Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10757256.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      England/France_(Hetalia), America/Russia_(Hetalia), Canada/Prussia_
      (Hetalia), Denmark/Norway_(Hetalia), Finland/Sweden_(Hetalia)
  Character:
      England_(Hetalia), France_(Hetalia), America_(Hetalia), Canada_(Hetalia),
      Prussia_(Hetalia), Russia_(Hetalia), Denmark_(Hetalia), Norway_(Hetalia),
      Sweden_(Hetalia), Finland_(Hetalia), Iceland_(Hetalia)
  Additional Tags:
      Omega_Verse, Alpha/Omega, Mpreg, Gay_Sex, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Mating,
      FACE_Family, Politics, Medieval, Romance, War, Fantasy, Alternate
      Universe
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-29 Updated: 2018-03-15 Chapters: 27/? Words: 167755
****** The Call of the Wild ******
by Shadowcatxx
Summary
     Omegaverse AU. When fifteen-year-old Omega Arthur gets pregnant, he
     must hide it or be exiled from his clan. His one condolence is that
     Francis, the exiled Alpha responsible, left him without a word.
     Arthur needs to escape; Francis needs to belong. But when they're
     unexpectedly reunited at the Standing Stones, both of their resolves
     will be tested—for better or worse.
     Fifteen years later, it's Al and Matt's turn to be tested as they're
     cast into a world of war, romance, and political scandal.
     FRUK. RUSAME. PRUCAN. FACE Family. DENNOR. SUFIN. :)
Notes
     DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
     Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names &
     relationships. Since the British Isles—excluding England—don't have
     official Hetalia human-names, I borrowed these from the tumblr
     account: Ask The U.K. Bros :) (I also decided to include Ireland for
     historic reasons, and cast him as North Ireland's twin-brother.)
     This story is an Omegaverse AU.
     For those of you who would prefer to read "Renegades" in Chinese, you
     can find it here:
     http://axia1006.lofter.com/post/1ea34b56_1122d8cd
     Thank-you very much to the lovely and talented translator,
     AxiaAndhisMac. :)
***** Renegades - Prologue *****
                             THE_CALL_OF_THE_WILD
                                   PART ONE
                                   RENEGADES
CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
ENGLAND                 Arthur Kirkland
FRANCE                    Francis Bonnefoi
SCOTLAND               Allistor (Scott) Kirkland
WALES                      Owen Kirkland
NORTH IRELAND       Liam Kirkland
IRELAND                   Patrick Kirkland
AMERICA                  Alfred Kirkland
CANADA                  Matthew Kirkland
===============================================================================
THE ISLES
OCTOBER
Arthur tensed and squeezed his green eyes shut as another wave of Heat-induced
fervor rocked him. It made him sweat. It was stuffy in the tiny, one-room
storehouse, and his heart was beating fast, pumping hormone-infused blood
through every sensitive vein. He tried to keep his mind focused on breathing
deeply, meditatively, but a pitiful whine escaped him. The sound brought tears
to his eyes as his thoughts shifted to his slicked thighs and aching cock. His
body wanted more than what fleeting relief his own trembling ministrations
could give it. It wanted release. He couldn't stand the prolonged, repeated
torment of getting no satisfaction every month. It had been two years since his
first Heat. He wanted—needed—to be mated.
                Eventually, the desire lulled into a throbbing ache and Arthur
was able to fall into an uneasy sleep. He curled into a defensive ball in the
nest he had tediously arranged on the storehouse floor. It was insulated with
soft, tanned hides covered in multicoloured furs, and braced with hand-stitched
fleece pillows. His older brothers, despite teasing and complaining, had tried
to make Arthur as comfortable as possible, but the small, low-ceilinged shed
still felt like a prison. Even though he knew it was necessary, it still felt
like a punishment. His parents had had five pups—five!—but Arthur was the only
Omega. It might not have been so bad if Arthur's Omega-mother had lived to
guide her young son into adolescence, but she had died after giving birth to
the twins. Then, six months later, trying to feed his newborns, their Alpha-
father had died unexpectedly in a hunting accident. Arthur didn't remember
anything about either of his parents; his only memory was his Alpha-father's
grizzled corpse with the throat ripped open. He had left behind five helpless
pups, the eldest of which was only twelve. Scott (his given-name was Allistor,
but Arthur had nicknamed him Scott as a pup) had tried to be the parent his
younger brothers had needed, and in many ways he had succeeded with the Alphas,
but Arthur was different. Scott didn't know what to do with an Omega-brother,
whose weakness he didn't understand. So when Arthur's first Heat had disturbed
their little home at thirteen-years-old, Scott had taken him out to the edge of
the evergreen forest and locked him in the storehouse, safely out of sight. Two
years had passed since then, and now, at fifteen, Arthur had repeated the
unpleasant experience twenty-two times.
                In the early morning, Arthur awoke covered in sweat and slick
and panting hard. It had been a restless sleep submerged in carnal dreams that
merged uncomfortably into reality. He whined loudly, calling-out in pain and
sexual frustration as his body thrashed from side-to-side, trying to fight the
on-coming, recurring desire to be mated.
                "I want—I want—" he moaned aloud, arching his back as need
consumed him. "O-oh—!"
                I want an Alpha. I want a tall,strong,handsome Alpha with a
pretty face, he fantasized. He closed his eyes in defeat and let the Heat-wave
wash over him. He clawed insistently at the nest. I want him. I want to hear
his voice whispering my name;groaning my name. I want to drive him mad with
desire. I want to feel his hands on me,his muscular body pressed against me;
gently at first,then harder,faster,deeper. I want him to take me. I want him to
possess me,to make me cry-out. I want him to make me feel special,like the only
Omega in the world. I want him to make me mad for him. I want him to fill me
with his cock—his seed—his pups.
                "Gah-ah!" he gasped, trying and failing to give himself some
temporary relief, but it only aroused him more.
                The dream-Alpha filled Arthur's senses. It was erotic. He could
smell the salty sweetness of the Alpha's heady sweat, like someone who had been
running for a long time. He smelled strongly of pheromones, which pulled a
husky moan from Arthur in response. The heat of the Alpha's body mixed with the
tang of hormones and the crispness of the late-October wind. The wilderness
clung to him. Arthur heard it in his heartbeat, quickened by desire. It was a
strong heartbeat, pumping hot blood through his veins. He heard a sharp intake
of breath, and then a rasping whisper in an unknown language.
                Why would I dream of a language I don't know?
                When Arthur opened his eyes he saw the storehouse door hanging
ajar, the lock broken. And there, bathed in silver moonlight, tangles of ash-
blonde hair blowing in the wind, stood a young Alpha: tall and strong and
handsome.
                The Omega blinked unbidden tears from his eyes. His voice was
soft and desperate when he said: "Are you a dream?"
                The Alpha stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Non,"
he said.
                And he took Arthur's reaching hand.
***** Renegades - Chapter One *****
 THE ISLES
JUNE
Son-of-a-bitch!" he cursed. The coarse fabric stretched taut over his swollen
abdomen, but the buttons refused to meet. It was an ugly olive-green tunic that
Arthur had stitched with fibre-spun thread, intending the garment for house-
labour, not as a fashion statement. He had already let the sides out, expanding
the slight waist; otherwise he couldn't have gotten it on over the boxy smock
he wore underneath, which was little more than a recycled sack with sleeves. He
tried again, falling onto his back on the low bed as he shimmied from left-to-
right, grunting as he strained the thin fabric. If he couldn't even get the
buttons fastened, then he would never get his belt on. But if he didn't, Scott
would ask questions. It wasn't as if Arthur had a large cache of clothes to
choose from, after all, and Scott hated waste.
                As if on-cue, Scott's brogue shouted in warning:
                "If you're not fucking ready in five fucking minutes, I'm
dragging you out by your ears, Art! Damned Omega," he sighed irritably. His
voice was loud and penetrated the oak walls. He was talking to Owen in the main
room. "You'd think he was actually something pretty to look at the way he's
been fussing over himself lately," he complained loudly. "He never used to
care."
                "He's fifteen now, Scott. That's just how Omegas are," said
Owen sagely, though he was an Alpha like Scott. "He's technically an adult by
clan-law, which makes him eligible to mate. Omegas come-of-age younger than
Alphas, you know that. Alphas have their skills; Omegas have their faces. It's
his looks that'll impress an Alpha at the Stones."
                "Aye, well"—Scott intentionally raised his voice—"he's not
impressing anyone here acting like a bloody clan-whelp!"
                (Clan-whelp was a very derogatory term used to describe the
privileged pups of the Clan Leader, who, purely through nepotism, were granted
the best of everything, and were therefore held in contempt by those born to a
lower station in the clan hierarchy.)
                "Face it, Art! No amount of fussing can magic-off freckles!" He
barked in laughter. "Forget it. Your best hope is to find an Alpha who prefers
mating from behind, that way he won't have to look at you—"
                "Scott!" Owen chastised. But Arthur was barely listening.
                He didn't want to think about Alphas. It was an Alpha who had
gotten him into this state, after all.
                He finally managed to fasten a single button, but his victory
was short-lived. The instant he straightened and stood, it snapped. "Oh,
bloody-hell!" he hissed in frustration.
                He had always been a skinny Omega, but the ragged hand-me-down
tunic, which had always been too big for him before, had been the last article
of his clothing with a chance at fitting; at hiding his steadily growing
mistake. In defeat, he sat on the bed and rubbed habitually at his swollen
abdomen. The unborn pup inside was restless. Again. It had prevented him from
getting a decent night's sleep for at least a month. And it was hungry. It was
always hungry. Arthur would have eaten a stag to himself if allowed.
Unfortunately, because of the pack's annual migration, food was being rationed
to sustain them all for the journey south. The pack he and his brothers
belonged to was a big one; one of the biggest in the whole clan. The pack's
hunters—Scott and Owen were both hunters—had combed their territory for a
fortnight seeking prey to feed them all. Despite that knowledge, Arthur's
stomach growled.
                "I'm sorry," he whispered as he stroked his abdomen. "I can't
feed you, not now."
                He felt a kick, as if in protest.
                Feeling annoyed, Arthur struggled to his feet. His body felt
heavy, as if he was carrying the weight of rocks instead of a pup. It was a
strong, active pup. And it's big, he thought, not for the first time. How else
could the size of his abdomen be explained? He had seen pregnant Omegas before,
but few had developed as quickly as Arthur had. If someone had questioned his
unfashionable choice of attire, his state would have been obvious. Except for
his perfectly round belly, the rest of him still looked worryingly underfed.
Briefly, he panicked about having to give birth to such a large pup, but he
quickly buried the thought. The night-terrors he suffered were bad enough
without scaring himself into a panic-attack. It had been six months since his
last episode, and for his pup's sake he wanted to stretch it for as long as
possible. He had promised to keep himself healthy for the duration of his
pregnancy, regardless of the strange looks his brothers gave him for changing
his lifestyle. It had been over eight months now, and it hadn't been easy. His
brothers were suspicious of his behaviour, he knew, but fortunately they blamed
it on his coming-of-age.  It was lucky that none of them would ever expect
their introverted, law-abiding Omega-brother of getting himself pregnant before
he was pair-bonded. It was illegal by clan-law, the punishment for which was
exile.
                It was why Arthur couldn't risk his brothers finding out, no
matter what. Owen might be sympathetic, but Scott would be furious. (The twins,
Liam and Patrick, being only ten-years-old, wouldn't care.) If Arthur's secret
was found out, not only would it effect him, but it would hurt his family's
reputation. They wouldn't be exiled, like Arthur, but any hope Scott had
harboured of climbing the ranks would vanish. No one would trust the ability of
an Alpha who couldn't even protect his brother, and that included the clan's
other Omegas. If the pack discovered that Arthur was illegally pregnant, Scott
would take the blame and his chance of finding an Omega to mate would all but
disappear. Because if Scott couldn't protect his own Omega-brother, how on
earth could he be trusted to protect a mate and pups? Scott might have been an
inconsiderate dick to Arthur most of the time, but he was still the head of
their family, and, technically, the only parent that Arthur had ever known. The
last thing he wanted was for his brothers to suffer for his mistake.
                "Art!" Scott hollered impatiently. He banged on the bedchamber
wall.
                "I'm coming! Just give me a minute!" Arthur replied; half-
annoyed, half-frantic.
                Defeated, he discarded the tunic and grabbed an old tartan
instead, twisting it over his smock and knotting it at his pelvis to hide his
abdomen. It hung in sun-bleached folds from his skinny frame, but it was the
best he could do on short-notice. Quickly, he packed his few belongings into a
satchel, taking especial care of an apothecary box with a false bottom. He had
acquired it eight months ago from a hedgewitch in the valley, along with the
knowledge of how to brew several potions that would aid him in hiding and
soothing his pregnancy. There was a sleeping draught, an antidote for nausea,
and an opioid for pain relief, but the most vital potion numbed his scent. It
was important that he took it twice daily, because otherwise his brothers would
be able to smell the obvious change in his hormones.
                (As an evolutionary necessity, Alphas had incredibly sensitive
noses for tracking and hunting; Omegas had sensitive ears for defense and the
benefit of their crying pups.)
                Arthur still thought it was a miracle that his brothers hadn't
smelled the Alpha on him when he had returned from his Heat on the night he had
conceived, though a bath in scalding saltwater had thoroughly cleansed him. On
the outside, at least. But he couldn't spend nine uncomfortable months
submerged in saltwater, which is why the potion was needed. Before he packed
his supply of it into the false bottom of the box, he took a dose just to be
safe. He didn't know when he would be able to sneak another as long as they
were travelling. In retrospect, it was a good thing that he was forced to wear
Scott's old tartan, because the Alpha's pungent scent coated Arthur's skin,
curtailing suspicion.
                He locked the apothecary box and stuffed it into his satchel
just as Scott's shadow proceeded him.
                Their home was tiny, but, though his Alpha-brothers had to
share rooms, Arthur had a room to himself since he was the only Omega. It was
small, but Scott's presence made it feel even smaller. He stood just across the
threshold with his muscular arms crossed over a wide chest. He looked like a
hunter, a warrior. He was tall and broad with long, strong limbs, and he
possessed a physical prowess that emanated self-confidence. Few of the pack's
hunters were as successful as he was, and few of their fighters were more
revered. There was something in Scott's Celtic features that he and Arthur
shared, but otherwise they were opposites. The only trait that they had
both—all—inherited from their Omega-mother was their eyes, the shape and
colour, which was a fierce Lincoln-green. Those luminous eyes pierced Arthur
now with a good deal of impatience as Scott stared. Arthur felt his heartbeat
pound as he waited for his eldest brother to speak, fearing, as he had for over
eight months, that today would be the unlucky day Scott found out.
                In Omega-like (but un-Arthur-like) submission, he bowed his
head.
                "That's what we've been waiting for?" Scott looked at his old
tartan anticlimactically. Then he rolled his eyes. "C'mon, freckle-face, it's
time to go."
===============================================================================
This tastes like absolute pish," Scott complained. Despite that, he took
another bite. "It's burnt fucking black!"
                Arthur scowled. "I like it this way," he lied in self-defense.
                It was late. The pack had been walking across-country all day,
steadily growing in numbers as other packs in the vicinity joined the migration
south. In a few days, every clan on the Isles would meet at the Standing Stones
to celebrate the Summer Solstice. It was a big festival, wherein alliances were
formed; wherein pack-members would swear fealty to their Clan Leaders; wherein
un-bonded Alphas and Omegas who had come-of-age in the past year would be
allowed to find mates. Inter-clan breeding was encouraged because it
strengthened bloodlines and family alliances, but, even so, most members still
preferred to mate within their own clan. It had been twenty-five years since
the last clan feud ended, but one generation was not long enough to forget the
pain, deceit, and suspicion. It was not long enough to forgive the Hunts, when
rival clans had deliberately hunted and murdered the pups of their enemies. It
had been a very dark time, one Arthur was glad to have missed. It had finally
ended when one of the Clan Leader's Alpha-pups had abducted his rival's Omega-
pup and committed suicide after raping and killing him. He had only been
fifteen-years-old; the Omega had been thirteen. The clans had come to an uneasy
peace after that, and began the trend of inter-clan mating in an attempt to
mend past wounds and prevent future ones. But the packs were weary of change.
Arthur's Omega-mother had been the first in his genealogy to mate outside of
her clan. In fact, she had gone even further and mated an Alpha from the
Mainland, which was rare. If Arthur's Alpha-father had been a weak Alpha, the
couple might have been ostracized, but he had distinguished himself quickly. He
had been strong, a good hunter and a talented fighter, and the clan had revered
him for it in much the same way they revered Scott now.
                "I can't eat this," Scott said, making no effort to stop. He
talked with a full mouth. "You're so fucking useless, Art. I pity the poor
blighter who takes you home. Your cooking is shite; your sewing is shoddy; and
you couldn't catch a fucking coney to save your life."
                Arthur felt himself tense in self-defense. Deliberately, he
swallowed too big a mouthful of meat, to prove that he liked it, and started
choking. He needed Owen to pound him on the back before he spit it out, to
which Scott rolled his eyes, no doubt irritated at Arthur's waste of food.
                "Oh, aye. You're a right fierce one, you are, freckle-face," he
said condescendingly. "Forget your mate; I pity your poor pups."
                The secretly pregnant Omega clutched his midsection
protectively and glared at Scott. The Alpha's offhand comment angered him,
probably because it seconded Arthur's biggest fear: that he would be a horrible
Omega-father to his pup, unable to provide for it. He didn't need Scott to
remind him, as if the self-degrading thought didn't already haunt him.
                Scott was sitting across the campfire, leaning against a
gnarled tree, and sucking the marrow from a bone. The twins flanked him, both
asleep on his lap. The three of them looked so alike, with definable red hair
and pale skin. The twins have way more freckles than I do, Arthur thought of
Liam and Patrick, annoyed at Scott's preference for them. (Scott never tried to
hide the fact that the twins were his favourites. He had raised them from
infancy, after all.) A few feet away, Owen was tuning a stringed instrument to
avoid getting involved in Scott and Arthur's argument. To an outsider, Owen
might have looked adopted. He was significantly darker than his brothers, with
smooth olive-toned skin and dark brown curls, but even he had inherited their
Omega-mother's green eyes. He was strong, though there was a subtle elegance in
his figure and movements that his brothers lacked. Arthur might have inherited
that same grace if he wasn't so clumsy. He was the only blonde in the family,
like his Alpha-father had been. But that's where the similarities between he
and the Mainlander ended. Arthur had a delicate, faerie-like body. As a pup it
had been cute, but adolescence had not changed his looks as much as he had
hoped. His delicate body had not filled-out, nor had his features defined. He
remained skinny and soft, like an underdeveloped pup. He wasn't tall, or
strong, and he had suffered from mysterious panic-attacks for as long as he
could remember.
                I hope you inherit your Papa's genes,not mine, he thought to
his unborn pup. I hope you're tall and strong like him,like your uncles. I hope
you're healthy. I hope you get those pretty blue eyes.
                "Oi, freckle-face!" Scott snapped. "Did you hear me?"
                Arthur blinked. He was absently rubbing his abdomen. "What—?"
                "Fuck, you're useless," Scott repeated. He pointed to the
river. "Go fetch some water."
                Arthur glanced between his lazy Alpha-brothers, two of whom
were sleeping, and one who was avoiding eye-contact. "Why me?" he challenged.
                "Because you're the one who's been shirking-off all day, you
bloody clan-whelp."
                It wasn't a lie; not from Scott's perspective. The Omega had
had a hard time keeping up with his brothers all day, which meant that the
family had fallen behind the whole pack. But he couldn't defend himself with
the truth, so he was forced to suffer his brothers' complaints. He couldn't
explain why he was moving so slowly, or why his entire body ached, or why he
felt exhausted and lightheaded. Eventually, Scott had taken Arthur's satchel
and added it to his own load, growling at Arthur for being weak. The twins had
poked fun at him, jogging circles around him like gnats. After that, Arthur had
been left alone. They hadn't asked him to do anything except to keep walking.
He hadn't been asked to help scout a place to camp, or fetch firewood, or
unpack their rations. The only thing they had decided he was capable of was
cooking—because none of them liked to—which Arthur had done less than
satisfactorily, if Scott was to be believed.
                "Are you ill?" Owen asked as Arthur struggled to his feet. "You
look pale, Art. And you're all sweaty," he said, feeling Arthur's forehead.
"You're not going into Heat, are you?"
                It was a legitimate concern, since there was nowhere to retreat
to while traveling. If Arthur went into Heat on the road, the family would have
to leave the migration and find somewhere to lock Arthur for three to five
days, which would make them late to the gathering. It would be unavoidable, but
his Alpha-brothers wouldn't thank him for it. It had happened once before, two
years ago, when Arthur was thirteen. At least, he consoled himself,that's
impossible now. The absence of Heats was the only benefit of being pregnant in
Arthur's opinion, not that he hadn't had to fake it since last December.
                I'll be so glad when this is all over. But he knew that was
untrue. When this is over—he hugged his middle—I'll have a pup to provide
for,and I won't have my brothers to help me.
                As soon as his pup was born, to avoid further trouble, Arthur
would have to leave the pack.
                "I'm going," he growled at Scott, taking a flask.
                In a show of displeasure, he clenched his fists and marched
indignantly to the riverside. There, however, his anger dissolved and he sunk
to his knees. The water was cold, but the night was hot. He reached beneath the
surface, letting the flask fill. He stayed there for a long time, until his
submerged hands were stiff with cold. Then, safely out of sight of the
campsite, he hung his head and cried.
===============================================================================
By the time Arthur returned to the campsite, his brothers had unpacked several
sleeping-rolls and were stretched out across them, taking up so much space that
there was hardly room left for Arthur. It wasn't as comfortable a bed as his at
home, which was a wood-and-bone frame covered in tanned hides and piled high
with furs, but it was preferable to sleeping on the ground. Not that the Alphas
seemed bothered. Scott and Owen were each lying on their sides, Scott facing
east, Owen facing west, with the twins squeezed safely between them. The
redheaded pups slept like rocks and probably hadn't even flinched when moved.
Patrick's paper-soft snores were muted against Liam's back, his red head
pillowed on his arms; Liam snuggled close to Owen, drooling on him. Scott
looked like he was asleep, but he grunted in acknowledgement when Arthur laid
down, keeping space between them. It meant lying on the edge of the sleeping-
roll, but he didn't want to be too close to Scott lest the Alpha discover his
changed shape. As a precaution, he didn't undress to his underclothes either;
he kept everything on, including the tartan. The fire had burnt down to embers,
and he watched the soft red glow as he settled down, trying to find a position
to sleep in that didn't agitate his unborn pup. His pup was restless, as
always. It kicked as Arthur shifted, but eventually he gave up.
                Go to sleep, he begged it, feeling the day's long journey gnaw
at his energy reserve. He felt completely spent. All he wanted to do was sleep,
and he wished more than anything that his pup would let him. Please,my wee
darling. I know that you're still hungry,but please just give me a few hours of
rest.
                "Art—?" Scott's voice was gruff, sleep-heavy. "Are you cold,
little brother?"
                Arthur stopped moving and closed his eyes, pretending to be
asleep. He didn't want to talk to Scott, afraid of an argument. He stiffened as
Scott leant close enough to study the Omega; Arthur could feel his body-heat.
No doubt, he wondered why Arthur had chosen not to undress, but Omegas didn't
produce as much body-heat as Alphas did, so he probably did believe Arthur was
cold. He almost flinched when Scott's callused hand tentatively felt his
forehead, testing his temperature. He thinks I'm asleep, he knew. Scott rarely
touched him so tenderly. It reminded Arthur of his childhood, when Scott and
Owen had tried to soothe him by touch whenever he was sad, or sick, or scared.
                Suddenly, he recalled a time long ago when he had fallen
through some thin ice and caught the cold-death, which was often fatal,
especially for young pups. Arthur had been six-years-old. The pack's medicine-
man had come and gone and pronounced the skinny Omega-pup a goner. "There's no
hope for him, he's too small and weak," he had reported to Scott. But he and
Owen had been determined to prove him wrong; to keep Arthur alive. They had
stayed up all night, taking turns holding Arthur and force-feeding him warm
milk. Scott had stoked the fire while Owen had paced, rubbing Arthur's back as
he repeated: "Don't fall asleep, Art. You can't fall asleep." Then, when it was
his turn, Scott had wrapped his arms around Arthur and held him close to his
body. The Alpha had only been thirteen-years-old, but even then he had been a
survivor. And he expected Arthur to be one, too.
                "You're alright, Art. Don't be scared, little brother, you're
going to be fine," he told his only Omega-brother. "You're a Kirkland, aye?
You're a fighter just like the rest of us. We don't lie down for anyone, not
even for the Reaper. You're strong, Art, I know you are. I know it because
you're my blood. Are you cold, little brother? I'll keep you warm," he had
promised, blanketing Arthur in his cloak. The scent had soothed Arthur then, as
it did now.
                Arthur was surprised to find that same cloak—the one Scott had
been wearing all day—draped over him now like a blanket. It was heavy, but
soft. And best of all, it was familiar. It smelled like his brother and of
home. He didn't want Scott to know he was awake, but he couldn't help burying
his nose in the weathered fabric, which had been like a security-blanket for
him throughout his childhood. Inadvertently, tears pricked his eyes.
                Thank-you, he thought, relaxing under the old cloak's weight.
It felt nice to be surrounded, even if he was too hot. It made him feel safe.
His pup might have agreed, or it might have been instinctively responding to
Arthur's calm heartbeat. Either way, it settled, and the exhausted Omega
drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.
===============================================================================
 Arthur dreamt of the storehouse and of the blue-eyed Alpha who had taken his
virginity; who had given him what he had needed, begged for; who had made him
feel wanted, precious even, for the first time in his life. Then, who had left
him unexpectedly and unwittingly pregnant, never to be seen again.
                Arthur yelped when Scott shook him awake.
                "Get up, we're leaving," he said bluntly.
                As Arthur pushed himself up, he realized that their campsite
had already been packed and his brothers were ready to go. In the distance, he
could see other campsites already cold, their occupants long gone, and realized
that his brothers had waited, letting Arthur sleep for as long as possible. The
sunrise was blinding, like liquid-gold rising from the depths of the damp,
foggy moors. He accepted Owen's hand, which hauled him gracelessly to his feet,
and blinked sleep from his eyes. He was still wearing Scott's cloak. "Here,
Art," said Patrick, tossing him an over-baked scone for breakfast. Arthur ate
it slowly as he walked. More than once Scott barked at him to hurry up, and
threatened to carry him if he fell behind, but Arthur noted that their pace was
much slower, more considerate, than yesterday.
                By midday, they caught up to the packs and shared in a communal
dinner of tea, fish, and potatoes; someone had even baked oatcakes. Arthur
watched the packs' pups running and playing, excited for the festival. They
laughed and tackled each other, sharing their treats and other treasures. They
really are cute. Arthur smiled at two wrestling brunettes. The boys' Omega-
father yelled at them to stop it, which they ignored. Then they whined
playfully as their Alpha-father scooped them into his arms, fighting their
childish protests, and pretended to "gobble them up!" They shrieked and giggled
as he kissed them, drawing an indulgent smile from the Omega, who watched his
family fondly.
                "Art?"
                Arthur flinched. Owen cocked his head and then knelt. "Are you
okay? You've been really quiet, and I don't just mean today," he said. His tone
was kind, but curiosity—and concern—lurked under the surface. Owen was subtle,
he always had been, but he was dangerously unyielding. He wouldn't stop until
his curiosity had been sated. So when Arthur merely shrugged, failing to reply,
he followed the Omega's line-of-sight and found the happy family. Satisfied,
the Alpha sighed. "You'll get your chance to be a father, Art," he said,
misreading the Omega's interest. "You're fifteen now, old enough to be mated.
Maybe you'll find a mate at the Stones, yeah? Don't worry, you'll have pups
soon."
                Owen smiled, but Arthur couldn't meet his eyes. In a small
voice, he said: "I know."
***** Renegades - Chapter Two *****
Francis dodged a fury of hand-thrown projectiles as he ran for the trees,
covering his retreat. His pursuers chased him to the edge, then cursed loudly
in defeat, yelling insults that penetrated the dense forest. But Francis didn't
care; he had escaped. He grinned in self-congratulations as he followed the
familiar trek back to his campsite. It was located deep in the forest, in a
small cave upwind of the Standing Stones, which stood on a hill surrounded by
the trees. He had been camped there for nearly a month, waiting for the Island
clans to gather for the Summer Solstice. It had been an indecisive battle for
Francis, who secretly disliked the Islanders, but he couldn't return to the
Mainland; not if he wanted to live. It had been over a year since he escaped,
and almost that long since he had sought refuge with the Islanders. But being
an outsider, a Mainlander who barely spoke the native language(s), he had been
unwelcome, even at fifteen-years-old. He was sixteen now, an adult by clan-law,
and knew that the older he got the less willing the clans would be to adopt
him. His only chance was to reconnect with his mate, the Omega he had met and
mated eight months ago. The one he had fled from afterward, afraid of the
consequences.
                It had been an accident. He had been stealing food from the
family; he hadn't intended to stumble upon the Omega in Heat. Nor had he
intended to spend the next forty-eight hours consumed by him and mating him,
but that's what had happened. He had never seen an Omega in Heat before—most
were kept safely away in private rooms—and had been helpless to the sudden urge
that overpowered him. Only when the sweet Heat-induced spell had broken did
Francis realize his mistake. He had ran. Before the Omega had woken he had
left, afraid of being found. It was illegal to mate without the blessing of the
Clan Leader, or one of his pack representatives (that's such a stupid law,
Francis thought), the punishment for which was severe. At first, he had thought
it would hurt his chances of integrating into a clan if someone found out he
had broken the law, but the more he was rejected and chased off, the more he
realized that being mated to a clan-member was the only way they would let him
stay. Stupid,suspicious,inbred Islanders, he grumbled. Now, finding and
accepting that Omega as his mate was his only hope.
                Francis reached the cave and ducked inside. He had tried to
make it as comfortable as possible, but he didn't own much, so it was barren.
He pushed his hood back and dropped the sack he had stolen on a makeshift bed
of wool, emptying the contents. A half-dozen scones spilled out and Francis
groaned. "Blah!" he spat. He had been hoping for something tastier. "How can
they consider this food?" He inspected a fist-sized pastry, trying to convince
himself that he wasn't hungry enough to eat it, but his stomach growled loudly
in protest. I wish I could hunt, he thought, taking a martyr-like bite. He was
a good hunter, fast and able, but it was illegal to hunt within a ten-mile
radius of the sacred Standing Stones because of the ceremony. (Another stupid
fucking law.) He could have ignored the law and hunted small game—the forest
was plentiful—but he couldn't risk being caught. If he was accused of poaching
on consecrated ground, the clans would never accept him. If he wanted to
belong, he had to play by their rules—stupid or otherwise. So he sighed in
resignation and ate the scones, vegetables, and salted fish he had stolen,
while dreaming of the day he could once again cook for himself.
                I hate this place, he thought of the Isles. I just want to go
home.
                If he was home, he would be readying for the Cérémonie de L'âge
Adulte, the coming-of-age ceremony, since he was now sixteen-years-old. He
would be presented as an adult and officially choose a mate to be pair-bonded
with. And, given his status (ex-status now), he would have been able to choose
whomever he had wanted and nobody would have refused him. He had been—still
am!—a very eligible Alpha.
                I would've chosen the prettiest Omega, he daydreamed as he
chewed (and chewed and chewed—gods,this is awful!).I would've been a very good
mate to him. I would've taken good care of him,protected him,spoiled him. He
would've wanted for nothing, not with my high status. We would've been the envy
of everyone. And our pups—he smiled longingly—our pups would've been the most
beautiful pups in the whole clan.
                Instead, Francis was stuck searching for the young Omega he had
inadvertently mated, because his survival now depended on it. It wasn't how he
had pictured his future, but at least the Omega hadn't been unattractive. In
fact, if anything about his daydream came true, it was the look of the green-
eyed Omega. I've never seen such striking eyes before, he remembered. Nor such
a beautiful, delicate-boned face. And body. Francis shivered in desire as he
pictured the Omega's delicious body, so thin, yet so unexpectedly strong—so
durable. If nothing else,at least he's gorgeous, he consoled himself,
pretending that he hadn't felt totally bereft since leaving the Omega;
pretending that he didn't ache for the Omega's touch, the feel of his body;
pretending that he didn't dream each night of kissing every single freckle,
leaving visible marks so that everyone would know whom he belonged to.
                Francis shook his head. It wouldn't be long. He had traveled to
the Standing Stones knowing that every pack on the Isles would be meeting there
soon, which meant his Omega as well.
                My Omega—? he wondered. He didn't dislike the possessive
pronoun. In fact, he rather preferred it.
                I'll find you. He didn't even know the Omega's name, but it
didn't matter. It wouldn't change a thing. Francis was nothing if not a
survivor. I'll find you and own you. I'll mate you so well you'll beg me to
keep you. You'll be mine soon. Even if I have to lie,I'll make you fall in love
with me. And then we'll live happily-fucking-ever-after.
                Because that's what he needed; that's what he wanted. And
Francis Bonnefoi always got what he wanted.
===============================================================================
The next day, Francis forced himself to rise early and stumble half-blindly to
the river, where he plunged into the cold water. It sent a horrible, bone-
chilling shiver through his entire body, but he scrubbed viciously at his
reddening skin. He hated to be unclean. By the time he crawled out, he was
covered in goose-bumps. "Gah!" He shook himself off and finger-combed his
shoulder-long curls. Why is it so fucking cold here? It's almost July! It was
the dampness, he knew. The mornings were cool and foggy, or soaked if it had
rained. Or was still raining. Like today. The sky was cloudy and customarily
stone-grey, and a light drizzle was falling. Francis sighed and returned to the
cave, where he tugged on his last decent shirt. It smelled of wood-smoke, but
at least it was dry. His clothes were faded and weathered; he had been
recycling the same articles for over a year. I need new clothes. I look like a
fucking vagabond. He pulled his curls back into a blue ribbon, which was sadly
the nicest thing he owned. Then he sauntered off to the Standing Stones to make
a good first—no; second—no; third impression.
                The Islanders seemed unperturbed by the rain. Francis dodged
dozens of tents and fire-pits and young pups, who laughed and chased each other
around the decorated campsites. Despite the festival's peace-keeping
undertones, the clans remained segregated. No Alpha had erected his family's
tent within ten feet of a rival clan-member. Francis lost himself in the crowd,
half of whom were happily—or abrasively—drunk. As he wandered aimlessly,
stealing treats and confusing people by smiling at them (they, wondering which
clan he belonged to), he searched for his green-eyed Omega. He tried to track
him by scent, but it was hard. There were too many barriers, mostly Alpha-like;
the Omegas' scents were pale in comparison. Then there were the scents of the
festival itself: herbs, spices, and smoked-food. Half of these people smell
like sweat and beer, he thought unkindly, and the other half smell like scotch
and cider. There were dozens of pups who smelled like sweet-milk; and unmated
youths, like himself, who smelled like hormones. As such, it was high-noon
before he finally found the scent he was looking for.
                It wasn't his Omega's scent, but the scent of his blood-
relatives. Alphas. Francis found them camped on the edge of a circle of silver
birch trees, engulfed in a heated argument. Two little redheads were snarling
at each other, each trying to break free of their older brothers to attack the
other. They looked too similar to be anything but twins. "Liam!" one growled,
kicking and clawing at nothing, while the other yelled: "Pat!" and bared his
teeth in displeasure. The other Alphas—older brothers—struggled to hold back
the wriggling pups while they snarled threats at the twins and at each other.
                They're just one big happy family, Francis thought
sarcastically.
                He didn't see his Omega, nor did he smell his presence. In
fact, he couldn't distinguish his Omega's scent on anything. It made him wonder
if he was wrong and if this wasn't actually his Omega's family. Gods,I hope
it's not, he thought, surveying the fierce dysfunction. One of the twin's sank
his teeth into his brother's forearm, causing such an angry growl to erupt from
the eldest that even Francis flinched. It wasn't until he turned to leave,
readying to search elsewhere, that he spotted his green-eyed Omega emerging
from the forest.
                Francis' stomach flipped; he swallowed. Paralyzed, he watched
his Omega's meandering advance, eyes going to the swagger of his hips. A woven
basket bobbed as he walked, skinny arm flung over the top. He looked good,
better than in Francis' memory despite the unstylish rags he wore. He was a
perfect rose among weeds. But he looked tired. He kept his gaze downcast and
his wheat-blonde head bowed, not in submission but in defense. It wasn't the
innocent seduction he had greeted Francis with before. There was no invitation
in his posture, only tension. There was nothing remotely friendly about his
arched shoulders, or the way he deliberately avoided anyone who came too close
to him, to suggest he would be receptive to Francis' flirtation, or even
acknowledge his presence. But the instant he saw the blue-eyed Alpha, he froze,
and his Lincoln-green eyes went wide in shock.
                In disbelief.
                In—horror?
                He stopped so fast that he dropped the basket. Then his lips
formed a silent word: No.
                Overeager, Francis took a step forward. It was reflex. The
desire to protect and comfort his frightened Omega was strong. It was pure
instinct. The need to touch him, even more so. But it was the wrong thing to
do. He had barely blurted: "Attendez!" before the Omega—his Omega—was hurrying
back to his brothers, skinny arms wrapped tightly around his midsection,
looking suddenly ill. The basket and its contents lay needlessly forgotten in
the grass. Francis followed him, his hand outstretched. "S'il vous plâit—!" he
called, but the Omega—his Omega—pushed fitfully past his Alpha-brothers into
their lopsided tent and disappeared.
                Francis stared, dumbfounded. He had expected his Omega to be
surprised, of course, especially since Francis had left him without a word, but
he hadn't expected him to be afraid. Is he afraid of me? Francis felt like he
had been punched in the gut. The Omega's unflattering reaction left him winded
and confused. I thought he liked me. I thought he wanted me. Why else would he
have let me—
                "Did you want something?" barked an unfriendly voice.
                The Alphas had stopped arguing and were staring at him
guardedly in suspicion (trying to decide which clan he belonged to, no doubt).
The thick brogue pulled Francis out of shock. Briefly, he pictured himself
charging past the four Alphas and forcing himself into the tent where his Omega
was hiding, but, apt at self-preservation, he discarded the thought. Four
Alpha-brothers. Of course it had to befourAlpha-brothers. Two of which looked
rather dangerous, both big and hot-tempered. Even the young twins glared at
him.  So, instead of a suicide-charge, Francis simply shook his head and backed
off, making a mental note of the campsite's location so that he could return
later.
                Because I'm not leaving, he decided, eyeing the tent's flap.Not
now that I've found you. I need you.
               But more than that—
                I want you.
===============================================================================
Arthur tried to hug his knees, but his abdomen was too big, so he sat awkwardly
on a pile of sleeping-rolls. He tried to fight the panic-attack creeping
through him, but it was useless. Even as he muttered reassurances to himself,
he could feel his chest tighten and tears flood his eyes. Why is he here? he
thought, rocking slightly back-and-forth. He hugged his middle tighter, rubbing
vigorously in an attempt to calm himself. His unborn pup must have sensed the
change in his heartbeat, because it kicked back in defiance. Arthur winced.
Why? Why—? He can't be here!He can't know!I thought I'd never see him again,but
now he's here!Oh,gods!He can't know!
                "Art?" Scott called.
                "A-aye!" he replied, high-pitched. "I-I-I—I'm fine!"
                Quickly, he readjusted the lay of his garments as Scott
entered.
                "Ah, fuck. Are you having a panic-attack?" He sighed deeply,
then sat down and wrapped an arm around the shivering Omega's shoulders,
drawing him close. "It's okay, little brother. I'm here. Just relax. It's
okay," he repeated, squeezing Arthur's bicep thoughtlessly hard. Arthur felt it
bruise, but he didn't care. What he cared about was Scott's proximity. The
Alpha was dangerously close to discovering his secret, yet Arthur felt his body
respond habitually, glad for the comfort of Scott's fraternal ministrations. He
leant in and rested his forehead on his brother's broad shoulder and breathed
in his familiar musk scent, listening to Scott's mildly annoyed voice as he
talked.
                "What's wrong, hm?" he asked when Arthur had finally calmed.
"Was it that Alpha lurking about? That blue-eyed one with the pretty face?" He
chuckled. "I wouldn't worry about him. He didn't look capable of much, too
posh. Fuck, aye? If it weren't for the scruff"—he rubbed his own chin in
example—"I'd have thought he was an Omega," he teased. When Arthur failed to
reply, Scott's nonchalant tone changed, becoming a low and protective growl.
"Art? Did that Alpha do something to you? Did he approach you? Scare you? Did
he touch you?"
                Arthur swallowed a relapse of panic and, mustering his battered
pride, severed contact with Scott.
                "No," he lied, wiping his wet cheeks as he stood. He pretended
to fix his shirt, embarrassed by his outburst. Then he forced a smile to prove
he was fine, dismissing Scott's concern.
                "It's fine. I'm fine. I've never seen that Alpha before in my
life."
===============================================================================
 Arthur stayed embarrassingly close to Scott and Owen for the rest of the day,
only half-heartedly joining the spirited festivities. He barely drank, but he
ate everything he could get his hands on, feeding his pup all the treats he had
been denied for months. He kept a wary eye out for the Mainlander, who was
lurking in the crowd, never far; whom had so recklessly approached him before.
Maybe the clan-laws were different wherever he came from, but on the Isles it
was considered suspicious behaviour to approach a stranger so casually without
an introduction, especially an unclaimed Omega. That, and wandering uninvited
onto an Alpha's territory—even a temporary campsite—was a good way to get
oneself attacked.
                Bloody foreigner, Arthur thought, spotting the blue-eyed Alpha
in the throng. He was even better looking than what Arthur remembered, which
wasn't to discredit Arthur's memory (though he had been submerged in a Heat-
induced stupor). Arthur wanted to think badly of the cocky Alpha, but his own
vanity prevented it. Oh,he's gorgeous! Scott was right: the foreigner was an
Alpha with Omega-like beauty, an excellent specimen of their race. And what he
lacked in size he more than made up for in attitude. There was nothing in his
sanguine confidence to suggest that he was anything less than a prize. And the
clans' Omegas seemed to agree. Those who didn't flock to him—pretending to bump
him, or suddenly lose their balance as they passed him, apologizing cutely when
he caught them—whispered to their friends and siblings, giggling and blushing
when the Alpha looked at them. Bloody clan-whelp, Arthur glared at him. But he
felt a flush of envy rise in his cheeks whenever the Alpha smiled back at the
Omegas. Arthur blamed his reaction on hormones. He was carrying the Alpha's
pup, after all; not that the Alpha knew. Arthur was so very afraid of him
discovering that fact, which is why he had ran. But now, watching the clans'
Omegas drool over the handsome  foreigner, he wished that he could tell
everyone. It would give him exclusive rights to the blue-eyed Alpha, he and
nobody else. And nobody would be able to dispute his claim.
                Arthur shook his head. He hated how possessive he felt. When
the Alpha suddenly caught his eye and smiled at him—a brilliant, white-toothed
smile—Arthur deliberately turned away.
                At least he's not trying to approach me, he thought, in relief
and disappointment.
                As long as Arthur stayed close to his older brothers, he felt
safe. Scott and Owen were his shields.
                Owen didn't seem perturbed by the Omega's clinging to his side,
but Scott was getting annoyed. He made no attempt to lower his voice when he
criticized Arthur's apparent insecurity. He had always believed in tough-love
and facing one's fears head-on, and he made a note to draw unwanted attention
to Arthur, who was trying hard to remain anonymous. Even so, Scott never left
Arthur's side. He and Owen both seemed to misinterpret Arthur's social anxiety
for trepidation. Now that he was of-age he was eligible to mate and be pair-
bonded, which meant that everywhere he went unclaimed Alphas were sizing him
up. It was an uncomfortable experience. He felt like he was on display. The
Alphas' eyes looked hungry, especially the young and eager ones. Arthur had to
restrain himself from clutching at his abdomen, instinctively wanting to
protect his unborn pup every time an Alpha got too close.
                Is it because I'm pregnant? he wondered. Is that why they're
all so interested in me, because they can sense that I'm fertile? It was a
disconcerting revelation. The Alphas couldn't smell his pregnancy because of
the potion, but perhaps they could instinctively sense it. That would explain
why they keep looking at me like that. Intentionally, he shied away from a
particularly vocal group.
                "It's because they like your looks, Art," said Owen when he
noticed Arthur's confusion. "They think you're pretty."
                "I'm not," Arthur denied.
                Owen cocked an eyebrow. "Why do you think that? Is it because
that's what Scott tells you? He's just teasing you, Art, trying to toughen you
up. But even he can see that you're a very attractive Omega, freckles and all.
Don't be so shy," he advised. Gently he lifted Arthur's chin. "C'mon, little
brother, head up. Be proud. Let them all gawk at what they can't have."
                The five brothers found a decent place to sit for the nightly
ceremony, which began at sundown. It was right in front of the roaring fire,
just outside of the circle of Standing Stones. Arthur sat in the middle,
enjoying a skewer of spiced venison. Scott had already commented on his
increased appetite—"Slow down, Art, or you'll get fat!"—but he said it with a
teasing grin. Even Arthur had to laugh at the irony as he licked his fingers.
For once, his brothers were all in good spirits simultaneously. Scott and Owen
were happily drunk, and the twins had found friends to play games with. Arthur
watched the traditional offerings and performances, which included feats of
strength and agility, and the dances, which he always declined to join. (Scott
shooed off a terribly persistent Alpha who tried to pull Arthur up.) He was
actually starting to enjoy himself, watching the clan-members take loyalty
oaths, until Liam's high-pitched cry cut through the din.
                Scott leapt to his feet as if he had been scorched and pushed
through the gathering crowd. Arthur exchanged a worried look with Owen as they
both stood for a better view. Standing on his toes, Arthur could see Liam
crouched on the ground, clutching his left shoulder. His lip was upturned,
trying to be brave, but he whimpered in pain. Patrick stood over his twin,
yelling and growling at the Alpha-pup whom he accused of inflicting the damage.
