The Omega's Berserker Alpha

Chapter Three

FEILIAN

The Island of Wolves

The medic at Strauss has rough. cold hands and the bedside manner of a drill sergeant.

"Strip," she commands, snapping on latex gloves with practiced efficiency. The private medical facility attached to the airfield smells of antiseptic and wolf—a combination that makes my skin crawl with memory of the auction house's processing rooms.

I comply, folding the cashmere sweater Patrick bought me with careful precision. Dr. Rachel Thornton circles me like a general inspecting troops, her thoughts broadcasting so loudly I can't help but catch fragments: —underweight by fifteen pounds, evidence of prolonged sedation, bruising consistent with restraints, but no s****l trauma thank God, Patrick would lose his mind—

That last thought makes me pause. The ice prince who paid five million euros for me would care about that particular violation?

"Heart rate's elevated," Thornton mutters, pressing a stethoscope between my shoulder blades. "When did you last shift?"

The question hits like a physical blow. Six months since I've let my wolf fully free, afraid of what she might do, who she might kill. The wolf has been patient, understanding that survival meant submission, but now she paces beneath my skin with increasing agitation.

"Long time," I manage, the words scraping my throat.

Her thoughts spike with alarm: —six months minimum based on the muscle atrophy, Christ, that level of suppression could cause permanent damage—

"You'll need to shift soon. Within the next forty-eight hours, or risk your wolf going feral." She makes notes on a tablet, efficient and brusque. "Dr. Mitchell at Balduran will handle the full examination. I'm just ensuring you won't die in transit."

Through the examination room's window, I can see Patrick pacing the hangar. Even from here, his presence pulls at me like gravity. The fluorescent lights catch his mahogany hair, turning it to dark flame, and when he turns, his profile is so classically beautiful it makes my chest ache. Apollo carved in ice, I think, then immediately hate myself for the romanticism.

A woman stands near him—tall, athletic, honey-blonde hair scraped into a bun. Her body language screams possession, one hand touching his arm with casual intimacy. But Patrick steps away from the contact, his attention fixed on something in his phone.

—always was too pretty for his own good—Thornton's thoughts intrude. —Magnus had the alpha presence, but Patrick, Jesus, he could stop traffic just by existing—

"You knew his brother?"

Thornton's hands still on my ribs. "Everyone knew Magnus. He was... memorable."

The careful neutrality in her tone speaks volumes. Through her unguarded thoughts, I catch flashes—Magnus Delacroix, broader than Patrick, louder, quicker to violence. The kind of alpha who ruled through force rather than strategy. And beneath those surface impressions, something darker: —the way he looked at omegas, like meat, thank God he died before—

She cuts off the thought, but I've heard enough.

"Patrick's different," she says, resuming her examination. "Always has been. The family never quite knew what to do with him. Too cold for a bloodline that burns, too calculating for wolves who prefer action to thinking."

"Stronger?"

The word slips out before I can stop it. Thornton's eyebrows rise.

"Magnus could bench press a car. Patrick..." She pauses, choosing words carefully while her thoughts race: —that thing he did to the Crimson Peak alphas, the way he froze their blood while they were still breathing, Magnus never had that kind of control—

"Patrick is something else entirely."

A knock interrupts. Patrick enters without waiting for permission, his presence dropping the room's temperature by several degrees. He's changed into another outfit, blue jeans and a white henley that clings to his shoulders in ways that should be illegal. When his silver eyes find mine, still undressed except for underwear, his pupils dilate fractionally before he turns his back.

"Are we finished?"

"Just about." Thornton hands me my clothes, her thoughts amused: —boy's got it bad, never seen him react to anyone like—

I dress quickly, hyperaware of the tension radiating from Patrick's shoulders. The blonde woman from the hangar appears in the doorway, her green eyes scanning me with the kind of assessment that makes my wolf bare teeth.

"Is this her?" Her tone suggests I'm something Patrick scraped off his shoe. "The auction purchase?"

"Madison." Patrick's voice carries warning. "This is Feilian. She'll be staying at Balduran."

