Alpha & Omega by J.L. Aarne (Vicious Traditions #1)
English | 2020 | Romance, Paranormal | MM| ePUB | 2.8 MB
Sam grew up knowing that one day he would be the alpha of his pack. He was groomed to lead from a young age and certain of his destiny, until without warning, everything he knew changed. Instead of leading his pack, Sam became their omega, submissive to their every desire and subject to their most violent whims. He could escape and live among the humans, but Owen, the man Sam loves, is his alpha and he can’t imagine leaving him, or abandoning his family. Sometimes it feels like their love is doomed anyway, and Sam has to ask himself, is love really worth it?
I’m dead, he thought. That’s what I am. I’m going to pretend that I’m dead and then if I pretend long enough, it’ll be true.
Why do you do this to yourself? The voice that asked this question sounded a lot like his own, but it was the voice of a younger Sam. Sam before he’d been injured; Sam when his life had held such promise. Sam, the boy who would one day be king, never understood why.
He used to know the answer to that question. Once, he would have had an easy and logical reason for why, but every year it got harder and harder to remember what those reasons were. Harder to believe it even when he did remember.
He pictured himself dead there on the floor. Nothing would change very much at first. He would get colder and colder. His skin would become pale in places, dark and almost black in others. Because he was on his side, the blood would settle and the left side of his body would turn black. The insects would come. His eyes would turn brown then black. His lips would pull back from his teeth in a grimace that looked like a scream of pain, but there wouldn’t be any pain. All of that would be over.
“The former things have passed away,” he whispered. He chuffed a soft breath of humorless laughter.
He could smell himself, Sam realized. He smelled like sweat and fear, dust, laundry detergent, pain and blood. He smelled like Slade and like Slade’s come. He could still feel the hollow ache in his body from the way he’d pushed the hammer handle inside of him. It had a rubber grip and Slade didn’t bother with anything to lubricate it—he never did—so it stuck inside and pulled and tore at him as Slade drove it in, pumped it inside him while Sam bit his lips bloody not to scream. He’d still screamed though. In his mouth, with his lips bit tightly closed, he hadn’t been able to help it. And Slade, like some actor in the world’s most sadistic porno, breathing heavy, panting, getting off on it, asking him if he liked that, Yeah, you like that, Sammy, you like that? Take it. Fucking take it. Don’t be shy.
Just picturing it, watching it and listening to it play over in his head, reliving it, Sam wanted to die all over again. He turned his head and retched. Nothing came up, but he felt his stomach lurch. He moaned and tried to go back to thinking about nothing. About being dead. That was better than remembering the way it had hurt, the way Slade panted, the things he said while he did it, mocking him, the rumble of his laughter.