Like an attack-dog, Patrick lunged suddenly at him, his fists beating furiously
in angry retaliation. The other pack's pup fought back just as energetically
until his Alpha-father pulled him back.
                "Pat, stop it!" Scott ordered as he grabbed Patrick around the
belly.
                Patrick yelled and cursed, spitting as he did. "He did it on
purpose! I saw him!" he screeched.
                Owen sighed. "I'd better go over. Scott looks ready to lunge at
that pup's father. Wait here, Art."
                In reflex, Arthur grabbed Owen's sleeve. "I'll come with you. I
can help."
                "No," Owen said, prying off Arthur's fingers. "If it turns into
a brawl, I don't want you anywhere near it. Just wait here. I'll be back in a
minute."
                As soon as Owen left, the blue-eyed foreigner sat down, like
Arthur knew he would.
                Quickly, Arthur shimmied to the left, his posture tensing. "Get
away from me," he warned. The Alpha looked hurt, but the Omega ignored the
(false) display of vulnerability. Instead, he turned sideways, crossed his
skinny arms, and showed the Alpha his back. The message was clear,
but—predictably—the foreigner was either too arrogant or too dense to take the
hint.
                "I'm Francis," he said cheerfully.
                "I don't care," Arthur replied coldly. "Leave me alone."
                Arthur could feel Francis' body coiling closer, leaning around
him to try and see his face. "Can I at least know your name?" he asked. He
spoke English with an elegant accent, which somehow made every mispronunciation
of his tongue sound exotic, charming. His voice was sinuous, like his gestures.
But the Omega trusted neither, too certain it was all an elaborate act. "S'il
vous plâit?" he smiled enticingly, his fingers inching closer to Arthur. "We
are mates—"
                "No, we're not," Arthur said sternly.
                Agitated, he leapt to his feet. Smoothly, Francis followed.
                "Look," Arthur raised his hands, as if he thought Francis might
pounce, "I want nothing to do with you, aye? So just leave me alone."
                A furious spark, like white-lightening, flashed in Francis'
blue eyes, but it was quickly masked. Arthur almost missed it. But he didn't,
and it scared him. He glanced at his brothers, too far away to be any comfort.
Francis inhaled and forced himself to keep smiling. "I'm not going to hurt
you," he said, though it would have been more believable if his fists weren't
clenched; if his voice wasn't strained. (He wasn't good at hiding his feelings.
His handsome face was too expressive.) "I just want to know your name."
                "No," Arthur refused, at the same time Owen called:
                "Arthur—?"
                Arthur cursed at the sudden triumph plastered to Francis' face.
"Arthur," he repeated seductively, licking his lips before Owen reached them.
Arthur glared daggers at him, warning him to keep quiet, but the Alpha only
smirked.
                Bloody-hell,he's infuriating! he internally seethed. His pup
kicked in reply, which Arthur took as agreement.
                "Is everything okay, Art?" Owen asked, glancing between he and
Francis.
                "Fine," said Arthur stiffly. Without breaking eye-contact with
Francis, he stepped back into Owen's shadow. "But I'm tired. Take me back to
the tent."
===============================================================================
Francis watched Arthur go with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was feisty
and gorgeous. On the other hand, he was a nasty little shrew in serious need of
some manners.
                Who does he think he is mouthing off to me like that? he
thought self-importantly. He ought to be begging me to claim him. No one else
will want him when they learn he's already been mated.
                It was supposed to soothe Francis' injured pride, but the
mental picture of anyone else touching his Omega, or even talking to his Omega;
smiling, laughing, flirting; thinking they had any claim to him—! It fueled
Francis with a possessive rage he hadn't ever felt before. It was very unlike
him; he, who usually preferred fighting with words above fists. He disliked
confrontation. But he couldn't help it. He glared at the surrounding Alphas,
all so young and strong and eligible, suddenly seeing them all as rivals for
Arthur's affection.
                No, he decided, clenching his adolescent fists in
determination. I won't let anyone else claim him. He's mine. And I'll prove it.
===============================================================================
The next day, Arthur found himself the unwilling recipient of Francis'
undivided attention. The Summer Games had begun, a whole day of sporting events
designed to encourage friendly competition and forge inter-clan relations, but
which also provided an excellent opportunity for Alphas to try to impress the
Omega he was interested in. In Francis' case, that Omega was Arthur. After
every event, Arthur was unfailingly presented with Francis' share of the
winnings in an obvious attempt to garner the Omega's favour. It was a display
of worth. And—Arthur was horrified to admit—it was working. Francis was an apt
athlete and a superb hunter, who won more games than he lost. If he lost first-
place, he took second or third. Not only was he naturally inclined, he was
swift and elegant for his age, and he looked good while participating. Arthur
tried his best to look bored, but his eyes kept straying inadvertently to
Francis on the field, and the pile of trophies beside him kept growing.
                When Francis presented Arthur with a perfect red rose, Arthur
took it unhappily, and muttered: "Stop it."
                Francis winked cheekily at his sullen intended and dashed off.
                "It looks like someone likes you," Liam teased. Initially he
had whined and complained about not being able to participate in the pups'
games because of his injury (he had dislocated his shoulder), but since Francis
had started lavishing Arthur with gifts and attention—Liam reaping the benefits
of anything edible—the Alpha-pup found it funny to sit and spectate. "Think
you'll let him mate you?"
                "Sod-off." Arthur cuffed his younger brother over the head.
                Liam scowled, then grinned when he noticed: "You're blushing,
Art."
                "No, I'm not. Shut up."
                "You are! You're beet-red! Awe, do you love him?" Liam laughed.
Playfully, he tried to steal the red rose from Arthur's hand, but the Omega
growled and pulled back selfishly. Liam blinked in surprise. Then his freckled
face split into a wide, impish grin, and peals of laughter escaped him.
                Arthur fumed in embarrassment, clutching the rose in
accusation.
                Despite Liam's childish jokes, his observation was not untrue.
To everyone spying on them, it really did look like Francis had chosen to claim
Arthur, and by taking the gifts it looked like Arthur had accepted. Oh,bloody-
hell. But even if he stopped now, it wouldn't make much of a difference.
Francis had made it clear by his actions and body-language that any competition
for Arthur would be quickly and brutally defeated, promising much embarrassment
for the challenger. The only physical contest he had yet lost was to Scott,
which didn't exactly entice many other Alphas to bother trying for Arthur's
favour. They still leered at him, of course, but none tried to talk to or get
close to him. As far as the clans were concerned, Arthur was as good as mated.
                But Arthur didn't care (much). He was now thirty-six weeks
pregnant. He had more important, more urgent, things to worry about than
popularity, like how he was going to survive once his pup was born. The easy
solution, now that he and Francis had been reunited, was to let the Alpha claim
him and then deal with the consequences of telling him the truth. Francis would
have no choice but to stay with Arthur once they were officially pair-bonded.
Or rather, that would have been the easy solution if Francis wasn't a lone
exile with no family, no pack, and nowhere to belong. (Omegas were adopted by
their Alpha's clan; it rarely went the other way.) But just for a moment,
Arthur let himself forget the clans, the laws, and everything else, and simply
watched Francis. He watched, beguiled, as the Alpha moved swiftly across the
field, running and jumping and dodging attacks as he cornered his prey. He
watched Francis' lithe muscles work smoothly beneath his golden skin, shiny
blonde curls blowing in the breeze, and absently he smiled at the playful gleam
in the Alpha's beautiful sapphire-blue eyes. Arthur rubbed his abdomen
tenderly, sharing a private thought with his pup:
                Your Papa is such a good hunter. And he's so bloody handsome. I
really hope you look like him,my darling. I hope you're strong and skilled and
unafraid like him.
                Then the victorious Francis looked directly at Arthur—
                —and Arthur looked away.
===============================================================================
Am I still not good enough for you? Francis thought as he was named the
undisputed champion of his age-group. He had hoped that Arthur was watching his
victory. He had made a show of it on purpose to try and impress the bored-
looking Omega, but when he glanced over Arthur's eyes were downcast. Francis
felt his confidence deflate; the bite of insecurity hurt his pride. Just look
at me! he silently begged. Just look at how hard I'm trying to win you. Look at
the favour I've shown you,you ungrateful little—
                "—your clan?" said the Hunt's Leader.
                Francis blinked. "Pardon?"
                The burly, grey-eyed Alpha frowned. "Your clan, pup. You've won
the hunt"—the most prestigious event—"so you get to choose which clan gets the
reward." (The reward being the hunt's generous spoils.) "Which clan is yours?"
                "Uh..." Francis paused. He glanced to Arthur and back, and
said: "Just give it to them." He pointed.
                "The Kirkland family? You want to give the whole reward to one
family?" The Hunt's Leader gaped in shock.
                Francis nodded. "Yes."
                The Hunt's Leader shook his head, impressed by Francis'
brazenness. "Well if that doesn't get his attention, nothing will. Good luck,
pup." He clapped Francis' shoulder in comradeship and then left to tell the
Kirkland brothers the good news, that they would not be going hungry anytime
soon.
                Francis didn't wait to see Arthur's reaction. He had exhausted
himself trying to impress the stubborn Omega, and he didn't think he could
stand it if Arthur refused to accept the reward, or, worse, if he glared coldly
at Francis in reply. Instead, he headed back to his secret encampment, ready
for a bath and a nap, but he had barely re-entered the forest when he suddenly
heard his name.
                "Francis, wait!" Arthur called, jogging to catch up.
                He was flushed and winded when he reached Francis, who had
stopped to wait for him. They were just inside the forest, out of sight of the
field. Arthur gasped in exertion. Not much of an athlete, are you,chéri?
Francis thought, feeling oddly tender. Arthur's hand was pressed to his chest.
His clothes were in disarray and bunched at his stomach, which made him look
much rounder than he was. Francis waited patiently for the Omega to regain his
breath, making no move to touch him, even though he wanted to. Finally, Arthur
said:
                "Why?"
                Francis stared. "Why what?"
                "Why did you favour my family with your whole reward?" The
Omega's tone was a curious blend of suspicion and incredulity. "Do you even
know what it's worth? It could feed you all summer. I know that you don't have
a home, not anymore," he elaborated. A shred of sympathy leaked into his tone,
but his words still stabbed painfully at the lost Alpha. Besides, his green
eyes were still full of distrust. "Why did you just give your best chance at
survival to me?"
                A dozen flirtatious remarks filtered through Francis' mind, but
he ignored them and bravely chose the truth.
                "Because you're my mate and I want to take care of you," he
said.
                Arthur paused, taken aback. His face even softened, making him
look even lovelier. He still carried the red rose, Francis noticed. My Island
rose. Then Arthur seemed to comprehend Francis' word-choice, and he said
sternly:
                "We are not mates. Just because we mated last year does not
mean either one of us chose the other to pair-bond with."
                "Well," said Francis, squaring his posture formally, "I'm
choosing you now. Will you accept?"
                Arthur was silent for a long time. So long it made Francis
nervous. The Omega looked torn, yet thoughtful. He was considering it. His lips
were pursed and his eyes were hooded. Again, Francis fought the annoying urge
to go to him. When Arthur finally did speak his voice revealed the emotion that
his face did not. It was soft, but unyielding:
                "No, I refuse." His green eyes shone with unshed tears. "I
can't be your mate, so please just leave me alone."
                Francis felt his stomach drop in disappointment; in disbelief.
Why?Why the fuck not? He wanted to argue. He wanted to grab Arthur and shake
him, and yell: Look at us,we're perfect together! But he swallowed it,
favouring his dignity. Francis Bonnefoi did not beg.
                "Fine," he said evenly, and turned away.
                "Take the reward," Arthur called, his voice choked. "It's
yours, you earned it—"
                "No, just keep it," Francis growled. "I hate your food anyway."
                Then he was gone, stalking off through the dark, dense forest,
back into exile.
***** Renegades - Chapter Three *****
JULY
ONE WEEK LATER
Arthur awoke in a terrible, gut-wrenching pain. He bit his pillow to keep from
crying-out. His hands instinctively went to his bulging abdomen, clawing at the
womb. It felt different somehow, as if the pup inside was trying to physically
communicate that it wanted to be born. Arthur wondered how long he had been in
labour for before the pain of it had finally woke him. He hoped he hadn't
cried-out in his sleep, but his brothers would have woken if he had. Careful
not to disturb them, Arthur crawled out of the sleeping-roll, which was
mercifully dry—his waters hadn't broken yet—and collected his satchel, which
was packed with the apothecary box and some supplies. It was heavy. He had
hidden tools inside, the tools he would need to bring his pup safely into the
world. He had studied several texts on the subject, wanting to be prepared,
but, as he left the comfort and safety of his family's campsite, he felt
scared. More scared than he had ever been in his whole life. At the edge of the
forest, he stopped and cast one last look behind him. He had been waiting for
this day for nine months, but now that it had finally come, he didn't want to
leave. He didn't feel ready. But he didn't have a choice.
                "Goodbye," he whispered to his family. Then he walked into the
dark, dense forest alone.
                He didn't get far before he had to rest, collapsed against a
tree as labour-pains wracked him. The weight of the satchel fell with an
audible thump, nearly knocking him off-balance. Beads of cold sweat slicked his
skin and he gasped, trying to breathe deeply. The contractions were
excruciating. He recalled reading about them from an Alpha-written text,
wherein the author had described labour as being a mild discomfort. Arthur grit
his teeth in anger. 'Mild discomfort'my fucking arse! If I ever meet that
Alpha,I'll kill him!
                When the pain subsided, he continued on. He had already scouted
a place to give birth, close enough to hike to (though he hadn't considered
having to walk while in labour), but far enough from the Standing Stones that
no one would hear or smell him. That thought, though designed to comfort and
protect his secret, proved the most terrifying yet. He was about to give birth,
after all. What if something went wrong? What if Arthur wasn't strong enough to
give birth, or what if his pup was too weak to survive? What if either of them
needed help, but he was too far to call for aid?
                Please be strong,my darling. Another contraction seized him and
Arthur groaned. And please don't kill me!
                By the time Arthur reached his destination, he was already
exhausted. The full moon was bright and high in the night's sky, which was a
good omen. An Old Wives Tale said that pups born by the light of the full moon
would be stronger than those who weren't. Arthur, who was hereditarily
superstitious, took comfort in the ages-old legend as he shuffled into the dry
cave. He had found it a week ago by accident and realized at once that it was
perfect. It had been recently occupied and then abandoned. There was a fire-pit
and a couple leftover articles of weathered clothing, which Arthur used to pad
his bedding. He wasted no time in preparing a nest. He unpacked his satchel and
then collapsed in a heap onto a blanket, leaning back against the cool rock.
Sweat coated his skin, which was leeched of colour. His lips were dry; he was
very thirsty. I must look sick. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on
breathing calmly as the contractions started coming closer-and-closer together,
becoming more unbearable. Every few minutes, he pictured himself fainting and
his pup suffocating to death, only half-born, and it was that horrible fear
that kept him going. He didn't have a choice, after all. There was only one way
out of this and he was determined to survive it.
                Alphas have their fights; this is mine, he thought
courageously.
                Even so, a part of him wished that he wasn't alone. He wished
that his brothers were there (even the twins), even though it was socially
unacceptable for an Alpha to be present at a birth. He didn't have anyone else,
after all. He didn't have an Omega in his life. I want my mother, he thought
suddenly, crying; grieving for the Omega-mother he had barely known. He had
never called-out for her before, but just then he was scared. I want Scott. I
want Owen. He thought of the older brothers who always protected him from
everything that could—or couldn't—hurt him. He knew there was nothing they
could do for him now, but he didn't think he would be so afraid if they were
there; talking to him; holding his hand. I don't want to do this alone. I
want—Francis. He hated how desperately he wanted the blue-eyed Alpha to be
there with him, comforting him; standing guard. That's what an Alpha-mate was
supposed to do for his family. He was supposed to guard them, protect them,
while his Omega gave birth. Then, when it was over, he was supposed to be there
to care for his newborn pup as his Omega recovered. A newborn needed an Alpha
just as much as it needed an Omega. But would he have stayed? Arthur thought of
Francis.Would he have stayed with us if he had known the truth? Maybe he would
have. Maybe, but—
                "I'm sorry," Arthur gasped, rubbing his abdomen. "I'm so sorry,
my darling—A-ah!"
                Finally, after hours of sobbing and moaning himself hoarse, he
felt his pup's body begin to stir. He reached down and gingerly felt that he
was ready to deliver. He shifted his position and lifted himself higher, his
legs splayed. It was an uncomfortable position, but it was the best that he
could manage without assistance. He had laid down clean linens under him, and
had a pile of soft furs to swaddle his pup in, as well as sterile instruments
to sever their physical bond. He had a basin of boiled water to clean the pup
once born, and a woven basket to lay it in as a makeshift cradle. And he had
tinder and a hand-shovel to bury the mess—the evidence—when it was over. The
last preparation he made was putting a wad of cloth in his mouth as a gag. Then
he took a deep breath—
                And screamed.
                With his eyes squeezed shut, tears on his cheeks, Arthur
screamed into the gag as he pushed his pup from his body into the world.
                When it slid into his waiting hands, Arthur's heart momentarily
stopped. It was small—too small!—and very still. It felt like forever before it
cried-out, loud and shrill and alive, and Arthur exhaled a sigh of relief. At
least you've got strong lungs, he thought as he preformed the post-birth tasks.
It wasn't until he had gotten past the mechanics of cleaning and swaddling the
pup—a small Omega-male—and was sitting back with the pup cradled in his arms
that it finally struck him. He, Arthur Kirkland, had actually, successfully,
given birth. He was alive. And he had a son.
                "You're mine," he said in awe. His voice was trembling with
happy disbelief. More tears flooded his eyes; he couldn't seem to stop. "My
pup. My precious little pup. Yes," he chuckled, smiling down at the tiny,
squirming bundle. "I know you. I've known you for a long time, love. Do you
know me?"
                As if in reply, the newborn opened his eyes and revealed
striking sapphire-blue.
                But Arthur didn't have time to rejoice, because at that moment
a sudden needle of pain pulsed through him. Panicked, he put the blue-eyed pup
down into the basket beside him and reposition himself, bracing himself. He was
expecting the mess of afterbirth, but that's not what he delivered. In fact, it
felt like wicked déjà vu as he moaned and pushed and finally caught the second
pup as it was born. Shocked and shaking violently, Arthur repeated the process
of cleaning and swaddling his second Omega-male.
                "Twins," he whispered, admiring the pup's soft, pink face. He
was quieter than his brother, and even smaller; he barely cried. "Well, it's no
wonder I couldn't feel you, love. Not if you don't assert yourself," he
chuckled, flustered. A teardrop fell onto the pup's cheek and his eyes
fluttered open to greet the world. Arthur was expecting blue, or even green,
but what he saw was beautiful violet. "Oh, wow!" he exhaled, overwhelmed by
emotion and sleep-deprivation.          "My pup. My beautiful, perfect pups,"
he cooed. He lifted the blue-eyed pup into his arms and held the twins together
against his chest, rocking them gently. "My precious pups. I love you. I love
you both so much." He kissed the brow of one, then the other. "I'm going to
take care of you. I'm going to protect you. We'll be okay, I promise."
                Then he was crying for real, great, heaving sobs of
desperation.
                We're going to be okay. Somehow—he didn't know how—I'm going to
make everything okay. I have to.
               "Alfred. Matthew," he named them. "I love you."
===============================================================================
Francis tore through a thorny bramble patch, bloodying the leaves. A branch cut
his cheek. He tumbled out, shook off, and broke into a sprint. He could hear
his pursuers yelling and howling as they caught his scent. There were half-a-
dozen of them and they were gaining on him. Francis panted hard as he dashed
into the gully, kicking up water. It was icy cold, but he barely felt it. His
heart was hammering as he ran, slipping on rocks and mud. When the stony
riverbed opened into a fast-flowing river, he dove beneath the surface and
continued to fight the current, swimming upstream as fast as he could.
                It had been an honest mistake. Francis had thought that they
were clan-members, a rogue pack, perhaps, but Islanders nonetheless. But he had
been wrong—very wrong. They weren't Islanders; they were invaders. A scouting-
party of Mainlanders who had crossed the narrow channel with the single-minded
intention of plundering the Isles. Francis recognized their deep, growling
voices; the language they spoke. They're of the Northern clans, he groaned. I
hate Northerners! They were big and strong and fast and brutal, and they had
not liked Francis trying to get friendly with them. He had been so grateful to
spot their humble campsite initially, to smell the sweetness of roasting meat.
Francis had been wandering alone for a week. He was starving and so tired that
his body ached. All he wanted was a safe place to rest. He had approached the
Northerners from downwind, making no attempt to hide himself. He hadn't wanted
to surprise them or put them on-guard. Maybe, if he proved his worth to them,
they would even let him stay. He had felt a fleeting shred of hope at the
thought of belonging once more, but it evaporated when the six Northern Alphas
turned on him. They looked dangerous, like warriors, each of them bigger and
older than he. In that moment, all of Francis' arrogant self-confidence had
fled and he suddenly felt like a helpless pup. He had ran and inadvertently
provoked them to the chase.
                Francis gasped as he broke the water's surface. He swam to the
shallow bank and pulled himself halfway out, then collapsed there. He didn't
have the strength to rise. If the Northerners found him, they wouldn't
encounter much of a fight. But it seemed like the water had worked; the other
Alphas had lost his scent.
                Francis closed his eyes. His breathing had regulated, lulling
him into sleep. He knew that he should crawl out of the water. Even in July he
could catch the cold-death if he stayed there all night, but he didn't move.
                Why bother? he thought, depressed. Where would I go?Who would
care if I died?
                Half-asleep, his mind wandered to Arthur. Again. Since leaving
the Standing Stones behind, he had not been able to get the Omega out of his
head, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn't forget about him; his looks; his
voice; his un-Omega-like attitude, which was sexy and fierce. He couldn't
forget the heartbreaking way Arthur had looked at him and said: "I can't be
your mate." Francis had tried to ignore his aching heart and consider other
Omegas to mate, but it had been a hollow attempt. It hadn't felt right, as if
he was cheating on Arthur. After that, he had left the Stones.
                Stupid,selfish Omega! he thought in grief. He clawed at the
black mud, wanting to inflict some form of pain; it ground beneath his
fingernails. Why did you reject me?Why wasn't I good enough for you? Why—he
fought back a surge of raw emotion—can't I forget you?
                Have you forgotten me?
===============================================================================
FIVE DAYS LATER
Your Papa gave us this," said Arthur, repackaging the last oilskin-wrapped
parcel of foodstuff he had taken. He hung it from the ceiling in a sack,
licking salt residue off his fingers. There was a hook wedged there, driven
into the rock by the cave's previous occupant. Arthur was eternally grateful to
him, whomever he had been. Finding the cave already civilized had been a
blessing that had made the transition from spoiled only-Omega into lone runaway
much easier. Arthur didn't think he would have had the energy to do it himself,
not so soon after giving birth. The food that Francis had gifted him helped, as
well. He couldn't believe he had ever tried to refuse it, knowing that he had a
pup(s) on the way. Who am I kidding? Scott's right,I can't hunt! In retrospect,
he only wished that he had taken more.
                "Your Papa wanted us to have this," he told his pups, who were
following his movements with curious eyes. They were both observant little
things, both bright-eyed in wonder; Matthew more than Alfred, who had been
asleep for most of his life. Just then, however, they were both waiting to be
fed. Carefully, Arthur crawled down off the rock-ledge, hissing as a needle of
pain pinched him. It had only been five days since the twins' birth and
Arthur's body was still healing. "Your Papa is a good hunter, the best of his
age-group," he said, trying to distract himself. "He would've taken good care
of us, I think. He wanted to take care of us, but I said no."
                And now—Do I regret it?
                Arthur surveyed the small, fire-bright cave, which smelled of
deep roots, dried foliage, wood-smoke, old furs, and sweet-milk; which looked
like the campsite of a vagabond. Arthur had draped the sleeping-roll over the
mystery-Alpha's discarded clothes to insulate the bottom of his bed, then
covered it with an old brown fur. The basket sat atop it packed with soft
rabbit pelts to keep his pups warm. Arthur had been proud of his home-making
accomplishments before, but now, thinking of Francis, he felt inadequate. I'm
depriving my pups of something that they need, he knew, sitting down beside the
basket.
                We can't stay in this cave forever. They need an Alpha to
protect and provide for them. And I need—
                "Your Papa," he said, with a catch in his voice, "wanted to
stay with us."
                Would that really have been so bad? Worse than this?
                Alfred yawned and stretched his pudgy arms, producing a soft
sound that made Arthur smile. He tickled his rosy cheek, making the blue-eyed
pup squirm and blow a spit-bubble.
                Matthew blinked his big violet eyes, which were wide and
focused, observing—learning from—Arthur's every move. He reached upward,
wanting the physical touch of his Omega-father.
                Arthur complied, wanting to hold his pup just as badly. "If
your Papa was here," he said, rocking the violet-eyed pup gently, "it might be
different for us. If he were here"—he swallowed—"I might not be so scared."
                It had been five days since he had given birth to the twins;
five days since he had left his brothers, his whole clan; five days since he
had slept. Since leaving, he hadn't felt safe. He was trying to be brave for
his newborns, but his nerves were tense, always on-edge. The rustle of small-
game or a whistle of wind set him on-guard. Sleep-deprivation was making him
paranoid, but he couldn't sleep for fear that something would get in and hurt
his pups. He had never lived alone before, and, as the days crept by, he found
himself missing his brothers more and more.
                Maybe I should go back and face the consequences. Even if I am
exiled,Scott would never abandon me—would he? Arthur shook his head, ashamed of
his own weakness. No,I can't. It's too great a risk for my pups. He wouldn't
risk his pups being rejected. He had only known them for a short time, but an
Omega's bond with his pups was eternal. He would die of heartbreak if anything
bad happened to them.I can't go back there. I promised myself that I wouldn't.
I have to do this on my own.
               He grabbed Scott's tartan and wrapped Matthew in it, pacing
back-and-forth in thought.
                I have to find food. I have to find a better,more permanent
shelter. It has to be close to water,but far away from any settlement,neutral
territory. I have to make proper clothes for Alfred and Matthew. I have to
restock my herbs and medicine in case any of us get sick. I have to store
enough firewood. I have to guard us against predators. I have to prepare for
winter.
                Somehow,I have to survive.
                And I have to do it alone.
===============================================================================
Francis jolted awake, startled by—
                He glanced from left-to-right, his reflective blue eyes
scanning the moonlit meadow for predators, but there was nothing. The forest
was dark and quiet. The place he had collapsed protected him from spying eyes,
which is why he had chosen it. It was the base of a hollow tree, which
stretched upward from a dry gully. In the distance he heard the sound of
running water and the chirp of a cricket's song, but otherwise silence
enveloped him.
                Why did I wake? he wondered. He had been dead-asleep, so
exhausted that his dreams had felt like reality. He had been dreaming of
Arthur, of course, and of the night they had first met. But unlike his previous
dreams (and daydreams), he had not been dreaming of mating the beautiful green-
eyed Omega; rather, he had been dreaming of a pair-bonded life with him and
their pups. In the dream, he and Arthur had beautiful pups, who slept soundly
in their Omega-father's arms as he rocked them. Then, when the dream-Arthur
noticed Francis watching him, he looked up at him and smiled. And Francis—the
real Francis; not the dream-Francis—whined aloud in sorrow. It was unjust
cruelty. Even the unconscious vision felt like a slap in the face, showing him
something that he would never have.
                Why—? Why do I want it so badly? he thought.
                As an Alpha-pup growing-up on the Mainland, he had given little
thought to his future, because it had been predetermined since his birth. He
had flirted with dozens of Omegas, knowing that someday he would have his pick
of the lot. The thought of being rejected had never—never—even crossed his
mind. Any Omega would have been a fool to refuse him back then. But now—? Maybe
it's not Arthur's fault. Maybe it's me. It was a disconcerting admission, but
Francis knew that he had nothing left. Why would an Omega choose me to sire his
pups? I have nothing to offer him. Why did I think he would choose me just
because I'd won a few stupid games?So we could live in exile together? He
chuckled mirthlessly. Then, enraged by his bad-luck, he punched the ground. Why
did this have to happen to me? He had never gone hungry before; he had never
slept in discomfort; he had never been chased away. Not until the day he had
been chased from the Mainland. They would've killed me, he knew, his anger
ebbing into despair. If I had stayed,they would've killed me. I made the right
choice. I had to leave. I'm alive. I might not have a home or a mate,but at
least I'm alive. I might never have pups,but—
                Fuck.
                Francis leant back against the gnarled tree trunk and clutched
his chest; his heart. He wanted pups. He had always loved pups and had always
wanted his own. It depressed him, but he could—if he reallyhad to—accept the
fact that he may never belong to a clan, or that he may never find an Omega-
mate to pair-bond with. He could accept that he may have to live forever as an
outcast, but when he thought of a life without pups it broke something inside
of him. He had always just assumed that he would be an Alpha-father someday. It
was the natural order of life, after all. He had never considered that he might
have to live the rest of his life alone.
                I don't want to be alone.
                Francis wiped his eyes, frustrated with himself. Why am I
thinking of this now?
                Could it be that he was jealous of his dream-self, who had
everything that Francis did not? Pair-bonded with Arthur,being the Alpha-father
of his pups. Playing with them;providing for them;protecting them. Belonging
with them.
               Francis sighed in defeat and laid back down. He closed his eyes
and tried not to picture Arthur in his mind. He tried not to imagine how
wonderful an Omega-mate he would be, or how sweet and beautiful—how completely
perfect!—their pups would be. He tried not to think about how much he wanted to
be wanted, or how much he needed to be needed. He tried to pretend that he
wasn't secretly terrified of losing Arthur. Of being alone.
                Eventually, he let himself fall back into a deep sleep full of
peaceful dreams, knowing that it was the only way he could ever experience the
life he wanted.
                "Stupid,selfish Omega..." he sleep-talked, seeing Arthur in his
mind. And he smiled.
===============================================================================
THE NEXT DAY
Arthur was scrubbing soiled linens at the stream when a loud, angry roar sent a
chill down his spine.
                "ART!" Scott yelled.
                The Omega jolted in shock, feeling suddenly like cornered prey.
He dropped the handful of linens and scrub-brush, letting the current take it
all. Scott's advance was not happy. Arthur wanted to flee, but his body was
frozen in fear. The Alpha's eyes burned like wicked green witch-light, his lips
pulled back over his canines in an angry sneer. "You are in so much fucking
trouble!" he snarled, increasing his pace as Arthur instinctively backed away.
In a spurt of self-preservation, the Omega turned and ran, but the Alpha caught
his forearm and whipped him back. "What the fuck, Art? Do you have any idea how
fucking worried we've been? It's been six fucking days, you little bitch! You
selfish fucking brat!"
                Arthur struggled in Scott's iron-like grasp, digging tracks in
the soft mud. When that failed, he bit the Alpha.
                "Ouch! Oi—! Arthur!"
                Freed, Arthur dashed back to the cave. It was close; close
enough to hear his pups if they cried. He had barely crossed the threshold,
however, when Scott's big, broad shadow fell over him. In defense, Arthur
grabbed a sharp rock and raised it in threat. "Stay back!" he yelled, standing
protectively in front of the bedding.
                "Art," Scott growled, "give me one reason why I shouldn't skin
your sorry arse right here—"
                Suddenly, he stopped. Rage abated into disbelief as his
nostrils flared, breathing in the baby-sweet scent of milk. His gaze landed on
the bed, then the basket. His nose smelled the blood of his kin. He took a step
forward, but Arthur growled in warning. He hadn't growled at Scott since he was
a pup, himself. It surprised the Alpha. Scott's eyes slid past Arthur's
defensive stance and landed, again, on the basket where Alfred's soft voice
whined hungrily, and he exhaled in bewilderment.
                "Art—?"
                "Scott, please." Arthur's voice was small. "I'm sorry, okay?
I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry I left without telling you, but please don't hurt
them. Scott!" he gasped as he was shoved aside. He lunged at Scott and tried to
hit him with the rock, but the Alpha blocked the attack and held the weak,
sleep-deprived Omega at arm's length as he looked down at the two dozing
newborns. "It was an accident! I didn't mean to! Please don't hurt them!"
Arthur begged.
                "Hurt them—?" Scott's tone was stony, but it was his eyes that
reminded the Omega of his hierarchical place. Scott's gaze, when it pierced
Arthur, was the embodiment of the Alpha's pride. It was the look of a leader
who did not like to be given orders by someone of lesser status than himself.
It was chastising. Arthur felt it and cowered in reply. His shoulders arched
and his head bowed, waiting helplessly for his brother's verdict.
                Please, he silently prayed. Please accept my pups!
                When he felt that Arthur had been satisfactorily subdued, Scott
released him.
                "Is that how you see me, little brother? Am I really so cruel?"
It was rhetorical; Arthur kept quiet. "Do you really think that I'd hurt two
innocent pups? My own kin? If so, you're wrong."
                Ignoring the Omega's whine of protest, Scott knelt before the
basket to meet his new nephews. Arthur didn't realize that he was holding his
breath as the Alpha leant down and sniffed at the two tiny pups. He was
studying them, memorizing their scents and gauging their individual worth.
Alfred's pudgy fists waved back-and-forth, hitting his twin's face; Matthew
yowled in response. Neither of them seemed frightened by the Alpha's presence,
unlike most newborns. They were either very brave little things, or they
recognized a blood-relative. Scott chuckled, momentarily enamoured. Then his
eyebrows lowered in concern.
                "They're small," he observed. "You need to feed them more, Art.
They're fragile, more delicate than the twins were," he said, implying Liam and
Patrick. Then his lips curled into a proud grin. "Looks like our family has a
genetic predisposition for twins, aye? They're pretty, Art. I'll give you that.
There's no denying that these two are very pretty wee things."
                "Thank-you," Arthur said, because he didn't know what else to
say. He stood stiffly watching Scott, ready to pounce if his brother's
affection turned aggressive.
                Scott stood and faced him. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked
in stern accusation.
                "I-I—" Arthur bowed his head. "I thought  you would be angry,"
he said honestly.
                "You're fucking right I'm angry. But not because of them," he
nodded to the newborns, "and not because you spread your legs for an Alpha,
either." Arthur flinched, but Scott pressed on. "I'm angry because you ran
away. Or, tried to. I'm angry because you don't trust us."
                "I'm sorry."
                "Sorry, pft," Scott scoffed. He sighed, raking a hand absently
through his vibrant locks. "Where is this Alpha of yours anyway?" he asked. His
tone was casual, but his green eyes flashed dangerously. The cords of muscle in
his arms and shoulders tensed.
                "He's gone," Arthur answered, grateful for the first time since
he had left. Francis might have been a talented sixteen-year-old, but he
wouldn't stand a chance against a big, fully-grown, infuriated Scott. "I sent
him away."
                Scott's reaction was not expected. He balked in shock. "You
what?"
                Arthur stepped back, putting himself between Scott and the
newborns. "I, uh... sent him away," he repeated.
                Clearly, Scott thought that Arthur had eloped with the Alpha-
father of his pups. He hadn't been expecting to find his Omega-brother living
helplessly alone with two newborns and nobody to protect them. It seemed to
infuriate him more than the Omega's illegitimate pregnancy or his wordless
disappearance.
                "Fucking-hell, Art! Are you daft?" he snapped. Alfred whimpered
and started to cry, but Scott ignored him. "Are you telling me that your wee
pups don't have an Alpha? Who's going to protect them, Art? You—?" He shook his
head."Who's going to feed them, or provide for them? Who's going to care for
them when you go into Heat? Don't you think they deserve more than—than this?"
He gestured aimlessly at the barren cave. "Did you even think of your pups
before you sent him away?"
                "Stop!" Arthur snapped. "You're scaring them!" Ignoring Scott's
growl of disapproval, he lifted Alfred into his arms and bounced him, trying to
soothe him. "I know I made a mistake, okay? But I don't know what else to do."
                "I'll tell you what to do." Deliberately, Scott stalked by
Arthur and plucked Matthew from the basket. He held him with ease, and Arthur
was suddenly reminded that Scott had already raised four younger brothers, two
right from infancy. He was surprisingly apt at playing parent. "You're going to
pack up and come back home," he ordered. "Owen and the twins have been worried
sick, Art. Did you think we wouldn't notice you'd left? We've been looking for
you for six fucking days. We didn't know what had happened to you. We thought
someone had carried you off."
                "I'm sorry," Arthur repeated, cuddling Alfred in shame. He
couldn't meet Scott's eyes. "But you know I can't go back. The clan-laws—"
                "Hang the fucking clan-laws!" Scott yelled, making Arthur
flinch. Alfred wailed. "I'm the head of the family and I'm ordering you to come
home now. Let me worry about the fucking clan-laws, you selfish little—"
                "I said I was sorry!" Arthur interrupted. He felt himself
shaking; in fear, or rage—or something else, perhaps.
                Scott squared his shoulders, standing taller. He eyed his
younger brother in threat. "Oh, you're going to be," he agreed. "You're going
to get down on your hands-and-knees and fucking beg your brothers for
forgiveness. You're going to apologize for all the fucking worry you've caused.
Then we're going to pretend this"—he indicated the cave—"never happened. Is
that crystal-fucking-clear?"
                Mutely, Arthur nodded.
                "Good." Scott's anger simmered. He adjusted Matthew, who,
unbelievably, had fallen asleep in the Alpha's arms. "Then let's go."
===============================================================================
What about the clan?" Arthur asked.
                He was sitting on a fallen log, nursing a cuppa tea, and
watching as his brothers fawned over their nephews. Owen had Matthew swaddled
in Scott's tartan and was pacing back-and-forth and rocking him gently, while
Liam and Patrick sat beside Alfred's basket, making affectionate faces at him
and tickling his rosy, apple-round cheeks. It was a relief that they, too, had
accepted the newborns. Alphas didn't often accept the pups of outsiders—or
worse, bastard-pups—into their family. More often than not, the pup(s) would be
drowned or left for dead. It was considered a mercy, since they couldn't fend
for themselves. Arthur had been terrified that Scott, who placed so much value
in bloodlines, would reject Alfred and Matthew. But he hadn't. He had accepted
them, and Arthur was eternally grateful. Maybe it's because they're both
Omegas, he considered. (Omega-pups posed less of a threat than Alpha-pups did.)
Regardless, the other Kirkland Alphas hadn't been nearly as angry as Scott when
Arthur had reappeared toting the two newborns. Owen had howled in relief and
nearly bowled him over in an attempt to embrace Arthur. He stopped, of course,
when he saw the basket with the pups, and settled for patting his Omega-
brother's blonde head instead. As promised, Scott had taken the pups and made
Arthur kneel on the grass to beg the forgiveness of his brothers (which the
twins found hilarious). It was a humbling experience that Arthur resolved not
to repeat in future. A long, frequently interrupted explanation followed as the
Alphas asked questions and revealed shock at the Omega's confessions. Owen,
especially, gaped at his younger brother, as if pieces of a complex puzzle
finally fit into place.
                "I just can't believe that you did it all alone," he said in
bafflement. The twins nodded in agreement. If Arthur squinted, he could see a
shred of pride in his four Alpha-brothers' eyes.
                Scott had replied for him, saying simply: "He's a Kirkland," as
if that explained it all.
                "Scott?" Arthur prompted now, glancing at the eldest for
advice.
                "I told you not to worry about it. Just focus on being a father
to those pups," he nodded to the two newborns, "and leave the clan-laws to me.
Art," he added, noting Arthur's concern. In a friendly gesture, he punched the
Omega's shoulder too hard; Arthur nearly lost his balance. Scott chuckled.
"It's going to be okay, little brother. I won't let them take your wee pups.
And I won't let them exile you, I promise. You might not have an Alpha-mate,
but you've got me. You're my kin, Art, and so are Alfred and Matthew. I'll
protect you."
                Arthur bowed his head, letting tangled wheat-blonde hair hide
his face. He didn't want Scott to see the tears in his eyes.
===============================================================================
THE NEXT DAY
Arthur hugged Alfred, trying to settle the unruly pup as he wriggled and
fussed, drawing unwanted attention from the surrounding pack-members. The packs
had discovered Arthur's infringement quickly once he agreed to go back to the
Standing Stones. He had barely been reunited with his brothers before the
pack's second-in-command was standing at their campsite, accusing him of
breaking the clan-law:
                "It's illegal to mate without the pack-leader's consent," he
growled authoritatively. He was a very self-entitled Alpha, who was a cousin of
the Clan Leader. "It's illegal for pups to live within the pack without an
Alpha. If the pack-leader refuses to accept responsibility for them"—which he
would; pack-leaders adopted orphans, not bastards—"you will be exiled along
with your pups, Arthur Kirkland. If the pack-leader consents to let you stay,"
he snorted, thinking it unlikely, "then your pups will immediately be put to
death."
                Arthur didn't flinch. "If the pack-leader rejects my pups, I'll
leave," he said bravely, glaring at the second-in-command. "You can exile me,
but you will not hurt my pups."
                "So be it," said the second-in-command. Then he left, and
Arthur's bravery deflated into a panic-attack.
                It wasn't long before others started to spy on the Kirkland
family, wondering what the commotion was about. As soon as the second-in-
command left, neighbours flocked indiscreetly over to investigate. It wasn't a
hard puzzle to solve, and word of Arthur's newborns travelled fast, especially
when all of the Island clans were gathered together. By nightfall, there wasn't
a single person who hadn't heard the gossip about the Kirkland Omega, and
Arthur unwittingly found himself the talk-of-the-night. Of course, his clan was
the only one who took the accusations seriously, because it involved one of
their own. For everyone else, it was little more than a joke. Rival pack-
members took bets on who the pups' Alpha-father could be, and many bet on
Francis—much to Arthur's horror—though none of them knew him by name and simply
called him the Mainlander.
                "Stay here. I'll be back," Scott ordered. Then he had left,
refusing to say where he was going. By sunset, even Owen was getting worried by
Scott's lack of return, but return he did. He looked weary, but determined.
"It's all been arranged," he said to Arthur, who merely blinked in
misunderstanding. Scott said: "I've challenged the pack-leader. At dawn
tomorrow I'll fight him. The Clan Leader will oversee it. If I win then I'll
become the pack-leader and your fate, and the wee pups' fate, will be my
decision. If I win you'll be safe, Art."
                "When," said Owen. His handsome face had lost its colour,
betraying his fear, but he clapped Scott's shoulder in support. He exchanged a
glance with the twins—all of them knew what losing implied—then cleared his
throat and repeated confidently: "When you win."
                Scott nodded.
                Arthur's heart pounded now as Scott entered the circle of eager
spectators to meet the present pack-leader. The blinding light of dawn coloured
the middle-aged Alpha in gold, making his profile look like a shadow against
the rising sun. Just behind him stood the Clan Leader, who wore—what was
believed to be—a direwolf's pelt as a sign of his position, as well as the Clan
Leader's Omega-mate. Unabashed, she kissed the pack-leader's cheek for good-
luck, which was a subtle symbol of support. Fuck, Arthur thought, knowing how
influential she was. In reply, the spectators howled in agreement, voicing
support for the present pack-leader. "Fuck," Arthur cursed aloud, glancing at
Owen. The twenty-year-old Alpha was tense. He cradled Matthew gently, but
otherwise he looked ready to strike. He's nervous, Arthur recognized. He's just
as nervous as I am. When their green eyes met, Arthur saw his older brother's
fear. Both of them knew that if Scott was defeated and killed, Owen would
assume responsibility for the Kirkland family, and he would have a choice to
make: to second Scott's challenge and fight the pack-leader, or to let Arthur
and his newborns be exiled. It was a decision that he didn't want to have to
make.
                As Scott stepped into position, Owen's lips began whispering a
mantra of good-luck. Arthur stepped closer to him, lessening the gap between
Owen, the pups, and himself. Liam and Patrick were pacing in an absent figure-
eight around Arthur and Owen, growling to discourage unwanted attention, but
they stopped when Scott entered the circle and moved to flank their older
brothers. The foursome—and newborns—stood alone, except for a few pack-members
who valued Scott as a friend and potential leader. Arthur was grateful to them
and knew that they would be rewarded if Scott won.
                When, not if. When Scott wins, he corrected.
                The fight began without a signal. Scott struck first. He leapt
at his opponent in a lightning-fast attack that the other Alpha couldn't dodge.
The pack-leader was hit by Scott's full weight, but he deflected most of the
damage. Scott regained his balance quickly and struck again, using his superior
speed to his advantage. He was at least ten years the pack-leader's junior, and
his body, though broad and heavy, moved like a whip. Arthur watched in
amazement as his older brother maintained control of the fight. He was so
impressed by Scott's skills, he nearly forgot to be terrified on his brother's
behalf. Instead, he watched, awe-struck, as Scott fought a battle that didn't
belong to him.
                "I didn't know he could move like that," Arthur said,
impressed.
                "He's never had to before," Owen replied.
                The unspoken implication in Owen's tone was clear: It's because
of you,Arthur. He's doing it to protect you. It sent a shiver down Arthur's
spine.
                As the fight raged, pack-members yelling and howling in
excitement, Arthur realized that it was exactly what he had been trying to
avoid by running away.
                This is my fault, he thought. Scott wouldn't have challenged
the pack-leader if it wasn't for me. He wouldn't be fighting to protect me,all
of us,from disgrace. He wouldn't be fighting for his life. If I had never met
Francis,if I hadn't gotten pregnant—
                He was feeling increasingly panicked when, suddenly, Alfred
yowled in reply to the noises bombarding him and his little fist clutched
Arthur's shirt in comfort. And in that moment Arthur's guilt evaporated. He
looked down at tiny Alfred, then over at Matthew, who was staring wide-eyed in
wonder as he watched the shapes and colours of the vicious fight, and all at
once Arthur knew the truth in his heart:
                I don't regret it. I don't regret any of it,not letting Francis
mate me and not getting pregnant. If I hadn't,I wouldn't have Alfred and
Matthew. I wouldn't have the pups whom I love now more than anything in the
world. I'm sorry,Scott. I'm so sorry that I've put you in this position—the
pack-leader pounced and sunk his canines into Scott's shoulder; blood poured
from the wound; Scott yelped loudly—but I'm not sorry for what I've done. I'm
not sorry for what I now have. Please,forgive me. Please, don't lose this
fight. I need you. I need you to win,brother. Not for me,but for my pups.