Madison's thoughts crash into my consciousness like a sledgehammer: —another f*****g omega, as if we need more, and of course she's exotic, Patrick always did like his toys pretty, God she's small, bet she breaks easy—

"How lovely," Madison says aloud, her smile sharp as glass. "Another mouth to feed. The pack will be thrilled."

"The pack will be welcoming." Patrick still hasn't turned around, but frost spreads across the window near his hand. "As befits a guest under my protection."

—your protection, like you protected Genevieve?— Madison's mental voice is vicious, but her spoken words remain sweet: "Of course, Alpha."

The title sits wrong on her tongue, like she's tasting something bitter. Through her thoughts, I understand—she'd been Magnus's lover, promised the position of Luna despite his engagement to someone named Lucinda. Now Magnus is dead, and Patrick stands where her mate should be.

"The helicopter's ready," Patrick says, finally turning. His eyes carefully avoid my body, fixing somewhere over my left shoulder. "Unless you'd prefer to remain in Boston? I can arrange—"

"I'll come."

The words surprise us both. But my wolf is insistent, pulling toward him with a force I don't understand. And the dreams... the dreams show me that island, that peninsula jutting into the Atlantic like a fist. Show me things sleeping beneath its soil, power older than the country that sold it.

Patrick nods once, efficient. "This way."

The helicopter waits on the tarmac, black and military-grade. Patrick helps me in with careful hands that avoid skin contact, then takes the seat furthest from me. Madison sits between us, her thoughts a constant stream of resentment and curiosity.

Boston falls away beneath us, giving way to dark ocean. The flight takes thirty minutes, but I spend it pressed against the window, watching moonlight silver the waves. Beside me, Madison's mental voice provides unwanted commentary: —he bought her for five million, five f*****g million, that could have funded pack operations for two years—

Then the island appears.

Balduran rises from the Atlantic like something out of myth. Cliffs on the eastern side, gentle slopes to the west, forests that look untouched since the world was young. The compound itself is massive—not a house but a small city, all glass and stone and timber that seems to grow from the land itself.

"Twenty-five thousand acres," Patrick says, noticing my attention. "Purchased from the United States in 1765 by Étienne Delacroix and Silas Grime. We've held it ever since."

The helicopter touches down on a landing pad surrounded by armed guards. They're all wolves—I can smell it—but they carry military-grade weapons with the ease of long practice. Their thoughts blur together, curious and suspicious in equal measure: —another omega—she's tiny—Asian, where from—five million—Patrick's lost his mind—

A golf cart waits nearby. Patrick gestures for me to take the passenger seat while Madison is left to find her own transport. Her fury burns hot enough that I feel it against my back as we drive away.

"I'll show you the main compound," Patrick says, his tone tour-guide neutral. "Your room is in the east wing. Private bathroom, balcony overlooking the ocean. The door locks from inside."

Always careful to mention locks, privacy, safety. As if he needs to constantly reassure me that I won't be caged again. The gesture should comfort me. Instead, it highlights how carefully he's controlling himself around me.

We drive through the compound in silence—or rather, he talks about architecture and history while I process the assault of thoughts from passing pack members. Their mental voices overlap:

—is that her—

—doesn't look like much—

—bet she's his new toy—

—Asian p***y, these f*****g tech bros have a type—

—she smells like mountains—

—I could get that s**t on Tinder for nothing—

The last thought, viciously racist and dripping with contempt, comes from a redhead standing near what looks like a training ground. She watches our golf cart pass with narrowed eyes, her thoughts painting ugly pictures of what she thinks Patrick does with imported omegas.

"That's the training center," Patrick continues, oblivious or pretending to be. "Tyler runs combat sessions every morning at six if you're interested."

I nod, though the idea of showing these wolves what I can do makes my grandmother's voice echo in my head: Never reveal your strength until the moment of the kill.

The main house is breathtaking—three stories of glass and timber, designed to blend with the landscape while announcing power to anyone who looks. Patrick parks the golf cart and leads me through massive double doors into a foyer that belongs in a museum.

"The pack house has been in continuous operation since 1766," he says, still in that carefully neutral tone. "Forty bedrooms, though only half are currently occupied. The kitchen runs twenty-four hours—"

"Who's the c***k?"

