as she jerks away, both of us gasping. She stumbles backward, eyes wide with terror and arousal in equal measure.

"Don't. Please."

"Did that actually happen?"

She wipes the blood with her sleeve, and I notice she's trembling, her n*****s hard against the thin fabric of her shirt. "Which part?"

"All of it. Any of it."

"Maybe. Probably. In at least three timelines." She laughs, broken. "I can't tell anymore. Being near you is like... like standing at the intersection of every choice you'll ever make."

I find her dead twice more before midnight. Once in the bathtub, wrists opened with surgical precision, the water pink with her blood. Once hanging from the chandelier in the main hall, Madison's shriek alerting the entire pack. Both times, the bodies vanish when I blink, leaving only the echo of grief and the memory of her mouth on mine.

"This is torture." I corner her in the kitchen at three AM, where she's making tea she won't drink. My c**k is still half-hard from earlier, from the phantom sensations of f*****g her in alternate timelines. "Are you trying to drive me insane?"

"I'm trying to help you find your sister." She doesn't look at me, focused on the precise ritual of tea preparation, but I can see her hands shaking. "But the streams around you are... chaotic. Your brother's death created a paradox."

"What kind of paradox?"

"Magnus was supposed to live. In ninety-three percent of probability streams, he survives that ambush. Your father too. Their deaths..." She sets down the teapot, and I want to bend her over the counter, make her forget about probability and prophecy, make her focus only on how my c**k would feel inside her. "Someone collapsed those probabilities. Forced an outcome that shouldn't—that was mathematically improbable."

"Someone manipulated probability to kill them?"

"Or someone like me saw the futures where they died and made those the only ones that could manifest." She finally meets my eyes, and I see terror mixing with the same desperate want I feel. "Patrick, whoever killed your family has my gift. But stronger. More controlled."

"Who?"

But she's already lost in visions, eyes rolling back, body convulsing. I catch her before she hits the floor, and the contact floods me with images: Leland Harvey standing over my father's corpse, but younger, healthier. Genevieve in chains, teaching other omegas to fight with vicious efficiency. Lucinda crying at her father's bedside. Me, frozen solid from the inside out, my own power turned against me while Kiara screams my name.

When the seizure stops, there's blood from her nose, her ears. She looks at me with eyes that have seen too much.

"The spider," she whispers, voice rough. "The one who spins the web. He's coming here. Two weeks."

"The engagement party."

She nods, then her eyes focus on something behind me. I turn, seeing nothing. When I look back, she's unconscious in my arms, definitely real, definitely not dead despite the three times I found her corpse today.

I carry her to Holly's medical wing, trying to calculate the probability that any of this is real. The math says I'm losing my mind, that repeated exposure to her gift is fracturing my perception of reality.

But my wolf knows better. My wolf knows she's the key to everything—finding Genevieve, solving my family's murder, surviving whatever's coming in two weeks.

I just have to figure out which timeline we're actually living in before we either f**k or kill each other.

Maybe both.