Please,Scott. Please—
                "Kick his fucking arse, Scott!" Arthur yelled at the top of his
voice. It was spontaneous. He didn't realize that he had spoken—yelled—until
Owen and the twins suddenly joined him. Together they ignored the insults and
threats of the other pack-members and shouted at their older brother in vicious
encouragement.
                Scott, who had started to struggle, cast a glance back at his
brothers in surprise. As their voices reached him, yelling support, advice, and
well-intended insults (from the twins), the Alpha's blood-freckled face split
into a wicked grin and a spirited fire rekindled in his Lincoln-green eyes.
When he caught Arthur's equally-green gaze, he nodded as if to say: Don't
worry,Art,I won't lose. Suddenly, a great bark of laughter escaped him and he
threw himself wildly at his opponent, determined to win at all costs.
                It ended quickly after that. The present—previous—pack-leader
fell down dead on the grass, and Scott stood over his body, panting and injured
in victory. The four Kirkland brothers rushed to Scott, but stopped when the
Clan Leader stepped forward. Scott fell to his knees, his head bowed; in
respect or because he was so badly injured, Arthur couldn't tell. The old Clan
Leader studied him for the longest minute of Arthur's life, then placed a hand
on Scott's red head. Arthur let out a sigh of relief. It was a symbol of
acceptance, confirming that the challenge had been issued and fought fairly,
and finally won with the Clan Leader's blessing. In a booming voice, he
announced:
                "I have a new pack representative: Allistor Kirkland. Does
anyone dispute my word?" No one moved, though Arthur saw the Clan Leader's
Omega-mate narrow her eyes. "Well then," he continued bluntly, "what are you
waiting for?" He gestured to the Alpha members of the pack that Scott had just
inherited. "On your knees and swear loyalty to your new pack-leader."
                Owen offered Scott a hand, then stood beside him as each Alpha
pack-member stepped forward and bowed his head in acknowledgement of Scott's
authority. He leant heavily on Owen, Arthur noticed, but his face was a mask of
self-satisfied victory. He looked strong. He looked like a leader. When the
Clan Leader asked Scott if he would take responsibility for Arthur's pups and
be their Alpha for as long as Arthur didn't have an Alpha-mate, he didn't
hesitate. He accepted the responsibility and he did it verypublically, ensuring
that every pack-member knew that Alfred and Matthew belonged to his family and
were under his protection. Arthur's heart swelled at Scott's selfless
declaration. It had been too long since he had felt truly safe, without hiding
secrets. He wanted to tell Scott just how grateful he was, but he didn't know
how. Scott wasn't someone who needed words of affirmation; none of the Kirkland
brothers were. (Frankly, words made them all rather uncomfortable.) Instead,
Arthur stood beside Scott as he accepted loyalty oaths from the Alphas, who
each promised to accept Alfred and Matthew as Scott's heirs. As he watched,
Arthur saw several unasked questions lurking behind each pack-member's eyes,
wondering why such an eligible Alpha as Scott Kirkland would surrender his
right to have an Omega-mate for the sake of his brother's illegitimate pups.
                (To avoid the problems associated with polygamy, an Alpha was
only allowed to be responsible for one adult Omega at a time, whether or not
they were mates. He could be responsible for as many pups as necessary.)
                The consequence of Scott's decision meant that, until Arthur
had an Alpha-mate to replace Scott—which was unlikely now that the clans knew
he had already been mated—he and his two pups would stay under Scott's
protection because it was illegal for them to live in the pack without an
Alpha. And on Scott's part, he wouldn't be able to take an Omega-mate for
himself until another Alpha agreed to take Arthur. The clan-laws were in place
to ensure that nobody was neglected and left un-provided for, but the reality
of it meant that Scott was unlikely to ever have an Omega-mate because he was
now shackled to undesirable Arthur. It was a heavy sacrifice, especially for a
pack-leader.
                Arthur wished that he knew what to say to his brother in
thanks, but whenever he got the chance to speak to Scott alone, words failed
him. The best he could do was stay faithfully by Scott's side, as Scott had
always stood by his.
                Finally, the Clan Leader clasped Scott's hand and showed he and
his four brothers a discrete half-smile. The Clan Leader had always liked
Scott, and, though he was supposed to be impartial to the minor changes in
leadership, Arthur could see that he was glad of the change. Scott accepted the
Clan Leader's subtle congratulations in a dignified manner, looking proud but
not arrogant. Looking strong, like the leader he had become.
                It wasn't until the five Kirkland brothers had safely returned
to their campsite, hidden from spies, that Scott finally unclenched his teeth
and growled in pain:
                "Son-of-a-fucking-bitch!"
                He whined and moaned like a pup as Arthur cleaned and bandaged
his many wounds, several of which were disconcertingly deep. The previous pack-
leader had not been a weakling and had fought hard to the bitter end. (Scott
said that he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. He had respected the
previous pack-leader, and out of respect as much as necessity was determined to
be a good successor.) "Here," Arthur said, handing his older brother a flask
full of scotch. Scott grabbed it and gulped down the contents greedily, letting
the alcohol numb the pain. Then he belched loudly and licked his lips. Arthur
rolled his eyes.
                "So," Scott settled back on his sleeping-roll, feigning
nonchalance, "I don't recall any of you swearing loyalty to the new pack-
leader," he teased.
                Owen, Liam, and Patrick exchanged an ironic glance. On behalf
of the trio, Liam said: "Fuck you."
                Scott barked in laughter, but he stopped immediately when
Arthur knelt beside him. The others quieted, too, watching as their only Omega-
brother took Scott's bandaged hand and bowed his head in gratitude.
                "Thank-you," he said softly.
                In reply, he felt Scott's free hand rest gently on his wheat-
blonde head. He said: "You're welcome."
***** Renegades - Chapter Four *****
AUGUST
Most of the clans had departed by mid-July, journeying back to their home
territories to begin preparations for the winter. Fields needed to be tended
and crops sowed; game needed to be hunted, skinned, and preserved; shelters and
storehouses needed to be repaired and insulated; tools and weapons needed to be
crafted; and—most importantly—territory needed to be defended. Every day, more
packs left the sacred Standing Stones until it was as empty a field as before
the summer festival. By August, Arthur's family was one of the only ones left.
He had begged his four brothers to stay until his pups were stronger and had
encountered little resistance. Scott had declared—while nosing Alfred's apple-
round cheek affectionately—that they would stay put as long as necessary. (The
newborns were already being spoiled by their proud and overindulgent uncles.)
The food that Francis had left turned out to be a god-send, since hunting was
forbidden in the forest. It fed the family for a month before they started
rationing their supply for the journey north. Finally, on the first of August,
the remaining few families packed up their campsites and started for home.
                The pace Scott set was slow, but by nightfall Arthur was
exhausted nonetheless. He felt sluggish and hungry, his body still tender as it
healed. He sat at the fireside feeding Alfred and Matthew, and this time nobody
complained or cracked cruel jokes at his expense. This time, they let him rest.
Owen cooked, which was—okay. Arthur devoured a bowl of lamb stew and
immediately asked for seconds, while Scott rocked the two pups to sleep. They
looked small in his big arms. By sunset, the Omega's eyelids were drooping and
his head bobbed tiredly. "Art," Scott said, pushing the sleeping pups into his
arms, "go to sleep." It was an order, but Arthur was only too happy to comply.
Mechanically, he crawled into his sleeping-roll, holding the pups close to his
warm body, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. He only awoke twice:
once by Alfred, who was hungry; and once by Alfred, because Matthew was hungry.
If Alfred wasn't so vocal,Matthew wouldn't ever eat, he thought, feeling guilty
about his quieter pup. Arthur nearly fell asleep sitting up as Matthew fed. The
Alphas surrounded them, sprawled on their backs and bellies, soundly asleep.
It'll be a while before I get to sleep through the night, Arthur predicted,
eyeing his brothers enviously. Yet, he was grateful. If I was still all alone
in that cave,I'd be—Actually, he considered his former paranoid state,I'd
probably be dead. As he wiped Matthew's soft face and settled back down, he
absently shifted closer to Scott's body. It made him feel safe and
comfortable—that is, until Scott roused him at sunrise. (Then he went back to
hating Scott just a little.)
                On the third day, Patrick sprinted back to their temporary
campsite in excitement. Bored, Scott had sent him to scout the road ahead. His
young face was bright-eyed and flushed when he gasped: "Raiders!" He pointed
eastward. "Not a mile away! They've got a family cornered in a ravine, an Alpha
with an Omega and two pups!"
                Scott and Owen leapt to their feet. Scott grabbed a knife;
Owen, a bow. "Stay with them," Scott ordered Liam and Patrick, waving back at
Arthur. The twins scowled. "I said stay!" Scott growled, snapping his teeth at
them when they followed. They weren't big, but they were brave for ten-year-
olds, and rather capable. They had been taught well. Both grabbed eagerly at
fishing-spears, ready for their first real battle.
                "There's five of them and they're big," Patrick reported. "You
need us."
                "I need you to stay with Art!"
                "Go ahead," Arthur interrupted. He had already bundled his pups
into the basket, covering them with the old tartan. "I'll be fine. I'll hide."
                Scott started to protest, but just then a pup's high-pitched
shriek echoed across the foggy moors, followed by the howls and mean-sounding
growls of a fight. It urged the party of Alphas into fast action. "Stay out of
sight!" Scott snapped as he departed, leading the others eastward toward the
cries of distress.
                Arthur needed no instruction. Leaving everything else behind,
he took the basket and jogged into the forest. It was a deciduous forest,
offering less cover than the evergreens did, but Arthur found a canopied copse
of trees, one of which was hollow. It stood at the base of a dry gully, dipping
below the higher banks. He climbed down cautiously, sniffing for rodents and
other animals that could hurt his pups. He caught a vague Alpha-like scent that
seemed kind of familiar, but it was very faint and the Omega's nose was not
sensitive enough to discern it, so he disregarded it. The base of the tree
showed signs of digging, but otherwise it was deserted. Arthur was half-
conscious of the fact that he was cornering himself if he was found, but he
knew he couldn't run. Instead, he shoved the pups' basket half into the hollow
tree; the roots prevented him from hiding it completely. Then he searched for a
sizable branch he could use as a club if needed.
                Please don't be needed, he prayed.
                Arthur crouched beside his pups, one hand petting their heads,
the other clutching the club tightly. "Don't be scared, my darlings. It's
okay," he cooed softly. "I'm here."
                In the distance, he could hear the terrified cries of someone
else's pups. And he shivered.
===============================================================================
Francis stood barefoot in a cold stream, his trouser-legs rolled up to his
knees as he scanned the clear surface for the shadow of fish. His hands hovered
inches above the rippling water, curled into claws, ready to strike as soon as
he saw movement. He was starving. His stomach growled loudly in encouragement
and absently he licked his lips. He struck quickly, squeezing the life from his
unsuspecting prey. The fish wriggled as he pulled it out of the water, but he
held it tight. He had to stop himself from sinking his teeth into its scaly
body, wanting to taste its blood, its flesh. I'm turning into a barbarian, he
thought in disgust. He had prepared a small fire to roast the fish before
consumption, which was on the bank close by. But just as he was wading to
shore, a terribly familiar voice erupted from the forest.
                Francis dropped the fish in shock. That terrified voice sent a
chill down his spine. It growled; then yelped. He didn't even realize that he
was running, barefoot with his trousers rolled up, until he was crashing
through the thorny underbrush. The breeze whipped his face, his blue ribbon
sailing behind him like a flag. He raced toward the sound of the confrontation,
his heart pounding in fear. The closer he got, the more definable the Alpha's
scent was. He was one of the Northerner's pack who had chased Francis off a few
weeks ago. Francis spotted him as the trees parted. He was a pale-haired brute
who easily outweighed Francis—or Arthur, whom he had cornered.
                The Omega brandished a large branch clumsily in defence. The
size of the club made him look pitifully small.
                Francis couldn't see Arthur's face—his back was to Francis—but
his voice was a fearful growl.
                "Get away!" he snapped at the Alpha, who stepped closer.
                Francis could see the Alpha's weathered face, and it infuriated
him. The Northerner grinned fiercely, scaring the Omega by showing his canines.
Instinctively, Arthur stepped back. The Alpha said: "My pack is short on
Omegas." (Settlers always were.) "And here I find you hording two. It's just my
luck. I'll take them back with me. You too, green-eyes. You're not completely
spent; you've got lots of pup-bearing years left. Come here." It was an order,
not a request. The Northerner extended his hand. When Arthur tried to attack,
the Alpha grabbed the club and flung it aside. It hit a tree and broke into
thick splinters. "I said," he repeated, stalking closer and raising his fist,
"come here!"
                As the Northerner struck, Francis leapt in front of Arthur and
blocked it. He snarled, fear becoming fury as he shoved the attacker back, off-
balance. His lips pulled back, revealing his teeth in anger. He drew himself to
his full height in an attempt to intimidate (or at least look evenly matched),
but his appearance did not stall the Northerner for long. He retaliated full-
force, angry that his abduction had been interrupted. His fists pounded at
Francis, serving powerful blows that knocked the younger, slighter Alpha back.
Francis kept his footing, but just. He was weakened by hunger and sleep-
deprivation. He dodged more attacks than he served, using his superior speed to
his advantage. He tried to draw the Northerner's attention away from Arthur,
but every time he got too far away, the Northerner started  toward the Omega,
who refused to move. Why don't you run? Francis wondered in frustration. Can't
you see that it's your only option?I'm giving you the chance to run! He wished
that Arthur would run. He didn't think he could hold the older Alpha at bay for
much longer. But Arthur stood rooted to the spot in front of a very familiar
hollow tree; the tree he, himself, had taken refuge by more than once. It was a
place for hiding, not attacking. You fool! Francis cursed. Too slow, he took a
sudden blow to the head that sent him sprawling to the ground. He blinked,
momentarily dazed. The angry Northerner advanced on him, intending to kill.
Francis tried to rise, but his limbs trembled and he slipped. The other Alpha
spat something in a foreign tongue that sounded like a threat, or a farewell.
                Then the Omega jumped on his back.
                Francis stared in bewilderment. Then he yelled: "Arthur—run!"
                Arthur, of course, refused to obey.
                Stubborn,reckless Omega!
                Arthur snaked his arms around the Northerner's neck and was
trying to choke him. The Alpha gasped as he whipped his body back-and-forth,
trying to pry the green-eyed Omega off himself. Unfortunately, it wasn't long
before he succeeded. He pulled Arthur overhead and threw him hard against a
nearby tree. Arthur emitted a painful yelp and then lay unmoving.
                "You little bitch!" the Northerner snarled. Marching forward,
he reached for the still Omega. "You're going to be sorry you did that! I'm
going to—"
                "Die," said Francis, stabbing a splinter into the Northerner's
jugular. "You're going to die."
                Hot blood spurted from the lethal wound, splattering Francis,
and the Northerner's body fell with a gurgling growl. It jerked, then his eyes
rolled back in his head and he died.
                Francis didn't wait for confirmation. He ran to Arthur's side
and fell onto his knees, half-cradling the injured Omega as he tapped his
cheek. "Please, wake up. Are you okay? Arthur—?"
                Arthur groaned as he came slowly back to consciousness. His
blonde eyelashes quivered. His eyes squeezed shut, and then opened slowly. It
was a minute before he recognized Francis, but before he did he tentatively
cupped the Alpha's stubbled cheek and his lips curled into an absent smile. His
body relaxed, feeling safe. Then he spotted the Northerner's corpse and he
emitted a sharp gasp as reality hit. He shoved Francis and scrambled eagerly to
his feet. It looked like he intended to run, so, fearing losing him, Francis
grabbed him. He held the Omega's forearm as he pulled and struggled, trying to
escape.
                Arthur was speaking too fast: "Let go! Please, let me go!" he
begged.
                Francis thought that the attack had scared him. His face
softened (though his grip did not). He wanted to tell Arthur that he was safe.
That he, Francis, would protect him. That he, Francis, would not lose him
again. But he never got the chance. Before he could utter a single syllable, a
pup's cry erupted.
                Francis hadn't noticed before, too focused on rescuing Arthur,
but as he inhaled deeply, sifting past the other scents—the wet forest; small-
game; the dead Alpha—he suddenly couldn't not smell the mild, baby-sweet scent
of two pups. Two veryyoung pups: newborns. On the surface, Francis could smell
Arthur's Alpha-brothers, but it came from the fibre of an old article of
clothing. That, mixed with the dry hemp-scent of a basket weave surrounded the
pups, but it didn't penetrate their skin. He recognized Arthur's scent
instantly, a discernible skin-to-skin touch, and the residue of the Omega's
milk; he could smell Arthur's genes in the pups' blood. But it wasn't Arthur's
alone. Aside from lacking any distinct qualities, or perhaps because of it, the
pups smelled exactly like—
                Francis' blue eyes widened in disbelief.
                Me. They smell like me.
                In shock, he released Arthur, who ran to the hollow tree to
quiet the crying pups. (One cried loudly; the other whimpered in threat.)
Francis stood stalk-still, paralyzed. He couldn't move, or speak; his mouth
felt dry. He stared in bewilderment as Arthur produced a basket from inside the
tree and reached into it, cooing gently, trying to soothe two frightened
newborns who did not want to be soothed. One of them wailed louder, encouraging
the other. A powerful urge seized Francis then, which felt just as strong and
natural as racing to Arthur's aid. Without conscious volition, he took a step
closer. He wanted to see the pups. He wanted desperately to touch them, to hold
them. He wanted them to know that he, Francis Bonnefoi, was their Alpha-father
and that he would protect them. Like a sleepwalker he stepped forward, pulled
by a primordial instinct that couldn't be explained.
                Mine. My pups, he thought, feeling overwhelmed. I have pups. I
have two pups. I—
                "Stay back!" Arthur snarled.
                The Omega stood in front of the basket with his arms spread to
hide the pups from view. His body-language was reflexive more so than
defensive, but Francis stopped as bidden. Arthur seemed to exhale in relief,
but remained tense. He looked like he wanted to run, but his Lincoln-green eyes
told a different story. He was small and weak, but if there was a more
determined Omega in the world, Francis had yet to meet him. He would stay to
face Armageddon if it meant protecting those pups, Francis thought. He felt a
surge of pride knowing that his pups—theirpups—had such a dedicated and brave
Omega-father.
                "Arthur," he said gently. The Omega tensed, watching Francis'
every move. In peace, Francis surrendered his hands. "I just want to know"—he
knew; he already knew. It was impossible not to know, but he had to hear the
Omega say it—"are they mine?"
                "Yes."
                Francis felt his knees go weak, but he stayed upright (without
leaping in joy). His face was not so disciplined, however. His lips widened
into a shaky smile and tears of disbelief unwittingly filled his eyes. He
swallowed. "Can I—see them?"
                "No."
                It took Francis a moment to register Arthur's refusal. He
panicked. "Why not?" He tried to keep the fear and anger from his voice, but
when Arthur didn't reply, he repeated: "Why not?"
                The louder pup shrieked.
                Immediately, Francis felt guilty. Oh,no! No,chéri,don't be
frightened! In a softer voice, he said: "Arthur, s'il vous plaît—?" and took a
cautious step forward.
                "NO." Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head. His
body trembled; but from fear, grief, or anger, Francis didn't know. One thing
was certain, though. Arthur couldn't fight Francis and both of them knew it.
And that, he realized, is what frightened the Omega. If Francis decided that he
wanted the two pups; if he decided to take them, or hurt them, he could, and
there was nothing Arthur could do about it.
                Francis had heard several horrible stories about Alphas who
refused to acknowledge their pups, because they rejected the Omega-parent, or
because they didn't believe that the pup was truly theirs, or because they
simply didn't want offspring. Regardless, it was shameful and socially
unacceptable, but not unheard of for an Alpha to abandon his family. And,
worse, it wasn't uncommon for the pack-leader, in that case, to order the
rejected pup be killed (provided it was less than a year old). Francis had even
heard the odd nightmarish tale of an Omega who murdered his own pup to satisfy
an Alpha, or of others who did it to hide the evidence of an affair. In the
past year, Francis had heard of what the Islanders called the Hunts, where
clan-members had hunted and murdered the pups of their rivals. The horrors of
it filled Francis with pure rage, closely accompanied by debilitating fear
since he knew he had pups of his own. Lastly, he thought of the Northern Alpha
whose corpse lay bleeding on the ground a few feet away, and how he had
intended to abduct Arthur and the two Omega-pups to be used as breeding-stock
for his pack. Considering all of that, there was no question as to why Arthur
was nervous, perhaps rightfully so, but—
                I would never, Francis thought in devastation. I would never
take a pup from his Omega-parent,especially not my own—not Arthur's. I
wouldnever hurt a pup. I swear it. I just want to see them,please,Arthur. I
don't want to hurt them,or reject them. I want to protect them. I want to love
them. Please,I just want to see my pups.
               "Please..." he whispered helplessly.
                If Arthur refused, Francis knew that he wouldn't fight. He knew
that he would leave without protest if that's really what the Omega wanted. And
he knew, without a doubt, that it would break his heart.
                But Arthur didn't refuse. This time, he said: "Fine."
===============================================================================
Francis approached slowly, but it wasn't caution. It was nerves. He was eager,
yet afraid to meet his pups for the first time; afraid, perhaps, that they
wouldn't recognize him. Arthur's heart beat fast, fighting the urge to change
his mind and yank Francis back. The Alpha passed within an inch of the Omega,
but he barely seemed to notice. His gaze was focused on the woven basket that
cradled the crying pups. He had eyes only for them. As he crouched, Arthur
heard him inhale in awe, then exhale a breath of happy disbelief.
                "Hello,my darlings," he said softly in French. "I'm so happy to
meet you,my sweet pups. I'm your Papa."
                Francis' words touched Arthur's heart, destroying his defenses
all at once. He didn't understand the foreign language, but the implication in
the Alpha's voice was unmistakable; the emotion was raw. Francis sounded so
happy, which unintentionally made Arthur happy. He relaxed as he watched the
Alpha greet his newborns, abandoning any fear he had harboured of Francis
hurting or rejecting them. He didn't even flinch when Francis reached down into
the basket to cup each pup's soft, round cheek. It seemed natural. It seemed
right.
                He's their Papa, Arthur thought, feeling suddenly guilty that
he had denied his pups for so long. My pups—ourpups—need him.
                As Francis' soft, indulgent voice and his gentle touch
registered, the pups quieted. Matthew stopped whining almost immediately;
Alfred stopped a moment later. It might have been their curiosity, or them
recognizing a blood-relative—No, not just a blood-relative: their Alpha-father.
Regardless, Francis' mere presence managed to achieve in a single gesture what
it sometimes took Arthur hours to do. Both of the pups quieted. They trusted
their Alpha-father. Instinctively, they knew him.
                "What did you call them?" Francis asked without looking away.
                Arthur swallowed; his voice felt weak. He knelt beside Francis
and patted each pup's soft, blonde head as he spoke their names:
                "Alfred and Matthew."
                Francis tested the names: "Alfred and Mathieu. Yes, that's
right. That's exactly who you are, mes chéris."
                Then, deliberately, he looked at Arthur and the Omega suddenly
felt the full weight of the Alpha's heartache. He said: "Please let me stay." A
tear fell unabashedly from his eye, landing on Alfred's pudgy little fist.
"Please don't leave me again. Not now. I'll be whatever you need me to be,
whatever you want me to be," he promised desperately. "But don't run, Arthur.
Please, pleasedon't take my pups from me. Please let me stay with them. Let me
stay," he took Arthur's hand and squeezed it tenderly, "with you."
                Arthur tried to fight the feelings that suddenly flooded him,
but it was useless. He had been trying to run and hide for almost a year, but
he had always failed, and now, staring into Francis' fathomless blue eyes, he
knew why. He only had to admit it: He didn't want to. He had been running from
something that he wanted; something that he—and his pups—needed. He could tell
himself that accepting Francis had only been the decision of a desperate, Heat-
crazed Omega, and back then he might have been right. But choosing to accept
Francis now as a true pair-bonded mate made him feel just as desperate. He
could tell himself that he was only accepting the Alpha because he had pups to
support, but that would have been a lie. He was doing it now because he wanted
to; because he had always wanted to; because he hadn't ever wanted anyone else.
Francis, it had always been Francis. Arthur finally realized (privately, at
least) that a part of him was undeniably, accidentally, falling in love with
Francis. And despite the odds, instead of it fading with time, that love was
only growing stronger. Francis was no longer a memory that Arthur was afraid to
remember. He was there: tall and strong and handsome, and begging the lonely
Omega to let him stay.
                Wordlessly, Arthur nodded and let Francis pull him into an
embrace. He felt the Alpha's overwhelming relief and, before he knew it, he was
crying and clutching at Francis' shirt. In reply, Francis held him tight. It
felt better than what Arthur could have imagined. He didn't want to let go, and
he didn't—not for a long time.
                Eventually, Francis pulled back. "Thank-you," he whispered.
Spontaneously, he pulled the blue ribbon from his messy curls and tied it
around the Omega's wrist.
                It was a small gift, but it carried huge weight. In acceptance,
Arthur said: "Don't make me regret this." It was a half-hearted joke, but the
words rang true.
                I'm trusting you, Francis,so please don't hurt us.
               Francis seemed to sense the deep, innate fear in Arthur, a fear
that would take time to heal, because at that moment he lifted the Omega's
chin, and said very seriously:
                "I promise."
                Then Francis was kissing Arthur, and Arthur was kissing him
back, and their two newborn pups were quiet between them. And nothing else—not
the past, present, or uncertain future—mattered. It was just them. And,
finally, it was just right.
===============================================================================
I can't believe I didn't realize," Francis said, shaking his head. He was
pacing back-and-forth, gently rocking Matthew, who was asleep. "I should have
smelled it. How did you keep it a secret for so long, from me, from everyone?"
                Arthur glanced at the befuddled Alpha. "I took precautions." He
shrugged as he re-dressed Alfred, who was wiggling like a beached fish. "I'm
not stupid, you know."
                Francis lifted an eyebrow, then conceded. "No," he smiled. "You
are many things, chéri, but stupid is not one of them."
                Arthur rolled his eyes. He tickled Alfred's belly, but the pup
only yawned sleepily. His tiny pink tongue poked out and he produced a high-
pitched mewling sound, which made Francis gush fondly. As the Alpha rambled on
about how adorable his sweet, perfect pups were, Arthur resisted the urge to
laugh. It was like Francis was trying to make up for lost time by cuddling his
pups as much as possible. Since returning to the Kirkland's temporary campsite,
Francis had been switching between Alfred and Matthew, wanting to hold one of
them at all times.
                "I want them to know who I am," he had said. "I want them to
know my scent, my face, my voice."
                It was unnecessary, Arthur thought. Both of the pups were
perceptive; they knew their own family members. "They're not actually that
brave," Arthur explained. The pups were relaxed in the presence of their blood-
relatives, but they shrieked bloody-murder if a strange Alpha got close. You
have nothing to fear,Francis. They already love you.
                Just then, a loud howl echoed in the distance.
                Francis flinched. "What was that?"
                Arthur noted the way he clutched Matthew protectively. It made
him happy. As he watched Francis move to stand defensively in front of he and
Alfred, the Omega felt a wave of affection for him.
                "That," he said, laughing as he lifted the blue-eyed pup, "was
my brother. I guess they won the fight."
                Francis paled. "Your, uh... brother?"
                Arthur grinned wickedly. He leant up and pecked Francis'
stubbled cheek. "Now I get to see how brave you really are, Alpha."
                The redheaded twins appeared first, racing each other over the
rocky, undulating terrain; the next was Owen, who reached overhead, stretching
and flexing his taut muscles; and then Scott, who stalked toward the campsite
like a wolf on the prowl. In preparation, Francis passed Matthew to Arthur, who
balanced both small pups against his chest. They were lightweight and fit
comfortably; Arthur, too, loved holding them. He took a step back and watched
his four brothers' steady advance. Even from a distance, the Kirkland Alphas
visibly tensed when they caught Francis' scent on the wind. They recognized his
scent from the Standing Stones, of course, but even more they recognized his
blood, his genes, in their nephews. The revelation was clear on Scott's face as
he neared, his pace increasing. When he was close enough, he growled a low
warning. Arthur heard it; so did Francis, but the blue-eyed Alpha didn't
retreat. Instead, he stayed rooted to the spot and waited for the head of the
Kirkland family to reach him.
                Scott stopped directly in front of Francis, just within
striking distance. They made eye-contact for a minute, sapphire-blue eyes
staring intently into fierce Lincoln-green, and then Francis bowed his head,
showing respect and submission to Scott's higher position. Owen, Liam and
Patrick stood close, waiting for Scott's verdict. They waited for a long time.
Arthur started to feel nervous; Francis must have been terrified. Scott's face
was unreadable, but nothing about his posture was friendly. His gaze slid from
Francis to Arthur and finally landed on the ribbon tied around the Omega's
skinny wrist. He exhaled and said:
                "Ah, fuck."
                He placed his hand on Francis' blonde head. "Welcome to the
family, Mainlander."
===============================================================================
That night, Francis watched over his sleeping Omega-mate and pups. It wasn't
necessary. Arthur's four brothers were all there to guard them as well, and,
precious as they might be, three Omegas did not need five Alphas to guard them.
But even if Francis hadn't felt duty-bound to his new post as his family's
protector, he couldn't have slept. He was too wired (elated was a better word).
After a long year of wandering aimlessly in search of a place to belong, he had
finally been accepted—not just into a clan, but into a family. They're so
beautiful, he thought, staring down at Arthur, Alfred, and Matthew. The Omega
was lying on his side, legs curled up and arms outstretched, cradling both
pups. A big tartan blanket covered them like a cocoon. Francis sat beside them,
feeling peaceful. When Matthew sighed in his sleep, his Alpha-father raised a
hand to pet the pup's kitten-soft curls. The Kirklands had fed Francis, and
Owen had even gifted him with one of his old shirts to replace the threadbare
one he had been wearing for weeks. With a full stomach and a safe place to
rest, all Francis wanted to do was lie down with Arthur and hold his family in
his arms. He wanted to feel the Omega's body against his, soft and slight and
warm. He wanted to bury his face in the scent of the Omega's wheat-blonde hair.
He wanted to kiss the Omega's freckled skin.
                For a year, Francis had felt like an addict desperate for
relapse; desperate for Arthur's touch. He had dreamt of kissing him (and, uh,
of doing other things...), and when it had finally happened again, when they
had finally been reunited, Francis had taken full advantage. He had tried to
communicate just how happy he was in that kiss, and now he was afraid that his
vigour had scared the emotionally-distant Omega. Since then, Arthur had kept
physical-contact to a minimum, though that could have something to do with his
brothers' constant presence. (Despite his attitude, the Omega was adorably
shy.) Francis could have ordered his Omega, but respectfully he refrained. He
had promised long ago that he would not be a demanding, overbearing Alpha-mate.
He would never force intimacy. It meant waiting out Arthur's unease, but he
hoped it would be worth it (while, at the same time, promising himself to show
his pups extra affection to ensure they grew-up to be more emotionally-
available than their stone-hearted Omega-father and uncles).
                "Je t'aime, mes chéris," he whispered to the pups.
                Maybe it was a subconscious desire provoked by Francis' voice,
but Arthur's lips parted and he sleep-talked in reply. Softly, he said:
"Francis..."
                "Yes, Arthur." He placed a hand on the Omega's blanketed
shoulder. "I'm here."
                Arthur's eyelids fluttered; half-asleep, half-awake. He said:
"Come closer."
                "An Omega shouldn't give his Alpha orders," Francis teased,
while moving immediately to comply. Pleased, he laid down behind Arthur and,
wrapping he and the pups in a hug, pulled the skinny Omega snug against his
chest. Arthur arched his shoulders, then visibly relaxed. He sighed in
contentment, not unlike his violet-eyed pup. Matthew instinctively turned his
head, nosing Francis' skin; Alfred pressed his cheek to Francis' forearm,
making Francis smile. The Alpha bowed his head and touched that smile tenderly
to the back of Arthur's exposed neck. The Omega shivered.
                "Don't leave," he said softly. And this time Francis was sure
he was awake.
                He pressed his lips to the shell of Arthur's ear, and
whispered: "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay right here as long as you want
me. If you let me, I promise I'll take care of you and Alfred and Matthew
forever.
                "Je t'aime, Arthur."
***** Renegades – Epilogue *****
THE ISLES
SEPTEMBER
You're a bloody clan-whelp?" Scott gaped. "My wee nephews have a clan-whelp's
blood in them? Ah, fuck."
                Francis frowned. He glanced between Scott and Owen in
misunderstanding, feeling as if he ought to be insulted but didn't know why.
"My Papa was the Clan Leader. Is that a bad thing?" he asked. Beside him, Liam
and Patrick snickered in mockery. He eyed them suspiciously, but focused on the
two eldest. "I was given the very best of everything, you know. I've always
been strong, always healthy. I was taught by the clan's most talented hunters
and scholars," he added in an attempt to prove his worth. "My Papa taught me to
lead."
                "I'm sure he did," said Scott condescendingly. "I'm sure you're
a very gifted little clan-whelp, Mainlander."
                Owen snorted.
                Francis rolled his eyes and muttered in French.
                "Sod-off," said Arthur, plopping two-month-old Alfred into
Owen's outstretched arms. "Just because you're the pack-leader now, Scott,
doesn't mean you can be a gobshite to everyone. Besides, you'll need an
advisor, a second-in-command. Who better than someone with experience leading?"
                "You're suggesting him?" Scott nodded at Francis, who shrugged
casually. "Awe. Now isn't that the sweetest darn thing? An Omega standing up
for his Alpha. I never would've guessed, little brother. You going to let him
fight all your battles for you, Mainlander?" He tossed Francis a roasted
potato, teasing him.
                Arthur sighed in defeat. "Well, I warned you," he told Francis.
Matthew giggled. Arthur handed him to Scott. "Don't feed him potatoes," he
said, pointing in accusation. Scott held the little pup one-handed as he ate
his meal. He bobbed his head in a yeah-yeah fashion. Arthur narrowed his eyes
suspiciously. His cheeks were already flushed, which made the green look
exceptionally bright. His movements were sluggish. The Alphas might have
mistaken it for fatigue if the Omega's scent wasn't so pungent. "Owen, don't
let Scott or the twins give my pups anything but milk," he said as Francis
readied to leave the house. Owen saluted in good-faith. Liam and Patrick
smirked impishly. "And don't keep them up too late or they'll get grumpy. Make
sure they both have a bath before going to bed." Francis wrapped a guiding arm
around Arthur's waist, pulling him toward the door, but Arthur barely
acknowledged it. He kept talking. "Alfred will be fine, he sleeps like a rock,
but Matthew needs something to sleep with; Scott's tartan, or Francis' shirt,"
he said in example. "And both of them like to be sung to, or talked to sleep.
They just like to hear—your—voice—!" he called as he fought Francis, who tugged
insistently.
                Finally, Francis gave up and scooped Arthur off his feet.
                "Don't worry, Alfred and Mathieu will be fine," he promised.
"I'll be back later to check on them. We're going now," he said, waving over-
the-shoulder to the Kirkland Alphas. Several sultry innuendos were cut-off when
he kicked the door closed behind him.
                "Put me down," said Arthur. He biffed Francis over the head.
                Francis grinned. "No. I'm supposed to carry you over the
threshold, aren't I, to officially symbolize that I've claimed you as mine?"
                Arthur scoffed, but his cheeks heated in embarrassment. "Bloody
git," he muttered.
                They reached the old storehouse and Francis stopped. It had
been over a year since Arthur's last Heat, yet his sweet scent still clung to
every fibre, despite the frequently laundered furs and linens. Arthur felt
Francis' body stiffen, and then involuntarily shiver in anticipation as his
nostrils flared, breathing in the Omega's scent. Arthur's heart-rate increased
in reply. He felt hot. The sensation that followed was immediate and familiar,
even if he hadn't experienced it in such a long time. But the last time he
had—It was with you. He looked at Francis. Back then he would have given
anything for an Alpha to mate him—any Alpha; he just needed relief—but now he
felt nervous. His body was ready. It wanted to be mated, especially after so
long. This is going to be intense, he knew. He could already feel a tight knot
of Heat-induced fervor building inside of him, making him sweat. A soft gasp
escaped him; his voice shook. He clutched Francis, drawn to the Alpha's
equally-eager body. Oh, gods. He looks so good. He smells so good. He feels so
good. He bit his lip. Yes, his body was ready. But that's not what made him
hesitate. It was what would happen afterward. They already had consent from the
pack-leader—Scott—to be pair-bonded. The only step left was to mate, then they
would be a legal couple by clan-law. There would be no going back for either of
them. They would belong only to each other, for better or worse.
                "Are you scared?" Francis asked.
                Arthur swallowed. "A little," he admitted.
                Francis set Arthur on his feet. (The Omega nearly collapsed.)
Then he turned him so they were standing face-to-face. "Don't be," he said. His
face was honest; his sapphire-blue eyes revealed a secret vulnerability that
Arthur had misinterpreted before. His touch, when he took both of the Omega's
hands, was tender but strong. Seriously, he said: "I'm not going to hurt you."
The soft undertone in his voice implied it as more than a physical hurt. The
Omega heard a confession in it. "I'm not going to leave you, Arthur, no matter
what happens. You're my family now. You and Alfred and Mathieu. I belong with
you." His eyes momentarily lowered to the satin-blue ribbon that Arthur wore in
a braided loop around his neck, a symbol of their union. Francis had done
everything he was supposed to do, albeit backwards: he had mated and
impregnated Arthur, then courted him, then sworn himself to him for life. He
was kind and he was patient. He never got annoyed at Arthur's hesitance;
Arthur, who had barely returned any form of intimacy since their first night
together as a family. The Alpha just repeated the same steadfast promise over-
and-over until it had become a nightly ritual. They would lie quietly together
in bed, in the bedchamber they now shared in the pack-leader's large house—now
the Kirkland house—and Francis would say: I love you.
                He said it now, re-capturing the Omega's gaze:
                "Je t'aime, Arthur."
                "I-I—I love you, too."
                The words were out before Arthur could stop them, but as soon
as he saw the answering smile on Francis' face, he knew that they were true.
They had been true for a long time.
                "I love you," he repeated, testing it. He had never spoken them
aloud to anyone except Alfred and Matthew—and that was recent. The Kirklands
were not verbally affectionate. It tasted foreign, but not bad. In fact, his
lips curled into a smile as he reached up to hold Francis, winding his arms
around the Alpha's neck. If there was ever a good time to confess his feelings,
it was now.
                "I'm glad that it was you," he said, gazing deeply into the
gorgeous blue eyes that Alfred alone had inherited. "I don't want anyone else.
I never did.
                "I love you, Francis."
                In reply, Francis kissed him. His lips were warm and velvety-
soft and curled into a blissful smile that Arthur happily returned. He never
could have imagined being so happy.
                Then the Alpha scooped the Omega into his arms and entered the
storehouse.
***** NOTES *****
                             THE_CALL_OF_THE_WILD
EXPLANATION OF TERRITORY: The world in The Call of the Wild is (loosely) based
on early medieval Europe. There are no official countries, only territories
belonging to each individual clan. A large territory has several clans.
Depending on the territory, the clans may be unified under one ruler or not.
The unified clans are called Empires.
                I'll use the Isles as an example, since it was previously seen
in "Renegades". The Isles as one large territory is the equivalent of the
country, but within it there are several different clans and each clan is made
up of several packs. It follows the same hierarchy as most historic European
nations. The Clan Leader is the absolute ruler of each clan, like a king; the
pack-leader is the Clan Leader's representative in each pack, like a lord; and
the pack-members are the commoners of the clan. A single territory's clans
might be allies or rivals. (e.g. I used the clans of medieval Scotland as a
guide: clans who constantly fought for dominance.)
                There are three large territories on the Mainland whose clans
are all unified under one ruler each, like three different kingdoms. Those
territories are described below as being: the Western Empire, the Eastern
Empire, and the Southern Empire. These Empires are generally better politically
and socially organized than the independent clans of their neighbours, and each
have a standing army that employs full-time soldiers, as opposed to a militia
force. This is necessary because these three Empires are old enemies of each
other and have been at war for generations. Unlike the clan rivalries of the
Isles, when an Empire declares war on an enemy it effects every pack within it.
(i.e. On the Isles, individual clans may have rivalries with each other without
effecting other clans; in the Empires, however, once war is declared then every
pack in the Empire is automatically at war.)
NOTE: The clan that Francis formerly belonged to was an independent territory
in the south-west, but it had recently (fifteen years ago) been
conquered—usurped—by the Southern Empire.
GLOSSARY OF TERMS:
NORTHERN CLANS               Scandinavia
WESTERN EMPIRE                 The Germanic States
EASTERN EMPIRE                  The U.S.S.R.
SOUTHERN EMPIRE               The Roman Empire
THE ISLES                             The British Isles (and Ireland)
THE LOW COUNTRIES           The Netherlands
***** First Interlude *****
Chapter Notes
     This Interlude is set eight years after the events of "Renegades".
CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
PRUSSIA                 Gilbert Beilschmidt
RUSSIA                   Ivan Braginsky
===============================================================================
WESTERN EMPIRE
FAR-EASTERN BORDER
Invaders!" shouted an Alpha-pup. He grabbed an iron-headed mallet and swung
forcefully against a titanic bell, his sworn duty to the pack he served. Its
voice was loud and long and it seemed to reverberate throughout the pup as he
struck it over-and-over again, sending vibrations up his wiry arms and into his
clenched teeth. He stood atop a tall, wooden watchtower in the middle of a wet
potato field, which faced eastward. "Invaders to the East! Everyone get behind
the wall!" he cried as he pounded relentlessly on the bell. He struck it until
he was deaf to everything else.
                In the field below, dozens of pack-members ran for the
protective stonewalls of the pack's stronghold. Alphas clutched dirty
agricultural tools like weapons—scythes, hoes, pitchforks—and covered the
retreat of the Omegas, who dropped everything, grabbed their pups, and ran.
Dozens of frightened pack-members crowded at the gates, replaced by soldiers,
who charged into the field in a defensive formation. They wore black-and-white
tunics and shining badges to denote their station. The opposing force wore
dreary steel-grey. They emerged from the forest like an angry torrent, howling
a uniform battle-cry like a behemoth to instill fear. There were too many of
them and they were too organized for it to be a raid. It was a premeditated
attack. The steadfast soldiers of the Western Empire growled in warning, but
the Easterners didn't slow. They advanced steadily, crushing the hardy crop as
they marched, destroying it.
                The young bell-ringer leapt down from the watchtower and
sprinted toward the defensive line. His heart was pounding madly as his legs
worked fast, carrying him. He was very fast. It was why he had been given the
prestigious yet dangerous job of lookout despite his being only thirteen-years-
old. The Easterners' howls chased him; so did their steady pursuit. It sounded
like the swell of a wicked storm. He was the last pack-member to reach the
stronghold and the soldiers closed ranks as he flew past them.
                The pup's Alpha-father grabbed his skinny forearm and pulled
him close. Without preface, he said:
                "Find your brother and get out. Go west. Stay off the highroad.
Tell anyone you meet to evacuate. Run as fast as you can to the Great House and
tell them we need reinforcements. Now go." He pushed an unsheathed dagger into
the Alpha-pup's hand. "Protect your brother," said the warrior, squeezing the
pup's arm so tightly it bruised. "Protect the Empire."
                The red-eyed Alpha-pup nodded bravely. He was terrified. He
said: "Yes, Vater."
                "Good boy, Gilbert." Vater touched Gilbert's ghostly-pale
cheek. Then he shoved the Alpha-pup back through the closing gates, and yelled:
                "NOW GO!"
===============================================================================
The young Alpha-pup's pale face was freckled with blood. He walked slowly, like
a sleepwalker, through the carnage of the battlefield, dodging dozens of
mangled corpses. His comrades stepped carelessly, disregarding the dead from
both sides. One spit on the face of a Western soldier after pilfering his
purse. He was a captain, a huge and mean-tempered Alpha who punished the
younger pups for sport. The Alpha-pup waited until he had left, then snuck
over, knelt down, and closed the corpse's sightless eyes.
                He was eleven-years-old and, in accordance with the law, had
been serving in the Eastern Empire's Army for nearly a year now. (Alpha-pups
were conscripted at ten-years-old for ten years of mandatory service.) He had
been at training in the Capital until recently, practising hand-to-hand combat,
and performing the tasks that none of the older Alphas wanted to do. As a
result, he and the other hundreds of conscripted Alpha-pups spent most of their
early years on their hands-and-knees polishing weapons, scrubbing floors,
peeling vegetables, and doing the laundry: all Omega tasks, since Omegas were
not allowed in the barracks. He had never set foot on a battlefield before
today. Most pups didn't see battle until they were of-age: sixteen-years-old.
But the Tsar had been impatient. He hadn't wanted to wait for the more seasoned
units—the Empire's main force—to return from the South. The Western Empire
presented too good a target, left defenceless with most of their force in the
South, as well. In truth, the Western soldiers were better trained, but they
were few; the Eastern Empire had a significantly larger population that had
simply overpowered the West. The Westerners had held out for as long as they
could while the Eastern troops kept attacking, like a torrent of water crashing
upon rocks. But eventually those rocks had crumbled and the Easterners had
flooded into the pack's stronghold, slaughtering everyone: soldiers and
civilians; Alphas, Omegas, and pups.
                The Alpha-pup pressed a hand to his trembling mouth when he
looked down into the bloodied face of a pup younger than he. He dropped his
short-sword and stumbled back, shaking. He tripped over a corpse and fell. When
he looked, he saw a young Omega—seventeen, or eighteen-years-old—clutching a
toddler. Both of their throats had been cut. The Alpha-pup gagged, then rolled
over and vomited; retching and gasping.
