Feral Omega: A Dark Reverse Harem Omegaverse Romance (Ghost Alpha Unit Book 1)

My eyes snap open, heart racing as I sit up in a panic. Unfamiliar walls, the sterile scent of disinfectant, wires and tubes snaking from my body…

Where am I?

The last thing I remember is running, desperate to escape Plague’s grasp, before collapsing into Thane’s arms as the world faded to black.

A gentle hand on my shoulder startles me, and I whip around to see Plague standing beside the bed, his presence both unnerving and strangely calming. ‘Easy, Ivy. You’re safe here,’ he says, his voice low and soothing through the mask. ‘I don’t want to have to sedate you again, but I can’t let you get so worked up. Just relax.’

I eye him warily, my muscles tense, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. But something in his demeanor, the way he speaks to me, makes me hesitate. Slowly, reluctantly, I allow myself to sink back against the pillows, never taking my gaze off him.

Plague nods, seemingly satisfied with my compliance. He begins to ask me questions, his tone gentle yet firm. ‘Do you know where you are, Ivy?’

I glance around the room, taking in the medical equipment, the stark white walls. A clinic of some sort, that much is clear. But beyond that, I have no idea. I shake my head, not trusting my voice to remain steady.

He hums thoughtfully, then reaches out to tilt my chin up, shining a light into my eyes. I flinch at the sudden brightness, but force myself to hold still as he examines me. His touch is surprisingly gentle, his movements precise and efficient.

‘You’re in my clinic,’ he explains, taking off one leather glove and replacing it with a thin blue one. ‘You’re perfectly safe here. I just need to make sure everything is as it should be.’This content is © NôvelDrama.Org.

When he reaches for my throat, I flinch, but he pauses with his hand hovering midair. ‘Just a brief exam. Nothing invasive, I promise.’

After another pause, as if waiting for me to protest, he tries again. This time, I don’t fight him as he gently presses his hand to the side of my throat. Feeling my pulse? My lymph nodes? He’s done in a second either way, moving on to my wrists.

As he works, my mind races with questions. Why am I here? What happened after I passed out? And most importantly, what does Plague want with me?

I’ve spent so long running, hiding, fighting against the system that seeks to control and break omegas like me. And now, here I am, at the mercy of one of their most formidable agents.

He checks my heartbeat next with his stethoscope, asks me to breathe deep a few times, and then looks in my ears and down my throat. Even up my nostrils, which is more embarrassing than I want to admit.

Plague finally steps back, apparently finished with his examination. ‘Your vitals are stable, and there doesn’t seem to be any lasting damage from the sedative,’ he says, more to himself than to me. ‘But you’ll need to rest and regain your strength.’

I stare at him, my eyes narrowed with distrust, my body still tense despite his assurances. How can I trust him? How can I trust any of them, after everything I’ve been through?

‘You were in a medically induced coma,’ Plague explains, his voice calm and even. ‘Your body was weak from starvation and badly dehydrated. I needed to give you time to heal.’

His words sink in slowly, and a wave of anger washes over me. They put me under, took away my control, my autonomy. Just like the Center always did. I open my mouth to protest, to demand answers, but Plague holds up a hand to silence me.

‘I know you’re upset, Ivy. But no one here is going to hurt you. You didn’t exactly win the pack lottery, being the Ghosts’ omega, but I can assure you, it’s much better than the Refinement Center.’

I shudder at the mention of the Center, memories of cold, sterile rooms and harsh, uncaring hands flooding my mind. The endless ‘training’ sessions, the punishments for the slightest infractions, the constant fear and despair. Anything would be better than going back there.

But that doesn’t mean they’re any less twisted. They’re alphas, after all. And in my experience, alphas only want one thing from omegas like me.

I try to sit up, to swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, but a sudden wave of dizziness washes over me. I can barely feel my legs, weak and unresponsive beneath the thin hospital blanket. Panic rises in my throat—what have they done to me?

Plague is at my side in an instant, his hands firm but gentle as he eases me back down onto the bed. ‘Easy, Ivy. You’re still weak. It’s going to take time for your body to recover.’

I want to fight him, to push him away and run, but I know it’s futile. Even if I could stand, where would I go? The Center would find me, drag me back to that hellish place. At least here, with the Ghosts, I might have a chance at escape later.

I lay back against the pillows, my mind racing with questions and fears. Plague seems to sense my unease, his voice softening as he speaks. ‘The sedative will take some time to work out of your system, Ivy. You need to take things slow, give your body a chance to adjust.’