The voice cuts through his recitation. A brunette descends the main staircase, her movements deliberately sensual. She's beautiful in that aggressive way some female alphas have, all dangerous curves and predatory grace.

"Feilian, this is Sophie Brennan, our head of security coordination. Sophie, Kiara is a guest."

Sophie's thoughts are less hostile than Madison's but equally dismissive: —guest, right, the kind you pay five million for, God she's pretty though, no wonder Patrick couldn't resist—

"Welcome," Sophie says, her smile not reaching her eyes. "I hope you'll be... comfortable."

The implication hangs in the air—that comfort is temporary, that I'm a passing curiosity in Patrick's long life. I say nothing, having learned that silence makes people nervous, makes them reveal more than words ever could.

Patrick continues the tour, showing me libraries and sitting rooms and a kitchen that could service a hotel. Every wolf we pass has opinions, their thoughts ranging from curiosity to hostility to a particular kind of speculation about what services I'm providing their alpha.

Through it all, Patrick maintains that perfect distance. Professional. Controlled. But I feel what sleeps beneath his skin—something massive and ancient, older than the ice he commands, older than the bloodline he claims. It pulses with each heartbeat, contained by will alone.

We end at a door on the third floor, east wing as promised. The room beyond is luxurious—king bed, sitting area, floor-to-ceiling windows showing moonlit ocean. It smells of cedar and clean linen, no trace of previous occupants.

"The locks," Patrick indicates the deadbolt, the chain, the bar that can brace the door from inside. "No one can enter without your permission. Not even me."

"Especially you."

The words emerge soft but certain. His jaw tightens, that massive thing beneath his skin stirring.

"Especially me," he agrees. Then, softer: "Holly will come by in the morning for a proper medical examination. She's... gentler than Thornton."

I move to the window, needing distance from his gravitational pull. In the reflection, I watch him struggle with something, his control wavering like heat shimmer.

"The wolves here," I say carefully. "They loved Magnus."

His reflection goes still. "Magnus was what they expected in an alpha. Strong. Decisive. Quick to violence when challenged."

"You're stronger."

"Am I?" His laugh is bitter. "Magnus could shift in seconds. Could command with a roar. I'm the spare who was never supposed to inherit, who spent his time at Harvard learning hostile takeovers instead of pack dynamics."

I turn to face him. "The thing under your skin. It's not wolf."

His silver eyes widen fractionally. "What?"

"Older. Bigger. It sleeps because you make it sleep. But if you let it wake..." I trail off, seeing probability streams spiral in too many directions. "Your brother had wolf. You have something else."

He stares at me for so long I think he'll demand answers I don't have. Then: "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be challenging."

He leaves, closing the door with careful control. I throw the deadbolt, attach the chain, brace the bar—not because I fear him, but because the act of securing myself feels like reclaiming something stolen.

Through the window, I watch him exit the house and shift in one fluid motion—not the violent transformation most alphas display, but something seamless, like water changing states. His wolf is massive, dark brown with silver threading through the fur like frost. He runs toward the cliffs, and even from here, I feel the leashed power in every stride.

My wolf whines, wanting to follow, wanting to run beside him in the moonlight like we belong here. Like we belong to him.

I press my forehead against the cool glass and catalog the thoughts I've gathered from the pack. They see Patrick as the lesser brother, the cold prince who inherited by default. They don't understand that Magnus's strength was simple alpha dominance, while Patrick's...

Patrick's strength is the kind that could remake the world or destroy it, depending on which way his control finally breaks.

And I'm the match standing too close to that particular fuse, watching probability streams show me futures where we burn together, where we freeze together, where we become something new together.

The smart thing would be to run.

My wolf laughs at the thought, already knowing what I'm only beginning to admit—we're not going anywhere.

Not when the dreams show me his sister's location burning clearer with each passing hour. Not when the trafficking routes map themselves across my consciousness like a web waiting to be torn apart.

And not when every cell in my body vibrates with recognition every time he's near, like we're two halves of something broken, waiting to be either mended or shattered completely.