                "Comrade!"
                The Alpha-pup froze. The captain's shadow fell over him.
                "On your feet, pup."
                The Alpha-pup wiped his mouth as he stood, blinking furiously
to dry his eyes. He faced the captain, but he didn't look at him. He stared at
the stonewall behind him.
                "Is that your sword, pup?"
                He nodded. Seconds later, the captain's fist struck him hard,
sending him to the ground. His head swam for a minute, then he found the short-
sword's handle shoved back into his hand. Absently, he took it.
                "It's clean," the captain said in disapproval. "Were you not
ordered to leave no one alive?"
                "Yes, Captain."
                "Then why is your sword clean? Are you a coward?"
                "No, Captain."
                The captain snorted. "I think you are. I think you're too
soft." He spit on the pup. "I think you need a lesson in following orders." He
grabbed a handful of the pup's hair and pulled his head back, looking down into
violet eyes. "Who is your commanding officer? What is your name, Comrade?"
                The Alpha-pup swallowed. "Ivan Braginsky."
                "Well, Ivan," the captain grinned wickedly, "consider this a
private life-lesson."
***** Lost Boys – Prologue *****
Chapter Notes
     DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
     Part Two is set fifteen years after the events of Part One. It is an
     M-Rated story.
     For those of you who would prefer to read "Lost Boys" in Chinese, you
     can find it here:
     http://starry-overslept.lofter.com/post/1cf84603_1145724c
     Thank-you very much to the lovely and talented translator, noEXITs. :
     )
                             THE_CALL_OF_THE_WILD
                                   PART TWO
CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
AMERICA               Alfred Kirkland
CANADA               Matthew Kirkland
ENGLAND              Arthur Kirkland
FRANCE                 Francis Bonnefoi-Kirkland
SCOTLAND            Allistor (Scott) Kirkland
WALES                   Owen Kirkland
NORTH IRELAND    Liam Kirkland
IRELAND                Patrick Kirkland
NETHERLANDS       Lars van den Berg
RUSSIA                   Ivan Braginsky
PRUSSIA                 Gilbert Beilschmidt
GERMANY              Ludwig Beilschmidt
===============================================================================
THE WESTERN EMPIRE
A torrent of frothing white-water crashed over the rocks. The river was swollen
from the deluge pouring from the iron-grey clouds. The gorge was flooded. The
violence of the storm was the stuff of legend. It couldn't have been wetter if
it had incurred a divine wrath. It was dark. It was loud. It completely
drowned-out the Omega's pitiful voice as his head broke the surface, gasping. A
deafening blast of thunder crashed overhead and echoed  in the twisted valley.
He flailed as the current pulled him, tossing him roughly to-and-fro. His body
smashed against the jagged rock of the shallow riverbed and pain radiated from
his left leg, but he barely noticed. He was too afraid. His eyes searched
wildly for his brother, but he couldn't see anything through the dark and spray
of water. When lightning lit the sky, he was momentarily blinded.
                "M-Matt!" he yelled, swallowing a mouthful of water.
Mattie,where are you?
                He cried-out as he hit the rocky riverbank, but managed to grab
a low-hanging branch and haul himself up. He crawled on his belly over the
rocks, desperate to reach safety. There, he gasped and coughed. His limbs
trembled from the cold and exertion. "M-Ma—" cough,cough "Mattie!" he screamed
above the torrent. His feverish blue eyes scanned the rapids, his heart
pounding, but he didn't spot his twin. It didn't matter that the current was
moving fast; that it would have quickly carried Matt off. The blue-eyed Omega
stayed on the riverbank, shivering and bleeding, waiting—hoping—to catch a
glimpse of his brother, or anythingfamiliar.
                Where the fuck am I?
                "Matt-ie!"
                By nightfall, he had lost his voice. He laid on the shore,
curled into a pitiful ball in defense. His cheek rested on his forearm, which
was submerged in a puddle of mud. The wind lashed ice-cold rain down on him,
but the Omega didn't move. He didn't have the strength. He laid on his stomach,
his body aching, his leg throbbing. His clothes were torn, leaving his skin
exposed, but a cool numbness was slowly overtaking him.
                Where am I? he wondered. I don't like it here. I'm cold. I'm
tired. I'm hungry. I'm scared.
                I want my family. I want my Dad,my Papa. I want Mattie.
                I want to go home.
===============================================================================
A bolt of lightning struck a treetop and it caught fire. It blazed, reflected
in the Omega's terrified violet eyes as he ran. He raced through a dense
forest, dodging trees and slipping over the undulating terrain. He kicked-up
mud as he ran. He was drenched, bruised and scratched, but fortunately intact.
His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst. His lungs burned. He
had swallowed a lot of water before getting thrown violently onto an unknown
riverbank. He had blacked-out and then woken up—minutes, hours—later all alone.
                Al—? Al,where are you?
                He had panicked and started to run, yelling his twin's name. He
didn't know what else to do, or where else to go.
                Where am I? Where is everyone?
                His head whipped back-and-forth, curls plastered to the sides
of his face. He was panting hard, but he kept running. He couldn't stop. He was
afraid to stop. His eyes scanned the forest, trying to penetrate the dense
curtain of rainfall, but his eyesight was blurry. He was crying. When a
deafening blast of thunder crashed overhead, he shrieked like a helpless pup.
Then his foot caught on an upraised root and he fell to the ground, cutting his
palms.
                "Dad! Papa! Al!" he screamed. But his voice was soft, fading.
                He crawled to his knees, then his feet. Then he just stood
there. He didn't know where on earth he was, so he didn't know where to go. He
was alone. And he was afraid. In fact, he had never been so afraid in his life.
As he looked up at the sky, letting ice-cold raindrops pelt his face, he
wondered where his family was. He prayed they were safe. His parents, his
uncle, and his brother were strong. They were survivors. And me—? What am I?
                I'm scared.
                He was trembling, but not from the cold.
                I don't like it here. I don't like being alone. I'm scared. I'm
so fucking scared. Someone please find me.
                Someone please help me.
***** Lost Boys – Chapter One *****
THE ISLES
ONE WEEK AGO
Al stretched his arms overhead and yawned deeply, feeling as he always did
after a Heat, exhausted and sluggish. I need a bath, he thought, absently re-
buttoning a loose wool shirt. A button near his pectoral was gone, leaving a
noticeable gap—immodest, his Omega-father chastised—but Al couldn't be bothered
to fix it. Sewing was not his talent. If he asked nicely, Matt would fix it for
him, and hopefully he would do it before he went into Heat.
                Al's Heat always came a week before Matt's, which made Matt's
Heats easier to anticipate, but Matt had been having Heats for almost a year
longer than Al. Matt had gotten his first Heat at thirteen-years-old, like
their Omega-father had, but Al hadn't gotten his first Heat until he was almost
of-age, which was quite late. At fifteen-years-old, Al was already taller and
physically wider than the average Omega. He had inherited his Alpha-relatives'
formidable size, which his uncles praised for his strength, but which Al was
secretly self-conscious of. As a young pup, he had indulged in the praise of
his family, feeling superior to his smaller, weaker brother. He had taken pride
in his accomplishments, reveling in the fact that he was stronger and faster
than Matt; proud that he was brave and unafraid to try new things; proud that
he could and would—did—go against the grain. Unlike his timid twin-brother, Al
had begged his uncles to teach him Alpha skills so that he might work at
something more interesting than needlepoint. He had learnt fishing and hunting;
archery and hand-to-hand combat; stalking and tracking, even though his Omega
nose was not as keen as an Alpha's. The only thing he hadn't learnt was
craftsmanship. (It took too long and was way too sedentary for his liking.) Al
had always been a fast learner when he enjoyed the subject, and he loved to
show-off. More than anything, he loved seeing his Alpha-father's proud smile.
His Omega-father had always been less enthused:
                "Alfred is an Omega, not an Alpha," he argued, glaring at his
Alpha-mate and four Alpha-brothers. "We don't need another bloody Alpha in this
family!"
                Despite his attempts to engage Al in domestic arts, however,
the Omega-pup was helpless. He didn't want to learn how to sew and cook
(though, he was a naturally gifted cook); he didn't want to tend a garden; or
spin wool; or wait on his Alpha-relatives. He hated studying botany and biology
texts. In truth, he barely saw the use in learning to read at all. He found it
all exceptionally boring. And it was very discouraging to find himself inferior
to Matt for once, who was as obedient an apprentice as their Omega-father could
hope for. ("Why can't you be more like Matthew?" he would say to Al, unaware of
how his comment stung Al's pride.)
                Be more like Matthew.
                Matt, who was meek and mild-mannered—skittish, Al thought—and
never got underfoot. Matt, who always did as  he was told without hesitance or
variation. Matt, who had been spoiled by his Alpha-relatives since birth. Matt,
who was adept at playing the role that society had designated for him. Matt,
whom the pack's Alphas all loved.
                Al had always been his brother's protector, shielding Matt from
the unruly Alpha-pups, who had liked to play mean tricks on the pack's Omega-
pups. But as they aged, Al started to realize that those same joking Alpha-pups
were no longer interested in toying with Matt; rather, they had started vying
for Matt's attention. A few had even brazenly expressed their intentions
directly to Al's face:
                "Your brother is the most gorgeous Omega in the pack, Al. I
want him to be my mate when we're older."
                Al couldn't deny Matt's beauty, but nor could he deny that he
had felt slighted by his Alpha friends' complete disregard for the fact that
he, too, was an Omega.
                "Why not me?" he had asked, to which they had all laughed.
                "C'mon, Al, really—? You're, like, practically one of the
Alphas. You're our friend," they said, intending it as a compliment, but it had
only made Al feel undesirable.
                As Al walked back from the storehouse to the family's house, he
spotted his brother in the vegetable garden. Since the Alpha-pups had started
favouring Matt, Al had been secretly jealous of his twin-brother's good-looks.
Matt looked like an Omega should. He was tall, yes, but slight-figured and
willowy. He had inherited the artistic features—long eyelashes, full lips, and
soft curls—of their Alpha-father's bloodline; and if his delicate limbs,
slender waist, and wide, pup-bearing hips weren't enticing enough, Matt had a
very pretty face. His best feature, in Al's opinion, was his eyes. Matt had big
violet eyes, a hue that rivaled spring flowers for vibrancy. Al had never met
anyone with violet eyes before. It was just another thing that made Matt
special. Al had inherited his Alpha-father's blue eyes, and, despite his Omega-
father's preference for them ("I'm so glad you got your Papa's beautiful eyes,"
he often said), Al hoped that his pups would inherit Matt's eye-colour, not his
own.
                If I ever have pups, he thought, feeling sulky. If I ever find
an Alpha-mate.
                Al eyed the yellow daffodil crowning a pile of carrots beside
Matt, no doubt a gift from an infatuated Alpha. Al had never received more than
a high-five from his Alpha friends, certainly never a gift from a suitor.
                Sometimes, he really hated Matt.
                Then Matt looked up and saw Al approaching, and he disregarded
the daffodil and a happy smile shaped his lovely lips. And Al's envy fled,
replaced by undeniable affection. He loved Matt very, very much. They were more
than twin-brothers; they were best-friends. Al's insecurities weren't Matt's
fault, after all. In fact, most of the time Matt was completely oblivious to
his own appeal. He had never done anything to intentionally hurt Al (or anyone
else). His view of the world was exactly what the overprotective Kirkland
family had crafted it to be. I'm sorry,Mattie, Al apologized in secret. He
would never wish ill upon Matt. He was Matt's protector. Now that they were
fifteen-years-old, of-age by clan-law, they needed to rely on each other now
more than ever, especially with hungry (horny) Alphas sniffing about. Omegas,
Al thought, should stick together.
                "Hey, Al," Matt greeted cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"
                Al shrugged. "Tired," he said.
                "You've got something on your cheek," Matt said. Without
asking, he licked the edge of a linen handkerchief and wiped Al's face.
                "Ach—! Stop it!" Al protested, trying to dodge. "Stop mothering
me!"
                "Hold still," Matt disregarded, scrubbing at Al's cheek. "Do
you really want to go walking around with Heat-slick on your face?"
                Reddening, Al conceded. "I need a bath," he mumbled.
                "I'll heat the kettle for you," Matt offered, leading Al toward
the house. "Are you hungry?"
                "No," Al lied. I'm not hungry, I'm starving.
                "Al." Matt's face twisted pitifully. If he wasn't so fragile,
Al would have hit him. "You've been in Heat for four days, you've got to eat
something to recover your strength."
                "Mattie, I'm really not hungry," Al insisted.
                The truth was, Al had started to limit his food intake, eating
less-and-less at each meal in an attempt to lose weight. He was afraid of
growing any bigger. He was already as tall or taller than several Alphas; he
didn't want to be bigger than them, too. If he starved himself—just a little
bit—then maybe he could slim down to a regular Omega size, like Matt. The last
thing Al wanted was to recover his strength. Sure, he constantly felt kind of
sick and dizzy, but by now he had gotten used to the uncomfortable feeling of
always being hungry.
                As a change of topic, he pointed to the daffodil. "Who's that
from?"
                Matt glanced at it, then tensed. "Oh, uh... Alec Frazier," he
said sheepishly.
                Al felt suddenly as if Matt had punched him. He felt hollow;
not so hungry anymore. Alec Frazier had been Al's best hunting-partner since
they were pups, and Al had had a crush on the Alpha for nearly as long. "Oh,"
he said anticlimactically.
                "He asked if I would go with him to the Hunter's Moon Festival
this weekend. I said no," Matt added quickly, sounding guilty. Matt knew how
much Al liked Alec. (Al had never been good at hiding his feelings.)
                Al swallowed. "I need a bath," he repeated. Then he stalked
inside.
===============================================================================
Al was glaring at his half-naked reflection in the looking-glass, trying to
reshape his figure by force, when his Omega-father walked in.
                "Alfred," said Arthur, frowning suspiciously. "What are you
doing?"
                Al faced his Omega-father, trying to blink the tears from his
eyes, but Arthur saw. There was no point lying after that. "Alec asked Matt to
the Hunter's Moon Festival," he said dejectedly.
                Arthur's critical look morphed into sympathy. "Oh, I'm sorry,
love."
                As soon as his Omega-father's skinny arms wrapped around Al, he
broke down. Arthur was the only person whom Al cried in front of, trusting his
Omega-father's discretion. He led Al to the bed, where they sat. (The eiderdown
mattress sunk beneath his weight, Al noted unhappily.) He clutched Arthur
tightly, seeking comfort as he buried his face in an olive-green shift that
smelled like lye. "What's wrong with me?" he asked in self-pity. "Why am I like
this?"
                "Alfred," said Arthur sternly. "There is absolutely nothing
wrong with you."
                "Then why doesn't anyone want me?"
                "Everyone loves you—"
                "But nobody wants me," Al reiterated. He sat up, daring his
Omega-father to disagree with him. "Everyone wants Matt."
                "You can't blame your brother—" Arthur started, but Al
interrupted.
                "Just once, could you take my side?" he snapped brashly. "Just
once, could you forget how fucking perfect Mattie is and tell me that I'm just
as good an Omega as he is?"
                Arthur was taken aback by Al's sudden un-Omega-like aggression.
Open-mouthed, he floundered. "Alfred, you know how proud I am of you, but you
and Matthew are very different—"
                Al snorted humourlessly and rolled his eyes. Abruptly, he
stood. "Forget it."
===============================================================================
Matt took the perfect yellow daffodil and chucked it out. He hadn't wanted to
accept it, knowing exactly how Al would feel about it, but even though Matt had
rejected Alec's invitation, the young Alpha had insisted that he keep the
flower as a gift. I don't want any more gifts! he thought, feeling ungrateful;
then guilty. He hated rejecting the clan's Alphas, who he had known since
birth, and who always looked so crestfallen when Matt refused their advances.
But neither did he want to accept any of them. The thought of being alone with
an Alpha whom he wasn't related to scared him. (Matt had inherited Arthur's
genetic affliction of panic-attacks.) His family might have thought him
endearingly naive about it all, but Matt knew what it was Alphas did to Omegas
when they were alone.
                That's not going to be me, he had decided long ago. He and his
brother had been born from a Heat-induced union, after all. If it could happen
to their tough-fibred Omega-father, who had been guarded by four Alpha-
brothers, what chance did shy, weak-willed Matt have against an Alpha's desire?
                Matt wished that he was like Al. No one would dare try to take
advantage of Al like they constantly did Matt. Al's size and self-confidence
was intimidating. He wasn't an Omega the Alphas could order around or walk-all-
over. It helped, of course, that Al was friends with most of the pack's Alphas,
having spent his childhood playing together and learning with them. The Alphas
respected Al in a way they respected no other Omega, and because of it they
genuinely cared for him. He was more than just breeding-stock to them; he was
their friend.
                Matt wished that he had the self-confidence to interact with
the Alphas like Al did. It always looked like fun, but Matt had been omitted
from their games. He was too delicate, they said. He wasn't strong enough or
fast enough to play with them. His Omega-ness would only slow them down. He
might get hurt. His weakness was an opinion that his overprotective family
stressed, as well. It wasn't that Matt particularly wanted to learn Alpha
skills like Al did, but it would have been nice to be invited at least. He
hated being left behind every time his Alpha-father and uncles took Al on a
long hunting or fishing trip, because they didn't think Matt capable of keeping
up. That's fine, he would think bitterly, watching them all leave, I'll just
stay here and do laundry then. But he couldn't complain about it, not when they
smiled and brought him gifts upon their return. Besides, with Al playing Alpha,
their Omega-father had needed Matt to be an Omega. It was tough living in a
house with five Alphas who couldn't take care of themselves. His Alpha-
relatives relied heavily on Arthur and Matt to be the Omegas of the house;
otherwise, nothing would ever get done. Matt had realized early on that if he
rebelled like Al always did, then Arthur would be stuck doing everything alone.
It  just wouldn't have been fair. Arthur was right: the family didn't need
another Alpha, they needed Matt. So Matt had resolved to be exactly what they
needed; what they wanted.
                I'll balance Al, Matt thought. He would let Al choose freely
what he wanted to be, and then fulfil whatever it was his brother lacked. It
meant letting Al choose, always, but it was easier than the alternative of
trying to change Al. It wasn't fair, but it was necessary, and Matt had
resigned himself to it long ago. Whatever he decides to be,I'll be the
opposite.
                If Al learnt to be a hunter, then Matt learnt to be a
homemaker. If Al learnt to be a defender, then Matt learnt to be a caretaker.
If Al learnt the feeling of pain, then Matt learnt how to nurse it. If Al was
loud and boisterous, Matt was quiet and submissive. His family didn't need two
rebels. His Omega-father would have a stroke if he had to deal with two unruly
Omega-pups, and his Alpha-father would be heartbroken if he had no one to
coddle and spoil. But most importantly—
                If Al was brave, then Matt wouldn't have to be.
                Matt heard his Alpha-father's rhythmic footsteps before he
entered the house's common-room. His ears were exceptionally sensitive, even
for an Omega.
                "Bonjour, Mathieu, chéri," said Francis cheerfully.
                "Bonjour, Papa," Matt replied. (He had learnt French because
Francis had wanted them to, but Al had given up fast. He disliked studying. So
Matt had studied extra hard to compensate and please his Alpha-father.)
                "Such sad eyes today," Francis noted. Gently, he lifted Matt's
chin and smiled in encouragement. "Smile for Papa, chéri. You look so beautiful
when you smile."
                Matt had felt like smiling less-and-less lately, but he forced
it to please his family.
                "Ah! So lovely!" Francis kissed Matt's pale-blonde head, then
moved on.
                Matt saw his reflection in the looking-glass and cocked his
head. He showed himself the same smile he used to please his family, but it
looked false to his eyes. What is it about me that's so appealing? he wondered
skeptically, turning his head from side-to-side. Compared to his twin-brother,
who was beautifully vibrant, Matt looked leeched of colour. I look like a
paler,shorter,weaker version of Al. Matt knew that he possessed a very
desirable figure for pup-bearing: soft and supple with wide hips. He knew that
he was exactly what society expected an Omega to look like; or rather, what
society wanted an Omega to look like (—which was anything weaker than an
Alpha). I'm nothing special, Matt thought, omitting the rarity of his eye-
colour. In his opinion, Al was the exceptional Omega; Al was the one who looked
like something exotic. There was something majestic about Al, like a lion;
fearsome but stunning to look upon. He was tall and lean and he could move his
lithe, athletic body in a way that whispered of a secret strength. The Alpha
who pair-bonded with Al would be very lucky, indeed. Not only would he get an
Omega who actually wanted to be his friend, but an Omega whose beauty outshone
everyone else's.
                Why the hell—when Al was right there in front of them—would any
Alpha want me? Matt thought, baffled.
                Al looked and felt like sunshine; Matt looked and felt like
ice. Al's body was languid; Matt's was tense. Al was confident; Matt was self-
conscious. Al was healthy; no doubt, he could bear pups. Matt looked faint half
the time and was secretly terrified of letting an Alpha mate him. Al was brave.
Matt was not.
                I wish I was brave, he thought, staring out the window at a
world beyond his reach.
                Just then, his uncles paraded loudly into the house. "Mattie,
honey, you here—?" called Scott. "We're fucking starving! Make us something to
eat, hon—?"
                Matt glanced back at his pale reflection. He plastered that
false smile to his lips, and called: "Of course! I'll be right there!"
===============================================================================
That night, Scott called a meeting that the Omegas were not privy to. "Al,
Mattie," he said. Matt was offering Owen a plate of shortbread, but paused.
Scott gestured for his violet-eyed nephew. He took a handful of the biscuits
and then patted Matt's pale-blonde head. "Off to bed," he ordered, jutting his
chin in the direction of the twins' shared room. Al wanted to protest; Matt
could see it on his face, but wisely he obeyed the family's head Alpha.
Together, the twins left the common-room, passing their parents on the way out.
Francis smiled and kissed them, but Arthur's demeanor was anxious. He barely
managed an absent, "goodnight, loves," before he followed Francis into the
common-room. Al and Matt were halfway up the stairs when they heard Scott's
voice:
                "Out, freckle-face. This is Alpha business."
                "If it involves my pups then it is very much my business,"
Arthur retorted.
                Al and Matt exchanged a glance, curiosities peaked. Silently,
they climbed up the steep wooden staircase that led to the second-level of the
house—the pack-leader's house; it was the only two-level house in the pack—but
instead of entering their own bedchamber, they snuck into Liam and Patrick's,
which was located directly above the common-room. At the foot of Liam's bed, Al
had years ago found a hole in the floorboard big enough to spy on the room
below. Quietly, they sat. (Omegas could move very quietly when they wanted to.)
Al hunched his shoulders and leant down to see better, but Matt stayed
statuesque, letting his exceptionally sensitive ears create the picture for
him.
                "—it involves our upcoming journey to the Mainland," Scott was
saying.
                Matt wasn't at all surprised. He had been helping Scott and
Francis prepare for the journey for weeks; so had Arthur. The Alphas had needed
several new articles of clothes dyed, altered, and embroidered. (Al's hands
couldn't be trusted with such delicate work, nor could his patience.) Matt's
job was to do the laundering and sewing while Arthur spent long, tedious hours
finely stitching a colourful crest to each item. As the Clan Leader's official
envoys, Scott and Francis—the pack-leader and second-in-command—had been
ordered to wear the crest as a representation of the clan while visiting the
Mainland. Al and Matt weren't supposed to know why Scott and Francis were
visiting the Mainland, specifically the Low Countries, but Francis had
volunteered Matt to help him translate several written documents one night, and
though he might not understand the finer details, he knew that they were trade
agreements. It was delicate information, Francis said.
                "The Clan Leader wants a free-trade treaty with a clan on the
Mainland," he had explained. "He wants Scott and I to broker it, but nobody
else knows about it. Nothing has been confirmed yet. The last thing we want is
for the other clans to get word of what we're trying to do and offer the Low-
Landers a better deal. That's why it has to be kept quiet, Mathieu. Don't tell
anyone, s'il vous plâit."
                Matt had promised to keep the diplomatic trip within the
family, which technically gave him liberty to tell Al.
                Al had been excited upon hearing the news, and Matt had had to
make him swear not to brag to his friends. "Do you think Papa will bring us
back presents from the Mainland?" he hoped.
                As long as Papa and Scott come back from the Mainland,I don't
care, Matt had thought.
                As far as the Islanders were concerned, the continent across
the Channel was a place better avoided. Only a handful of pack-members were
mated to Mainlanders, Arthur included; the rest pretended it didn't exist. (The
North, of course, was a different story. Reports of Northern invaders were
becoming more and more frequent, and had been since Al and Matt's birth.)
Arthur called the Mainlanddangerous, and, despite his birth-right, Francis
didn't disagree. Their Alpha-father had been chased away from his home on pain-
of-death when he was only fifteen-years-old, which, incidentally, was how he
had come to be on the Isles in the first place. But despite his having had a
happy childhood, Francis preferred not to talk about his former clan. Matt
realized that asking about it drudged-up hurtful memories for his Alpha-father,
so he stopped asking. Because of that, everything he and Al knew of the
Mainland was poisoned by ages-old rumours and the Islanders' prejudice.
                There were really only two things that Matt knew for certain:
                First, that the Mainland was an unimaginably vast continent,
which stretched farther across the world than anyone had ever been, and that
the tens of thousands of clans who lived there had unified long ago into three
distinct Empires.
                And second, that those three Empires were constantly at war.
                But the clans of the Low Countries lived individually from the
Empires—for now. And it was there that Scott and Francis were journeying.
                They'll be perfectly safe, Matt thought, hoped.  They were the
pack-leader and the second-in-command, after all, positions requiring no small
degree of capability. In two days, the duo would board a ship to the Low
Countries, where they would broker a free-trade agreement; then, business
concluded, they would return. The whole journey was not supposed to take more
than a fortnight. There's nothing to worry about, Matt knew. Owen would be left
in charge as acting-leader of the pack and of the Kirkland family. And if he
wasn't enough, Liam and Patrick had become two of the fiercest and most
reputable fighters in the whole clan. The Kirkland Omegas would be well taken
care of in their Alpha's stead.
                I shouldn't fret. I'm not even supposed to know about it, Matt
reminded himself. It doesn't have anything to do with me—
                "I want to take Al and Mattie with us," said Scott.
                Matt's stomach flipped. His initial reaction was shock, then
fear. Quickly, he pressed his hand to Al's mouth, silencing his brother's gasp.
Al's eyes looked like bejeweled saucers. He stared at Matt in disbelief. His
face harboured an element of excitement that Matt did not share. Tactfully, he
lifted a finger to his lips to indicate silence. He didn't want to miss the
exchange that followed:
                "Youwhat?" Arthur yelled. He sounded just as scared as Matt
felt, but angrier. "Alfred and Matthew are not going to the Mainland!" he
proclaimed sternly.
                "Chéri," said Francis beseechingly, "Scott and I have already
agreed that it's in everyone's best interest to bring the pups with us—"
                "No, you can't!" Arthur refused.
                "Sit down, freckle-face," said Scott. "The pups are of-age now,
and—"
                "That's exactly why they shouldn't go!" Arthur argued, ignoring
Scott's order. "Alfred and Matthew have only just turned fifteen! They should
be going to the Stones to find mates, not across the bloody Channel!"
                "Sit down!" Scott barked.
                Arthur flinched; so did Matt. He leant forward to peer through
the hole. He saw Liam and Patrick share a weary look. He saw Owen purse his
lips, keeping quiet. He saw Scott's cheeks flush, holding back his temper. He
saw Francis rise in concern for his Omega-mate. He saw Arthur standing in a
circle of firelight surrounded by the Alphas, refusing to comply. He looked
distraught, but determined. Matt didn't know many Omegas intimately (he didn't
really know anyone intimately, to be honest), but his Omega-father was one of
the bravest people on the Isles. Arthur might have been outnumbered by Alphas
who were bigger and stronger than he; he might have been frightened, but it
didn't matter, because Arthur Kirkland didn't abandon his arguments lightly. It
was something that his violet-eyed pup had always admired about him. It was
something that Al had inherited, his stubbornness. (It was why Al and Arthur
didn't always get along. They both had such bold personalities.) Matt watched
his Omega-father engage in a stare-down with Scott, whose equally-green gaze
glared at his younger brother in threat. Matt felt the force of that glare,
even though it was not directed at him. Matt loved Scott, and he knew that
Scott would never hurt him, but even so the timid Omega couldn't imagine ever
disobeying the family's head Alpha, the pack-leader. Even though Arthur
eventually did lower his gaze in compliance, he had lasted much longer than any
Omega (or many Alphas) could have.
                It was then that Arthur changed his tactic and glanced
helplessly at Francis, who extended his hand. It was a subtle order—come
here,Arthur—but Arthur accepted. He took Francis' hand and sat down beside him,
squeezing the Alpha's hand between his own. The plea in his eyes seemed to say:
Please,Francis,don't let Scott take our pups!
                Though Matt admired his Omega-father's tenacity, seeing fear in
Arthur's eyes scared him.
                His violet eyes flickered nervously to Al, who was watching the
exchange hungrily.
                "It's okay, chéri," Francis said softly, kissing Arthur's
temple. His sinuous voice had a calming effect, like the smooth flow of
undisturbed water. Matt felt it instantly and took comfort in his Alpha-
father's words.
                Scott, having diluted his (rather explosive) temper, said:
"Art," regaining the attention of everyone present. He eyed his Omega-brother
carefully, and diplomatically said:
                "It's because Al and Mattie are of-age now that I want them to
come with us to the Low Countries. The Clan Leader's hope for a free-trade
agreement with the Low-Landers is not a simple thing," he explained. "If
Francis and I can broker a deal with their leader then the benefits will be
invaluable to our clan. It could change our whole way of life, aye? It'll mean
not endangering dozens of pack-members every year on weeks-long hunting trips.
It'll mean not starving to death if we can't store enough food, or if the crops
fail, or are burnt, or are stolen. It'll mean a profit for the goods we sell,
not only for us but for the Low-Landers, as well. Francis and I have spent the
past six months working on a contract; this visit is the pivotal point. If
their leader rejects our contract, we won't get a second chance. There will be
dozens of other clans who can afford to offer the Low-Landers a better deal
than we can. That's why we have to make our first offer the best possible
offer. We need to offer their leader something he can't refuse."
                "I understand all that," Arthur allowed. He sounded testy.
"What I don't understand is what you need Alfred and Matthew for."
                Scott hesitated.
                Delicately, Francis said: "The Clan Leader of the Low Countries
has an Alpha-son who just turned nineteen and he's not yet pair-bonded."
                Matt saw his own disbelief mirrored on Arthur's face. It took
Al a moment to comprehend, but when he did, Matt felt him exhale a curse. As a
precaution, Matt pressed his hand tighter to Al's lips.
                Arthur's eyes widened, staring at Francis as if seeing him
anew. Suddenly, he wrenched his hands free from the Alpha's grasp and stood,
glaring between his mate and four brothers despite Scott's blatant disapproval.
"You're talking about selling my pups!" he accused them, fire rekindled. He
stared dangerously at Francis, shocked at his Alpha-mate's gall. Matt had never
seen him glare at Francis so openly before. The Omega's eyes blazed with a
green spitfire that neither of his pups had inherited.
                "Arthur, no." Francis stood too, but Arthur stepped back,
avoiding his touch. "We're not selling them. Do you really think I would even
consider involving Alfred and Mathieu if it wasn't the best possible option for
everyone?" Earnestly, he said: "I love them, Arthur. You know I love them more
than anything in the world, which is why I want only the best for them. This
contract—" Arthur grimaced; Francis started over, changing his word-choice.
"Scott and I aren't trying to sell the pups, we're trying to negotiate a very,
very good match for one of them."
                Scott nodded in agreement. He said:
                "Don't make the mistake of thinking you're the only one who
loves Al and Mattie, Art. They're my kin, too. They're my only heirs, remember?
They're the closest thing I've got to pups of my own," he admitted, showing a
pinch of vulnerability. "Do you really think I'd let an Alpha touch either one
of them unless I knew for certain that they were going to be taken care of? And
they will be," he continued, before Arthur could interrupt. "The Low-Landers
are very wealthy, and the leader is a good Alpha. I haven't met his son, but
I've been promised good things; I've heard good things. The son will inherit
his father's position someday, the highest position in the whole clan. You
urged me once to make the clan-whelp here"—he jutted his chin at Francis—"my
second-in-command because he had been bred to rule; because he had been given
the best of everything, remember? Well, this Low-Lander pup is the same. He's
already an accomplished Alpha. He has everything he could want, except an
Omega-mate. That's why I need Al and Mattie," he said bluntly. "I—we," he
included Francis, "are going to give him the choice between the two of them in
exchange for signing the treaty. Whichever pup he chooses, Al or Mattie, will
be well provided for. He'll live in luxury compared to this. It's a good match.
And it's necessary, Art. If the Low-Lander chooses either Al or Mattie to pair-
bond with, then the treaty gets signed and everybody wins."
                "Except that Alfred or Matthew, whichever one he chooses,"
Arthur mocked Scott's tone, "will have to stay on the Mainland. He'll have to
live in a foreign clan with a total stranger for a mate, knowing that his
uncle, his Papa," he spat angrily at Francis, "sold him for a trade alliance.
It doesn't matter how you phrase it, Scott, I'm still losing one of my pups."
                "They're Omegas, Art."
                Everyone turned to look at Owen, who had been quiet until then.
He cocked his head, chocolate-brown curls falling into his face, making him
look younger than he was. He didn't look as weathered as the others, having
retained a significant portion of his teenaged beauty. His voice was soft in
sympathy, but it harboured a stony undertone that indicated a degree of
seriousness rarely shared.
                "There was always a chance that Alfred and Matthew were going
to have to leave the clan," he said logically. "Omegas belong with their
Alphas, and yours are of-age now. They don't belong here in this house with us
anymore. It's time for them to start their own lives, their own families. It's
natural," he said, as if that softened the blow. "You'll always be their Omega-
father, Art, but it's time for you to let Alfred and Matthew go."
                Arthur's shoulders trembled, wanting to argue, but he didn't.
Slowly, he bowed his head in defeat; or—
                The green-eyed Omega suddenly inhaled, swallowing a gasp. In
horror, Matt saw him press a hand to his lips to stifle a sob. He had never
seen his Omega-father cry before. It was shattering.
                Immediately, Francis collected Arthur into his arms, and this
time Arthur didn't protest. He leant into his Alpha-mate's embrace to hide his
face.
                "You're not losing both of them, Art," Scott said. It was an
awkward attempt to soothe his brother's distress, but he soldiered on. "One of
them will come back with us. He'll mate a local Alpha, who will inherit my
position as the next pack-leader and live here in the clan—"
                "Scott," said Francis authoritatively, "I think we're done for
tonight."
                Quietly the small party disbanded, leaving Francis alone with
Arthur. Matt's big violet eyes stared unblinking at his parents. He didn't even
realize his hand was still pressed to Al's mouth until Al pulled gently down on
his twin's wrist. Matt's whole body had gone rigid, like prey in the face of
danger. He tensed at Al's touch, lifting his eyes slowly to meet those of his
blue-eyed brother. Al's expression was puzzled, but not afraid. Al never looked
afraid. Despite his uncertainty, his face was readable, and in those pretty
sapphire-blue eyes Matt read excitement. It was muddied with apprehension and
disbelief, but there was no mistaking the spark of excitement. Al had always
liked the challenge of trying new things—the riskier, the better—and there was
no doubt that he felt the same about this unexpected turn-of-events. A journey
to the Mainland was novel. Al and Matt would be the first pups of their
generation to leave the Isles and cross into that unknown territory across the
Channel. Matt doubted if Al was even thinking of why they were going, focused
only on the fact that they were, indeed, going. The reality of their purpose
would hit him later, but just then Matt saw adventure in his eyes.
                Matt, however, felt suddenly ill. His chest tightened and his
temperature spiked, making him perspire as his heart beat hard. He clawed at
his shirt buttons, feeling constricted. Only when Al grabbed his hands and
pulled him against his chest in a hug did Matt realize he was having a panic-
attack. He clutched his brother tightly as Al rubbed his back, whispering words
of reassurance that Matt didn't hear. Matt bit his lip, trying to stay quiet.
Al's presence, his body, offered little comfort. As much as he pretended
otherwise, Al was an Omega, like Matt, which meant that he was just as
powerless.
                "It's okay, Mattie. It's going to be okay," he said. "Papa's
not going to let anything bad happen to us."
                Matt, however, barely registered Al's voice.
                The Mainland.His heart pounded. They're taking us to the
Mainland. To sell us. Arthur's words repeated in Matt's mind, over-and-over.
They're selling us to the Mainlanders as collateral. To a stranger. A Mainland
stranger. To be his mate; to breed his pups—!
                "Mattie—?" Al pet Matt's curls. "It's okay. It'll be an
adventure, right? And you heard Scottie, only one of us has to stay with the
Low-Landers; the other one gets to come home."
                Al's tone was lighthearted, but it only confirmed Matt's
suspicion that he wasn't taking the threat seriously. As daring as Al was, Matt
was sure that his brother didn't truly understand the implications of being
mated.
                It wasn't something the adults talked about with Al and Matt
present. The family was rather protective of the twins' innocence and tried to
preserve it. But while they guarded their tongues, they did not guard their
library, and Matt had had the displeasure of reading too many books on the
subject of pregnancy from too young an age. Because of that, he had a vivid
idea of what to expect. But Al, who disliked studying in any capacity, did not.
The only texts he had ever enjoyed were the fairytales the family used to read
them as pups. They were Old Romances and heroic tales of adventure that Al had
loved to play-act with his Alpha friends, insisting that he not be the damsel-
in-distress just because he was the only Omega. (Unless, of course, Alec
Frasier was playing the hero.) It was always light and fun and idealistic, but
it wasn't real.
                You've heard too many fairytales, Matt thought, blaming Al's
naivety on his affinity for fiction. The faraway look in his brother's blue
eyes was troubling. His head was full of nonsense as far as Matt was concerned;
stories that stopped at the rescue, the wedding, the happily-ever-after without
ever delving deeper into life beyond the tale. Al's favourite stories were
about heroes who slew dragons and rescued damsels; or knights-in-shining-armour
who freed bewitched maidens. Those stories were about love, and loyalty, and
devotion; admirable sentiments, but intangible. They starred dashing heroes and
beautiful maidens, characters which set impossibly high standards for
infatuated pups. Matt had tried to tell Al: "It's false, it's not real." But Al
refused to listen (or care).
                Those tales are just stories, Matt knew. Reality is
painful.According to Arthur's library: Reality is letting an Alpha possess
you,own you. It's letting him mate and impregnate you over-and-over again.It's
months of sickness and blood and pain constantly repeated until you're
completely spent;until your looks go,and you can't conceive,and he doesn't want
you anymore. Reality for an Omega is serving someone else's purpose until all
of your value is gone and you're left with nothing:alone,used,wasted,ugly.
                Matt had always known what his future would be, but though he
had resigned himself to a life of keeping-house and raising pups, the thought
of being claimed by an Alpha still scared him. It was something that he had
kept secret from everyone, including Al. Not even Al knew that Matt had cried
the night of their fifteenth birthday, because he knew what it signaled, even
if Al didn't. It had been bad enough thinking that he would someday mate an
Islander and be taken away from his family, but now—knowing what he did of
Scott's plan—that seemed like a pale threat in comparison. Now, to think that
he might have to mate a complete stranger from a foreign land so far away and
stay there with him, live there isolated from everything he knew—! I don't even
speak their language! It was terrifying. He had only just turned fifteen, after
all. He wasn't ready to be mated and bred.
                It'll be so lonely.
                A teardrop fell onto Al's shoulder; then another. Matt buried
his face.
                I don't want to go. Please, Papa, don't make me go!
                "It's okay, Mattie. It doesn't have to be you," Al said, but
his voice had lost its calm. Matt heard doubt when he said: "Maybe the Low-
Lander will choose me for his mate."
                Matt squeezed his brother, grateful for the lie. But it was a
lie. The Low-Lander would choose Matt, just like everyone else. Of that, he was
certain.
===============================================================================
That night, Al laid awake in his bed, unable to sleep. He stared at the thatch-
roof, listening to Matt toss-and-turn on the opposite side of the room;
listening to Matt whine. Al pitied his twin-brother, but he was also annoyed by
Matt's behaviour. It wasn't his twin's sensitivity that bothered Al, though. It
was his family's reaction to it. He knew that as soon as Matt showed any sign
of distress, the overprotective family would be at his beck-and-call. They
would coddle him to soothe his fears and in doing so would forget about Al. Al,
who was also a potential option for collateral. But in the family's eyes Al was
strong and independent, whereas Matt was weak and in need of protection. That
was the excuse. It had always been the excuse, whether they verbalized it or
not. What they neglected to realize was that just because Al acted the tough-
fibred Omega didn't mean that he didn't need or want his family's attention. It
was Al who liked physical affection, after all; Al who liked to cuddle. It was
Al who loved the centre-of-attention and secretly hated when Matt stole it from
him. As pups, Al had felt sympathy for his shy twin-brother and had always
taken it upon himself to shield Matt from unwanted attention, which,
incidentally, ensured that Al was always in the spotlight. But since Matt's
first Heat, like everything else, that had changed. Now, when Matt stepped into
a room, everyone stopped to stare at him. When he spoke, everyone smiled and
complimented him. In truth, the only thing that kept competitive Al from
punching his twin was the knowledge that Matt absolutely detested it. He hated
being the centre-of-attention more than anything, because it made him feel
anxious and self-conscious, though Al couldn't think of why. It baffled Al, who
would have killed for the compliments Matt effortlessly received and then
refused. It made the blue-eyed Omega feel inadequate.
                Inadvertently, it made Al think of Alec Frasier, his Alpha
friend who would always be just that: a friend.
                If the Low-Lander chooses Matt and Matt has to stay on the
Mainland,maybe Alec will choose me—
                Al stopped abruptly. He slapped his cheeks, berating himself.
How could he even think something so awful? Jealousy was the ugliest vice, so
said the fairytales he cherished.
                Influenced by fictional tales, Al had always dreamt of falling
desperately in love, just like the characters in his books. He knew, of course,
that he wasn't like the Omegas in those tales. He wasn't sweet, or delicate, or
helpless—like Matt—and, frankly, he didn't want to be (helpless, that is). But
that's the type of Omega that Alphas wanted. No Alpha wanted to feel
emasculated by his Omega-mate, and Al didn't blame them. Instead, he
unintentionally—and unfairly—blamed Matt for being so fucking perfect. All Al
had ever wanted was to fall in love with an Alpha who loved him in return. So,
was it really any wonder why watching Matt continuously reject declarations of
love and affection made Al boil with envy?
                Where'smyhappily-ever-after? he wondered sadly. Is Matt's
absence really the price I'd have to pay for an Alpha to look at me like that?
                Feeling dejected, Al didn't hear his parents' footsteps until
they were standing right outside the twins' door, which was conveniently open a
crack. It was Arthur's voice that interrupted Al's self-pity. He said:
                "Francis."
                Al had never heard his Omega-father sound so helpless.
                Francis replied in a gentle tone. "I know, chéri," he said,
guessing at Arthur's concern. "I'm not ready to lose Alfred or Mathieu either,
but there's nothing I can do. They're fifteen-years-old now. They're adults by
clan-law, and you know the laws regarding adult Omegas." Al leant sideways to
peer into the corridor. "Alfred and Mathieu would've been claimed by Alphas
this year regardless of what we want for them. If not in the Low Countries,
then at the Stones. You said so yourself. It's illegal for adult Omegas to live
in the clan without an Alpha to provide for him—"
               "Yes, I know," Arthur snapped. "I know the bloody clan-laws,
Francis. Believe me," he added, losing his fight almost instantly, "if anyone
knows the clan-laws about unclaimed or pregnant Omegas, I do."
                Francis paused. "Yes," he agreed. "I'm sorry."
                An uncomfortable silence stretched for several minutes, both
adults just standing there, eyes downcast. Al pursed his lips, trying, for
once, not to draw attention to himself. Finally, Arthur's husky voice
whispered:
                "I don't want to lose them, Francis. I love them both so much,
I can't—"
                Uninvited, Francis closed the gap between them and drew Arthur
against his body. Al didn't see Arthur seek the intimacy; Francis just did it
naturally. A second later, Al heard his Omega-father crying, which was an
unfamiliar sound. Arthur rarely showed weakness in front of his pups; certainly
never tears. It made Al feel nervous, like seeing an unshakable rock suddenly
break. But Francis held him together. The way the Alpha held his sad Omega-mate
and whispered words of love and reassurance made Al's heart ache.
                I want someone to hold me like that, he thought. Not just my
family. I want an Alpha-mate to love me the way Papa loves Dad.
                Al knew that his parents were (unbearably) happy, which often
included physical affection, which made their blue-eyed pup grimace in feigned
disgust more often than not. ("Ach—! Do you have to do that in front of me?")
What he kept private, however, was that Al dreamt of being held just like that;
of feeling that level of intimacy with someone else, someone he loved. It meant
trusting someone else with his heart, which was scary, but exciting as well.
                I wonder, Al thought, absently spying on his parents, will the
Low-Lander want my heart,or Matt's?
                "It's okay," Francis repeated, kissing Arthur's forehead. "It's
going to be okay. Don't fret, chéri. I promise, I'll take good care of the pups
on the Mainland—"
                "I'm going, too."
                The brazen statement took Francis and Al off-guard.
                "Arthur—"
                "Don't argue with me," Arthur said, determined. "If I have to
lose one of my pups to the Low-Landers, then you can bloody well bet I'm going
to be there to say goodbye."