He tilts his head, studying me intently. ‘Are you thirsty?’

I hesitate, my throat parched and aching, but the fear of what they might have put in the water holds me back. Slowly, I nod, watching him warily as he reaches for a glass on the nearby table.

Plague pauses, his hand hovering over the glass as he notices my apprehension. With a sigh, he reaches up and begins to remove his mask, the hiss of released air making me flinch.

As the mask comes away, I find myself staring, transfixed by the face beneath. He’s stunning, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and piercing eyes that seem to see straight into my soul. His inky hair is even longer than Thane’s. It falls in soft waves around his shoulders, framing his elegant but masculine features.

I’m so caught off guard by his appearance that I almost miss the way he raises the glass to his own lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip of the water. He swallows, then holds the glass out to me, his eyes never leaving mine.

Tentatively, I reach out and take the glass, my fingers brushing against his gloved hand. The water is cool and soothing as it slides down my throat, and before I know it, I’ve drained the entire glass. Plague watches me, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he refills the glass from a pitcher.

‘Drink slowly,’ he cautions, handing the glass back to me. ‘Too much too fast and you’ll make yourself sick.’

I bristle at the command, hating the way my body automatically wants to obey. That’s the worst thing about alphas. Even more than their brutality and their lecherous ways, it’s the fact that my own body wants to take commands from them, no matter how much I despise their kind.

But the thirst is overwhelming, and I find myself sipping the water more cautiously, savoring each cool mouthful.

As I drink, I can’t help but study Plague, trying to reconcile the intimidating, mysterious figure I’ve come to fear with the man standing before me. He’s younger than I expected, perhaps in his early thirties, and there’s a weariness in his eyes that speaks of a life filled with hardship and struggle.

But there’s also a strength there, a quiet confidence that both unnerves and intrigues me. I’ve spent so long viewing alphas as the enemy, as the ones who seek to control and dominate omegas like me. But Plague seems different somehow, more complex than the ruthless agent I’d imagined him to be.

I finish the second glass of water, feeling the cool liquid settle in my empty stomach. Plague takes the glass from me, setting it aside before fixing me with an intense stare.

‘I know you don’t trust me, Ivy. And I don’t blame you. The world has given you every reason to be wary of alphas, especially ones like me.’

He leans in closer, his voice low and earnest. ‘But I promise you, I’m not going to hurt you. None of the Ghosts will.’

A part of me wants to believe him, wants to let myself hope that I’ve found a place where I can be safe. But the scars on my body and soul run too deep, the memories of betrayal and pain too fresh.

I turn away from Plague, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. ‘I can’t trust anyone,’ I whisper, my voice hoarse with emotion. ‘Not even myself.’

Plague is silent for a long moment, and I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost gentle.

‘Trust is earned, Ivy. And I intend to earn yours, no matter how long it takes.’

I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know what to make of it.

It’s a lie. It has to be. But what reason does he have?

I can’t understand him. Any of them.

‘Well, you must be hungry,’ he says suddenly. ‘Should we try something light? Toast? Rice, perhaps?’

I stare at him in silence, and shake my head.

He sighs. ‘Yes, I heard from the servants you refused to eat. I had you on a feeding tube while you were out, so if your throat is a bit scratchy, that’s why,’ he explains. ‘But I’m afraid if you continue to refuse eating solids on your own, it’ll have to go back in.’

I blanche at the threat, my mouth still dry even though I just drank. Everything hurts, so it’s hard to notice anything in particular, but now that he’s brought it to my attention, I can’t stop thinking about the dull ache in my throat.

‘That’s what I thought,’ he says, walking over to the door. ‘Stay put.’

He leaves the room, and I look around, immediately trying to will my legs to swing over the edge of the bed but they won’t budge. The feeling is only starting to come back in my toes and it’s excruciating.

Fuck.

Just as I’m starting to pick at the IV in the crook of my arm, he returns carrying a plate from what I assume is the dining hall. Whatever it is, it doesn’t have a strong smell, which I’m grateful for, since I feel so queasy it’s hard to hold the water down.

When I see that it’s just plain toast with butter, I’m torn between the kneejerk impulse to refuse food, and the hunger that springs alive in the pit of my stomach like some ancient monster brought back to life.

‘It’s not exactly five-star cuisine, but I figured it would be easy on your stomach,’ he says, setting the plate on the table next to the bed. He takes off the thin blue glove on his right hand, which is as much of a contradiction as the rest of him. His fingers are long and elegant, but the shape of his hand is still strong, and there are callouses where a surgeon’s blade—or a killer’s—has clearly rested many times before.

