The Omega's Berserker Alpha

Chapter Two

PATRICK

The Weight of Winter

The girl sleeps like she's at war with consciousness.

I watch her from across the jet's cabin, cataloging each minute shift of her body, each flutter beneath closed eyelids that suggests dreams or visions or whatever gift flows through her Himalayan bloodline. Three hours into our flight, and she's cycled through four distinct sleep patterns—REM, deep delta, something that resembles meditation, and a fourth state that makes my wolf pace with unease.

Her lips move soundlessly, shaping words in languages I recognize and others I don't. Mandarin. Sanskrit. Something ancient that predates written history. Her fingers twitch against the leather armrest, drawing patterns that look like probability maps, like the financial models I used to build at Harvard before my world collapsed into duty and death.

She's nothing like Genevieve.

The realization settles into my chest like shrapnel. My sister burns bright as our father did, all passion and flame and reckless courage. This girl—Feilian, according to her dossier—is something else entirely. She's the eye of a hurricane, the moment before an avalanche, the kind of stillness that precedes catastrophic change.

My phone vibrates. Tyler's text is brief: Volkov's men asking questions at the airport. Want me to handle it?

No. Let them ask. We're already gone.

The Russian won't forget this insult. Men like Viktor Volkov collect grudges the way they collect omegas—carefully, possessively, with intent to break them slowly. But I've got bigger problems than a sadistic collector's wounded pride.

Leland Harvey is dying.

The thought brings no satisfaction, only complication. My mentor, my father's closest friend, the man who taught me to channel the ice in my veins into weapons instead of walls. His decline started six months ago—the same timeframe as Genevieve's disappearance, I realize now. The synchronicity bothers me in ways I can't articulate.

And Lucinda. Beautiful, brilliant Lucinda who deserves better than a marriage built on political necessity and her father's dying wishes. We've played our parts perfectly for two years—the power couple that will unite New England's strongest packs. She smiles at me across charity galas while her heart beats for someone else, and I smile back while feeling nothing but the weight of obligation.

The ice in my bloodline isn't metaphorical. My ancestors, the ones who came before the Vikings settled into domesticity, could freeze a man's blood in his veins with a touch. That gift diluted through generations until it became what I am—a man who runs ten degrees cooler than normal, who can drop the temperature in a room when angry, who hasn't felt warm since the night my father and brother died in what everyone insists was a territorial dispute.

I know better. You don't behead an alpha and his heir over boundary lines.

Feilian whimpers, her body curling tighter. The sound pulls at something primitive in my chest, something that has nothing to do with Genevieve and everything to do with the way she smells—jasmine and snow, prophetic dreams and devastating power barely contained in that small frame.

Five million euros.

My beta Roland called me insane when I'd liquidated that much cash for tonight's operation. My beta thinks in terms of pack resources, sustainable growth, the empire my father built and my brother was supposed to inherit. He doesn't understand that I'd burn it all to get Genevieve back. That I'd freeze the Atlantic solid if it meant finding who took her.

But I didn't buy Feilian to find my sister.

The truth sits uncomfortable in my chest. The moment she walked onto that platform, my wolf recognized something that defies logic or explanation. Not mate—that fairy tale died with my brother. But something else. Something that makes my carefully constructed control want to shatter like ice in spring.

She shifts again, and this time her eyes open. Hazel in the dim cabin light, but I see the green-gold threads that mark her as more than standard omega. Our gazes lock across ten feet of pressurized air, and neither of us moves.

"Water?" I finally offer, gesturing to the mini-fridge.

She blinks. Nods once.

I retrieve a bottle of Evian, set it on the table between us rather than approach her directly. She watches me like I'm a predator she hasn't classified yet. Smart girl. Most people see the suits, the Harvard degree, the business empire, and miss the monster underneath.

She drinks half the bottle in careful sips, then sets it down with precision that speaks to martial training. Her grandmother's monastery, according to the intelligence I'd gathered. One of the last schools teaching the old ways, where wolves learned to fight in human form with supernatural grace.