                Francis glanced sideways, debating. Al could see that he didn't
want to allow it, but compassion outweighed propriety. "Yes, of course," he
said. Gently, he lifted his Omega-mate's head and kissed him, silencing
Arthur's gasps and sobs for a short duration. Their lips unlocked with a soft
smack. "I love you, Arthur. And I love our pups," Francis said in English (a
sentiment he felt was more beautiful in French, but which he issued in English
to comfort his mate). "I promised you once that I would protect you, all of
you, and I will. That means putting on a brave face for Alfred and Mathieu's
benefit," he added, implying Arthur's present distress. "The pups can't see you
breaking down, Arthur. It'll only scare them. You've got to stop," he said,
wiping Arthur's cheeks. "If you're going to come with us, then you have to be
strong for them, okay?"
                "Yes, you're right," Arthur agreed. He swallowed; gasped. "I
will be. Tomorrow," he promised.
                And then dissolved into tears.
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Two *****
THE CHANNEL
TWO DAYS LATER
Al stood at the bow, a salty north-eastern breeze blowing back his wheat-blonde
cowlick, tugging at his feathery hair. The slim ship sliced through the waves
like a knife, its sail full of a powerful wind that propelled it across the
Channel. Al liked the feel of the sun beating down on his face. He reveled in
the heat of late-August, which the rest of his family—sans Francis—was less
fond of. (They burned too easily.) Fortunately for them, hot, sunny days on the
isles were few and far between, which is why Al treasured the sunrays on his
skin, reflected off the grey water.
                Matt would have been there beside him, but he had gone
expectedly into Heat a day before and was locked in the room below-deck, which
Francis and Scott took turns guarding. Neither of them trusted the crew's
blatant interest in the Omega's enticing scent. Arthur had initially protested
Scott being so close, as well. Matt was a young and fertile, unclaimed Omega
whose soft cries called-out for an Alpha. Francis was immune to it. He was
pair-bonded and Matt's Alpha-father. Nothing mattered more to him than his
precious pups and their safety. Scott insisted that he, too, could resist
nature and protect Matt ("Matt is my own blood, Art! Don't insult me!"), but
Arthur worried about his impulsive Alpha-brother, and secretly Al did, too.
                Two years ago, Al had witnessed something that had, then, made
him question the family head's self-control. Scott was home alone with the two
thirteen-year-olds when Matt had unexpectedly gone into Heat. It was sooner
than it should have been, and it was still a new experience for the family;
Matt had only had two Heats before then. Scott had tried to take care of his
nephew. He had scooped Matt into his arms, intending to take him to the
storehouse like he used to do for Arthur, and Al—curious and concerned—had
followed. Scott's pace had started out fast, but halfway there he slowed to a
walk, then stopped. He stood in the field, holding Matt as the Omega-pup whined
and wriggled in the Alpha's arms. Instinctively, he pressed himself closer to
Scott, pawing at the Alpha insistently, and Al was shocked to see that his
uncle was shaking. The look in Scott's eyes worried Al—his pupils were dilated,
swallowing the green—but not as much as Scott's intent when he bowed his head
to Matt's neck and tasted the Omega-pup's skin.
                "Hey!" Al had shouted, afraid of what he saw. "Scottie, stop
it!" Bravely, he kicked Scott's shin. Scott growled in reflex and bared his
teeth at the blue-eyed Omega-pup, who cowered in fear. But Al repeated: "Uncle
Scottie, please stop it! Let go of Mattie!"
                His high-pitched plea seemed to reach Scott. Suddenly, the
Alpha gasped and almost dropped Matt. "Fuck!" he cursed, looking scared for the
first time in Al's life. The Omega-pup soon found his twin dropped indelicately
into his arms as Scott backed away. "Lock Matt in the storehouse, Al!" he
ordered, covering his nose and mouth. Then he turned around and ran. Al heard
his frustrated voice shouting: "FUCK!" in the distance. Baffled, Al tugged Matt
onto his back and carried him quickly to the storehouse, afraid to risk the
attention of other Alphas.
                That had been the first time Al had ever seen an Alpha react to
an Omega; it was surprising. It stirred mixed feelings within him: fear, but
also intrigue. Alphas were supposed to mate Omegas, after all; it was natural.
But Al had never seen an Alpha look so helpless before, which peaked his
curiosity. It was frightening to think that—based on his uncle's reaction—any
Alpha could be effected, blood-relative or not, but it also gave Al a feeling
of empowerment. Do I have that power too? he had wondered. Could I drive an
Alpha wild with lust?
                When his parents had returned that night, asking after Matt, Al
had reported that he had taken Matt into the storehouse alone. He was praised
for taking care of his twin ("What a wonderful brother you are, Alfred!"),
which he happily accepted, basking in his parents' proud smiles. He never
confronted Scott about the incident, and Scott never acknowledged what had
almost happened. Even now, two years later, he and Al had an unvoiced agreement
to keep it a secret. But the Omega-pup had learnt something important that day,
something that he would never forget: Omegas were not as weak as society wanted
them to be.
                "Alfred, love?" Arthur's voice called, interrupting Al's
thoughts. When he spotted his isolated pup, he joined him at the ship's bow.
"It's chilly today," he noted by way of greeting. In defense of the breeze, he
crossed his arms. Al grunted in acknowledgement. He could feel his Omega-
father's eyes studying his profile, but pretended not to notice. A minute
passed; then two. Finally, Arthur said: "Come inside and have supper, love."
                "I'm not hungry—"
                "Alfred, please."
                Al was taken aback by the concern in Arthur's tone.
Tentatively, he touched Al's shoulder.
                Al swallowed. He was hungry—starving. In fact, the up-and-down
bobbing of the ship was making him feel dizzy. He had been nursing a terrible
headache since yesterday and was now afraid that he would get sick. At least I
can blame it on seasickness, he thought. In preparation for the journey, Al had
cut back on his food intake even more and, as a result, hadn't eaten anything
for nearly forty-eight hours. It made him feel weak, which he hated—which he
tried to fight—but he was rewarded by his reflection in the looking-glass. His
face, at least, looked thinner, even if his midsection did not. All I have to
do is hide the dark circles under my eyes, he had thought as he subtly applied
a pasty cosmetic, which he had stolen from the pack's apothecary. As long as no
one studied him too closely—like Arthur was now—no one would know that he had
faked his healthy complexion.
                He attempted a half-hearted smile for Arthur's benefit, willing
his stomach not to growl. "Dad," he insisted, "I'm fine."
                Arthur, however, was unconvinced.
                "No," he said sternly, "you're not. Sweetheart," he forced an
amiable smile, "you haven't eaten anything for nearly two days. Don't think I
haven't noticed. I'm worried about you, Alfred."
                In example, he reached for Al's face, but Al knocked his hand
aside in annoyance.
                "I'm fine, really," he repeated. "I'm just not... I'm just a
little nervous, that's all," he lied.
                As expected, Arthur's reaction was instantaneous. It was no
secret that he was still angry with Scott, and, to a lesser extent, Francis,
and he blamed them for any distress the Omega-twins had felt within the last
forty-eight hours. Since learning of their intent for Al and Matt, Arthur had
been visibly stressed, concerned about his young pups and overly attentive to
each of their needs. Perhaps it was unfair, but Al found his Omega-father's
concern desirable. Even if it was for selfish reasons, he still loved the
attention. It was so easy to exploit Arthur's compassion, which is what he did
now. All he had to do was cast a sheepish glance at Arthur and Arthur ate Al's
lie without question, too focused on blaming the Alphas to notice Al's subtle
manipulation.
                "Oh, love, I'm so sorry," he said, suspicion melting into
sympathy.
                Al faked a brave-face. "It's okay," he said softly, smiling in
a martyr-like fashion, which was equal parts fear and courage.
                "Oh, Alfred. Come here." Compassionately, Arthur drew Al into a
one-armed hug. Al instantly felt guilty for deceiving his Omega-father, who
seemed to feel his pups' trepidation as if it were his own, but again the blue-
eyed Omega felt equally grateful for the physical affection. He so rarely got
to cuddle with anyone, since they considered him less in need of it than Matt.
Al rested his cheek on Arthur's shoulder, feeling peaceful (forgetting his
hunger, for once) as Arthur's weight rested gently atop his head. "It's going
to be okay, love," he said, holding his pup. "I won't let anything bad happen
to you, I promise."
                Al closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, comforted by his
Omega-father's mild scent. "Okay," he said.
                "Do you know," said Arthur, after a minute. Absently, he rubbed
his thumb back-and-forth over Al's forearm. "I was scared half-crazy the day
you and Matthew were born. I felt so lost, so weak. I was all alone and, then,
I thought that I would always be alone. It was terrifying." He spoke slowly, as
if reliving the faraway experience with every word. Yet despite Arthur's bleak
confession, his tone was nostalgic. It was an odd mix, in Al's thinking.
Eventually, the older Omega continued. "But that's not going to be you," he
said seriously. "I won't let that happen to you, Alfred. I won't let you or
Matthew feel lost and alone. It's such a terrible feeling. And Omegas..." He
paused, reconsidered, and then said the words anyway: "Omegas are not meant to
be alone."
                (Lone Alphas—Lone Wolves, they were called—were not that
uncommon, but Omegas were never left alone. It was simple evolution: social
evolution, perhaps. It was widely believed that Omegas could not survive
alone.)
                "I know," Al repeated. He felt conflicted, though he couldn't
tell why.
                "But you won't be alone," Arthur amended, so as not to frighten
his pup. He sounded chipper. "You have me and your Papa and Scott. And maybe
soon an Alpha-mate."
                Al removed himself from his Omega-father's grasp, sighing
deeply. "He's going to choose Matt, Dad. Just like everyone else. Honestly, I
don't even know why I'm here."
                "Alfred—"
                "Never-mind," Al interrupted. He forced a smile and a change-
of-topic. "I'm feeling better. Let's go eat."
===============================================================================
THE LOW COUNTRIES
Hold on, pup." Scott grabbed the back of Al's coat, preventing him from leaping
to shore.
                The ship was tethered to a weathered quay, bobbing on the waves
that congealed in the inlet. The wind blew fiercely here, unhindered by cliffs
or forests. Al spied the long, flat landscape through a curtain of cold
rainfall. It was very different from the rocky highlands and rolling hills of
the Isles. The sinking land here looked ready to surrender to the North Sea
with little provocation. Al had heard a Low-Lander sailor call it an alluvial
plain, which Al translated to swamp. "The village is located on the high-
ground, up over there," said the sailor, pointing. That's thehigh-ground,
seriously? Skeptically, Al spied the big buildings set upon a shallow rise.
Granted, the dwellings were grander than the average Islander's home, but they
sat on a hilltop barely above sea-level. As he and his family (sans Francis and
Matt) were escorted from the ship—Al was offered a hand, which he ignored—he
wondered how the Low-Landers managed to fend off the sea's constant barrage.
                "Do not be afraid," said the sailor. He spoke English with a
thick accent, like every Low-Lander Al had met. "Do you see those deep stone
trenches? Those are the canals. We use them to guide the waters by means of
dams and floodgates, diverting the waters away from the village. We use them
also for irrigation. The North Sea," he gestured in example, "flows into the
canals and meets with the Rhine further inland, which carries the waters into
the West where several smaller rivers connect. Do not worry, Alfred Kirkland.
The walls are strong. It can rain and rain, but the village is perfectly safe."
                Al frowned. "I'm not afraid—"
                He stopped when he felt Scott's hand on his shoulder, squeezing
discretely. He glanced from Scott's hooded, yet stern expression to Arthur, who
offered a half-smile in appeasement.
                Please behave,Alfred, said the Omega's green eyes.
                Just then, a party of five Low-Lander Alphas arrived to receive
them. The tallest (and the most attractive, Al thought) was undeniably the Clan
Leader's son.
                "Welcome to the Low Countries," he said in practised English.
His accent was thick and his voice was deep. It seemed to rumble within his
broad chest. It sent a shiver down Al's spine; he liked deep voices. "My name
is Lars van den Berg, son and heir of the Clan Leader. My Vader sent me ahead
to meet you," he said, inclining his head to Scott. His attendants did
likewise. "Please," he gestured to the high-ground, "allow me to escort you
inside."
                Suddenly, Al found himself presented with Lars' big hand. The
Low-Lander kept his head slightly bowed so as not to intimidate the young
Omega.
                "Thank-you," said Scott, letting the Alphas escort his Omega
family-members up a cobbled path. They held umbrellas to protect their Omega
guests from the rain (disregarding the fact that they were already soaked,
coats or not. This is a very wet place, Al thought—and this coming from an
Islander!). They all walked quickly in a desire to escape the rainfall. Al
found his hand folded into the inviting warmth of Lars' arm, who pulled him
along. Though he wouldn't admit it, Al was surprised to find himself struggling
to keep-pace with Lars' long-legged strides. The Low-Lander was so very tall!
(Taller than me, Al smiled, pleased.) When they reached the Great House, the
Alpha guards opened the doors to a friendly welcome. The Clan Leader strode
forward and clasped hands with Scott, each Alpha inclining his head in
acknowledgement of the other's status. He re-introduced his Alpha-son and heir,
Lars. Then it was Scott's turn:
                "May I present my brother, Arthur," he said, gesturing
fleetingly to Arthur. The Low-Lander Alphas bowed their heads in respect, to
which Arthur nodded. "And this is his Omega-son, my nephew, Alfred." Scott
lingered on Al's introduction, letting the Low-Landers take a good, long look
at him.
                As practised, Al bowed his head slowly, keeping his gaze
plastered to the flagstone floor until told otherwise. It was a long time
before anyone did. The longer it took, the hotter Al's face grew as the Alphas
appraised him. Despite his love of attention, he realized very quickly that he
did not like being the centre-of-attention when his audience was gauging his
worth. They're trying to decide if I'm worth the price of a trade contract, he
knew. Suddenly, he wished that he had been given time to freshen-up, or at
least towel-off before meeting his potential betrothed. He was soaked and
shivering, which weren't the best conditions for showing-off his features. (The
rain had washed the cosmetic off of his face, revealing the dark half-circles
beneath his eyes.)
                Finally, the Clan Leader said: "Such a lovely Omega! So very,
uh... tall. Lars."
                Lars stepped forward and took Al's hand in a proper greeting.
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said. Al straightened and
squeezed Lars' proffered hand. The Low-Lander flinched at the pressure, but
quickly turned it into an awkward chuckle in recovery. "That's quite a strong
grip you have, Alfred," he said.
                "Oh, sorry," Al mumbled in apology.
                As Al retreated to his Omega-father's side, Scott made Francis'
apologies. "He begs your forgiveness, but his Omega-son, Matthew, my other
nephew, went into Heat on the crossing and Francis elected to stay with him,"
for his protection, his eyes subtly added. "I hope you understand."
                "Of course! Do not fret, it cannot be helped," said the Clan
Leader in accommodation. His tone was friendly, but Al didn't miss the hint in
his eyes, which revealed that he was pleased by Matt's condition. It bode well
for his son that the Omegas were fertile, and being in Heat was a good
indication of that. "We will meet them later. For now, let's eat!" said the
Clan Leader. "Lars, you will escort Alfred Kirkland tonight."
                Lars' face was reticent. He said: "Yes, Vader."
===============================================================================
Do you think he likes me?" Al asked.
                The Islanders had been led to a guesthouse—a longhouse with an
arched ceiling—which was partitioned into three separate rooms for privacy:
Scott in one; Francis and Arthur in another; and Al and Matt in another. The
twins would share a room until one of them was mated to Lars. Al didn't mind,
though; he had been sharing a room with his brother his whole life. Just then,
he was standing front of a looking-glass, scrutinizing his refreshed image. It
was five minutes before supper; five minutes before Lars would arrive to escort
Al back to the main house. Feeling nervous, he finger-combed his wheat-blonde
fringe, wishing that he could reapply the cosmetic to his face. But he couldn't
do it in Arthur's presence. Arthur sat opposite him on the bed, trying and
failing to smooth the wrinkles from his shirt. Unlike his brother and mate, he
had only had forty-eight hours to prepare for the journey to the Mainland, and,
too focused on his pups' needs, Arthur had neglected his own wardrobe. He had
never been a particularly fashionable Omega, but the rich styles sported by the
Low-Landers made him look even less so.
                "Don't be impatient, Alfred," Arthur scolded. "It's a bit too
soon to tell, I think. The Low-Landers are polite, but they haven't revealed
much else. Though," his lips curled into a sneaking grin, "that Lars van den
Berg is bloody attractive, don't you think?"
                Al avoided his Omega-father's teasing gaze and feigned
nonchalance. "Yeah, I guess so." If you like Alphas who are tall and handsome.
                At precisely eight o'clock, Lars knocked on Al's door. He, too,
had taken the opportunity to re-dress and now stood tall and handsome in
imported clothes of fine quality. The embroidery complimented his sage-green
eyes quite well. Al let the Low-Lander guide him back to the Great House, which
had been transformed into a dining-hall by the appearance of three long,
clothed tables. Al sat at the head table, which stood on a dais. He sat between
Scott and Lars on a bench and was served the best cuts of everything, after
Scott, of course. Lars was an affable if not talkative supper companion.
However, the third course was being served before Al managed to finally draw a
genuine smile out of him. Al was not used to dining in as grand a setting as
this, and his mistakes produced a chuckle from Lars. "Just follow my lead," he
whispered. His laidback demeanour eased Al's nerves, and soon Al relaxed. He
enjoyed the setting, the food (he ate just enough to be polite), and the
entertainment, but it was Lars who captivated the young Omega. The Alpha was
bloody attractive, after all. And he seemed not to be judging Al as openly as
the other Low-Landers. Al wanted to engage Lars in an intelligent or witty
conversation, but it soon became apparent that neither of them cared much for
small-talk, nor did either one know much about the topics society deemed
appropriate for well-bred Omegas. Thus, in experiment, Al shifted the
conversation to what he did know. He talked about Alpha sports, like fishing
and hunting, which Lars seemed much more receptive to. Keenly, he asked:
                "Do you hunt, Alfred?"
                "Yes, I do. I've been hunting since I was a pup," Al bragged.
"My Papa and uncles taught me."
                "I've never met an Omega who hunts," said Lars, studying Al in
intrigue.
                "Well," Al cocked his head, letting the firelight dance in his
bright blue eyes, letting it colour his feathery hair a gleaming gold, "now you
have."
                After that, the conversation flowed easily and eventually Al
had Lars wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. He told several stories, which
never failed to elicit a laugh or a gasp back home. His Alpha friends had
always yielded to Al's storytelling skills when recalling the details of a
hunt. Al had a talent for embellishment, and he was glad to see that it was not
wasted on Lars. The Alpha smiled and regaled Al with many stories in reply,
some funny, others daring feats of exceptional skill. If Lars was trying to
impress Al, it was working. By midnight, Al was completely at-ease with the
foreigner. Alphas, it seemed, were the same in every territory. You just had to
know how to talk to them. Matt had always favoured flattery when speaking to
Alphas; a true Omega trick. He was very good at it. He had always found it
easier to focus on the talents of others rather than on himself, and
Alphas—most Alphas—were very self-involved. Al, however, was the opposite. He
was too competitive to flatter someone undeserving of it and way too honest to
issue an outright lie. Al was straightforward, as was his sense of humour.
                "You've got a very Alpha sense of humour," Lars said to him. Al
took it as a compliment (though, later—with an exasperated sigh—Arthur told him
that he shouldn't have).
                At half-past midnight, Lars offered to walk Al back to his
bedchamber and Al accepted. This time, they didn't touch. Al was too busy
gesturing as he talked. Once he whipped his arm out in example and accidentally
smacked Lars in the face. "Oh, sorry!" he gasped. Privately he berated
himself—stupid,stupid,stupid—as Lars rubbed his reddening cheek. Fortunately,
the Alpha laughed it off.
                "I don't think you know your own strength," he smiled. "I've
never met an Omega like you before, Alfred."
                At the bedchamber's door, Al stopped. He waited like a good
Omega to be dismissed.
                "There's a hunt tomorrow at dawn," Lars said, extending an
invitation. "You would be very welcome to join us. In fact, I hope you do. I
want to see for myself whether any of that big talk is true," he teased.
                Al's heart leapt joyfully. "Oh, yes!" he replied, eager to
showcase his skills. "I'd love to! I can't wait! You won't be disappointed," he
promised.
                Lars nodded. "Goodnight, Alfred Kirkland."
===============================================================================
Mathieu, chéri, how are you feeling?"
                Francis' soothing voice washed over Matt, who was lying curled-
up in a pile of bedding below-deck. It wasn't a good nest and he felt unsettled
in it—excruciating Heat notwithstanding. Matt disliked foreign spaces.
"Nn—Papa," he whispered softly. He pressed his cheek to a pillow, inhaling the
Alpha's heady scent. Francis was a very strong and healthy Alpha, and his musky
scent reflected that. The fog clung to Matt's brain, making him feel half-
asleep; maybe he was half-asleep. He found it hard to differentiate between
reality and dreams when he was in Heat, something that his Omega-father assured
him was perfectly normal. As Francis neared the bed, Matt felt instinctively
drawn toward the heat of his body. Isthisperfectly normal? Matt wondered,
pawing insistently at Francis' shirt. His slender fingers were sweaty and
trembling; messy Heat-slick coated the bed of his nails. Francis knelt down and
pet Matt's curls in a soothing way, whispering reassurances. Matt fought the
urge to whine, to plead, to beg for more of his sire's physical touch. He tried
to ignore the knot of desire budding in his stomach, making him feel both
aroused and revolted. Is it normal to want your own blood-relatives? Matt
squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but tears slipped out, rolling over his cheeks.
I hate this! he thought, feeling weak, helpless to stop himself. I hate being
in Heat! It makes me want—
                "P-Papa..."
                "Hush-hush, Mathieu. It's okay. You're safe, chéri. Papa is
here to protect you."
                I'm so pathetic, Matt thought, burying his face against
Francis' neck. He clung to his Alpha-father, desperate. "I-I—I'm s-so s-sorry,
Papa," he gasped. "I-I—I'm s-sorry I-I—"
                "No, sweetheart," Francis cooed. "There's nothing to apologize
for, it's nature."
                "I-I-I—" Matt took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for ruining Uncle
Scottie's plan. It's a bad first-impression. This, me—I'm an inconvenience,
aren't I?"
                "No, of course not," Francis denied. He held Matt, rocking him
gently. "Mathieu, chéri, you've done nothing wrong. You've done nothing but
proven your worth to the Low-Landers. You've made a perfect first-impression,
mon cher. Being susceptible to Heats is a telling sign of an Omega's fertility.
It's a verydesirablecondition."
                "Maybe from y-y-your p-p-perspective," Matt argued. "But when
everyone knows that you—that y-y-you're—Ah hah! Nn—!" he gasped. "It's s-s-so
embarrassing!"
                Francis chuckled benignly. Matt felt it reverberate in his
throat.
                Don't laugh at me! he thought, feeling suddenly angry. You have
no idea what this feels like! No Alpha ever will, all they do is reap the
benefits!
                That irrational anger manifested itself in a most undesirable,
physical way. Helplessly, Matt clutched Francis and cried in frustration as a
Heat-wave overwhelmed him, submerging all logic. "O-oh!" He whined and
wriggled. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips to Francis' neck.
"Papa,please~"
                Francis' chest heaved in a sigh. Forcibly, he pried Matt's
fingers off of himself and stood. "It's okay, chéri," he said in retreat. "It's
all going to be okay, I promise. Just rest."
                I don't want rest! I want you! I want an Alpha! Any Alpha!
Please,just make it stop—!
                "Attendez—! Nn, non—s'il vous plaît!" Matt begged, crying.
"Come back! Papa,please don't leave me~"
                "Bonne nuit, Mathieu."
                The door closed and the deadbolt locked, leaving Matt alone in
the silent darkness.
                Dejected, he buried his face in a pillow and screamed.
===============================================================================
THE NEXT DAY
Al was jittery with excitement. He had slept well—despite a veryhard
mattress—and woken early, and was bathed and dressed by the time his relatives
stirred. Arthur was surprised to find Al awake and bright-eyed by the breakfast
hour.
                Like Francis, Al valued sleep and slept deeply, often needing
someone to wake him in the mornings; though, Francis was worse. He religiously
overslept and frustrated Arthur, who was responsible for waking him up.
("Francis, love, it's time to get up. Francis—? Gah! Bloody-hell! Francis, get
off of me! Wake up you bloody wine-wanker—!")
                Al walked uphill to the Great House with Arthur and Scott,
eager for the hunt. Arthur left them at the doors, wishing Al luck and
conveying a parent's concern:
                "Please be careful, Alfred." Hunting in familiar territory was
dangerous enough, but the Low Countries were completely unknown to Al. "This is
no time to be showing-off, do you understand? Alfred—? Scott!" he urged, eyeing
his Alpha-brother insistently. "Watch him, please! Don't let him out of your
sight!"
                Scott dismissed Arthur's concern. "Don't fuss, Art. Al's a good
hunter, he learnt from the best. He'll be fine." Proudly, he ruffled Al's
blonde hair.
                Al smiled and fixed it without trying to look like he was
fixing it.
                They entered the Great House and were immersed in a throng of
ready Alphas. Lars spotted Al and smiled at him in greeting. Al cocked his chin
in reply. He was given a choice of tool. He selected a wicked-looking axe and
let the sheathed head rest casually on his shoulder, and then took his place
beside Scott in the procession. Initially, the Low-Lander Alphas were confused
by the Omega's presence. Several of them looked concerned for his well-being,
feeling responsible for keeping him safe, perhaps. But their collective
attitude changed the instant the hunt began. Al took off like an arrow, easily
keeping-pace with Scott as the two raced over the wetlands, showcasing their
skills. The rain had not stopped, but as a born-and-bred Islander Al was hardly
a stranger to hunting in poor weather conditions. He only slipped once, but
caught his balance before anyone could offer help. Cheerfully, he raced ahead,
clutching the axe like he was born to it. By midmorning, Al succeeded in
catching Lars, who was leading the pack. The Alpha's face revealed pleasant
surprise when he saw Al. His sage-coloured eyes issued a challenge, which Al
arrogantly accepted, and soon they were racing each other through the wet
fields and sparse forests in search of prey. At high-noon, they stopped for
dinner. Al wanted to refuse, but he was famished and feeling dizzy; he couldn't
afford to faint. He picked at his meal and talked more than he ate, encouraging
a competitive spirit amongst his fellows. The Alphas quickly realized that they
need not guard their tongues with Al, who fenced vile-mouthed slander just as
well as they did. He engaged the Alphas in conversation, swapping hunting tales
and bawdy jokes, and, like Lars the previous night, the young Omega soon had
them all howling in laughter.
                "I like this one!" said a grisly Low-Lander, clapping Al's
shoulder in comradeship. He eyed Lars indiscreetly, which made the whole party
laugh.
                "Are all Island Omegas like you, Alfred?"
                "Of course not!" said Scott. "Alfred is one-of-a-kind." And he,
too, eyed Lars suggestively.
                When the hunt resumed at half-one, Lars asked Al to be his
hunting-partner. It gave Al the chance to exhibit his talents in tracking.
                "I'm impressed, Alfred. Omegas don't have the sense of smell
that Alphas do, but you don't seem to need it. You're a very practiced hunter,"
Lars praised.
                Al was pleased to accept the compliment, but despite the
Alpha's enjoyment, there was something lacking in Lars' tone and gaze. Al was
afraid that he had seen that look too many times before on the faces of his
Alpha friends, who had simply laughed when he asked them: "Why not me? I am an
Omega."
                You're our friend, Al.
               Friend. The bite of self-doubt hit Al, but he shook it off and
focused on the hunt.
                By sunset, the wagons were full of the hunt's spoils. It was a
great success, and Al was proud to claim a large portion of the kills.
                (In the clans, a hunting party worked as a team—hence, hunting-
partners—and in the Low Countries every position in the procession was equally
valued; every hunter's job was considered equally important. As Lars' partner,
Al had taken the role of spotter, whose job it was to find and chase the prey
into a place it couldn't escape from. It was the hardest job for an Omega
because of their lacking sense of smell, but Al's sharp ears compensated. As a
result, he had spotted and chased more prey than anyone else, which rewarded
him a large cut of the spoils.)
                That night, the banquet hall was filled with the succulent
scent of roasting meat as large-game rolled on spits in the Great House. Al
received praise from the Clan Leader, who said: "What a curious Omega you are,
Alfred! You're just full of surprises, aren't you? Lars, you will escort Alfred
Kirkland tonight."
                Lars nodded amicably. "Yes, Vader."
                Like the previous night, Al sat beside Lars for the duration of
supper, though this time the conversation was more directed. Everyone wanted to
talk about the hunt: Alphas shared and compared stories, while Omegas feigned
polite interest and issued praise. The whole hall was loud and lively. Music
played in celebration until the small hours of morning, and Al was invited to
dance more times that night then he had ever been asked before. He declined
many offers before Scott forced him to his feet.
                "If Ihave to dance"—as was customary of visiting envoys—"than
you sure as hell have to, pup," he said.
                "We can't all three of us refuse to dance," whispered Arthur,
who was even less fond of dancing than Al and Scott. "If only Francis and
Matthew were here." (Francis was a good dancer, and Matt was asked often enough
to be very practised.)
                To this, Scott and Al could only agree.
                Al followed his partner's footsteps, but he ended up
apologizing and laughing more than not. It was his good-luck that the Alphas
found Al's clumsiness charming rather than insulting.
                Drunkenly, the Clan Leader boomed: "Lars! Dance with Alfred
Kirkland!"
                Lars said: "Yes, Vader," and extended his hand to Al.
                Al liked the feel of Lars' big, strong body under his hands as
the Alpha led him through the steps of a foreign dance (though neither of them
was a particularly gifted dancer). It wasn't complex, but Al was happy to let
Lars take the lead. I don't mind being led if it's by him, he thought giddily.
Instinctively, he let himself lean in toward the Alpha. Maybe it was the hunt's
high, or the excessive beer he had drank (emphasis on that second one), but in
that moment Al wanted Lars' attention more than he had ever wanted another
Alpha's; even more than Alec Frasier's. By the end of the night, Al found
himself hoping that Lars would kiss him. He thought he was being discrete about
it as he eyed the Alpha's soft-looking lips, but Scott elbowed him in the ribs.
                "Down, pup," he whispered, chuckling. Al's cheeks heated
(though, that could have also been the beer).
                "Can I walk you back to your bedchamber?" Lars asked Al.
                Al nodded and eagerly took the Alpha's arm. Lars, too, had had
a lot to drink, but he kept his balance as they left the Great House.
                "It's raining," Al noted, tipping his head. He smiled as
raindrops pelted his face, sliding over his rosy cheeks.
                They walked arm-in-arm down a cobbled path, dodging puddles, to
the guesthouse. At the door to Al's room, they stopped. Lars looked down at Al,
misty-eyed. He said:
                "I had a lot of fun with you today, Alfred."
                Al's heartbeat skipped in anticipation. "I, uh... yeah, me too.
With you." He lifted his chin and met Lars' gaze, letting his eyes linger on
the Alpha's lips. Kiss me. Please kiss me.
                "Alfred."
                Al swallowed. "Yes—?"
                Lars brushed back Al's fringe and kissed his forehead.
"Goodnight."
===============================================================================
TWO DAYS LATER
Matt climbed out of the washtub and toweled off. It felt good to be clean. He
hated the feel of his skin when it was wet with sweat and Heat-slick. He would
never understand why Alphas found it so desirable. What's so enticing about an
Omega covered in his own—
                "Mathieu," Francis called, "are you ready, chéri?"
                As soon as his Heat had ended, Matt had asked for a bath. "Hot.
Make it steaming hot," he requested. He had stepped into the wood washtub and
scrubbed his pale skin until it was shiny red, determined to wash off the
lingering Heat-scent. Finally, when the water was cool, he got out. He combed
his curls and dressed in the clothes that Francis had chosen for him. Then he
stood obediently while his Alpha-father inspected him. Francis had a keen eye
for art. He looked Matt up-and-down, then pulled the Omega's hair back into a
short ponytail and tied it with a ribbon.
                "That's better," he said, satisfied. He smiled at his pup. "Now
everyone can see your pretty face, chéri.
                "It's important that we"—you—"make a good impression on the
Low-Landers, Mathieu," Francis continued, as he and Matt left the ship. One of
the sailors on-board wolf-howled in Matt's direction, but stopped instantly
when Francis sent him a scathing glare. They picked their way up the shallow
incline to the hilltop where the Low-Landers' village perched, each holding an
umbrella to protect himself from the constant rainfall. As they approached the
high-roofed Great House, Francis leant toward Matt. "Let me do the talking," he
said, as if Matt had ever considered the opposite.
                (Omegas should be seen and not heard. Omegas should only speak
to Alphas when spoken to. A good Omega should never open his mouth needlessly.
Those were the three golden rules of social engagement, which every well-bred
Omega-pup was taught since childhood. Al was the obvious exception.)
                The Clan Leader received the Islanders in the main hall, which
was empty except for a skinny musician and a few attendants. A hunt was in
progress, the second in three days.  The last had been a great success, they
were told. As the guards ushered the Islanders inside, the Clan Leader stood to
receive them. Before Francis could speak, however, the old Low-Lander gasped in
pleasant surprise.
                "My word! What a beautiful Omega!"
                Matt smiled and bowed his head in polite acceptance.
                "You must be Francis Kirkland," said the Clan Leader, extending
his hand to Francis.
                Francis didn't deny the mistake of his surname (which was
technically Bonnefoi-Kirkland, since he had been adopted by the Kirkland
family). He just smiled amiably, and said: "Yes, I am. Thank-you for your
hospitality."
                The Clan Leader frowned. "Your accent... is it an Island
dialect? It sounds very familiar."
                In his peripheral vision, Matt saw Francis tense. "It is a
hybrid, yes," he replied in painstaking English, trying his best to mimic the
Islanders' pronunciation as closely as possible to mask his true voice.
                The French clans—Francis' birthplace—are part of the Southern
Empire now, Matt knew. They had been for the past fifteen years. The Southern
Empire is powerful and dangerous. It has a reputation for conquest. If the Low-
Landers discover Papa's heritage,even though he left before the annexation of
his clan to the Southern Empire,they might refuse to negotiate with him. With
us. They might not trust us.
                "May I present my son?" Francis said, quickly changing the
subject. "This is Mathieu—" He cleared his throat and tried again, very slowly:
"Matthew."
                Before the Clan Leader could further interrogate Francis', Matt
deliberately stepped forward and bowed low, drawing the Alpha's attention.
                "Matthew, yes, of course. Allistor has already named you in
introduction, my dear. You are most welcome to the Low Countries." He smiled.
Then an exhale of happy disbelief escaped him and he chuckled. "Gods! You are
such a pretty little thing." Gently, he touched Matt's chin with a big,
callused finger and lifted his head. Matt kept his eyes humbly downcast as the
Alpha studied his pale face. "Lovely," he repeated, pleased. "Just lovely. I
cannot wait for you to meet my son, my Lars," he said, taking Matt's arm in
escort. Francis walked on Matt's other side, speaking as little as possible.
Matt, too, kept quiet as the Clan Leader talked. He didn't seem to care if the
Islanders replied or not. He was someone who liked the sound of his own loud
voice, Matt decided. The Clan Leader led them into a comfortable anteroom to
wait for the hunt's return, all the while praising Lars and spoiling Matt,
paying the Omega compliments and ordering treats that he insisted Matt eat. In
fact, his indulgence was typical of a doting father-in-law who had no Omega-
pups of his own.
                The rowdy hunting party returned at sunset.
                Matt heard the Alphas long before he saw them. Heavy, careless
footsteps advanced like a great host. Their leather boots made sucking sounds
and raindrops clanged off metal weapons. The doors slammed open as the party
spilled into the hall. Their loud, deep, growling voices echoed in the rafters,
filling the large room. They all laughed and yelled and howled in celebration.
Their big, masculine bodies smelled like sweat and adrenaline, caked with the
damp-earth scent of mud and the warm, salty scent of wild blood.
                The Clan Leader stood. "The hunt has returned!" he said
needlessly. "Come, Matthew. Come meet my Lars."
                Matt swallowed a whine of protest as he was pulled to his feet.
He cast a helpless look at Francis, who smiled in encouragement; though, Matt
could see apprehension in his Alpha-father's blue eyes. The anteroom door
opened, revealing the dozens of Alphas, old and young, amassing in the Great
House's hall. They were all big and strong and filthy and feeling aggressive
with the aftermath of adrenaline. Matt watched an Alpha tackle his hunting-
partner in a good-humoured attack, startling a pair of nearby Omegas. The din
of their howls was deafening. Instinctively, Matt stepped back.
                The Clan Leader looked puzzled. "Do not be afraid, my dear," he
said, releasing Matt.
                Matt feigned apology. Though, it was clear by the Alpha's smile
that he approved of Matt's unease. Meekness was a desirable quality in Omegas.
It promised obedience.
                But the longer Matt stood on the dais, awaiting his
introduction, the more he wanted to disobey and bolt. He had never met this
many strangers all at once before; foreigners, too. And one of them—one of
those big, wild, bloody bodies—would be his future mate. He could feel himself
involuntarily starting to shake. No,don't panic.Calm down. The very last thing
he wanted was to have a panic-attack in front of these strangers. Gods forbid!
What if he fainted? He knew he needed to make a good impression. He had been
toldto make a good impression, but he was scared. He wanted his Papa, or his
Dad. He wanted Al to shield him. He did not want any of those Alphas to touch
him.
                Slowly, the hall quieted as the Alphas noticed the dais' three
occupants, and Matt found himself unwittingly the centre-of-attention. Again.
===============================================================================
Al was bantering back-and-forth with Lars, grinning and laughing, when the
hall's din suddenly softened. He wiped his wet, muddy cheeks with the back of
his hand as he looked around, searching for the source of intrigue. He found it
the instant his eyes landed on the dais, on Matt. Mattie! Al's first thought
was for his twin's safety. Matt looked small and timid standing beside the big
Clan Leader. An outsider might have accepted Matt's coy smile at face-value,
but Al knew that frozen smile was false. He's scared, he thought in sympathy.
It's okay,Mattie. It's not a bad place.They're not bad people. In fact, Al was
rather starting to like the Low-Landers. In proof, he turned to Lars—
                —but Lars was no longer beside him.
                Al's stomach suddenly dropped as he watched Lars advance to the
dais like a sleepwalker, drawn to Matt like a moth to a flame. Al stood there,
sopping-wet and filthy, feeling empty as the adrenalin left him, and watched as
the handsome Alpha stopped in front of Matt and inclined his head. Matt flushed
prettily, like a fairytale maiden. Al knew that it was Matt's anxiety, not
bashfulness, but that's not what the Low-Landers would see. It's not what Lars
saw. The whole hall was silent, everyone entranced by the lovely new-arrival.
Al listened absently as the Clan Leader introduced Matt, specifically to Lars.
Then he watched Lars gently take Matt's pale, trembling hand and press a kiss
to the back of it. It was slow and deliberate and when Lars lifted his head,
smiling in infatuation, Al knew it was over. Scott might as well present the
free-trade treaty right then, because the negotiations were as good as
completed. Francis' sly grin was a telling sign, pleased by the Low-Lander's
enamoured reaction to his beautiful pup.
                Al clenched his fists. He heard Arthur's whispered voice say:
"Alfred—?" but Al ignored him.
                His gaze was plastered to Lars, who hadn't let go of Matt's
hand. Without waiting for the Clan Leader's order, he said:
                "May I escort you this evening, Matthew Kirkland?" His voice
was softer than Al had ever heard it.
                Matt smiled shyly, and said: "Yes."
                It might as well have been a proposal, Al thought. As he
scanned the hall from left-to-right, he could see the happy, bright-eyed smiles
of the Low-Landers, the hunters, who only moments ago had been fierce. A low
hum arose as they whispered to each other, appraising Matt, nodding in
approval. Al pursed his lips. It was clear to everyone that Lars van den Berg
had made his choice. And it wasn't Al.
                "Alfred," Arthur repeated.
                Al dodged his Omega-father's touch, mumbling: "I'll be right
back."
                He retreated from the Great House into the pouring rain, speed-
walking past the guards. He stopped a few buildings away beneath an overhang,
trying to swallow his feelings as he paced back-and-forth. "It's not Mattie's
fault. It's not Mattie's fault," he repeated. His mud-caked fingernails dug
into his palms. "Lars chose Matt. It's nothing that I wasn't expecting.
Everyone chooses Matt because Matt's the perfect Omega. I should be glad. I'm
not surprised. I'm not. Fuck!" he snapped suddenly. "Why am I even here? Why
did they bother bringing me?" Then he pressed a hand to his mouth and shook his
head. No,no. Don't get mad. It's not anyone's fault. I'm just not a good Omega.
I never have been,it's fine. Lars chose Matt instead of me,that's fine. I don't
care. I barely even know him."It's fine."
                "Is it—?"
                Al whipped around and found Arthur, who had slipped out and
followed him. Al hated the sympathy he saw in his Omega-father's green eyes. It
made him feel unjustifiably angry, wanting to hit something; someone. Maybe his
brother—No. Not Mattie. It's not his fault. Al's anger simmered quickly. He
tried to force self-control, like a good Omega, but the instant he opened his
mouth it crumbled. His voice broke.
                "I just wanted him to like me," he admitted to Arthur. "I just
wanted someone to choose me."
                "I know you did, love. And he does like you a lot. You've made
a wonderful impression on the Low-Landers, Alfred. You've been invaluable to
Scott these past few days."
                Al shook his head. "I tried so hard, Dad. I've spent the last
four days trying to be his friend, but Alphas don't mate their friends, do
they? All Mattie had to do was stand there, and—" Al snapped his fingers "—love
at first sight."
                "That's not love, Alfred. That's lust. Alphas don't fall in
love on-sight," Arthur said wisely. "Your Papa didn't mate me because he loved
me. He saw me and he wanted me and he took me. That's how Alphas operate. Love
has nothing to do with it. They see something they want and they take it.
Alphas are fighters; Omegas are not. Not most, anyway." He smiled at his blue-
eyed pup. Then his tone changed. He said: "Don't envy your brother, Alfred.
This isn't his choice. It's not something that he wants, and, knowing you, it's
not something that you would want either. It's not what I wanted for either of
you, but," he shrugged helplessly, "we're Omegas. We don't have a choice. There
are worse Alphas out there than Lars van den Berg, though. At least I know
Matthew will be taken care of. Truthfully, I'm glad Lars chose Matthew and not
you," he confessed. "This domestic life"—he gestured to the village—"would just
kill you, Alfred. I think you would be perfectly miserable if you had to stay
here and be Lars' mate."
                Al sighed deeply. He wanted to deny Arthur's words, but they
were true. "You're right." His eyes filled with tears, but they didn't fall. "I
know what it is the Low-Landers want and it's not me. That's not who I am."
                "I'm sorry that Lars chose Matthew," Arthur soothed, "but I'm
not sorry that I get to take you home, Alfred."
                "I want to go home, Dad."
                Arthur nodded. "We will, love. As soon as the treaty is
signed."
                "But Mattie will stay here."
                "Yes. Matthew will stay."
                A moment of silence stretched between them as reality hit.
Arthur would lose his pup and Al would lose his twin-brother, his best-friend.
Suddenly, he felt selfish. He felt the bite of pending loneliness. He instantly
regretted all of the awful, irrational things he had ever thought about Matt.
He would apologize on his hands-and-knees if it meant he could reverse time; if
they could take Matt home. But Arthur was right (again): There were worse
Alphas than Lars.
                Bravely, Al took Arthur's cold hand and squeezed it, lending
his Omega-father comfort. "Dad? You're right. I think it's going to be okay."
He forced a hopeful smile. "I think Lars will take really good care of Mattie.
Matt's exactly what Lars wants. It's why he never would've been happy with me,"
he realized. "Eventually, he would've resented me. Matt and I are just too
different." He lifted his chin proudly. "I won't change myself. Not for
anyone."
                "Alfred, love, that's what makes you and Matthew different.
It's not your attitude or appearance, it's the way you see yourselves. Someday
an Alpha is going to choose you," Arthur promised. "Not with his dick, with his
heart." Al snorted. Arthur squeezed his hand, smiling. "And when he does, he's
going to be the luckiest Alpha alive."
                "I really want that," Al admitted. A genuine smile tugged at
his lips. "I just want someone to love me for me."
                "If you find the right person, he will."
===============================================================================
That night, Matt found himself seated uncomfortably close to Lars, nearly
thigh-to-thigh. Matt didn't think the Alpha even realized that he was doing it,
leaning so close. It would take so little effort for him to completely envelope
Matt if he had wanted to, though he didn't initially strike Matt as someone who
was usually so physically affectionate. Maybe it's me, Matt wondered. Maybe I'm
encouraging him in some way—? Alphas and Omegas instinctively reacted to the
other's pheromones. It was natural and often unintentional (especially
depending on where an Omega was in his Heat cycle). In response to Lars'
closeness, Matt felt himself leaning sideways toward Scott, who sat on his
right. However, the further Matt slid to the right, the further Lars followed
him, and soon Matt found himself sandwiched between the two Alphas.
                Matt wished he was sitting next to Al, but Al was seated on the
Clan Leader's opposite side with Francis and Arthur. He hadn't spoken to his
twin-brother since they had left the Isles and he desperately wanted to. Al had
a way of making Matt feel better, regardless of the situation. If nothing else,
he had a talent for making Matt laugh. He was often the only person who could.
Besides, Al had been living among the Low-Landers for four days; perhaps he
could offer advice. Matt kept trying to catch Al's eye, but his brother was
always looking elsewhere.
                "Oh, my! You really are a beauty!"
                Matt's eyes snapped back to the Alpha in front of him. He
recognized his face, but he had been introduced to so many people since
arriving that he had forgotten the Alpha's name. In reply, he smiled meekly,
and uttered a soft: "Thank-you." Then he issued a generic compliment in return.
Alphas were easily flattered, more so than Omegas. The Alpha strode off,
grinning. But not before another had taken his place. Then another. And
another.
                "It's a pleasure to meet you, sweetheart. A pleasure!"
                "You're very beautiful."
                "Beautiful? Gorgeous! You've got the most gorgeous eyes, my
dear."
                "Our Lars is so lucky! I'm jealous! But I'll settle for a
dance, darling—?"