I’m sure he’s killed more than he’s saved.

When he picks up the toast and offers it to me, I flinch instinctively.

‘What, you think it’s poison, too?’ he asks, taking a bite off the corner. ‘See? It’s safe.’

I continue to stare at him in defiance, if only because I’ve come this far. He might be gentler than those creeps at the Refinement Center, but he’s still an alpha and I refuse to take food from his hand like a dog.

He tilts his head, studying me with that damned curiosity glinting in his pale blue eyes. He’s somehow no less menacing without the golden lenses and the mask.

‘What’s the matter? You must be hungry,’ he reasons.

Before I can deny it, my stomach growls. Traitor.

Plague chuckles, a deep yet smooth, melodic sound that fills me with rage and something else I’d rather not acknowledge. ‘I’m not going to force you,’ he says, placing the partially eaten toast back on the plate. ‘But you have to eat sooner or later. It’s up to you to decide how.’

With that, he rises again and leaves through the second door in the room. I assume the other one probably leads out into a hallway, but this one leads into a larger clinic where he’d certainly see me if I tried to run past him. He disappears from view every so often, but always ends up pacing back and forth, moving things here or there.

I glance back at the toast once I’m sure he’s not watching and my stomach gurgles in desperation. I swipe the uneaten slice off the plate and take a bite, and despite the simplicity of the plain bread with a little bit of butter, it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. The butter glides over my tongue and melts, supple and sweet, and the crunch of the toast yields to the chewy center of the bread.

I devour the toast in a matter of seconds, my hunger taking over as I shove the last few bites into my mouth. The taste of the butter lingers on my tongue, rich and satisfying, and for a moment, I almost forget where I am, lost in the simple pleasure of finally having something in my stomach.

But then my eyes fall on the half-eaten slice, the one Plague took a bite from, and reality comes crashing back. I hesitate, my hand hovering over the plate, torn between my pride and the gnawing ache in my belly.

It’s not giving in, I tell myself, snatching up the toast and shoving it into my mouth before I can change my mind. He didn’t hand it to me, didn’t force me to eat from his fingers like a pet. This is different. This is survival.

I chew slowly, savoring every crumb, trying to ignore the fact that his lips touched this same piece of bread just moments before. It doesn’t mean anything.

As I swallow the last bite, I feel a strange mix of satisfaction and shame. I’ve managed to eat, to nourish my weakened body, but at what cost? Am I already starting to bend, to break under the weight of my captivity?

No. I refuse to let that happen. I’ve fought too hard, survived too much to let them win now. Even if my body is weak, my spirit is strong. I won’t let them break me.

I glance toward the door where Plague disappeared, wondering what game he’s playing. Why didn’t he force me to eat from his hand, like the alphas at the Center always did? Why give me the choice, the illusion of control?

Is it a trick, a way to lull me into a false sense of security? Or is there something more to him, something I’m missing?

I shake my head, pushing the thoughts away. I can’t afford to dwell on his motives, can’t let myself be swayed by a few moments of seeming kindness. He’s still my captor, still one of them. And I won’t forget that, no matter how gentle his touch or how soothing his voice.

I lean back against the pillows, my stomach finally settling now that it has something to digest. But the relief is short-lived, the ever-present fear and uncertainty creeping back in as I stare at the sterile white walls of my prison.

What happens now? What do they want from me, these demons who have taken me from one hell only to deliver me to another? And how long before they tire of this game, before they show their true colors and take what they really want?

I close my eyes, trying to calm the racing of my heart. I have to stay strong, have to keep my wits about me. I’ve survived this long on my own, and I’ll find a way to survive this too. No matter what they throw at me, no matter what twisted plans they have in store, I won’t let them break me.

But even as I cling to that resolve, I can feel the exhaustion tugging at me, the toll of my ordeal weighing heavy on my battered body and mind. How much longer can I keep fighting, keep resisting, when every fiber of my being is screaming for rest, for respite?

I don’t know. And that terrifies me more than anything else. Because if I can’t trust my own strength, my own will to keep going, then what chance do I have against them?

A single tear escapes, sliding down my cheek and onto the pillow beneath my head. I don’t bother to wipe it away, too tired to care about showing weakness.

And so I let myself drift, let the exhaustion take me under, praying that when I wake, I’ll find the strength to face whatever comes next. Because giving up, giving in? That’s not an option. Not now, not ever.