"Boston," she says suddenly, her voice hoarse from disuse. "Why Boston?"

Two words. More than I expected.

"Closest to pack territory. Secure. Medical facilities." I keep my own responses minimal, matching her economy.

She tilts her head, studying me. "Your sister."

Not a question. An acknowledgment. She knows why I was really there, has probably known since I bought her. The dreamwalker gift, if the auctioneer's claims held truth.

"Eight months," I confirm. "Taken from a gathering in Vermont."

Her fingers trace patterns on her thigh—unconscious movement that looks lik. "Not Vermont."

My blood stops. "What?"

She winces, as if the words physically hurt. "Taken from Vermont. Not... not held there."

"Where?"

But she's already retreating into herself, that brief window of communication slamming shut. Her eyes go distant, unfocused, seeing something beyond this plane. Her lips move again, and this time I catch fragments: "—paths dividing, three becomes one, the mountain burns but the snow remains—"

Then she screams.

The sound tears through the cabin like claws through silk. She's on her feet before I can move, backing against the window, her hands raised in defensive positions I recognize from Krav Maga. But she's not seeing me. She's seeing something else, something that makes her wolf surge so close to the surface that her eyes flash full gold.

"Fire," she gasps. "They're burning. All of them burning. The children in the basement, they can't—"

She lunges toward the jet's door.

I move without thinking, my body between her and the exit before she can reach it. She collides with my chest, and the contact sends electricity through every nerve ending I thought had frozen years ago. She's fever-hot against my perpetual cold, her small hands pressed against my chest as she tries to push past me.

"Feilian." Her name in my mouth for the first time. "You're on a plane. You're safe."

She blinks, and I watch awareness return in stages. First confusion, then recognition, then horror at our proximity. She stumbles backward, but I catch her elbow before she falls. Another shock of contact, her heat and my cold creating something like static electricity between us.

"I saw..." she starts, then stops. Swallows. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Tell me what you saw."

She stares at me for a long moment, and I wonder what she sees. The alpha who bought her? The brother desperate for answers? Or something else, something that makes her pupils dilate in a way that has nothing to do with fear?

"Montana," she whispers. "Underground. Silver mines. But I don't... I can't tell when. Could be now. Could be months ago. Could be next year."

Montana. I file the information away, already mentally reviewing pack territories in that region. The Copper Moon Pack controls most of the state, but there are rogues in the mountains, places where law doesn't reach.

"My sister?"

Feilian closes her eyes, her brow furrowing in concentration. When she opens them again, there's frustration mixed with something else. "Blonde? But also brown? She keeps... changing."

"Blonde," I confirm. "Like honey."

"Alive." The word comes out certain, solid. "Angry. So angry it burns. She's..." She pauses, searching for words. "Teaching others. Fighting. Planning."

The relief nearly drops me to my knees. Alive. Genevieve is alive and fighting. Of course she is. She's a Delacroix—we don't break, we just get sharper.

"Thank you."

Feilian nods, then sways slightly. I reach out to steady her, but she steps back, maintaining distance. The rejection shouldn't sting—I promised not to touch her without permission—but my wolf snarls at the separation.

"The man," she says suddenly. "At the auction. Russian. He's killed twelve."

"Volkov."

"He wanted me because..." She touches her temple. "I'm rare. Different. Exotic to him like an orchid." She shudders. "Takes and takes and takes until there's nothing left."

The temperature in the cabin drops ten degrees. Frost patterns spider across the window near my hand, and Feilian's eyes widen slightly.

"You're not normal alpha."

It's the longest sentence she's managed, and the effort seems to exhaust her.

"No," I agree. "The ice comes from my mother's line. Pre-Viking. When the world was younger and wolves were closer to gods than men."

She studies the frost patterns with something like recognition. "My grandmother spoke of ice wolves. Said they could freeze time itself when angry enough."

"Just blood," I correct. "And only with direct contact."

"Show me."

The request surprises us both. She looks startled at her own boldness, but doesn't retract the words.