                "What a lovely, sweet thing he is!" said a middle-aged Omega to
Lars. He pinched Lars' cheek. "Just think of how beautiful your pups will be!"
                Matt felt overwhelmed by the attention. He didn't know who to
look at; who to reply to. He didn't know who was joking and who was serious. In
a single breath he accepted a compliment, laughed at a joke, feigned intrigue,
and declined a dance. Alphas and Omegas alike vied for his attention, each
wanting to charm the young Omega who would soon be their beloved heir's Omega-
mate. The Alphas served flattery; the Omegas asked (intimate) questions. The
sort of personal questions that Matt didn't want to answer. He didn't want to
offend anyone, but his replies were becoming less and less. Not that the Low-
Landers noticed—or cared. Several Alphas simply stared at him. Obviously they
didn't care if he spoke or not. But the constant back-and-forth barrage was
making Matt feel increasingly anxious. He was grateful when Lars finally
interrupted it:
                "That's enough," he said, shooing them off. "Go on. Don't crowd
our guest. Are you okay?" he asked Matt.
                Matt nodded. "They're all very friendly."
                Lars snorted. "Yes, that's a word for it. You're shier than
your brother," he noted.
                "Oh, I'm sorry—"
                "It's not an insult, Matthew."
                Matt lifted his eyes to meet Lars' for the first time. The
Alpha smiled. It was a nice, genuine smile; it touched his sage-green eyes.
Timidly, Matt smiled back.
                It was short-lived, however. Lars took Matt's smile as progress
and suddenly stood, offering Matt his hand.
                "Come with me," he said.
                Matt's heart-rate increased. He didn't want to go anywhere with
an Alpha alone, but nor could he refuse the invitation without permission. He
could feel eyes watching them closely; those of his family, in particular.
Helplessly, he cast a quick sideways glance at Scott, who nodded subtly. His
green eyes seemed to say: Go on,Matt. This is why we're here,remember? Go with
the Low-Lander. Obediently, Matt took Lars' offered hand and was pulled to his
feet. As they left the noisy hall, Matt finally caught Al's eye. The blue-eyed
Omega looked momentarily crestfallen, but his lips morphed into an encouraging
smile when he noticed Matt looking at him. Then he and Lars left the loud,
crowded Great House, exiting the structure through a latticed backdoor. Lars
grabbed an umbrella and opened it to cover Matt as they stepped out into the
rain—
                —and into a exquisite walled-garden filled with lush tulips.
                "Oh,wow!" Matt exhaled in pleasant surprise. Whatever he had
been expecting from Lars, it wasn't this. He felt his anxiety ease somewhat as
the Alpha escorted him slowly through the rows.
                "My Vader built this garden for my Moeder a year after they
were pair-bonded," Lars explained. "She came here from a clan in the West
specifically to be my Vader's Omega-mate. Vader says she was very lonely at
first. I think she missed her family. She was a lot younger than my Vader, only
sixteen-years-old; he was already thirty. He didn't want her to be sad, though,
so he had this garden built and filled it with tulips—my Moeder's favourite. It
was a place just for her, no Alphas allowed." Lars paused and smiled down at
Matt. "I was the first Alpha to be allowed in. After I was born, Moeder would
bring me here to her garden and let me play. I took a lot of my lessons here,
right there." He nodded to a gazebo with an ornate wooden bench. "It's a safe
place," he added, sage-green eyes lingering on Matt. "It's a place that you,
uh—anyone," he corrected, blushing, "can come to, to get away from everything
else."
                "What happened to your mother?" Matt asked.
                "She died a few years ago. Sickness took her. It was fast."
Lars' voice harboured grief, but it was subtle. Matt almost missed it.
                "I'm sorry," he said softly.
                His fingertips danced along the petals of a perfect blood-red
tulip. He didn't realize how mesmerized he was until Lars suddenly plucked the
tulip, breaking its long stem, and presented it to him like a suitor.
                "Thank-you," Matt said, accepting it. He pressed the tulip
gently to his lips and inhaled, savouring its sweet scent. "It's beautiful."
                "You're beautiful, Matthew."
                "O-oh, thank-you." Matt bowed his head. A second later, he felt
Lars' finger brushing back an errant curl that had escaped his ribbon. He
flinched at the intimate touch.
                Lars dropped his hand. "Sorry," he said.
                "No, I'm sorry," Matt amended quickly. "I just... I'm just a
little nervous," he said, which was not untrue.
                "Don't be," Lars said. His voice was husky. "You can trust me,
Matthew. I'm not going to hurt you. Not ever. I promise."
                As Matt looked up into the Low-Lander's handsome face, he felt
his fears ease. The truth in the Alpha's eyes hid no lies, proving the truth of
his words.
                No, you won't hurt me, Matt agreed.
                Subtly, he studied the Alpha's broad shoulders, his wide chest;
his strong, long limbs corded with muscle; his powerful, callused hands. He
could feel Lars' body-heat. He could smell the salty musk of his skin, his
scent. He was a big and tall and verygood-looking Alpha, but Matt hesitated. He
believed Lars' words, but the Alpha's healthy, virile body scared him. He knew
that Lars wouldn't hurt him intentionally, but he was an Alpha, and—like all
Alphas—Matt doubted that he understood the true meaning of that promise. Too
many Alphas broke it, fuelled by their instincts to take; to possess.
Eventually, every Alpha would hurt his Omega whether he knew it or not. That's
what Matt believed.
                Maybe it's not your fault, he allowed. Maybe it's just how
things are supposed to be. But it doesn't change anything.
               Aloud, he said: "Thank-you, Lars."
                Oblivious, Lars relaxed. Like before, he took Matt's hand and
pressed his lips gently to the Omega's knuckles.
===============================================================================
It was late when Lars left Matt in the guesthouse. They hadn't returned to the
hall all night, which had provoked half-a-dozen rumours that Matt would rather
not know. He thanked Lars for the escort and then bid the Alpha goodnight.
Grateful to be alone for the first time since leaving the Isles, he slipped
into the dark bedchamber, only to come face-to-face with Al.
                "Oh, Al, I thought you'd be asleep," he said in greeting.
                "Yeah, it's pretty late, Matt."
                Matt nodded, acknowledging the late-hour as he strode to his
designated bed. It was huge compared to his bed at home—Home. Matt swallowed.
That's not home anymore.He kept his back to Al, feeling intimidated by him.
Al's tone reminded Matt of his brother's crestfallen blue eyes, even though Al
tried to mask it. (Al was not the best at hiding his feelings.) As Matt
undressed, Al leant back against his bed-frame and adopted a casual tone.
                "So," he said, eyeing Matt, "how do you like the Low Countries
so far?"
                "It's nice," Matt replied. "It's, uh, very wet."
                "Uh huh, it is. And, uh... Lars? Do you like him? Because he
really seems to like you, Matt."
                Ah, there it is. Matt recognized Al's resentment at once. Al
was trying hard to hide it, but Matt had heard it too often before. And every
time it felt like a physical blow. Carefully, he evaded the direct question,
and said: "He's nice," as if re-describing the landscape.
                "Yeah, he's a nice Alpha," Al agreed. "He's a real good hunter,
you know. He's fast and strong, but he doesn't talk much. I bet you prefer
that, don't you, Mattie?" he added, attempting a joke. Matt smiled demurely.
"He's okay, I guess. I mean, he's good-looking, but he's not really my type."
                Al's lie was palpable. Matt wanted to say something to reassure
Al, to comfort him, but he didn't know what. He was afraid of provoking his
twin-brother's temper. (The infamous, irrational Kirkland temper.) Matt's heart
went out to Al, like it so often did. He wanted to soothe his brother; to
motherhim, as Al put it. But he wouldn't insult Al by pitying him.
                Al doesn't want my pity.He certainly wouldn't thank me for it.
                Silently, Matt crawled into bed. The mattress was very hard,
but the pillows and blanket were invitingly soft. Despite that, Matt wished for
Al's body beside him. The Omega-twins often slept together at home—that's not
home,not anymore—for warmth and comfort. Matt always felt safer with Al beside
him, hugging him. Matt may have lived in a family of five Alphas, but it was
Al, his Omega-brother, who protected him most, from anything and everything. It
was Al whom he talked to and laughed with and shared stories and secrets. It
was Al who had been his constant companion, his champion since birth. Matt felt
exposed without Al now. It didn't matter that Al's bed was barely ten feet
away. It didn't matter, because Al's heart couldn't have been farther.
                I'm sorry,Al. I really am. I don't know what to do. I don't
know how to make it better, I wish I did. I don't want to stay here without
you.
                Matt's stomach twisted. He felt ill just thinking of it, of
being left alone without Al. He was going to miss his family, his uncles and
parents, of course, but the mere thought of losing Al was panic-inducing.
                Please don't be angry with me,Al. You're my favourite person in
the whole world. Please don't hate me.
                Al rolled over, facing the opposite wall. Curtly, he said:
"Goodnight, Matt."
                Softly, Matt whispered: "Goodnight, Al."
===============================================================================
I don't know how much longer the floodgates will hold."
                Lars was on his way back to the Great House from the
guesthouse, having bid Matt goodnight. He felt giddy, a completely foreign
feeling. Tomorrow—as soon as possible—he would formally ask for Francis'
permission to pair-bond with Matt. He was everything the Low-Lander wanted in
an Omega-mate and he didn't want to waste any time. Thus, he was feeling
lighthearted as he returned to the Great House, but before he reached the hall
he passed by an anteroom and heard voices from within. He stopped. The clan's
second-in-command spoke in a hushed tone, yet his concern was palpable. He
said:
                "It's been raining for nearly a week. If the water level keeps
rising, the floodgates won't hold. They're already weak, too old. Clan Leader,
the waters are already dangerously high."
                In a split-second, Lars' elation became fear. Without
invitation, he pushed inside. "What's going on?"
                "Oh, Lars. Don't worry, my pup, it's nothing. It's not your
concern—"
                "Is the village in danger?" Lars interrupted, glancing between
his old, weathered Alpha-father and the bleak-eyed second-in-command. When both
Alphas failed to reply, he gestured to the shuddered window, pointing west. "If
the floodgates are as weak as you say, then we should evacuate the village;
order everyone into the tower-house."
                The tower-house was a large stone structure located on the edge
of the forest. It was exactly what it sounded like: A multi-leveled tower with
a sturdy base built to withstand a flood and big enough to house the entire
village in the event of an emergency. The last time the village had been
evacuated to the tower-house, Lars had gone with his Omega-mother. It was a
safe place, a place of refuge. And it was what he pointed to now.
                "Evacuate the village," he urged. "Don't wait until it's too
late, Vader."
                "Lars, please—"
                "It's the responsibility of the Clan Leader to protect those in
his care," Lars argued passionately. "It's our job to keep the clan safe. It's
our job to keep our guests safe."
                "No!" the Clan Leader suddenly snapped. It took Lars off-guard;
the second-in-command flinched. "Under no circumstances are the Islanders to
find out about this, is that clear? If they learn how weak our economy actually
is, that all of this"—he tugged at his tunic, freshly dyed and stitched with
fake gold thread—"is false, then they'll never sign a free-trade agreement with
us. If they find out how susceptible our storehouses are to flooding, they'll
take their business elsewhere. They won't risk their profits—or their kin," he
added as an afterthought. "I won't risk it. We need this deal, Lars. That's why
we agreed to their terms in the first place, remember? Why else would you be
pair-bonding with that little Islander pup?"
                Lars clenched his fists, feeling defensive on Matt's behalf. "I
know, but—"
                "Think of the clan, Lars," said the Clan Leader seriously.
                "I am thinking of the clan!" Lars replied. "I'm thinking of
their safety! You would risk the entire village for the sake of a trade
agreement? There are more important things than profit! I will not risk the
lives of my family, the life of my future mate, for your greed—!"
                The Clan Leader's fist flew out and punched his pup. Lars' head
whipped to the side on impact and his cheek stung, reddening, but he didn't
make a sound. Deliberately, he fought the instinctive urge to attack in
retaliation, to assert his dominance as an Alpha. Instead, he faced his father.
The Clan Leader's gaze smouldered and his voice was low. He said:
                "Do not raise your voice to me, pup. I am the Clan Leader and I
am your Sire. Someday you will inherit my position, but until that day I will
not be disrespected or disobeyed.Is that clear?"
                Impatiently, he grabbed Lars' scalp and jerked his head.
                "Yes!" Lars gasped through clenched teeth.
                "Good." Satisfied, the Clan Leader turned to the second-in
command, who stood silently by. "Re-enforce the floodgates, and not a word to
the Islanders about it. Not a word to anyone."
                The second-in command nodded, his eyes downcast. "Yes, Clan
Leader," he said, and then left.
                After a moment of tense silence, Lars shook his head. "It's
wrong," he said. He faced the window shudders, which rattled against the wind.
"They're giving us their Omega-pup, Vader. They deserve to know what they're
getting in return. They deserve to know that he'll be taken care of. I don't
intend to lie to my mate—"
                "That's exactly what you'll do," the Clan Leader interrupted.
"For the future security of your clan, Lars."
                Lars didn't reply. Instead, he pictured Matt in his mind's eye:
the beautiful violet-eyed Omega, who looked so soft and frail; who looked so
afraid. I made him a promise, he thought. A promise that he, as an Alpha-mate,
intended to keep. I want him to feel safe. I want to protect him. I want to—
                The Clan Leader chuckled then. "Oh, my," he said, drawing Lars'
attention. "You're infatuated with that little Islander, aren't you? Oh, Lars."
He shook his head. Lars glared. "I want you to pair-bond with Matthew Kirkland,
too, but for the sake of the treaty, not this." The Clan Leader gestured to
Lars, implying his pup's infatuation. "He's just an Omega, Lars. A very pretty
one, but he's just as weak as all the others. They're all weak," he said, his
voice suddenly, unintentionally hoarse.
                He tried to hide it, but Lars heard the heartbroken undertone
in his father's words. Immediately, he thought of his lovely Omega-mother, who
had been too weak to fight the sickness that had taken her from them six years
ago. He remembered how miserable his Alpha-father had been; inconsolable. He
remembered how much her death had hurt them all.
                After a moment's pause, the Clan Leader cleared his throat.
"Omegas are replaceable," he said stonily, "but a trade contract is not. No
matter what, the clan is what must survive. That's the burden of being Clan
Leader, Lars. Our bloodline," he emphasised sternly, "must survive at all
costs. Mate Matthew Kirkland, and if he dies then mate Alfred Kirkland. It
doesn't make a difference. One Omega can breed just as well as another. Your
Moeder was my third mate; you know that. And if she had died before giving
birth to you, my Alpha-pup, my heir, I would have taken a fourth. Do you
understand why, Lars? Do you understand what Omegas are for?"
                Lars swallowed, feeling suddenly hollow. His fight had fled in
the face of cold, cruel reality and the memory of grief. He didn't want to
think of beautiful Matt as nothing but breeding-stock, but his father was
right. The world was a harsh place and it was his sworn-duty as the future Clan
Leader to protect his family—his whole family. If that meant mating an Omega
for the sole purpose of breeding pups—
                Quietly, he said: "I promised Matthew that I would never hurt
him. I promised that he would be safe here."
                The Clan Leader signed deeply and clapped his pup's shoulder.
"Maybe you shouldn't have."
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Three *****
I am happy to announce that my Lars has chosen an Omega to pair-bond with,"
said the Clan Leader. "Matthew, my dear." He extended his hand to Matt, who
obediently took it. The Clan Leader's hand was very big and warm. It enveloped
Matt's and pulled him to the forefront of the dais. Lars was standing on the
other side and stepped forward when called. "My Lars," said the Clan Leader,
interlacing their hands together, "has chosen to take Matthew Kirkland, of the
Kirkland family, to be his Omega-mate."
                Lars squeezed Matt's hand as a roar of approval erupted.
Despite Matt's anxiety—or, perhaps because of it—he leant slightly into the
Alpha's touch, seeking a shield.
                As the Clan Leader invited Scott forward to publically discuss
the treaty agreements—the clan-members of the Low Countries listened
intently—Matt let his gaze wander sideways and found Lars staring at him. It
was discrete. When he met the Omega's violet eyes, the Alpha's lips curled into
a smile and he winked. In surprise, Matt blushed.
                To distract himself, he remembered Lars' proposal, which had
taken place earlier that day.
===============================================================================
SEVEN HOURS AGO
Lars invited Matt into the walled-garden. It was raining. He held an umbrella
to protect Matt (his exact word-choice). Matt took Lars' arm in escort,
applying the gentlest pressure to the Alpha's muscular bicep, and felt himself
blush at the contact. Last night he had been too anxious to truly appreciate
what a perfect specimen the Low-Lander was, but now, in the (cloudy) daylight,
he couldn't deny how handsome the young Alpha was. He felt nervous being alone
with him. But it was a new, different kind of nervous. When Lars captured
Matt's gaze and smiled, the Islander felt a flutter in his stomach. If nothing
else, he thought, smiling shyly back, Papa and Scott have excellent taste in
Alphas.
                Lars led Matt to the dove-white gazebo, where he set the
umbrella aside. He released Matt, letting the Omega take a step toward the
railing. To avoid conversation, Matt took an immediate interest in a cluster of
yellow tulips that were thriving nearby. He feigned ignorance, though he could
feel Lars' eyes on him, following his movements. It made Matt blush redder,
guessing at where those intense Alpha eyes lingered. Self-consciously, he
shifted his weight and glanced sideways. Matt could see Lars' sight-line in his
peripheral vision, plastered to his backside and the swell of his wide Omega
hips. The Alpha's desire was apparent on his face: an open-faced expression,
because he didn't think that Matt could see him. Absently, Lars licked his
lips. Matt pursed his own, hoping that Lars couldn't hear his heartbeat.
                When Lars said "Matthew" his deep voice harboured a pinch of
that desire, but when Matt turned, Lars' face was the inexpressive face of a
gentleman once more.
                "Yes—?" Matt replied innocently.
                "I think you know why I've brought you here," Lars said,
forthright. Uninvited, he took both of Matt's hands, conveying his meaning. His
grasp was gentle, yet eager. His hands were warm. "Both of us know why you're
here," he said. "Here in the Low Countries. I won't pretend not to see how
anxious you are." In reflex, Matt broke eye-contact. The Alpha's
straightforward speech made him feel small. He bowed his head, but almost at
once Lars lifted his chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. "Don't
look down," he said gently. "Don't be afraid of me. I made you a promise,
didn't I? I promised that I would take care of you, and I will. I'll protect
you," he repeated. " You don't need to be afraid. I really like you," he
confessed. "I think you're the most beautiful Omega I've ever seen." Like a
courtier, his fingers moved from Matt's jaw to his cheek before threading into
the Omega's pale curls. This time, Matt didn't flinch. This time, he inhaled
and let himself indulge in the Alpha's touch. Encouraged, Lars continued: "I
think I can make you happy.
                "Matthew—"
                Lars' touch was tender, yet strong. Alpha strong. It promised
everything that Matt's body had yearned for in Heat. Instinctively, he wanted
to lean into that touch. He wanted to be enveloped by it. His heart pounded in
desire and panic.
                "—will you be my mate?" Lars asked.
                Matt's reply was a whisper: "Yes."
===============================================================================
PRESENT
Matt clutched Lars' hand tightly, feeling conflicted. He had accepted Lars'
proposal as ordered by Scott, yet his pulse hadn't slowed since. His heart
pounded; his stomach fluttered. He didn't know whether it was a good sign or
not that Lars' proximity prompted such a reaction in him, but it was unwelcome
nonetheless. Matt hated when his self-control yielded to nature. It was too
much like being in Heat, which made him uncomfortable. He didn't want to admit
it, but his body's wanton reaction to Lars embarrassed him. Fortunately,
everyone else seemed to blame his flushed face on the bashfulness of an
infatuated Omega.
                That's fine,let them think it.
                It was better than the truth, which shocked him. Because for
the first time in his life, Matt Kirkland actually wanted an Alpha to touch
him.
                He was nervous to pair-bond with Lars, but neither did he want
to let go of the Alpha's big hand. Subtly, Lars rubbed his thumb over Matt's
middle finger, which was now adorned with a gold band. It was a beautiful
example of metalwork, which Lars had gifted to him when he had accepted the
Alpha's proposal. Gift-giving was an old custom of claiming: a symbol of Lars'
ownership over Matt, mated or not. It signified to everyone—especially other
Alphas—that Matt was now taken and no longer available for courting. When Lars
had first slipped the band onto Matt's finger, the Omega's breath had caught
and he had imagined a shackle. Quickly, he had cast off the grim thought.
                As the clan-members howled and cheered in support for the
treaty, Matt's mind returned to the present. His frozen smile reanimated as he
caught several of the Low-Landers' eyes. Many came forward to congratulate the
newly engaged couple. Matt smiled and accepted their well-wishes, even if he
had forgotten all their names. The official pair-bonding ceremony—Does there
have to be an official ceremony? Matt cringed—was scheduled for the following
night, which meant that this night would be both of their last as un-bonded
individuals. After the ceremony, and once they were mated, Matt and Lars would
cease to be separate beings under clan-law and would thenceforth be considered
as one: An Alpha and his Omega-mate. The pair-bonding ceremony might be a mere
formality due to Lars' high status, but the mating that followed was binding.
                Matt was permitted to leave the evening's party early. In fact,
he was encouraged to do so.
                "Rest up, little Omega," they said jovially, half-drunk.
"You'll need your energy for tomorrow night."
                Lars and Matt would not be mated for at least a month (as long
as the Alpha's patience held out), since it was tradition—and a kindness—for a
first mating to be during the Omega's Heat. The primary function of mating was,
first and foremost, to breed pups, after all; and mating for the first time
could be painful for the Omega otherwise. Yet, the Low-Landers joked and
whistled and wolf-howled regardless, intent on embarrassing Lars, who only
snorted in good-humour and rolled his eyes, unbothered by their antics.
                "You've got a long night ahead of you, darling!" someone called
to Matt.
                "Mated on Monday, pregnant by Sunday," someone else rhymed,
producing a raucous uproar.
                When a highly inebriated Alpha pulled Lars close, and half-
shouted: "Let me give you some advice, pup—" Matt took it as his cue to leave.
                He cast a meek smile over-the-shoulder as he retired, even
though the Alphas' jests made him feel cheap. He just wanted to leave, to be
alone. Without the security of Lars beside him, he felt too exposed, like a
target. Quickly, he took his leave, denying several offers of escort.
                As he was exiting the Great House he caught sight of Scott and
Francis, who had been helpless to rescue Matt from the crowd. They were
standing near the dais, celebrating with the loud Clan Leader, though both of
them looked unusually sober. In fact, Francis, who had been so eager for the
treaty before, now looked as though he might be sick. His hands were curled
into tight, chalk-white fists at his sides and his blue eyes smouldered,
unblinking. Matt wanted to go to him, but a sea of rowdy, inebriated Low-
Landers stood between them. Instead, he slipped outside.
                He didn't take an umbrella. He let the raindrops soak him. He
let the wind tug at his clothes and hair. By the time he reached the
guesthouse, he was drenched from head-to-toe, his curls slicked to his face and
neck. He went to his and Al's bedchamber and sat down on his allotted bed. The
mattress was so hard that it barely sunk under his light weight. It was dark
and cold inside, but Matt didn't move to remedy either. He just sat there,
staring vacantly down at the gold band encircling his finger.
                It felt like a long time before Arthur found him.
                "Matthew, love—?"
                Slowly, Matt lifted his eyes. Only when Arthur sat down beside
him did Matt realize he was shivering.
                He let his Omega-father unbutton his outer layer of clothes and
peeled them off, exposing snow-white skin prickly with goosebumps. He barely
acknowledged Arthur's touch as the elder toweled off his pup's hair and wiped
his cold cheeks. Then he took the blanket off the opposite bed and wrapped Matt
in it, pulling the young Omega against his side. They sat like that for a long
time, enveloped in a heavy silence, which was only disturbed by raindrops
pelting the roof. Arthur kept am arm wrapped securely around Matt, and Matt
laid his head on his Omega-father's shoulder, seeking warmth and comfort.
Finally, Arthur softly asked:
                "Are you okay?"
                Matt swallowed. "Yes."
                "Matthew." Arthur pulled back and faced his violet-eyed pup.
"Don't lie. Not to me, okay? I want you to tell me the truth. Tell me what
you're feeling, because tomorrow is too late."
                Matt hesitated, then slowly nodded. He felt tears prick his
eyes. "I'm scared," he admitted.
                "Okay." Arthur took Matt's hands and squeezed them. "Tell me.
What are you scared of? Is it Lars? Don't you like him?"
                Matt avoided eye-contact and shrugged. "He's fine."
                "But—?"
                Matt opened and closed his mouth, faltering. He felt ashamed.
Habitually, he bowed his head.
                "Matthew, my darling, please tell me what's wrong. I don't want
you to be unhappy." Arthur cupped his pup's cheek. "Neither does your Papa," he
added. Matt bit his lip, but a tear rolled down his cheek. "If you tell Francis
how you feel, how scared you are, he won't make you do it. He loves you. He
only wants what's best for you, darling. But if you truly don't want this, then
tell him and he'll stop it." Arthur sounded hopeful, but Matt interrupted.
                "No," he said. Another tear fell. "Dad, I—I can't. This is why
I was brought to the Low Countries, wasn't it? I don't want to disappoint Papa
or Uncle Scott," he confessed. "I don't want all of their efforts to have been
for nothing. Besides, the clan needs this treaty. It's for the benefit of
everyone. As pack-leader, Scott is duty-bound to take care of the pack, our
family, and I—Well, I'm still his heir, aren't I? So doesn't that make it my
responsibility, too?" He hadn't vocalized it before, but it's how he felt. It's
how he had always felt about everything clan-related. It's what he had been
raised to feel. "I know that Lars is a good match," he acknowledged. "He's
kind. I should be grateful for that, shouldn't I? Because it really could be so
much worse."
                "Matthew—"
                "We're Omegas, Dad," said Matt, recycling Arthur's words
unbeknownst. "This is what we're supposed to do. I've been bred to it since
childhood. Besides," he shrugged hopelessly, "I can't live in the pack un-
mated, and I don't want to be a burden to Papa or Scott forever. I don't think
I'm ready to be mated," he admitted, "but no one is forcing me to do it. I'm
doing it willingly."
                Arthur started to speak, but stopped. He recognized the resolve
in Matt's violet eyes. Instead, he pulled Matt into a hug.
                "Oh, Matthew. One word to Francis and he'll stop this, love.
You don't have to do this—"
                "Yes, I do," Matt argued, clutching his Omega-father in return.
"I'm not a pup anymore, Dad. I know how the world works. I know what I'm worth.
But," he pulled back and stared eye-to-eye with Arthur, "please don't tell
anyone about this." He indicated his teary state; his secret fear. "Please
don't tell Papa or Al, especially not Al. I don't want to upset them."
                Arthur wanted to refuse. Matt saw the conflict in his green
eyes: loyalty to his Alpha-mate fighting the desire to protect his pup.
Finally, he exhaled in defeat and nodded. "Fine, I won't tell. But you should."
That said, he pulled Matt back into his arms. "I'm going to miss you," he
whispered, a catch in his voice. "So much."
                "I-I—I'm going to miss you, too."
                Then Matt was trembling, hugging Arthur as silent tears rolled
down his cheeks.
                "I love you, Matthew. I love you so much, you know that, don't
you? I know I don't say it often enough, but it's true. You and Alfred are my
everything. I'm so proud of you. I love you more than anything." Arthur kissed
Matt once, twice. "Don't ever forget that we love you."
                Matt's voice broke. He whispered: "I love you, too."
===============================================================================
Al threw himself into the guesthouse, narrowly dodging a cold downpour. It was
late. He had been returning from the Great House when the sky suddenly opened
and a deluge emptied upon the wet village. Al bolted the door behind him and
listened to the storm rage outside. The wind blew fiercely, howling. Inside,
the walls groaned. A stone foundation and thick wooden pillars protected those
within. Al's footsteps clapped wetly on the floor as he walked to the end of
the structure, where his and Matt's room was. Quietly, he pushed into the
darkness and instantly felt disoriented. He could hear the storm hitting the
walls, but he couldn't see anything. He could hear Matt's soft, even breaths,
asleep in his bed. Or, Al had thought Matt was sleeping, until his twin-
brother's voice said:
                "Al."
                Al changed direction. He felt his way across the bedchamber to
Matt's bed, where his brother lay curled into a defensive ball beneath the
blankets. Al knelt.
                "Yeah, Mattie, I'm here."
                "Will you... stay?" Matt asked. His voice was small, uncertain.
In it, Al heard loneliness.
                "Yeah, Mattie, I'll stay."
                Al undressed to his sleeping-clothes and crawled into the big
bed with Matt, shimmying close. The instant he laid down, he found Matt's arms
coiled around his midsection, his pale-blonde head pressed to his chest. Al
tensed in shock. Matt was cold and trembling, but Al would have bet it had
little to do with the temperature. He hugged his twin to his chest, sharing his
body-heat, lending comfort. I'm sorry,Mattie. I'm sorry I haven't been here.
I'm sorry you've felt so alone lately. Al rested his head atop Matt's, absently
breathing in Matt's soft, sweet scent. Al used to tease Matt, saying that he
smelled like dessert: "Like clotted cream on strawberries! It's no wonder the
Alphas want to taste you!" he had joked. Matt had laughed back then, but he
wasn't laughing now. Neither of them was. Al found himself fighting down
unwanted emotion, a feeling of emptiness that gnawed at him. To distract
himself, he focused on Matt. Matt, who had mothered Al for as long as the blue-
eyed Omega could remember; who had held him and talked to him and cared for him
almost as often as Arthur; who had always laughed at Al's jokes; who had never
failed to support all Al's endeavours, all his ridiculous plots. Matt, who had
been Al's constant companion since birth. Nobody understood Al the way Matt
did.
                You're my favourite person in the whole world,Mattie. I don't
want to lose you.
                "Al," Matt whispered. Al felt Matt's breath on his skin.
                "Yeah?"
                "I'm sorry."
                Al felt a lump in his throat. He hugged Matt tighter, trying to
be strong for Matt's sake. Stronger than he had ever been before. But when he
spoke, his voice was weak. He said:
                "Yeah, me too."
                "Stay here with me, okay?" Matt asked. The night was cold and
lonely. "Don't leave me."
                "I won't, I promise." A tear rolled down Al's cheek. "It's you
and me forever, Mattie, remember? Always."
                Matt sighed in relief. "Always."
===============================================================================
THE NEXT DAY
A wicked storm continued to brew, but the pair-bonding ceremony went ahead as
planned.
                True to his word, Al stayed with Matt all day. They slept-in
late, then ate dinner together in the bedchamber. At half-seven in the evening,
Francis told Matt he had to stop stalling and prepare for the ceremony. Al
helped him get ready. He combed Matt's freshly-bathed hair and ironed his
clothes, helping him dress. It was the most Omega-like he had ever been.
Finally, at nine o'clock Al headed to the Great House with his family. Francis
took Matt's arm in escort; Al held his other hand, flanking the violet-eyed
Omega. He glanced sideways at his twin-brother and secretly smiled. Despite his
nerves, Matt looked perfectly composed. It made Al proud. He squeezed Matt's
hand in support, but at the entrance to the Great House he was forced to let
his brother go.
                "Alfred, let go," Arthur said, taking Al's forearm in guidance.
Gently, he led Al in one direction, while Francis and Scott led Matt in
another.
                At that moment, Matt glanced over-the-shoulder at Al, revealing
panic, but he answered Al's smile with one of his own.
                It's going to be okay,Mattie. Trust Papa,trust Scott. Trust
Lars, Al thought when he spotted the Alpha. He looked good, sage-green eyes
full of lust and wonder as he watched Matt's approach. Al clenched his fists.
You'd better take good care of my brother,you Low-Lander. You'd better make him
happy.
                The pair-bonding ceremony was short. At the dais, Scott
stopped, overseeing the proceedings as pack-leader. Francis, as Matt's Alpha-
father, gave his consent to the union, but held tight to his pup until the last
possible moment. When it came, he was stiff; formal. He placed Matt's hand in
Lars'. Then the young couple faced each other and made ages old vows: Lars
swore to protect and provide for Matt, and Matt swore to obey Lars. Then it was
over. After all the pomp and ceremony of the past week, Al was surprised by the
anticlimactic finish.
                "What now?" he asked, watching clan-members swarm the dais,
shouldering Scott and Francis aside. Matt belonged to them now.
                "Well," said Arthur, catching his Alpha-mate's eye, "usually
the newly pair-bonded couple would leave to..."
                "Mate?" Al inserted, just as Francis reached them.
                Arthur glanced at Francis, who hadn't relaxed. "Uh, yes. But
that won't happen for Lars and Matthew yet."
                "Unless he's feeling frisky tonight," Al said. Arthur elbowed
him in the ribs. "Ow!"
                "Alfred, please," Arthur said. Discretely he indicated Francis,
whose cold eyes openly glared at the dais. "Uh, Francis, love—?"
                Francis stood as stiff as stone when Arthur touched his arm.
Noting his Omega-mate's concern, however, he forced a smile. It looked a little
too wide in Al's opinion, like his Alpha-father's face might suddenly crack.
                Arthur and Al exchanged a worried glance. The former said: "Are
you okay?"
                "Of course," Francis' grin grew wider, his blue eyes
unblinking. "I just handed my pup over to an Alpha who is going to defile him,"
he said with sarcastic cheerfulness. "Just look at him," he jutted his chin at
Lars, "he can't wait. I don't trust his patience, Arthur. He's too eager. What
if he hurts my Mathieu? I would have refused it, you know," he said, his tone
suddenly sobering. He looked between Al and Arthur in confidence. "If Mathieu
had asked, I would have refused the contract."
                "I know you would have," said Arthur, slipping his hand into
Francis'.
                It was then that Scott rejoined them. "Well," he said bluntly,
"I'm ready to get the fuck out of here, how about you?"
                The family nodded in consensus.
                "Tomorrow we sign the free-trade agreement," Scott said. "Then,
weather permitting," he scoffed, "we leave."
                "Did you talk to Matthew?" Arthur asked his brother.
                Scott's jaw tensed. "Uh huh," he grunted, avoiding eye-contact.
Matt was Scott's favourite nephew; even Al knew that. "I spoke to the Clan
Leader, too." His brow furrowed.
                Francis prompted: "And—?"
                But Al had lost interest in the conversation. His twin-brother
had just been pair-bonded; he didn't want to stand there talking about trade
contracts. Instead, he excused himself from the close-knit meeting ("I'm going
to see Mattie") and headed for the dais. Matt looked small and pale compared to
the Low-Landers who surrounded him. He was of a like height with most of the
Omegas, yet slighter-figured; of the Alphas, he barely reached most of their
chins. He stood close to Lars. Lars, whose arm had coiled possessively around
Matt's small waist, holding the Omega against his side. Matt, too, played his
part well. He smiled coyly like the blushing virgin he was, looking lovely in
the firelight. His soft curls fell against perfect, unblemished skin, exposing
his slender neck; his long, blonde eyelashes brushed his cheekbones when he
lowered his eyes; his full, shapely lips lifted shyly. Matt had never looked
better, Al thought. He was the picture of newly pair-bonded bliss, so
beautiful, so happy that Al almost believed it. Only Matt's ice-cold eyes
revealed the truth.
                A middle-aged Omega called for a kiss then, and Lars happily
complied. He leant down and pressed his lips to Matt's cheek. Matt's shoulders
arched defensively, but he quickly converted his discomfort into flirtation,
hiding his face against Lars' bicep. Nobody noticed, except Al. Al, whose heart
went out to his twin.
                Suddenly, he stopped. He didn't want to talk to Matt, not if it
meant having to convey false congratulations, which he knew Matt didn't want.
He didn't want to have to lie. So, instead, he slipped through a door just
right of the dais and exited the hall via an anteroom. He dodged a few giddy
serving-maids and followed a long corridor out into a walled-garden.
Hmm,pretty, he acknowledged, giving the tulips no further thought. Agilely, he
hoisted himself onto the rain-splattered wall and jumped over, landing
gracefully on the other side.
                He glanced back at the Great House, so warm and loud and
lively, but didn't feel any regret as he stalked off in the opposite direction.
He wanted to be alone for a while. He braced his shoulders against the harsh
wind and rain and stuffed his hands into his pockets, bowing his head. He
walked directionless, with no destination in mind. Most of the village was
dark, everyone congregating in the Great House, celebrating. It gave Al the
opportunity to go wherever he wanted, to splash in puddles and kick stones. It
gave him the freedom to be himself.
                Matt will never get to be himself again, he thought sadly. Yet
a small, relieved smile tugged his lips, because he finally knew for certain
how he felt.
                I'm glad it wasn't me.
===============================================================================
I think they've indulged you for long enough," said the Clan Leader to his
brood. "Lars," he called, eyeing his son. "It's time for you and your Omega-
mate to retire."
                Matt tensed at the suggestion. He was afraid that Lars felt it,
but if he did, he didn't acknowledge it. He said: "Yes, Vader," then bid his
family and friends goodnight.
                "Goodnight, Matthew, my dear," said the Clan Leader. The
sentiment was echoed by others; some genuine, some in provocative jest.
                "Mathieu."
                Matt stopped, even as Lars pulled him toward the door. The
Alpha looked down at Matt in confusion before he saw Francis, who blocked the
doorway. "May I have a word with my pup, please?" he asked politely, though
Matt saw flint in his blue eyes. He, too, could see Lars' impatience; Matt
could physically feel it. But fortunately the Low-Lander ceded without a fuss.
Matt belonged to him now, after all; he had little to fear from the Omega's
sire. Curtly, he untangled Matt's limbs from his and stepped off to the side.
Francis gestured for Matt, who was more than happy to comply. He followed his
Alpha-father to a quiet-er area by the doors.
                "Papa—" he started, but Francis hushed him.
                "Mathieu, I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you,
chéri. And I wanted to apologize."
                "Papa, non—"
                "Hush, bébé. Let me say it, s'il vous plaît." He spoke quietly,
so that no one else would hear. "Je suis désolé."
                Matt felt his heart clench as Francis drew him into an embrace,
enveloping him in the Alpha's familiar scent. He closed his eyes and clutched
Francis. "Papa," he whispered.
                Francis kissed the top of Matt's head. "Don't be frightened.
It's going to be okay, chéri. You're going to be just fine. Do you know why?"
he asked, pulling back. Matt lifted his head, meeting Francis' kind, indulgent
smile. "Because you've got too much of Arthur in you not to be."
                "Me—?" Matt gaped in surprise.
                Francis chuckled. "Oui, chéri. You're a survivor, Mathieu, just
like your Dad. Omegas like you and him keep going no matter what, even when it
looks hopeless, even when there's nothing left, because you've got the same
drive. Your Dad is not big or strong, but he has more determination than anyone
I know—and so do you. You may not think so, but you've got strength of a
different kind, Mathieu. You've got Arthur's strength; his will. You're
survivors, both of you. You've got too much of that wild Kirkland fire in you
not to be.
                "But at least you've got my looks," he added, and winked.
                Matt smiled. "Merci, Papa." Standing on his tip-toes, he leant
up and kissed Francis' cheek. "Je t'aime."
                "Je t'aime aussi, bébé."
                Matt returned to Lars feeling braver than he had. He let the
Alpha lead him to the second-level of the Great House, where Lars' bedchamber
was located. It was a large space, sparsely furnished, and it smelled strongly
of Lars. The Alpha's scent permeated everything, like a stale cologne. It
wasn't like stepping into his Alpha-relatives' rooms at home, which felt
familiar. As Matt stepped over the threshold into Lars' bedchamber, he was
acutely aware that he was walking into an Alpha's territory. But it's not just
his anymore. It's my room now,too. Matt steeled himself. As he surveyed the
space, he immediately (unintentionally) began redesigning it in his mind. It
was barren. It was like a cell, but Matt was sure he could turn it into a nest
given the appropriate furnishings. Specifically, he eyed an alcove by the
bedside and envisioned a bassinet sitting inside.
                "Matthew—?"
                Lars invited Matt to the bed, where he sat. The hard mattress
barely dipped beneath his lightweight. Coyly, he looked at Lars, and said:
                "You can call me Matt, if you want."
                "Matt," Lars repeated, testing it. "I think I prefer Matthew."
                Matt smiled to hide his disappointment. Only his parents ever
called him by his full-name. He tried again. "This mattress has got to go," he
said, only half-joking. He punched it. "It's like sleeping on stone."
                "No, it stays. I like it," Lars replied.
                Internally, Matt sighed. He let his gaze wander to the
shuddered window, which rattled. By then the weather had evolved into a violent
storm. A crash of thunder sounded at the same time Lars placed his hand on
Matt's upper-thigh. He jerked back.
                "Sorry, the thunder..." he lied.
                Lars' confusion, his displeasure, yielded quickly to
indulgence. "It's okay," he said, shifting closer. Matt could feel his body-
heat. He could hear the Alpha's deep voice reverberate in his throat.
Involuntarily, he shivered. Lars saw it and replaced his hand, letting it rest
possessively on Matt's thigh. Matt felt his stomach knot in anticipation. He
had to force himself not to move away, afraid of his body's reaction to the
proximity; afraid that Lars would notice it. But if he did, it only encouraged
him. "Matthew," he said, leaning down. His sage-coloured eyes lingered on
Matt's soft lips, which parted in reply. The Alpha was so close now. Mere
inches separated their faces. Matt found himself wondering what Lars' lips felt
like; what they tasted like. They looked inviting. "Matthew," he repeated,
quieter. Then he closed the gap between them—
                —and Matt turned his head.
                Lars kissed Matt's cheek.
                Abruptly, the Alpha pulled back in surprise. Matt instantly
regretted it. He felt guilty when he looked upon Lars' face and saw
disappointment and, to his horror, embarrassment. But he also saw a flash of
anger and it scared him. It was subtle, but Matt could see that Lars was not
someone used to being denied. An Omega was not supposed to deny his Alpha. Not
ever. Especially not on their first night together. He started to apologize:
                "I'm sorry—!"
                Then the village bell tolled loudly.
                Matt flinched; Lars cursed. He leapt to his feet and crossed
the bedchamber in three long-legged strides, then threw open the window
shudders and leant out into the rain to survey the village below.
"Godverdomme!" he cursed louder in retreat. Raindrops slid down the sides of
his face as he stalked back to the bed. Unceremoniously, he grabbed the Omega's
forearm and hauled him to his feet. His touch was inconsiderate; he squeezed
Matt's arm too tight. It frightened Matt, as did the urgency in his deep,
panicked voice when he said: "Come on, we need to leave."
                "But why?" Matt asked, tripping as Lars tugged him. "What's
happened?"
                "It's a warning," Lars explained the tolling bell. He threw the
door open. "We need to get to higher-ground. The floodgates have burst."
                "What? But I thought the gates were supposed to prevent a
flood—"
                "Yes, they're supposed to."
                "What does that mean?"
                "It means exactly what I said!" Lars snapped angrily. "It means
the whole village will be flooded in minutes, and anyone left outside will get
swept away. It means we need to get to the tower-house now."
                Matt's heart was pounding as Lars navigated the corridors. He
heard pack-members yelling and running as the Great House emptied. Lars shoved
his way outside into the pouring rain and suddenly Matt was bombarded by the
storm's full wrath. It disoriented him. The cries of the Low-Landers faded into
the distance as thunder crashed overhead; as the wind howled; as rain pelted
the rooftops like a volley of arrows. Matt was soaked in seconds. He lost his
footing on a muddy slope and pitched sideways. Lars caught him. "Stay close!"
he yelled. His hand grasped Matt with bruising firmness. It wasn't until they
had cleared the obstruction of the Great House that Matt saw the tower-house
sitting on the crest of a shallow hilltop. The Low-Landers were charging toward
it: Alphas, Omegas, and pups. They all seemed to know the drill, but Matt's
family did not.
                "Wait, please!" he stopped, only to have Lars tug him forward.
"Lars! My family—"
                "They'll be evacuated to the tower-house with everyone else,"
Lars promised. "Don't worry, they'll be safe." He started to climb the rise.
                "But my brother—"
                "He'll be there!" Lars growled, losing patience. He pulled
Matt, but Matt dug his heels into the grass, refusing to budge. Lars whipped
around. "Matthew!"
                "My brother," Matt repeated desperately, "he wasn't with my
family, he left! I saw him leave the Great House before we did! He's out there
somewhere! Please, let go of me! I have to find him! I have to warn him!"
                "No! It's too dangerous!" A flash of lightning lit Lars' face,
revealing his fear. "Matthew—"
                "He's all alone!" Matt yelled, anger making him brave. "Let go
of me! I have to find him! He won't know what that bell means!"
                "Well he's going to figure it out pretty damn fast!" Lars
returned. "Matthew, I swore to protect you. You're my mate, I can't just let
you—Ah!"
                Desperate, Matt sunk his canines into Lars' hand. He tasted
blood. In reflex, Lars let go. And Matt ran.
===============================================================================
Al heard the bell, but was not immediately concerned by its tolling. Are they
ringing a bell to celebrate? he wondered, thinking of the newly pair-bonded
couple. He shielded his face, trying and failing to spy the Great House through
the sheets of rain. The wind was blowing fiercer. The raindrops felt like
hailstones against his exposed skin. He knew that he shouldn't have wandered so
far from the village centre, but too lost in thought and unafraid of the
storm's threat, he hadn't had the forethought to trek his path and had gotten
lost. It was not a large village, but the rain compromised his vision. Unable
to track by scent or sound (a clap of thunder broke overhead), he found himself
running into dead-ends. Fuck! he cursed, taking shelter beneath a bridge. The
bell continued to toll, and only then did Al acknowledge it did not sound
cheerful. It sounded foreboding; a warning. Cautiously, he peered around the
bridge, but could not see anyone through the dense rainfall. Where am I? he
wondered again. Suddenly, a crack of lightning illuminated a thin copse of
trees and Al recognized the forest he had hunted in. Oh,fuck! He was on the
edge of the village, as far from the Great House as he could be.