I pick up the half-empty water bottle, wrap my fingers around it. Within seconds, the liquid inside turns solid, the plastic crackling under the pressure of expanding ice. When I set it down, frozen condensation coats my palm.

She reaches out, stops just short of touching my hand. "Cold?"

"Always."

"I run hot," she offers, like it's an equal exchange of information. "Mountain wolves burn like fever. Grandmother said it was because we're closer to the sun at altitude."

"May I?" I extend my hand, palm up. An invitation, not a demand.

She hesitates for so long I think she'll refuse. Then, with careful deliberation, she presses two fingers against my palm.

The contact is electric. Her heat meets my cold and creates something impossible—not warm, not cool, but perfectly balanced. For one moment, I feel what normal might be like.

She jerks back, cradling her hand against her chest. But there's wonder in her eyes now, mixed with the wariness.

"You're looking for who took her," she says. Not a question.

"Yes."

"I'll help."

"Why?"

She's quiet for so long I think we're done talking. Then: "The dreams. They show me things. Trafficking routes. Names. Faces. I see the network like a web, all connected. Your sister is one thread. Pull it, others come loose."

"And you want them loose?"

Her eyes flash gold again, and for a moment I see the wolf beneath—not broken, not tamed, but waiting. Calculating. Planning revenge with the patience of mountains.

"I want them dead."

The words are soft, almost gentle. That makes them infinitely more terrifying.

My phone buzzes. Tyler again: Helicopter waiting for you at Strauss. Medical team standing by. Holly wants to know omega status for room prep.

I look at Feilian, this slip of a girl who speaks in monosyllables and dreams in probability streams. Who runs hot where I run cold. Who makes my wolf pace with recognition of something I can't name.

Tell Holly she's not typical omega. Private room. Guards outside, not in. And Tyler? Maximum security. Something's coming.

"We land soon," I tell Feilian. "There will be a medical exam—"

"I'm not injured."

"Protocol."

She nods, understanding the dance of power and protection. "Your pack. Islands?"

"Peninsula. Private. Three thousand five hundred wolves, give or take." I pause. "You'll be safe there."

She makes a sound that might be amusement. "Safe is relative."

"From Volkov. From the auction house. From anyone who would use you."

"From you?"

The question hangs between us like a blade.

"Especially from me."

She tilts her head, that bird-like gesture that means she's seeing something beyond the present. "You burn," she says quietly. "Under all that ice. You burn so bright it blinds. But you think the cold keeps others safe from the fire."

I have no response to that. No one has ever seen through my control so easily, so completely.

"Your sister burns the same way. That's why they took her. Not for submission. For the fire. Someone collects flames."

The implications rewrite everything I thought I knew about Genevieve's abduction. Not random. Not opportunity. Targeted selection.

"Who?"

But Feilian's already lost in another probability stream, her eyes unfocused, her lips moving in that ancient language I don't recognize. I watch her chase visions through time, this broken prophet who makes my ice want to melt.

When she resurfaces, there's blood on her lip where she's bitten it.

"The dying man," she whispers. "The one who smells like silver rot. He's the spider. But also the web. But also..." She shakes her head, frustrated. "Time keeps folding. Past becomes future becomes now."

Leland. She's describing Leland without ever having met him.

The jet begins its descent, Boston's lights spreading below us like a constellation of possibilities. I watch Feilian curl back into her seat, smaller somehow, as if the visions have taken something from her.

"The medical exam," I say carefully. "Holly—our healer—she's gentle. Trauma-informed. If you need anything—"

"I need to find them." Her voice is steel wrapped in silk. "The ones who burned my grandmother. Ravaged and killed my sisters. The ones who took your sister. The ones who steal our kind and sell us like cattle."

"We will."

"And then?"

I let my control slip, just for a moment. Let her see the winter storm beneath the businessman's facade. Let her glimpse the monster who would freeze the world solid to protect what's his.

"Then we turn them all to ice and shatter them like glass."

She smiles—the first real expression I've seen from her. It's sharp and dangerous and beautiful as a blade in moonlight.

"Good."