                His heart hammering, Al ran, now that he knew which direction
to run in. He kept his head bowed, his eyes narrowed into slits. The wind
threatened to knock him off-balance, but Al's body was strong and athletic. He
sped along the outskirts of the village, practised at keeping his footing on
uneven, muddy terrain. He followed the bridge, then the expanse of a long
stonewall.
                There! he spotted the Great House's rooftop. He allowed himself
a breath of relief, but it was short-lived. It was then that he realized:
                The bell had stopped tolling, which meant the bell-ringer had
abandoned his post.
                A stab of trepidation struck Al, urging him to run faster.
                He was one-hundred yards from the Great House when, suddenly,
the stonewall adjacent to him shuddered and its gate burst, letting in a
frothing torrent of sea-water. In reflex, Al started to scream and swallowed a
mouthful of saltwater. He choked as the waters swept him away, downhill, away
from the Great House. The Omega kicked and flailed his arms, trying to keep his
head above water, but to no effect. He swallowed more of the merciless North
Sea, which left him gasping in panic. The current was strong and pulled him
effortlessly over the lowlands and into a canal. There, Al finally managed to
catch hold of the wall. He skinned his hands on the stone, but held tightly,
fingers curling like claws into the crevices. His head broke the surface and he
gasped, coughing-up sea-water. Still, the current pulled and frothy waves
crashed into him, testing his strength.
                "He—Help!" he screamed, eyes squeezed shut.
                Papa. Dad. Mattie—!
                "Somebody help!"
===============================================================================
Matt leapt blindly and landed hard on a thatched rooftop. The ground was
flooded. He had narrowly escaped a rush of sea-water as he scurried up onto a
low-hanging roof. From there he climbed higher, keeping low to the structures
to brace himself against the wind, which threatened to knock him off. Matt was
not a graceful Omega and his pace was slow and lopsided as he fought his way
forward. It was hard to see anything with cold raindrops pelting his face, but
he desperately scanned the village for signs of Al—or anyone, really. Lars had
chased Matt into the streets, yelling, and pleading for him to come back, but
Matt hadn't listened. A part of him had hoped Lars would follow him—two pairs
of eyes would find Al faster than one—but, too soon, Matt realized that Lars
was gone. The realization that he was alone frightened Matt, but worry for Al
took precedence. Ignoring his own fear, forgetting his own weakness, he had
raced on, thinking only: I'll find you,Al!
                "Al!" he yelled, knowing his voice was too soft. He could
barely hear himself, but he yelled anyway. "Al!"
                By accident, he spotted Al clinging to the side of the canal.
                "AL!" he screamed as he neared. He didn't know if Al had
actually heard him or not (likely not), but his twin-brother's feverish blue
eyes opened and widened in disbelief when he saw Matt.
                Matt! Al's mouth formed Matt's name as he desperately reached
upward.
                Matt leapt down onto the canal's stonewall and nearly lost his
balance. It was slippery. His arms windmilled wildly before he caught himself.
He crouched low, leaning over the side. Al's body was low, but he pushed
himself up, kicking his legs, clawing at the stone. Matt laid flat on his belly
and extended his arm as far as he dared. Al pushed off the stones and grabbed
for Matt's hand. Briefly their fingers touched before Al fell back down,
submerging; his fingers were raw and bloody. "Al!" Matt yelled, encouraging his
brother to try again. I'm not leaving you here! Al tried again, and this time
he managed to grab Matt's hand. His weight nearly pulled Matt down, but, fueled
with adrenaline, the smaller Omega held strong. "I've got you!" he yelled,
readying to pull Al up.
                Then Al's eyes went wide in horror, and he screamed: "Mattie,
look out!"
                The North Sea slammed into Matt with the force of a tempest and
swept him off the wall and into the canal.
                Matt held tight to Al's hand as a powerful current tossed him
to-and-fro, carrying the young Omega-twins to the edge of the lowlands, away
from the village. Away from their family. Away from safety. And into the Rhine.
                Matt screamed as loud as he could, but nobody heard him.
                Then there was nothing.
===============================================================================
Arthur's green eyes searched the crowded tower-house fervently, hoping to catch
sight of his pups. He was clutching Francis' hand so tightly, his fingernails
dug crescents into the Alpha's wet skin. The Omega was wide-eyed, drenched, and
shivering, but he refused to sit or be comforted. He dragged Francis back-and-
forth, shoving clan-members aside as he searched for a sign of Al and Matt.
                "I can't find their scents," Scott reported, returning. His
face was so pale, his vibrant locks looked blood-red.
                Once more, Arthur looked hopefully to Francis, but the blue-
eyed Alpha sadly shook his head. "How is it that neither of you can smell
them?" he snapped, short-tempered in fear. He could feel a panic-attack
churning in the pit of his stomach, but fought it.
                "They're not here," said Scott, like a harbinger of gloom.
                "They have to be!"
                "Arthur, s'il vous plaît—" Francis started, then abruptly
stopped.
                Arthur followed his sightline and saw Lars—alone.
                Ignoring propriety, the Omega marched up to the young Low-
Lander and violently grabbed his shirt-front. "Where is my Matthew? Where is
he?" he yelled.
                Several nearby clan-members leapt up in defense, but Lars,
himself, didn't fight. He let Arthur shake him, keeping his gaze downcast. When
he spoke, his voice was full of regret: "I'm sorry. I lost him. I'm so sorry."
                "What do you mean you lost him?" Arthur snarled, showing his
teeth. He felt Francis' hand clasp his arched shoulder; not in shame, but in
support.
                In a dangerous tone that sent a shiver down Arthur's spine, the
Alpha said: "Where is my Mathieu?"           
                Lars swallowed, visibly upset. "He ran. I tried to follow, but
I couldn't. I—I lost him," he repeated quietly.
                Arthur didn't understand. "Why would Matthew run?"
                "He went to find Alfred."
                "Alfred? My Alfred is gone, too?"
                It was a weak, helpless question. Arthur let go of Lars. There
was no lie in the Alpha's eyes, only remorse. His confirmation of the Omega-
twins' absence shattered something inside of Arthur and, just as quickly as it
came, his rage abated. "No, no." He shook his head. Hot, salty tears flooded
his eyes, but he blinked to clear them. He took a deep breath to keep the panic
at bay. Then, without warning, he dashed to the tower-house doors, the ones
that had been bolted against the onslaught of the storm, and he threw himself
against them. He pounded his fists on the thick wood and iron, trying to shake
it, trying to pull it open. "Let me out!" he screamed, fueled by fear and
adrenaline. The Low-Lander guards just stared at him in pity: the small,
helpless Islander. Soon, Francis grabbed Arthur around the middle and pulled
him back, restraining his violent protests. Arthur knew that he was making a
scene, but he didn't care.
                "Let me out!" he screamed. "Let me out, my pups are out there!
I need to find them! My Alfred and Matthew, please—!"
                "Arthur!" Francis growled. He took the Omega's wild-eyed face
in his hands, forcing Arthur to look at him. Sternly, he said: "I will find our
pups, I promise. But you need to stay here."
                "No," Arthur refused. He grabbed fistfuls of his Alpha-mate's
wet shirt. "I can't. I want them back now. Let me go!" he snarled, struggling.
"Francis, let go! I have to find them. I—"
                "I said no!" Francis snapped loudly. Arthur flinched.
Frightened, he looked up into his Alpha-mate's pained blue eyes, which mirrored
the fear and sorrow that he, himself, felt. Deliberately, Francis pressed their
cold foreheads together and held Arthur firmly. In a soft, strained voice, he
said: "I can't lose you, too.
                "Stay here," he ordered. "I promise, I will find our pups."
                Slowly, teary-eyed, Arthur nodded. "Bring them back to me,
Francis."
                Francis kissed Arthur's forehead in good-faith, but before he
could move, the Clan Leader's voice filled the room.
                "No one is going anywhere," he said. "The doors stay closed.
It's too dangerous to leave right now."
                Francis pierced the Clan Leader with a sharp glare, but it was
Scott who spoke:
                "My kin are in danger," he said, voice low and rasping; a near-
growl. His body was as taut as a bowstring. His fierce Lincoln-green eyes
smouldered, the eyes of a hunter. "Let us out."
                "No," the Clan Leader refused. Several of his hunters stood
behind him, eyeing the Islanders wearily. "Don't be stubborn. It's too
dangerous to leave the tower-house; too dangerous to open the doors. I am sorry
for your losses, I really am, but I will not risk my clan. You will not find
Alfred and Matthew tonight, not in that." He gestured to the rafters,
indicating the raging storm. "I am very sorry," he repeated earnestly. "It is
truly a tragedy, but..." He hesitated, momentarily cowed by the intensity of
the Islanders' glares. "There is nothing that you or anyone can do right now.
If you leave, you will be consumed by the flood. We will help you search for
Alfred and Matthew when the storm abates, but until then I'm afraid those two
pups are on their own."
                The definitive tone of his words hit Arthur like a devastating
blow. Francis and Scott surged forward to argue with the Clan Leader, but
without Francis' support, Arthur's head spun. All at once, the raw panic-attack
he had been fighting overwhelmed him and his body suddenly collapsed. A vision
of Al and Matt swam vividly before his horrified eyes. No, not my pups! My
pups—!
               He heard Francis yell: "Arthur!"
                Then he fainted.
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Four *****
WESTERN EMPIRE
WILDERNESS
Al felt cold, wet, itchy. He inhaled the earthy scent of mud; felt it squish
against his cold cheek. It made a sucking sound. His eyelids felt heavy, but he
slowly peeled them open. His thick blonde lashes were clumped. His sight
blurred. A teardrop—no, raindrops rolled down his cheek. Fat raindrops fell
relentlessly as Al stared, absently watching them splash into a deep pool: a
puddle. The forest was loud. Windless, the raindrops fell vertically, pelting
big-leaved foliage and bouncing off evergreen needles like little hollow
drumbeats. Amphibious life croaked and a nearby plop alerted Al to the
direction of the creatures, the river. He tried to rise, but his body was
stiff. With effort he pushed himself onto his elbows and pulled at the reeds,
slithering over the riverbank like a disoriented serpent. His leg throbbed, but
his burning throat demanded water. Despite being soaked, he was parched. He
licked raindrops off his lips before descending to the river, which was flowing
at a happy, harmless pace. The water revived him. Since both of his hands were
filthy, he stuck his whole face into the river and lapped greedily. The current
tugged gently at his hair, as if mocking the storm's previous mercilessness.
That had only been a few—hours, days—? ago.
                Fuck, he thought, surveying the forest with a degree of
fleeting clarity. Where am I?
                Where is Mattie? "Ma—" cough cough
               Al's head pounded. He felt weak, deafened, barely half-
conscious. He retreated and took shelter beneath a dense canopy. Shivering, he
pulled his legs to his chest and closed his eyes.
===============================================================================
Later, Al awoke. It was still raining. The sky was still dark.
                He had no notion of how long he had been asleep, but it was
hunger that woke him. It gnawed at him, a deep, angry, all-consuming hunger
that made him feel sick. He tried to rise, but this time his body collapsed.
"Aah-roo!" A howl escaped him. His left leg was red, swollen, and searing-hot.
The sharpness of the pain brought tears to his eyes. His hand hovered over the
wound, which oozed thick, gelatinous blood, but he didn't touch it. He was too
afraid that the bone was broken. If it's broken,I'm as good as dead. I can't
move.I can't hunt—
                His stomach growled in protest, clawing at his insides worse
than ever. The pain was worse than his injured leg; together, the pain was
torture. Al had been starving now for days; weeks. Why did I do this to myself?
he thought in self-hatred. For vanity, he was starving. For vanity, he was too
weak to save himself. For vanity, he was going to die.
                If I don't eat something soon,I'm going to die.
                Fueled by desperation and raw adrenalin, Al dragged his long,
heavy body back to the river, inch-by-inch. It depleted his strength. He had to
rest—briefly, he passed-out—before he managed to push himself to sitting, and
then kneeling in the long reeds. Feeling woozy, he watched the water's clear
surface for the shadow of fish. Fortunately, he didn't wait long; the river was
plentiful. Clumsily, Al slipped as he plunged his hands into the water,
startling the fish. Half-submerged he waited, then fervently tried again. By
the fourth try, he was frustrated. He clawed angrily at the water, lacking the
tact that Francis had taught him, but eventually he succeeded in procuring a
wet, wriggling fish. He squeezed it tightly as he shimmied back onto the bank,
but his hands were weak and trembling. The slippery fish fell and flopped onto
the grass. Al descended on it like a wild animal, refusing to lose it. With no
knife to decapitate and gut it, he simply grabbed it by the tail and beat it
against a rock until it ceased to move. Then he sunk his teeth into it, coating
his lips in blood. It tasted horrid. At first he gagged, but each bite was
easier to swallow than the last; each bite eased the gnawing pain of
starvation. He devoured the meager meal, spitting out bits of bone and scales,
until there was nothing left but the creature's round, glassy eyeballs. Then,
panting, Al crawled back to the canopy, where he was very suddenly and very
messily sick. Heaving and gagging, he vomited everything that he had just
eaten, his stomach rejecting the raw meat, which had been consumed too fast.
The effort left Al exhausted and dehydrated.
                No, he cried, collapsing on the wet grass. This can't be
happening. I can't die out here, I won't.I refuse.I'm a survivor! I'm stronger
than this! I—I—I—
                He blacked-out.
===============================================================================
Al felt heavy. He laid on his back on the grass and stared absently at the
canopy, green leaves yellowed by sunlight. He blinked. Even his eyelids felt
heavy—so heavy. The pain in his head, belly, leg had numbed, but he couldn't
move. The effort of wiggling a single finger, of licking dry lips, of opening
his half-closed eyes was too much. He felt the sun's soft kiss on his face, but
that was all.
                Am I dead? he wondered. He tried to take a deep, slow breath,
but his chest was heavy. I must be. The living world was so wet and dark,but
this place is dry and bright. So bright. He closed his eyes, shielding his
blues from the penetrating sunrays. It turned his eyelids red; he envisioned
dilating spots. Is this the afterlife? Will the spirits of the dead come to
take me to paradise? Did I drown? Did I starve? Al's parched lips curled into a
sardonic grin and a dry, choked chuckle escaped him. I guess I was wrong. I
wasn't strong enough,after all. I couldn't survive. Dad was right, he thought,
a single tear rolling down his cheek, Omegas can't survive alone.
                A caress, stronger and warmer than sunlight, touched his face.
His eyes fluttered and half-opened. At first he saw nothing, then a face took
shape. He saw violet eyes and thought in relief: Mattie.
                But it couldn't be Matt. Matt was gone, lost. Unless he was
dead, too.
                Instead of sorrow, Al relaxed. He took comfort in the thought
of Matt being dead, as well. He didn't want to go to the afterlife alone. You
and I together,Mattie. Always.
                He smiled.
===============================================================================
Ivan stared down at the Omega-pup, curious. Where did you come from? he
wondered, kneeling down. The Omega's skin was caked with dried mud. It
camouflaged his prostrate figure, lying in the long grass. He wore more dried
mud than clothes. His garments were soiled, wet and tattered. The Alpha
wouldn't have spotted him lying there if he hadn't smelled blood. The salty,
iron scent of the Omega's blood was mixed with more pungent, earthy scents, but
the closer he crept, the more discernible the Omega's natural scent became.
That's when Ivan realized his youth; only fourteen, maybe fifteen-years-old.
The swollen river had swallowed the poor, unlucky thing and deposited him here.
How far he had been dragged, tossed to-and-fro, Ivan didn't know. He sighed. He
had seen many—too many—dead Omegas in his life already. He had seen them
bloodied, beaten, and raped. Consider yourself lucky that the river got
you,little one.
                Ivan reached for the Omega's throat, thinking to relieve him of
his adornments—Westerners often wore their valuables around the neck and
wrists—but instead found himself touching the Omega's cheek. As soon as he did,
the Omega's eyelids fluttered and opened. Ivan blinked, frozen in surprise.
                Not dead—?
                The Omega's jewel-blue eyes stared up at him, seeing, not him,
but someone else. His lips parted and silently formed a word, a name. Then
those parched lips curled into a peaceful smile.
                Ivan cocked an eyebrow. "Omega—?" he said. But the Omega's blue
eyes had already rolled back in his head; not dead, just fainted. Ivan tapped
his cheek, but he didn't stir. He leant forward and listened acutely to the
Omega's weak heartbeat; felt his shallow breaths. Then he sat back on his
haunches, thinking on what to do. He could leave the Omega, he was half-dead
anyway. Ivan needn't feel his body to know that he was starved, he could see
it. He probably won't survive the night. Westerners were weak; that's what he
had been taught. He had been taught—bred—to kill the barbarous lot of them.
It's a mercy, he decided, standing in retreat. He'll die peacefully in his
sleep. There's no use in me prolonging his suffering. Mercy was self-taught in
the Eastern Empire. Over the years, Ivan had learnt how to put down an enemy
like a beloved pet, quickly and not without feeling.
                But—
                He started to leave, then stopped.
                —is he an enemy?
                He glanced back at the young Omega, who looked nothing but
helpless. And he sighed.
===============================================================================
Al dreamt of flying, like the birds. His body no longer felt heavy, but hollow;
weightless. He pictured himself soaring, his arms outstretched; or sailing like
a boat on a wavy air-current; or hanging suspended in midair, floating gently.
He pictured an eagle's nest perched high in the trees, a throne for the king of
all birds, and he, himself, the eagle. It was a cozy nest, insulated with furs
and hides, like Al's bed at home. He nestled down, burrowing beneath a wing, a
feather-soft touch.
                He drifted in-and-out of consciousness, aware of a brightness,
of warmth, the vague taste of liquid food, but nothing else. Too soon his
waking-mind yielded to the desires of his dream-self and he was an eagle again,
flying. He soared high above the treetops, screeching loudly in a show of
dominance. He alone was the predator of the skies. But he always returned to
the same nest every night. It's where he felt safest.
                Again, he awoke. His dreams shifted and transformed to
accommodate the atmosphere, but always he was a great bird of prey. Always, he
returned to the nest.
                Finally, after countless days—countless flights—Al's mind awoke
for real.
                The first thing he noticed was the fire, the orange flames
dancing merrily in a pit. The second was the arched vault and rock walls of a
cave. The third was the fish smoking over the fire.
                Al's eyes dilated predatorily in hunger. Single-minded, he
pushed himself onto his hands-and-knees, letting a thick pelt slip off his
naked shoulders as he crawled out of the bedding and over to the fire. He
winced, favouring his uninjured leg, sparing a glance for his left, which was
wrapped tightly in stiff cloth, then resumed his hunt. Eagerly, he wrenched one
of the fish from its stake and sunk his teeth into it. It was hot. It burnt his
tongue, but he didn't slow. His teeth tore into the flaky, smoked fish flesh
with vigour. Dusty mud peeled off his face as he chewed, but he didn't slow to
scratch his dry, itchy skin. He devoured the fish, tossed the bones aside, and
grabbed another. He was halfway through his third when a dark, formidable
shadow engulfed him.
                Al tensed, but didn't speak; didn't try to hide; didn't let go
of the half-eaten fish. He stared unblinking at the Alpha, whose cold, violet
gaze was unforthcoming. In fact, it was challenging. Those aren't just the eyes
of a hunter, Al thought, half in apprehension; half in admiration. He was the
biggest, tallest Alpha whom Al had ever seen; bigger even than Lars. It brought
to mind Arthur's folktales. He must have giant's blood in him! But unlike those
vile beasts, the Alpha was not unsightly. No—not by far. He looked like a
warrior, like Scott, but bolder, broader in the shoulders and chest. His face
was well-sculpted, defined by long, flat planes and a slightly hooked nose. He
had a wide mouth, a strong jaw, and skin as luminescent in the fire's glow as a
pearl. A windswept mane of silver-blonde hair crowned his head, shielding one
glaring eye from view. The other was feline in shape and as hard and vibrant as
amethyst.
                Al found himself staring back, meeting the Alpha's gaze, not in
challenge, but in intrigue.
                Finally, the Alpha spoke. His voice was like deep-water; Al
felt it. He said: "Aren't you afraid, little one?"
                Al's reply was reflex: "No."
                The Alpha's throat vibrated with a growl. He stepped forward,
close enough to swallow Al in his shadow, and lifted his head, making himself
seem—if possible—even taller. Everything about him was large, bred to
intimidate. He was not graceful. He moved abruptly, deliberately, like a heavy-
footed stalker; and forward, never in retreat. When his advance provoked no
reaction from Al, the Alpha lowered himself slowly to his haunches, staring
down at the Omega from a shorter distance. "Not afraid?" he asked rhetorically.
His voice was provocative of a threat. He took Al's chin in a powerful hand and
forced his head up. (His hands were huge!) He needn't have bothered with the
theatrics. Al had no intention of looking away first. In a deep, mocking voice,
the Alpha said: "A brave little thing, aren't you? Proud," he growled, showing
his canines.
                The sound sent a shiver down Al's spine, but despite the
Alpha's efforts, he remained unafraid. The Alpha's hand was big and strong,
capable of crushing bones, but his touch was gentle. He's trying to frighten
me,not hurt me. Al raised his head even higher, nearly nose-to-nose with the
Alpha, and, flavouring his tone with as much arrogance as possible, said:
"Pride is what keeps you alive.
                "You're not going to hurt me," he gambled, encouraged by the
Alpha's silence. "You wouldn't have saved me if you were."
                "I didn't save you," said the Alpha, releasing Al. He stood and
stepped back. "I took pity on you."
                Al heard the bite, a verbal-blow, but couldn't be offended. If
Al had learnt his pride from somewhere, it was from the Alphas. And this
one—looks aside—was no different.
                "Aren't you cold?" the Alpha asked. Subtly, his violet eyes
drew attention to Al's nakedness.
                Al glanced down at himself, covered in dry mud and goose-bumps.
"Yes," he admitted, unabashed. Al's Alpha friends had seen him nude so often
that any bashfulness he might have felt had long since fled. Look all you want,
he used to tease good-humouredly, but only I decide who gets to touch. A rude
gesture always followed, but Al refrained. He didn't think that this Alpha,
this stranger, would appreciate the joke in the same way the Islanders did. In
the end, it was the Alpha who grabbed the pelt from the bed and chucked it at
Al, a gesture of peace—or at least a cease-fire.
                "You're an Islander," said the Alpha, sitting down by the
fireside. It was a fact, not a question. His violet gaze watched the Omega
cover himself. "You speak English," he added in explanation.
                "Yes, but you're not," Al said needlessly. The Alpha spoke
English with a thick, undulating accent, the likes of which Al had never heard.
Suspiciously, he asked: "How did you know to address me in English?"
                The Alpha grinned wickedly before revealing: "You talk in your
sleep."
                Al clutched the pelt tighter, feeling suddenly exposed by that
grin.
                When he failed to reply, the Alpha cocked his head, and asked:
"What's an Islander-pup doing so far inland?"
                "I'm not a pup, I'm fifteen," Al said, affronted. "And my name
is Al. Alfred Kirkland."
                The Alpha inclined his head in mock-apology, but in sincere
acknowledgement. Al waited, then said:
                "Aren't you going to tell me your name?"
                "Ivan," he said stoically.
                Again, Al waited. "Ivan—? Ivan who?" he prompted. On the Isles
and in the Low Countries the family-name denoted the clan. It was more telling
than a given-name, more important.
                But Ivan was adamant in his secrecy. "Just Ivan," he said.
                "Fine," Al conceded unhappily. He shifted, favouring his
uninjured leg. Ivan's unblinking gaze was starting to make him feel
uncomfortable like no Alpha's ever had. It was the focus, he decided, like a
hunter—No, more than just a hunter, he thought again. Whatever it was, it was
unwelcome. Al's mere presence had never enraptured an Alpha so completely
before, which left him at a loss. Is this how Mattie feels all the time? It's
no wonder he's so anxious. Al didn't want to break eye-contact with Ivan, like
surrendering, but nor did he want to maintain this facade. Instead he let his
eyes wander, surveying his surroundings in feigned boredom, acknowledging
everything except Ivan himself.
                "So, Just Ivan," he said casually, "you're a Lone Wolf, aren't
you?" He had deduced as much by observation: the Alpha had the defensive
bearing of someone who had been alone for a long time. Al got the feeling Ivan
was just as lost as he was in this situation, unused to guests. But if the
Alpha understood the terminology—Lone Wolf—he didn't show it. Al asked: "Are
you a Westerner?" He, having never met a Westerner before, thought it a valid
query, however, Ivan's response revealed deep offense.
                An ice-cold temper flared, showing teeth. "Nyet," he said with
feeling. Al flinched, but recovered quickly. The Alpha swallowed, his body
tense, and quietly added: "I'm not.
                "You should sleep," he ordered, closing the conversation. "You
look pale, little one."
                I doubt I look paler than you, Al thought scornfully. What he
said was a lie: "I'm fine. I'm not tired. I've been sleeping for too long
already, haven't I—?"
                "A week."
                " A week?" Al gaped in shock. He felt suddenly lightheaded. He
had expected Ivan to report a day, or maybe two; not a week! "Oh, gods! My
family—! They'll think I'm dead!"
                Ivan watched Al begin to pace frantically, dragging the pelt. A
horrible, guilty feeling churned in his stomach. He felt hot, suddenly flushed
as the colour returned to his cheeks. He tasted bile rise in his throat. Ivan
said: "Are you going to be sick?" The words themselves prompted an immediate
reaction. Al said, "No," even as his legs buckled and he fell onto his hands-
and-knees, and was violently sick on the floor. His back arched, shoulders
tensing as his whole body convulsed with the effort of retching. Sweat beaded
his skin. He let go of the pelt and knelt naked on the floor, gagging and
coughing and gasping. He would have collapsed if Ivan's big hands hadn't
grabbed him. Instead, he was pulled back and held snug against the Alpha's
chest. It was broad and hard. Al trembled. He let his head loll weakly back,
finding a place to rest beneath Ivan's chin.
                Ivan said: "You shouldn't have eaten so fast. You shouldn't
have left bed, little one." As he spoke, he lifted the Omega as if he was
weightless.
                It felt like flying.
===============================================================================
LATER
Al awoke feeling dizzy. Ivan said: "The next time you vomit, you're eating it
for your next meal."
                Al blinked. "You're joking, right?"
                He honestly couldn't tell. Ivan's tone was stony, unenthused at
playing housekeeper, but it masked a sinister smile. His violet eyes twinkled
in the firelight, conveying a jest, or a promise—maybe? Al couldn't decipher
it. And the Alpha's reply didn't help.
                "It's unwise to waste food," he said.
                Drowsily, Al accepted the hand Ivan offered him (Ivan's hand
completely enveloped Al's) and was pulled into a sitting position. "Uh,
thanks," he said, taking a bowl of plain potato porridge. It looked horrible.
For a moment, Al wondered if the bowl really didcontain his harvested vomit.
                "Small bites," Ivan advised.
                Al ate slowly, cautious of his fickle digestion. He had been
starving for too long. He needed to reintroduce his body to food slowly. The
porridge was a good choice: it was hardy, but flavourless. Once Al got past the
look, it didn't taste off-putting. In fact, it didn't taste like anything. Al
paced himself, taking a small break after each bite to pummel Ivan with
questions—"What's in this? Where did you learn to make it? Is this what you eat
every day?"—all of which Ivan ignored. It didn't discourage Al from talking,
though. He disliked silence. "I bet it would taste better with a little spice
in it, and salt; it needs salt. Dad cooks with a lot of salt; Papa hates it.
Salt's not the only ingredient! he says. I'm a pretty good cook, actually. Papa
taught me. He taught me to care about presentation as much as flavour; says
people eat more if they like the look of their food," he said, criticizing the
porridge. "Papa's an amazing cook! I guess it's kind of a weird talent for an
Alpha, but nobody at home minds. My uncles—I live with my uncles—prefer Papa's
cooking to Dad's most days. But Mattie's been doing most of the cooking at home
since he was ten.  Mattie's my twin-brother. He was with me when the river took
us. I hope—" Al's voice caught. Ivan glanced at him. "I hope he's okay wherever
he is. As soon as I recover, I'm going to find him. He's not strong like me;
he's delicate, timid. He won't survive long on his own. He needs me. But I know
I'll find him. I'm a pretty good tracker, you know. Papa taught me how to hunt.
Funny, isn't it? That Papa cooks and I hunt—? I guess we're not a very
traditional family. But like I said, I'm a good hunter. I've been hunting since
I was a pup. I'll find Mattie. I mean, I can't just leave him..."
                And so on and so forth.
                Al licked the bowl clean and, seconds later, found more
porridge ladled in. The process repeated until after sunset. Al kept switching
between eating and talking—never running short on topics—until finally his eyes
began to droop. He lifted the spoon to his lips, but yawned instead.
                "Go to sleep."
                It was the first thing Ivan had said in hours.
                Al tried to refuse, but Ivan's blunt tone reprimanded him:
                "How are you going to find your brother if you don't recover?"
                "Oh, so you were listening," Al teased, lying down. "And here I
thought I was talking"—yawn—"to myself."
                Ivan cocked an eyebrow. Sternly, he said: "Go to sleep, little
one."
                If Ivan intended to bully Al into sleep, it worked, but not
because of his tone. Al was already half-asleep when he laid down, covering
himself. He felt at-ease, belly full, and snuggled beneath a pile of heavy
pelts. The fire crackled merrily, heating the cave. The wind blustered softly
outside. Just then, nothing could have interrupted Al's comfort, not even Ivan.
The truth was, Al was lost and alone, in the company of a stranger, but he felt
the furthest thing from afraid. He felt safe.
===============================================================================
Day-by-day, the routine continued. Ivan worked while Al slept, slowly
recovering. The Alpha was diligent in his tasks, always busy. Half-asleep, Al
watched Ivan's big, capable hands at work, letting the rhythmic, repeated
gestures soothe his weariness. He memorized every detail of those long, big-
knuckled fingers, every scar. So many scars. Al watched Ivan in secret,
pretending to be asleep when the Alpha drew near. Al still talked, but since
Ivan refused to engage the Omega, refused to answer his questions, he had
eventually given up asking. Instead, he got to know Ivan wordlessly, piecing
together the Alpha's character bit-by-bit. By observing the mundane tasks Ivan
performed daily, Al learnt that he was not only a good hunter, but a good
craftsman, as well. If something broke, Ivan could fix it; if something needed
a solution, Ivan could invent one; if something threatened them, Ivan could
defeat it. He worked quickly and quietly, barely speaking. Too used to
solitude, he often ignored Al. Sometimes Al thought he forgot he was there at
all. But for the first time in his life, Al didn't mind being ignored. It gave
him the chance to study his reclusive rescuer on an intimate level without Ivan
noticing. The Alpha never initiated conversation, and since that first
interaction had never touched the Omega when Al was conscious. When Al was
unconscious—Well, that was different.
                The first time Al had pretended to be asleep, he had done it to
avoid a confrontation with Ivan, and he hadn't been expecting Ivan to touch
him. But when the Alpha's hand brushed his cheek, feather-soft, Al felt his
stomach flip. It hadn't even been a fortnight yet since Arthur had last held
him, but the moment Ivan touched him, Al realized how much he missed that
physical contact. Instinctively he had leant into the Alpha's touch, which
pulled away too soon. Since then, Al pretended to be asleep whenever Ivan got
close, hoping that the Alpha would pay him attention as long as he thought Al
was unaware of it. Al breathed softly and slowly when Ivan pressed a hand
gently to his face, testing his temperature to gauge his health. It felt good.
Despite Ivan's pretense for indifference, Al liked his touch. Somehow, it felt
familiar. And yet, Al's Alpha family and friends rarely touched him so
tenderly. Ivan's touch was so remarkably Omega-like in carefulness.
                It's because he's a big,tall Alpha, Al decided, thinking of the
Isles.Big Alphas are the gentlest with Omegas(except maybe Uncle Scott).Alphas
like Ivan have to know their own strength to prevent others from getting hurt.
They have nothing to prove by being rough.
                It was a couple of days before Al was shaken—gently—awake. By
the time he roused, Ivan had gone, but a tub of steaming-hot water had been
left for him to bathe. Al smiled sleepily and slowly got to his feet, hopping
inelegantly. Outside, he could hear the sudden chop-chop of an axe and knew
that Ivan was close by. He had left to give Al privacy, but would not go
far.Maybe he thinks I'll drown, Al thought as he climbed into the wooden
washtub. Would he even care if I did? The hot water stung the cuts and scrapes
on his body—he hissed in pain as his left leg submerged—but it eased the
tension in his muscles, and his body sank languidly beneath the surface. It
felt good to relax, even if the tub was too small for Al's height: legs bent,
his knees poking out of the water. Fleetingly, Al pictured Ivan stuffed into
the small tub and chuckled. He scrubbed enthusiastically at his skin, colouring
the water grey as mud flaked off to reveal ripe, purple bruises. The bruises
were tender and his body ached, but it paled in comparison to how good it felt
to be clean again. Al closed his eyes and rested his head on the tub edge,
soaking himself in the—less clean, but still warm—water. Eventually, he fell
asleep.
                "Get out before you catch your death," Ivan said, waking him.
                Al's eyes fluttered open. An instant later, he realized how
cold the water had become.
                Covered in goose-bumps, he crawled clumsily out of the tub and
accepted the clothes Ivan gave him—a faded shirt and trousers. The thick fabric
felt heavy as Al tugged it on overhead. The big, wool shirt hung off his
shoulders and the trousers were too long, but the fit was comfortable. It was
warm and clean. The feeling of being engulfed was a good one, immersed in
Ivan's strong scent. Hastily, Al buttoned the shirt to block out the cold, and
pushed back his wet hair.
                "Come here," said Ivan, pointing to the bed. Sleepily, Al
obeyed and sat down. Without a word, Ivan pushed Al's trouser-leg up to his
knee and began unwinding the sodden bandage.
                "Is it broken?" Al asked, implying his leg. The pain had ebbed
into a constant throb.
                "Yes, it is."
                Al's heart sank. He couldn't search for Matt with a broken leg.
"Will it... heal?" he asked worriedly.
                Ivan worked deftly, inspecting the break below the knee. Al
cringed, thankful that the bone had been reset, splinted, and bandaged while he
was unconscious. Ivan re-dressed it and met Al's gaze. "Yes," he confirmed, "it
will heal. But only if you stay off it."
                Al nodded in grudging promise. He pulled down his trouser-leg
and crawled beneath the pelts and blankets, feeling contented—clean!—but cold.
He shivered. Sighing deeply, he watched Ivan tidy his bath mess, acknowledging
how domestic the Alpha suddenly seemed. I guess he has to be,living alone.
                "Ivan? How old are you?" Al wondered why it had never occurred
to him to ask before. Considering what he knew of Ivan, his size and skills, Al
would have guessed early-to-mid twenties. He was shocked when Ivan said:
                "Eighteen."
                "Huh?" Al bolted upright, then cringed. "But that's only three
years older than I am."
                "Yes."
                Al felt weirdly self-conscious as he laid back down. He watched
Ivan for a minute longer before curiosity got the better of him. "How long have
you been alone for?" he asked.
                Ivan didn't look at Al. He hefted the tub over his shoulder and
was halfway to the cave's entrance before he answered: "Three years."
                "Is fifteen the age of maturity where you come from, too?"
                "Yes."
                "And where is that?"
                Al knew that he had gone too far when Ivan stopped and gave him
a stony look. It said: Enough questions. Wordless, he stepped outside. Al heard
him toss out the water.
                Al burrowed beneath the bed's pelts, burying his nose in Ivan's
shirt. His retreat seemed to relax Ivan, who glanced fleetingly at the Omega
when he returned. He settled down by the fireside and resumed a task, but Al's
mind stayed active. He had a dozen questions that he wanted answers to: Where
did you come from,Ivan?Why did you leave?Who were you before you became a Lone
Wolf? They were all questions that Al had been discouraged from asking, forcing
him to accept that he would never get more than a cold stare in reply. Ivan was
a secretive Alpha, but it no longer mattered. It doesn't really matter who you
were before I met you, Al acknowledged as he watched Ivan's skillful hands; the
concentrated tilt of his lips; the quiet intensity in his violet eyes. This is
the only you I know. And I trust you.
                "It's been a long time since anyone trusted me," Ivan said when
Al told him. "Are you sure you're not making a mistake, little one?"
                "Yes," Al replied, quite certain now. "You wouldn't have
rescued me if you were going to hurt me."
                Ivan's violet gaze captured Al. His eyes were so like Matt's,
so beautiful. Al found it hard to look away—so he didn't, despite the warning
he saw there.
                "Maybe I rescued you for my own purpose, my own pleasure."
Ivan's deep, growling voice filled the cave. In a display of dominance, he
rose, his lips curling back into a devious grin. It was wicked. He stalked to
the bed and knelt, looming over Al. "Maybe I'm just waiting for you to regain
your strength. I am an Alpha, after all. A Rouge. What is it you called me,
little one? A Lone Wolf." He growled. "And you're a young, unclaimed Omega." As
he spoke, he leant down. Al felt hot breath on his cold skin. His body tensed
instinctively, his heart-rate increasing, but he didn't flinch. He didn't pull
back. Ivan's gaze narrowed, his silver-blonde head cocked, and he whispered:
                "Are you afraid now, Alfred Kirkland?"
                "No."
                It was Al's turn to grin.
                In a quiet, yet confident voice, he said: "I've spent my whole
life with Alphas. You'll have to do better than a few empty threats if you want
to frighten me, Just Ivan."
                Ivan smirked. In challenge or appreciation, Al didn't know.
                "I know how Alphas think," he said, letting his words linger;
letting himself lean toward the growling Alpha. I shouldn't provoke him, he
thought briefly, but he liked the feel of having Ivan's full attention. It was
intoxicating. "I can tell when an Alpha wants something, someone. I can tell by
the lust in his eyes. It's possessive. It's instinctive. It's raw," he purred,
watching Ivan's eyes momentarily flash. "It's the way they look at a conquest.
It's the way they look at... my brother," he admitted. A degree of Al's
confidence fled, but he soldiered on, hoping Ivan hadn't noticed. "I can tell
when an Alpha wants an Omega by the look in his eyes," he said softly. "It's
unlike the way you're looking at me now. You're trying to scare me, Ivan, but I
won't be scared. Not until I see thatlook in your eyes."
===============================================================================
LATER
Ivan stared down at the Islander, who shivered in his sleep. He had never met
an Omega who challenged an Alpha as openly as Al Kirkland did. But—to hear Al
speak of it—he had been bred to it, spoiled, coddled, and undisciplined by his
family. He was catered to, his bad habits indulged. And, worse, Al didn't seem
to see anything wrong with it. He was proud, arrogant in the most unattractive
way. Or, that's what Ivan tried to convince himself. Al was selfish. He ate and
slept and let Ivan, an Alpha, take care of him, which was shameful behaviour
for an adult Omega. He had no respect for nature's hierarchy. He back-talked
Ivan, disobeyed him, and pestered him with endless questions—always personal
questions that Ivan didn't want to answer. He's so annoying! Ivan thought,
wanting to wring his pretty neck. But every time he did touch Al, it was
gentle. It was careful. As he knelt to pull a blanket up over Al's bared
shoulders, brushing the Omega's cold, soft skin, Ivan paused. So annoying, he
mused, touching his knuckles to Al's golden skin. But so beautiful.
                "I won't be scared. Not until I seethat look in your eyes."
                Ivan pulled back. He looked away—then back. He could feel his
heart beating in his chest.
                Al slept deeply, thick eyelashes quivering as he dreamt.
Despite their being close in age, both young, Al's face was youthful in a way
that Ivan's was not. His still had the softness of childhood, unlined by the
burdens of adulthood; the scars of life. It was a nice-looking face, honest. Al
slept with his full, shapely lips puckered. Ivan swallowed, licking his own.
The Omega was picturesque to look upon: a masterpiece of vibrant colours and
soft, supple planes. His figure was tall and lean, defined by delicious curves
of athletic muscle, but it was not unscathed. Al had professed to be a hunter,
a tracker, and looking upon his golden skin Ivan believed him. It was subtle: a
scar here, a scrape there, the tiny imperfections that proved Al was mortal. It
proved that he had been tested in a way few Omegas ever were and had been made
stronger because of it. Absently Ivan bit his lip. His stomach tightened when
he thought of Al's nudity, but the image was coloured by the Omega's
disinclination for shyness. It made Ivan think: How many other Alphas have seen
you naked? How many Alphas have had the pleasure of seeing you,touching you? It
made him suddenly, unjustly angry.
                "It's the way they look at... my brother," Al had said with a
catch in his voice. It was the first time Ivan had ever heard the bite of
insecurity in Al's tone; in his eyes.
                Such beautiful blue eyes.
                Those eyes harboured a ferocity that, for some unknown reason,
made the Alpha's heartbeat increase and his temperature spike. When those fiery
jewel-blues pierced him, Ivan felt his own fire rekindle in reply, reminding
him of the warrior he had been—maybe still was. He felt the fight return to him
tenfold, and it shocked him, knowing that it was an Omega who inspired such a
physical, carnal reaction in him. It made him feel possessive of the blue-eyed
Islander, like rivals desperate to preserve and destroy each other.
                It was a small comfort thinking that no other Alpha had ever
taken an interest in Al, and yet it only fueled Ivan's anger. He felt insulted
on Al's behalf, defensive of Al's insecurity. The Omega talked often of his
beloved twin-brother, enough for Ivan to envision a delicate, meek-mannered,
helpless little thing in need of protecting. To Al, Matt embodied perfection,
but to Ivan he sounded regular—less than regular. Islanders must have a very
different idea of beauty and perfection, he thought. Do they celebrate
weakness? The fact that proud, arrogant Al—who talked and talked and
talked—never spoke of his own eligibility made Ivan think the Islander Alphas
were mad not to favour Al. Granted, they might dislike Al's attitude, but not
to favour his looks—? They must all be blind.
                Maybe it's because he's too thin, he considered. Al was
attractive, but still much too skinny for his height. He had been starving when
Ivan found him and hadn't yet fully recovered. It was subtle, but his
cheekbones were still too sharp, his collarbone too defined, his hands a touch
too bony—too weak. He hadn't yet regained his strength, but Ivan wasn't
worried. You'll recover,and when you do—Then what? You'll leave. Al harboured
an incredible will, the likes of which Ivan had never seen. Warriors lacked
Al's level of devotion and determination, which was of Alpha-caliber—No, it was
stronger. Al, a lone fifteen-year-old Omega, should have died in the forest.
                Would you have? Ivan wondered, mesmerized by the artistry of
Al's face. If I hadn'trescuedyou,would you have died,little one?
                Isn't there anything you're afraid of?
                "Don't be afraid," he whispered, contrary to his cold
indifference. Careful of the Omega's injured leg, the big Alpha crawled into
the bed beside him. Al was shivering. His wet hair gleamed in the firelight.
Ivan rested his head on the corner of Al's pillow and admired the mosaic of
colour, strands like threaded gold, bronze, and copper blending in a haphazard
mess. As he drew himself closer, closing the distance between them, Ivan felt
Al's lithe figure fit against his like two jigsaw pieces. It had been a long
time since he had been so close to another living, breathing being, and it felt
good. It reminded him of his humanity, the part of himself he was afraid he was
losing to the wilderness. A minute later, Al was hugging Ivan's torso,
unconsciously drawn to the Alpha's body-heat. Ivan let him. It had been his
intent to keep Al warm, after all. As much as you pretend otherwise,you're
still an Omega. And Omegas didn't produce as much body-heat as Alphas did. Ivan
smiled, happy to lend Al comfort. It made him feel useful. It had been a long
time since anyone had needed him to take care of them. A long time since he had
been anyone's protector and provider.
                Would I have been a good provider if I hadn't of left? A good
Alpha-mate?Would it have felt like this?
                Maybe, he thought, closing his eyes in contentment, it wouldn't
have been so bad.
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Five *****
WESTERN EMPIRE
THE BLACK FOREST
Matt crouched down slowly, inch-by-inch, keeping his gaze focused. His prey was
close: ten, maybe twelve feet away. He could hear it's soft paws hop quietly.
Matt barely dared to breath. It's long ears were as sensitive, if not more so,
than his. He hid in the long, waxy grass; it grazed him like a teasing razor,
producing a soft hiss. He swallowed. He stayed low. Thick, black tree roots
spread over the undulating ground like spider legs. He crept ever closer,
balancing on his haunches, inch-by-inch so as not to make a sound. He arched
his back, his shoulders leaning slightly forward like a wildcat about to
pounce—like a hunter. He inhaled, held it in his lungs, and let it out slowly.
His prey paused, its ears perked, then went back to nosing the underbrush.
Absently, Matt licked his lips. Close,so close. Just then, his stomach growled.
Again his prey's head snapped up, nose twitching. Matt froze, held his breath.
Don't run. Don't run. Don't run—
                The jack-rabbit took off like an arrow.
                Fuck.
                Matt leapt up and dashed after it. The paper-thin leaves sliced
his skin. He chased after the rabbit, crashing clumsily through the forest,
dodging trees, ducking branches, and leaping over a decaying log. Gods,no! Come
back here you little—Shit! The terrain shifted, dropping suddenly into a
shallow ditch. Matt slipped, produced a shameful noise as his arms wind-milled
for balance, then caught his footing and kept going. I'm not letting you
escape,not this time!
                Matt was hungry. It had been five days since the Rhine had spit
him out in this dense, dark forest. Five days that he had been wandering,
directionless, lost and alone; frightened. The first day had been the worst.
The forest was filled with foreign scents and sounds that kept Matt tense,
forever on alert. He searched for an escape, following the river in both
directions, accidentally going in circles. Which way? he wondered, standing at
the riverbank in panic. He looked left-to-right, but, unschooled in tracking,
all he saw were the same indistinguishable sights. Al would know, he thought,
looking from the muddy earth to the starry sky. Al would look at the soil,the
current, the sky and he would know which way to go. But Matt had spent his
childhood indoors, protected by walls. He had spent his time learning to keep-
house, to mothera family. While Al had been exploring the outdoors, Matt had
stayed inside reading away his afternoons by the library hearth. I know how to
do this stuff, he had thought, in theory. Putting theories into practise,
however, had turned out to be much harder than anticipated. When Matt's hunger
had finally become unbearable, he had foraged for food, confident in his
knowledge of botany, but even then it was hard to tell what was edible and what
was not. The black forest was completely unknown to him and Matt was cautious
by nature. He ate uncooked greens, which barely sated his hunger and did not
satisfy his tastes. He wanted meat. He had watched his Alpha-relatives for
years, hunting. He had watched Al learn to hunt as a young pup. His blue-eyed
twin had learnt to shoot birds from the treetops with a slingshot; he had
learnt to entrap small rodents in snares; he had learnt to pounce like a wolf-
cub and catch small prey. Al had been eight-years-old when he had learnt the
technique of hunting. Matt was fifteen.
                How hard could it be?
                "GAH!"
                Matt's foot caught on an upraised root and he fell face-first
to the ground.
===============================================================================
Gil stalked swiftly through the Black Forest, moving like a shadow. His
footfalls were light, soft for an Alpha, and his equipment—his weapons—were
encased in supple leather, mute. His pride was in his prowling, so much quieter
than the average Alpha; so much faster. He had learnt the technique young,
self-taught. Vater's nod of approval had been the very best reward. Gil's long
runner's body twisted around tree branches, passing within a hair's width. He
moved habitually, his keen gaze studying his surroundings in search of
abnormalities. A footprint. A broken branch. A bead of blood clinging to a
blade of grass. He knelt. He knew this forest as well as he knew his own name.
He knew when something—someone—did not belong.
                Gil followed the scent, raising his head, sifting past the
earthy scents of the dense forest. It didn't take long. Gil's nose was
exceptionally sensitive, but even if it wasn't the intruder's scent was
unmistakeable. It smelled of sweat and blood-sugar, a stranger, but I've never
smelled anyone sosweetbefore. That's not an Alpha scent. Gil inhaled the pale,
sweet scent. It was easy to track. His nose made him a good hunter, a good
tracker. As a pup, his friends used to tease that Gil would make some Omega a
good guard-dog someday. But Gil had turned from that path years ago and he
hadn't seen those friends since. He shook his head, focused on his task. That's
an Omega scent, he acknowledged, recognizing it vaguely. It had been a long
time since he had seen or smelled an Omega. Omegas were not allowed in the
fort. That's a young Omega-male. Fifteen,unclaimed. Foolish. The Omega was
downwind, easily tracked by any Alpha. What's an Omega doing so deep in the
forest all alone?The Black Forest is dangerous,forbidden—restricted to the
military. How many times must we tell civilians to stay the fuck away from the
borderlands? Except that this Omega didn't smell like a civilian of the Western
Empire. As Gil stalked closer, the scent of the Omega's sugary blood became
more distinct. It had a subtle, foreign flavour, but it was not altogether
unfamiliar. Gil was afraid that he knew that bloodline.
                A Southerner? he wondered; worried. In that case, I'll have to—
                "GAH!"
                The Omega's high-pitched cry broke the silence.
                Gil rushed to his aid, and then stopped abruptly at the edge of
a ditch. That was stupid, he realized, confused by his reaction. He could be a
decoy. It could be an ambush, he thought like a soldier. If he's a Southern
spy,he could be luring me into a trap. He could be—
                Gil's suspicions quieted as he stared at the Omega. He stayed
hidden behind a grove of spindly, black-barked trees, overlooking the dry
ditch. The Omega was just a little thing, average-height for a Western Omega,
but slighter than most. He was young, fifteen. Gil was too far to see details,
but he looked delicate. He stretched his slender limbs, covered in tattered
clothes that left a generous portion of smooth, pale—bruised; scratched—skin
bared. It revealed a shoulder, a sliver of stomach, and both long, shapely
legs, one of which was trapped. The Omega struggled. He tried to rise, then
fell back on his knees, his ankle ensnared by a tangle of roots. I should help
him, Gil thought for a moment, then remembered: No,he could be an enemy. As if
on-cue, the Omega muttered:
                "Merde!"
                French, Gil knew. It confirmed his suspicion: A Southerner.
Fuck.
                Gil's French was incomplete. It wasn't a language he enjoyed
studying. (He didn't enjoy studying, period, but French was his worst.) His
French was mostly limited to military jargon, not awful, but not fluent enough
to decipher the slew of soft grumblings that poured from the Omega's mouth.
Gil's lips curled into a curious grin in reply. He kept quiet, watching in
amusement as the Omega twisted and tugged at the roots. Gil swallowed a lump in
his throat. He wanted to help the Omega. He looked so pitiful. But if he's a
decoy—
                Gil exhaled.
                The Omega's head snapped up, like a spooked jack-rabbit.
                Gil tensed. He didn't hear that,did he? No,he couldn't have.
It's impossible.
                He stayed hidden as the Omega scanned the forest. His body was
rigid. When his eyes landed on Gil's grove, the Alpha fought the urge to exhale
again in disbelief. It was the first time that the Omega had lifted his head in
Gil's presence, and he was suddenly struck by how beautiful the Omega was. He
stared in Gil's direction, violet eyes wide in fear, lips parted. Gil stared
back, winded, not daring to breath. He hadn't seen such an attractive Omega
since—ever.
                Maybe I've been at the fort for too long.
                Finally, the Omega looked away. He seemed to accept that he was
safe—or, alone at least—and resumed his task, albeit more urgently. With a
great tug, he pulled his leg free. "Aah-roo!" he yelped.
                Like before, Gil moved in reflex. He moved fast, too fast. Too
sudden. Oops.
                As soon as the Omega spotted the Alpha, he leapt to his feet
and ran.
===============================================================================
Captain!" A low howl pierced the forest. "Captain Beilschmidt!"
                Gil slowed to a jog, then a walk. He let his pack—an eight-
Alpha scouting party—catch up. One of the officers launched immediately into a
full report, but Gil was barely listening. He was distracted by the Omega's
scent, heading in a south-west direction, rapidly fading. He scanned the dense
forest as his comrade spoke, silently berating his own stupidity. He's run back
to his pack,a spy. Yet the Omega had looked fearful, as if he wasn't only
running away from Gil. Omegas were generally less brave and less aggressive
than Alphas, but this one seemed more timid than most. I frightened him, he
knew, feeling strangely guilty. He was so young,so lost-looking. Could he
really be an agent of the South?Maybe he reallyis alone—
                "—traces of Southerners in the forest," said the officer. "A
reconnaissance party, at least a dozen strong."
                Inwardly, Gil groaned. Or,maybe not.
               He clucked his tongue, annoyed. "Spread-out and find them. Send
word back to the fort. I want them flushed out of the Black Forest, that's an
order. Signal if you find anything, or," he thought of the Omega, "anyone."
                "Yes, sir!" said eight Alphas in union. Then they dispersed,
leaving Gil alone again.
                Southerners in the forest,that's just fucking perfect, he
thought, frustrated.
                Intelligence from his scouts had reported as much, but Gil had
hoped they were wrong. My Alphas are never wrong, he ceded. He had trained
every one of them himself. But it was bad news, enemies in the forest. It meant
that the Southern Empire was getting closer, taking liberties, pushing further
into the Black Forest, intending to annex the West's territory, like the
Easterners did seven years ago—
                Gil shook his head. Now wasn't the time to dwell on old losses;
old scars. He had a job to do, a responsibility to the Western Empire to guard
it against a Southern invasion; a responsibility to kill or capture anyone who
crossed that border. It had been two years since Gil's promotion to Fort
Commander—he was the youngest Commander in the fort's history—and since then he
had managed to keep a full Southern invasion at bay, limiting engagements to
petty skirmishes and scouting missions, but for how much longer? His Alphas
couldn't hold the border forever, not at this rate. The Southerners were
getting bolder, sneaking further inland, preparing for something, Gil thought.
If they ever discover how few our numbers really are,we'll be in trouble. So
far, Gil and his Alphas had done a good job of hiding their feeble numbers by
creating the illusion of a fully-equipped fort filled to capacity with
merciless soldiers ready to brutally slaughter enemies with machine-like
efficiency—hey, scare tactics worked—but the truth was that the fort was under-
equipped, under-supplied, and under-manned. If the Southerners laid siege, the
fort would only last a month.
                That's why we have to keep them away, as far from the fort and
the truth as possible. If they ever discover how weak we really are,we're all
dead. All of my Alphas, dead. That's why I need to strike first. I have a job
to do:
               "Protect the Empire," he whispered habitually.
                No Southerner could be allowed to live.
                No one.
===============================================================================
Matt doubled-over, hands braced on his knees. He was panting hard, his heart
pounding. His legs felt like jelly. I think I'm safe. He scanned the forest,
the shadows. I don't think he followed me.
                Sighing in relief, he leant against a tree. Only then did he
consider what had happened.
                For five days he had searched for traces of civilization in the
forest, of humanity. Then, he had hoped to find someone who could help him, or
at least point him in the right direction. Five days ago, he would have been
thrilled by the appearance of anyone, if just to prove he wasn't alone. Matt
had never been alone before. He had always been surrounded—protected—by his
family. In fact, he suspected that he had been coddled more than the average
Omega. His Alpha-relatives especially worried about his safety. Only Arthur was
lax. He trusted Matt's judgement and liked to encourage he and Al to explore,
though Matt rarely did. Every time he had been about to head off alone, one of
his Alpha-relatives always appeared:
                "Are you going to the river, honey? I'll go with you."
                "Are you going into the village, sweetheart? I'll go with you."
                "Let me escort you, chéri."
                "Wait for me, Mattie!"
                Do you want my help? I'll go with you. I'll carry that. I'll
guard you. I'll protect you. I won't let you go alone.
                Matt sighed. I never thought I'd miss that, he thought,
saddened. Now,I'd give anything for one of them to be here with me.
                Eventually, he had given up hope of seeing anyone in the black
forest. So—when he had seen that red-eyed Alpha—why did I run?
                He knew why, because he was afraid. He had not been expecting
to see the Alpha. A tall, mean-looking Alpha clad in black-and-white clothes,
armed, and intimidating. He had startled Matt. The Alpha had looked like a big
white wolf on the hunt, standing on the high-ground and looking down on
helpless Matt. His lithe body had moved fluidly, so sudden: sharp and very
fast. In reflex, Matt had ran, fearing that the Alpha would catch him. But he
didn't. I don't think he's even chasing me, Matt had realized, but he kept
running. He didn't want to take any chances of—
                What,being found—? But isn't that what I want?Isn't that what I
need?
                "Fuck," he cursed aloud. "I should go back and try to find
him."
                Perhaps the Alpha knew the forest and could help him. But Matt
didn't move. He stayed rooted to the spot with his back braced against the tree
trunk. Lost or not, he couldn't deny that the red-eyed Alpha had frightened
him.
                "I'm such a bloody coward—"
                In proof, Matt flinched.
                Footsteps crunched on dry foliage, unheeded by the owner. It
was faint, but drawing nearer with the hurried pace of a light-footed Alpha.
Matt's instinct was to flee, but he fought it. He balled his hands into tight
fists and waited anxiously, willing bravery to envelope him. It failed. He felt
his heart beating fast in his chest. Don't be afraid, he tried to calm himself.
It's just an Alpha,just a—stranger. He swallowed. The noise grew in volume,
boot-heels falling upon packed earth. Matt pressed his back against the tree,
taking comfort in its solidity. When the Alpha's figure emerged on the rise,
jogging swiftly, Matt's mouth went dry. I could just stay here silently and let
him pass by. He hasn't seen me yet. He doesn't have to. Do I reallyneedhis
help?
                Yes.
               Matt called-out to the Alpha. Nervous, it came out in French.
                The Alpha leapt gracefully off the rise and landed ten feet
from Matt, a rich blue cloak billowing behind him. As he rose to his full
height, Matt realized that it was not the young red-eyed Alpha he had met
before, but a blue-eyed Alpha of a like-age with his parents. He cocked his
head, surveying the anxious Omega from head-to-toe before he met Matt's gaze. A
self-satisfied grin revealed approval as he sauntered forward.
                "Hello," he said in French, then added: "My dear."
                Matt felt his stomach twist. He struggled to produce words: "I-
I—"
                The Alpha stopped a few feet away, just out of striking-range.
"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you, darling."
                Matt's cheeks reddened in shame. "I'm sorry, I—" The blue-eyed
Alpha smiled, kinder than the red-eyed wolf he had seen before. "I'm lost," he
said softly. "I'm not supposed to be here."
                "No," the Alpha agreed, "you're not. You're on the wrong side
of the border to be speaking French. So am I," he grinned, revealing a shred of
wicked pleasure. "Tell me, sweetheart, where have you come from? Where," he
took a step forward, "is your family?"
                Matt shrank back. He felt a knot of bark dig into his back, but
he didn't care. The Alpha's slow advance made him feel claustrophobic. His
temperature rose and his chest tightened. A wave of dizziness crashed over him
before it passed. It's okay,don't panic. But the Alpha was too close now. Even
if Matt sprinted, the tree blocked his escape. The Alpha would grab him before
he could take a single step. Just calm down,he hasn't even threatened you, he
thought logically, though there was something worrying in the Alpha's
proximity, his smile. Ask for directions.
                "I'm lost," he repeated meekly. "I need to return to the Low
Countries. I got separated from my family, they'll be worried about me, and
I—What are you doing?"
                The Alpha reached out. "I'm not going to hurt you," he
repeated, chuckling. "I just want a better look at your pretty face."
                He took Matt's chin in a half-gloved hand and lifted his head.
Matt lowered his eyes, trying not to flinch. A callused thumb rubbed his cheek;
the nail scratched. He studied Matt's face for a long time, too long, but Matt
was too afraid to break the contact. The Alpha's proximity had revealed a
wicked-looking sword. Matt's lowered gaze saw the insignia stitched to his
tunic, a black fleur-de-lis.
                That's a sigil of the South, he knew. He's of the French
clans,the north-west of the Southern Empire. Papa's birthplace.
                "It's not possible," the Alpha exhaled in awe.
                His voice drew Matt's attention. His gaze was fixed on Matt's
face, staring in disbelief. He shook his head.
                "You're quite a beauty, aren't you, my dear? Let me guess, you
must be... fifteen?"
                Matt didn't reply.
                The Alpha released him, but didn't retreat. He stayed close,
nearly chest-to-chest, blocking Matt's path.
                "Yes," he continued, "fifteen would be about right. Forgive me
for staring, darling, but, you see, you just look so much like your Papa."
                Dread filled Matt. "I-I—I don't know what you're talking
about," he lied.
                "Oh, sweetheart," the Alpha chuckled. There was a bite to it.
Gently, he grasped Matt's bicep. "I would know the blood of Francis Bonnefoi
anywhere. I have no doubt that you're his pup. Even if you didn't look soalike
him, you have his scent. It's been such a long time since I've smelled it, him,
but I'm not mistaken. Gods, fifteen years!" His grip tightened. "I thought he
was dead."
                "Please, let go," said Matt softly. He was trembling now.
                The Alpha ignored his plea.
                "He's supposed to be dead," he growled. His eye-teeth flashed.
"I saw him shot with an arrow-bolt, I saw him fall into the Channel. He was
always so arrogant, so vain, so entitled." As he spoke, he squeezed Matt's
bicep, bruising it, and leant closer. Matt could feel his body-heat, his sweat.
"The day he was chased off, the day he ran for his life, I was there. I saw it.
I saw him helpless like he had never been before. Pathetic," he spat
cruelly."He had nowhere to go but into the Channel to drown himself. He
deserved it. But I guess he survived, after all." The Alpha was so close now.
His nose brushed Matt's nose; his lips hovered inches from Matt's trembling
lips.
                "Let me go," Matt whispered. He could feel the Alpha's hot
breath. "Please, I'm not supposed to be here—"
                "No, you're not. Francis should have died. You shouldn't have
been born at all. Tell me, my dear," he said as he pinned Matt to the tree,
shoving a knee between the Omega's legs, "where did he take refuge? Was it the
Isles? Was it in some Islander bitch that he sunk his cock?" He jerked Matt,
growing eager. He grabbed a handful of the Omega's curls and pressed his nose
to the column of Matt's neck. He inhaled deeply. "I've never smelled an
Islander before."
                "Let g-go of me,p-please!" Matt begged.
                The Alpha grinned. "I've never tasted an Islander before."
===============================================================================
Gil stayed hidden. Having tracked the Omega's scent, he watched as he met with
a Southern soldier.
                Fuck,I was right, he thought, disappointed. He is a spy.
                Gil watched as the other Alpha advanced on the Omega, a swagger
in his step. It looked like a prowl, a hunt. He was middle-aged—thirty—but his
body was virile and smelled strongly of sweat and salt and arousal. A growl
like a purr reverberated in the back of his throat. The Omega bowed his head.
Are they—? Gil's stomach clenched as the Alpha reached out and touched the
Omega's face. Are they mates? No,the Omega is unmated. I'm certain of it. He
inched closer, eyes searching for a sign of ownership, a mark or gift.
Ah,there. On his middle-finger, the Omega wore a gold band. Claimed,but not yet
mated. This Alpha must be his intended mate then. He wouldn't be pawing at the
Omega like that otherwise. Gil wrinkled his nose and the corner of his lip
twitched, lifting in a half-snarl. Behind his lips, his teeth were clenched.
                He shook his head.
                He hadn't realized how stiff he was, shoulders arched, fists
clenched tightly.
                Stupid! he chastised in self-discipline. Focus on what they're
saying,not on what they're doing.  Are they planning an attack?
                The Alpha's voice was thick, like honey. He spoke huskily of
the Omega's Alpha-father. Gil frowned. That's kind of a weird topic, he
thought, considering how flirtatious the Alpha's body-language was. If I was
trying to sweet-talk an Omega,I sure as fuck wouldn't bring up his parents. Nor
did the Omega seem receptive to it. He kept his head bowed, wind-tossed curls
shielding his face from view. But his posture was tense, back pressed against
the tree trunk. And his scent—Gil inhaled. He's scared. Maybe I'm wrong and
they'renotintended mates—? Gil had known lots of Omegas to be nervous of their
Alpha-mates, especially those couples who were arranged by the parents; it
wasn't uncommon. But that's not jitters,that's blatant fear, Gil knew.
Absently, he touched the pommel of his sword. That's when he heard a name. And
he froze.
                Francis Bonnefoi.
                Oh,fuck. The Omega's fear was suddenly justified. If that
really is Bonnefoi's pup,he's in serious danger.
               "I've never tasted an Islander before," growled the Alpha
seductively.
                He shoved the Omega to his knees. The little thing tried to
crawl away, but the Alpha descended upon him like a predator, pressing his
weight down on the Omega's back to prevent him from escape. Fisting a chunk of
pale-blonde hair, the Alpha jerked the Omega's head back, producing a cry. "Let
go!" he shrieked. "Let me go!" He clawed desperately at his assailant, but it
was futile. He was in no position to fight, his reach was too short. He
battered at the Alpha's tunic harmlessly. The Alpha licked his lips hungrily,
bright blue eyes alight, unhindered by the Omega's pitiful struggles. He was
stronger and he knew it. He pushed the blonde's head down as he anchored
himself at the Omega's hips, fumbling with his belt-buckle as he positioned
himself at the Omega's backside—
                "Gra-aah!"
                The Alpha threw his head back in pain. He dove sideways to
avoid Gil's blade, clutching his sliced bicep as he drew his own sword in
defense.
                Gil stood between he and the trembling Omega, eyes ablaze. A
feral growl—a battle-cry—tore from his throat. The Southerner paused,
reconsidering attack; the Omega whined softly. Gil saw him stagger to his feet
and take off at a dead-run, set on self-preservation. Good. Get away from here,
it's not safe.I don't want you to see what I'm about to do.His burning red-eyed
gaze swung back to his enemy, daring him to chase the Omega.
                "I know who you are, Captain," the Southerner spat in French,
lips wet with saliva.
                "Do you know where you are?" Gil countered. He whipped his
sword in a small arch, testing it; readying. "I'll give you a hint," he said.
Then leapt. The Southerner parried the blow, but it threw him off-balance. He
stepped back in retreat, dodging and swiping; too slow. Gil's sword-point bit
deep, but he didn't stop. He was angry. He pounded the Southerner with
ceaseless blows. So very angry. "You're on the wrong side of the fucking
border!" he snarled. He bared his teeth. He felt powerful, fueled by a deep,
dark desire to thrash the Southerner in retribution. He blocked a blow and,
before the other could react, Gil's fist flew out lightning-fast and struck him
hard in the face. His knuckles returned bloody. The Southerner staggered.
                "You're going to regret coming here," Gil threatened.
                Then he threw his head back and loosed a loud, long piercing
howl that carried over the treetops, calling forth his comrades.
===============================================================================
Matt heard the loud, long piercing howl, but he didn't slow. It chased him. He
ran faster. He had never been so afraid in his entire life. Not even the flood
had scared him as badly as that blue-eyed Alpha's intent. A whine, a sob, tore
past his lips at the mere thought. Tears flooded his eyes. His whole body was
trembling. Is this a panic-attack? He gasped, running faster. He didn't know
where he was headed or in which direction, but he didn't care. It had been a
mistake to seek out others. He should have trusted his instincts and hidden, he
shouldn't have let an Alpha get close enough to—
                Matt faltered, tripped. He pressed a hand to his mouth as he
staggered, half-blinded by tears.
                I'm such a fucking fool! He felt so ashamed. I almost got
myself—
                "Oof—!"
                Matt hit something—someone—and fell back. Strong hands grabbed
his forearm, holding fast, reeling him in as he fought. When he saw the fleur-
de-lis, he screamed.
                A party of Southerners, at least a dozen, swam before Matt's
compromised vision as he twisted. He saw grins, revealing teeth. He heard jeers
and laughter.
                "Hey, look what I've caught! A little Western bitch."
                "Give him here! It's been too long since I've touched an Omega.
I want to feel him."
                "Quit drooling, you'll get a turn."
                "Me first!"
                Matt screamed; they laughed. But it was short-lived. Someone
shouted: "Westerners!" and soon the forest had become a battleground. Matt was
discarded. He fell to his knees, chest convulsing in panic. The black forest
sang with the echoes of steel-on-steel: Clang! Clang!Swish—sha-ring! Clang! A
near-equal number of Alphas attacked in a fury, not with teeth and fists, like
Islanders, but with swords. The Westerners' swords were long, heavy, and
straight. The Southerners' swords were shorter, stouter, and tapered. They
clanged together, then ripped apart. It was loud and chaotic; it hurt Matt's
ears. He ducked a misaimed blow and crawled, trying to escape the fray, but he
was encircled by black-and-white bodies fighting royal-blue.
                "Someone grab the Omega!" the blue-eyed Southerner's breathless
voice cut the din.
                Matt bolted to the left, then stopped. A steep, mossy cliff
rose before him; a ninety-degree angle. He cried out in frustration as he tried
and failed to climb the rock, scraping his fingers, desperate for escape.
                No,no, no—! Why is this happening to me? I just want to go
home!
                Matt was sobbing by the time an Alpha pulled him roughly back.
He held Matt by the throat. His hand nearly encircled the Omega's delicate
neck.
                "STOP!" shouted the red-eyed Alpha.
                The order was repeated by Matt's captor in French. He barked
loudly at his Alphas, who quieted. He was the eldest, entitled; Matt could hear
it in his gravelly voice. He was twice the age of his red-eyed counterpart,
though they seemed to share the same rank, both leaders. He said: "Captain
Beilschmidt," and nodded with mock-cordiality.
                "Captain Le Roux," replied the red-eyed Alpha, panting.
                "Captain Le Roux, that Omega-pup is the blood of Francis
Bonnefoi!" shouted the blue-eyed Southerner.
                Matt flinched at the collective gasp that erupted from the
Southerners and Westerners alike. In outrage, the news produced a swell of
voices, arguing and talking over each other; snapping at each other; begging
questions to be answered. A low whistle sounded from someone at the back. A
threat was issued from someone else. Finally, both of the captains called for
silence. Le Roux yelled; Beilschmidt raised a hand. In that moment, Matt felt
every pair of eyes rest solely on him.
                "Bonnefoi's pup?" said Captain Le Roux ruminatively. "I believe
you're right."
                "Captain Le Roux," Captain Beilschmidt interrupted sternly. In
thickly-accented French, he said: "You are trespassing on the Western
territory—"
                "And you are harbouring the Omega-pup of a wanted Alpha,"
Captain Le Roux countered. In example, he flipped a pale-blonde curl. "Let's
call it even, shall we, Beilschmidt-pup? We'll take the Omega with us and leave
the Black Forest. No blood-shed today, deal?"
                "Nein!" Captain Beilschmidt snarled. It startled several
Alphas. "He is no belonging to you."
                Captain Le Roux chuckled at the other's word-choice. "Bonnefoi
was a Southerner. He does belong to us by blood-law."
                Captain Beilschmidt hesitated for a fraction of a second and
then impulsively said: "He is belonging to me by mating-law."
                Matt nearly whined in protest, but the captain's piercing red
gaze warned him not to.
                Captain Le Roux clucked his tongue skeptically. "You're lying,"
he said, but his stony voice revealed doubt. "I know the scent of a mated
Omega, Beilschmidt, and this pup"—he jostled Matt—"hasn't been mated. I'm not
the only one here who can smell how innocent and unspoiled he is, am I—?"
                His Southern Alphas murmured in agreement, one snickered.
                "You're a liar, Beilschmidt-pup. He's not your mate."
                "Not now, but soon. I have claimed him by me. Look there, on
his finger." He gestured. "That is a gift. He is mein to be, uh—mein for to be,
uh—mein soon-to-be—"
                "Intended," supplied a Westerner helpfully.
                "Ja, danke," said Captain Beilschmidt, then to Le Roux: "He is
mein intended mate."
                Le Roux cocked a greying eyebrow, unimpressed; unconvinced.
Stiffly, he grabbed Matt's hand and lifted it to eye-level, inspecting the gold
band. Matt held his breath, trying not to let the lie show. But Le Roux wasn't
looking at him; he was looking at the red-eyed captain. "This isn't your Alpha-
father's crest, Beilschmidt-pup." His voice was suspicious. "His is the Black
Cross."
                "The Iron Cross," Captain Beilschmidt corrected, irked. "Nein,
it is no belonging to mein Alpha-father. It is belonging to mein Omega-father.
It is an, uh, pass-down—?" He glanced hopefully at his comrade, who shrugged in
apology.
                "Heirloom," said Captain Le Roux impatiently. He scoffed,
showing disdain for the ring's craftsmanship. (It was lucky that he couldn't
tell the difference between German and Dutch.) "I don't believe you,
Beilschmidt-pup. The Omega"—again he jostled Matt—"doesn't have a lick of your
scent on him."
                "Nein, of course," said Captain Beilschmidt, adopting an
indignant tone. "Here of the West, we do not maul our intended mates."
                A few of the Westerners—those who understood French—chuckled.
                "But," he continued, presenting a gamble, "it is the word of
you against mein, Le Roux. You do not believe me? Then risk it. Go now, take
mein Omega-mate and be crushed by the full force of the Black Forest Fort in
lawful retribution. He is belonging to the West now. And we of the West are
protective of our kin."
                "He's got Southern blood—"
                "He is having Island blood, too!" Captain Beilschmidt snapped.
"Can you no smell it? He is being an Islander by his Omega-father. And he is
being mein by claiming. He is no straggler for you to have. He is mine!"
                "We'll see."
                Captain Le Roux shoved Matt roughly into Captain Beilschmidt's
arms.
                "I know your Western laws, Beilschmidt-pup," he threatened.
"Fort Commanders such as yourself can't take Omega-mates. I know you're lying
to me," he emphasized in displeasure. "And I'll prove it. I'll be back in
twenty-four hours with more than a scouting-party at my back. If Bonnefoi's pup
hasn't been mated by then, or if you fail to let us see him in proof, the South
will attack and I'll take him by force. And I'll be well within my rights to do
so. No mating-law can protect an Omega who isn't mated. That pup"—he pointed at
Matt—"shouldn't have ever been born. Now his blood will pay for the crimes of
his Sire, I'll make sure of it.
                "Twenty-four hours, Beilschmidt-pup. Then he's mine."
===============================================================================
Gil held his defensive posture until the Southerners left, then he sighed in
relief. He let his body relax, hoping that the Omega hadn't felt his rapid
heartbeat. That was too close, he acknowledged. Gil was lucky that Captain Le
Roux was a cautious leader, law-abiding by nature. He liked to have the facts
before acting. He knows that I'm lying,but he can't prove it—not yet. Twenty-
four hours, he had said. Beilschmidt-pup. Gil frowned. He despised Le Roux's
derogatory nickname, as if Gil was a swaddling-pup; as if he wasn't an adult
Alpha, twenty-years-old (almost twenty-one!); as if they didn't hold the same
rank in their respective armies. Just then, the Omega pushed at Gil's locked
arms, trying to get free. Oh,right. He hadn't noticed him wriggling, too
preoccupied. He just fit so well in Gil's arms. The top of his head barely
reached the Alpha's chin. If Gil tipped his head sideways, he could rest it
easily—
                Ahem.
                The Omega ducked out of arm's reach when Gil let go. Despite
the dead-end, he retreated to the mossy cliff. Gil supposed he felt safer with
a rock-wall at his back. His posture was tense, his violet eyes blazing, shiny
with tears, but he didn't run, which Gil was grateful for. He must have
realized his predicament, hopelessly trapped between Gil and Captain Le Roux.
He watched Gil and his Alphas, making eye-contact with no one. He didn't speak.
                I wonder if he speaks German?
                "Uh, Captain—?"
                Gil nodded at the officer, permitting him to speak. His eight
Alphas, he noticed, were all staring between he and the violet-eyed Omega
expectantly.
                "He's very pretty, Captain," the officer acknowledged, "but Le
Roux is right, the Fort Commander can't take an Omega-mate. It's illegal in the
West, easily disproved. Why did you lie? Do you, uh, know that Omega, Captain?"
                "No, I... I'll explain later," he said in avoidance. He
received several unsatisfied frowns in return. "Let's call today a victory," he
continued, standing straighter. "The Southerners have left the Black Forest
without a fight, we've done our job."
                "But it won't take Le Roux long to return, and when he does
it'll be with his entire company. With respect, Captain, if we take that Omega
back to the fort, we're inviting a siege."
                "Leave the Omega," someone suggested.
                "Or, mate him," said another. "Le Roux said he only had to be
mated—"
                "It's illegal."
                "For the Fort Commander, yes. Not for us. I'll volunteer—Ach!"
                Gil's long, strong fingers dug relentlessly into his junior's
neck, squeezing. A deep, angry growl rumbled from his throat in threat. The
joker cowered in submission; in apology. Gil released him with a shove.
Deliberately, he eyed the scouting-party, intending to make it veryclear: "The
Omega is under my protection. No one is to touch him."
                "Yes, sir!"
                "Good. Now return to the fort," he ordered. Like machines, they
obeyed.
                He turned and faced the Omega, who flinched. "It's okay, I'm
not going to hurt you," Gil said, stalking over. In reply, the Omega reversed
until his back met the rock. Gil slowed, then stopped. The Omega's big violet
eyes were wide and raw from crying. Gil could see them properly now. They
sparkled like precious-stone, framed by long, pale lashes that brushed his
white skin. It was freckle-less, blemish-less except for a red cut on his
cheekbone, the same shade of red as his lips. Matted curls hung in a mess about
his face. His garments were tattered, barely there. (He had torn his clothes to
make cloth-bandages for minor injuries, Gil noticed. It made him wonder how
long the Omega had been alone in the forest.) Shoeless, his feet were filthy
and cut. He looked like a castaway, cold and hungry, and yet—he was
incomparably beautiful.
                Is there anywhere you're truly safe? he wondered. He didn't
envy the Omega's family. It must be a full-time job guarding you.
                "Who are you?" the Omega asked suddenly in French.
                Gil cleared his throat. "Uh,my French no good," he said
painstakingly. "Do you speak German?"
                The Omega blinked obliviously.
                "No? Dutch, then? Do you speak Dutch? Or, Danish?" Please not
fucking Danish. (Gil's Danish vocabulary was limited to profanity and racial-
slurs.) "Uh, okay... Is French the only language you speak? Oh!" He snapped his
fingers, struck by the obvious. "You're an Islander, yes? So, English—? Do you
speak English?"
                Please not Gaelic. Please not Welsh.
                "Yes,I speak English," the Omega said softly.
===============================================================================
The Alpha's body relaxed. "Oh, good. Me too," he said in English. "You need to
come with me." He took a quick step.
                "No!" Matt raised his hands in self-defense. They trembled.
                The Alpha's movements were so sharp, so practised, like a
marching-gait, but quiet. His footsteps were soft, light-footed. It was
ghostly. He was a tracker, a ranger; not a charger. Before, he had attacked the
blue-eyed Alpha as if from nowhere, like the crack of a whip. He was faster
than he was strong, built for speed. He was tall and whiplash-lean, swathed
from head-to-toe in white and black, like the Reaper. But it wasn't his size
that struck Matt, nor his rare lack of pigment—an albino. It was his stern,
pitiless expression and wolfish red eyes. They pierced the Omega from a snow-
white face made of sharp angles, like a snowflake. Those cheekbones could cut
glass, he thought absently. And so could that sword. The naked steel gleamed in
the grey daylight, resting at the Alpha's side. It was the length of his long
leg, from foot to hipbone. Matt didn't need to feel it to know that it was: a)
heavy as sin (he's a lot stronger than he looks, he thought, remembering the
ease with which the Alpha wielded it); and b) sharper than those red eyes.
                "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. His voice was not
distinctly deep, but it harboured a predator's growl.
                "That's what they said." Matt bobbed his head, implying the
Southerners.
                The Alpha paused, then nodded. To Matt's surprise, he thrust
his sword into the earth and left it there too far to reach, looking like a
grave-marker. He raised his hands to show Matt that they were empty, then
slowly unbuckled the sheathed dagger from his belt and laid it across his palm.
He locked eyes with Matt and then tossed it gently. Matt caught it clumsily and
drew. It was beautiful, engraved with a majestic cross. The Iron Cross, he
remembered, it's his family's crest. Carefully, Matt held the dagger out in
front of him, two-handed, the blade facing its master. He knew it was a
farce—the Alpha could easily disarm him if needed—but holding it did make him
feel a fraction safer.
                The Alpha cocked a silver-white eyebrow, empty hands still
aloft. "Feel better?"
                Matt ignored the note of condescension, and asked: "Who are
you?" One-on-one, he found it easier to speak. Nerves shattered, words poured
recklessly from his mouth in a torrent: "And where am I? Why does everyone seem
to know me? And Papa—? Who are those Alphas, and why do they want me? I don't
understand. I-I—I don't even know where I am! My family, they—I mean, I-I—I'm
not supposed to be here! I just want to go home! I-I-I—"
                The Alpha's face revealed shock. "Are you okay?"
                Matt's knees buckled and he collapsed. The hand holding the
dagger shook violently; the other clutched his chest. His heart raced. His
temperature rose, sweat beading his forehead. "I can't—I-I—I can't breathe," he
gasped.
                He squeezed his eyes closed as panic overwhelmed him. Oh,not
now! he begged. He felt lightheaded, dizzy. He felt his body pitch sideways.
                "I've got you, it's okay," said the Alpha, catching him. He
knelt, holding the Omega snug against his chest. It was like before, Matt could
hear his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. Fresh
tears spilled out. Beyond the Alpha, the world spun; it was upside-down. Matt
whimpered in fear. He tried to draw a deep breath, but his airway constricted
and he choked. I can't breathe! I can't breathe! he panicked. It hurt. He
couldn't remember the last time he had fallen victim to such a consuming panic-
attack. Not for years.
                Oh,gods! I'm going to suffocate!My heart is going to burst! I'm
going to die!
                The Alpha grabbed Matt's chin and lifted his face to the sky,
opening his airway, encouraging him to breathe deeply. Slowly, he did. One,
two, three. It felt familiar: one of the Alpha's strong hands wrapped around
his stomach, supporting his weight; the other cupped the back of his head,
fingers coiled in his pale curls. The Alpha's fingers were slimmer than
Scott's, but not as long and gentle as Francis'; his touch was very deliberate,
like Liam and Patrick's; but practised, like Owen's. His proximity calmed
Matt's racing heart. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that he was
in his family's protective embrace. Almost. But it's not them, he noted the
subtle differences. He's not the same as them. He's a stranger.Yet Matt found
himself leaning into the Western Alpha's warm body, drawing comfort from his
pungent, soothing scent.
                "It's okay," said that raspy voice. "I've got you, it's okay."
                "I-I—I'm sorry," Matt whispered. "I'm better now."
                Shyly, he pushed against the Alpha's chest with his right hand.
In his left, he was still clutching the dagger.
                "Whoa, careful!" said the Alpha, grabbing Matt's shoulders to
stay his swaying.
                Matt dismissed his help. "I'm fine. I just... I suffer from
panic-attacks," he explained in embarrassment.
                The Alpha eyed him skeptically. "Like, post-trauma—?"
                "No, it's genetic."
                "Hm."
                Matt twisted a curl self-consciously, his gaze downcast in
shame. The panic-attack had stolen his fight. Or, he thought it had, until the
Alpha said:
                "Let's go to the fort."
                Matt shook his head (the world shuddered). "No," he said
weakly.
                The Alpha sighed. "If you stay here, Le Roux's Alphas will rape
you and kill you," he said bluntly.
                Matt wanted to argue, but there was no lie in the Alpha's
forthright tone, no embellishment. It was honest, like Al's. He pursed his
lips. "And if I go with you—?" he asked. Bravely, he lifted his gaze for a
fleeting second. "How do I know you won't do the same?"
                "You're just going to have to trust me.
                "I'm Gilbert," he added in good-faith. "Captain Gilbert
Beilschmidt, Fort Commander of the Black Forest Fort of the Western Empire."
                "Matthew," Matt replied softly.
                "Matthew," Gilbert repeated, "I promise that you'll be safe
with me, but first you have to trust me."
                Matt hesitated, then nodded in surrender. He felt tired—so very
tired. All of the stress, fear, and exhaustion he had tried to suppress since
getting lost seemed to crash down on him all at once, stealing the little
strength he had left. He felt helpless. He just wanted to close his eyes and
sleep. "Captain," he whispered faintly. The Alpha leant in closer to hear. Matt
swayed; his vision blurred. "I'm going to faint now."
                Gilbert's smile was gentle. "Okay," he said. And caught Matt a
second later.
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Six *****
WESTERN EMPIRE
WILDERNESS
I told you to stay off that leg," Ivan grumbled.
                Al, who had awoken from a cat-nap begun at high-noon—it was
nearly three now—rubbed drowsily at his face. "I know. I am," he yawned. In
example, he hopped one-footed. Once, twice. Swaying dangerously, he lowered
himself onto his rump beside Ivan, pulling a heavy pelt over his shoulders.
Ivan glanced down at Al from his perch on an overturned crate by the fire, then
resumed his task. Al sat briefly in silence, then sighed deeply, a subtle
request for attention. Ivan ignored it. "I'm bored," Al vocalized, staring
meaningfully at Ivan. The Alpha's violet eyes didn't stray; he merely grunted
in acknowledgement. Al waited, fidgeted. "What are you doing?" he asked
inevitably.
                "I'm repairing a basket," Ivan replied.
                A burst of laughter exploded from Al's mouth. "Basket-weaving?"
he grinned. He poked Ivan's shoulder in jest. "That's Omega work!"
                Ivan's cold glare froze Al's grin. The laughter died abruptly.
                "Yes, it's a shame there isn't an able Omega here to help with
the chores," he chastised, "then I would be free to pursue my socially
prescribed gender-role. Alphas,we hunt!" he grunted and thumped his broad chest
in a boorish manner. His tone oozed sarcasm. "Omegas,you basket-weave!"
                "Okay, I get it! I'm sorry," Al sighed. Red-faced, he pulled
his knees to his chest and flinched.
                Ivan's voice resumed its regular base. "Does your leg hurt?"
                "It throbs a little," Al admitted.
                Ivan set the basket aside and shifted on the crate to face Al.
Wordlessly, he stretched out a hand, open-palm. It was a subtle order: Let's
see. Al hesitated, then gingerly lifted his left leg. Ivan took it gently by
the ankle and rested it on his knee. Al leant back slightly to compensate for
his elevated leg. He watched Ivan anxiously, secretly afraid of the pain. He
didn't realize that he was holding his breath until Ivan chuckled.
                "Your face is beet-red," he said as he unwrapped the bandages.
                Al's face grew redder. He looked away, then back. His bare skin
tingled at the Alpha's touch. It was firm, but careful. The higher Ivan's hands
inspected, the faster Al's heart beat. He tried to look uninterested, but the
twinkle in Ivan's violet eyes revealed the Alpha's amusement. As he rewrapped
Al's leg with clean linen, he deliberately lingered. He held Al's leg just
above the knee, applying the gentlest pressure to the Omega's sensitive thigh.
Al's skin was warm, yet he shivered. Am I imagining it, or is he actually
copping a feel? He considered Ivan for a moment, the stoic Lone Wolf who had
showed little interest in the Omega at his mercy. No, he decided, excusing
Ivan's groping. The Alpha's actions were habitual. He had tended to Al's leg
countless times already. It's not like that between him and I. I'm just an
obligation. We aren't friends,just companions by necessity.
                Ivan finished his work and lowered Al's leg, laying his foot on
the hide-covered floor.
                "Thank-you," Al said quietly.
                Ivan paused and cast Al a look of genuine surprise. "I've done
that a dozen times and you've never thanked me before."
                Al shrugged, feeling self-conscious. He pulled his trouser-leg
back down to cover his shin, then hugged the pelt around himself, burying his
nose to hide his blushing face.
                "Are you hungry?" Ivan asked.
                "No," Al lied.
                Ivan stoked the fire, then resumed his position, except, this
time, he ignored the crate and sat with Al on the floor. Immediately, Al felt
drawn toward his body. The Alpha stared absently at the flames, holding a fire-
poker in one hand, sifting the embers. The half-repaired basket sat beside him,
neglected. His face looked softer in the fire's yellow glow, younger.
Impulsively, Al shimmied sideways until he was leaning up against Ivan's side.
He rested his cheek just below the Alpha's shoulder and listened to his strong,
slow heartbeat. Ivan didn't move, not to remove Al or to cuddle him. Al hadn't
expected him to. He sighed in resignation and closed his eyes.
                Ivan said: "You can't seriously be tired."
                "I'm not."
                Since Al had awoke in Ivan's arms, the other snoring—it sounded
like a deep purr—contently beside him, he had taken to the Alpha instinctively,
like an animal. Despite Al's active tongue, he was a physical being. He liked
to be held and touched, preferring nonverbal affection. And Ivan obliged, even
if he didn't participate. He didn't complain when Al crawled to his side and
snuggled close. In fact, he rarely acknowledged the Omega at all. But the
Alpha's body felt good. It was always warm. Not soft, but comfortable. The
closer Al was to Ivan, the safer he felt. Being held is the best feeling there
is, he thought, thinking of his family's loving embraces. I wish Ivan would
hold me like that. I wish he wasn't so distant. Absently, he kneaded the back
of Ivan's shirt between his thumb and forefinger. Being held by him,by those
big,muscular arms—Al's heart fluttered—would feel so good.
                "Little one?"
                Al tensed, fantasy shattered. "Why do you call me that?" he
asked, opening his eyes.
                "What?"
                "Little one," Al repeated. He turned his head, looking up at
Ivan. From the angle, he could see the strong jaw and defined laryngeal
prominence in the Alpha's throat. "Do you think it's funny?" he asked, a note
of unhappiness in his voice.
                He thought of his Alpha friends, who liked to tease him the way
they teased each other, insulting each other's skills and looks. Al would force
a good-humoured smile and laugh it off, but he always felt the bite of
insecurity. He couldn't make a fuss, though; he didn't want his friends to
think he was too sensitive for jokes. Al was thick-skinned when his household
skills were criticized (usually by Arthur), but he disliked when people poked
fun at his looks. It's why he had tried so hard to change them, to lose weight.
Secretly, he was terrified of gaining back what he had lost.
                I know I'm not delicate. I know I'm too big to be a beautiful
Omega. I don't need anyone else to remind me.
                "I don't like being teased," he said abruptly. The words were
spoken before Al could swallow them. He barely had time to regret it, however,
before Ivan said:
                "I'm not."
                "Not what? Not making fun of me?"
                "No."
                "Then why do you call me little one?" he asked in challenge.
"I'm not little, not at all."
                "You're littler than me," Ivan said simply.
                Al stared curiously at him for a moment, searching for a lie, a
cruel jest, but he relaxed when he found none. Ivan's face was as uninterested
as ever, eyes fixed on the fire.
                "Everyone is littler than you," he grumbled, feigning annoyance
as he shimmied back down.
                In truth, his stomach flipped nervously. He tried to ignore it,
but he wanted Ivan to hold him now more than ever. He wanted to feel that big,
broad body envelope him, warm muscles flexed with strength. Since Al had come-
of-age, he had rarely felt small. Scott was the only Islander who made Al feel
small, but the pack-leader was not fond of cuddling with anyone except for
Matt, whom he indulged (just like everyone else). Lars had made Al feel less
big, but he, too, had preferred Matt. I know it's my looks. I'm too big,too
tall,too fat. A wave of self-loathing crashed over the young Omega. He tried to
ignore it, but it was fueled by Ivan's disinterest. Tears burned his eyes, but
he refused to let them fall. It had been many years since he had cried in front
of anyone but Arthur. He tried to be logical:
                What did I expect? Alphas want small,delicate Omegas that make
them feel bigger and more powerful. If Matt was here then Ivan would prefer
him,too.
               The thought provoked a surge of sudden envy, like nothing Al had
ever felt before. It was accompanied by a feeling of such intense
possessiveness, Al found himself at a complete loss. He felt angry and helpless
simultaneously. He couldn't explain it.
                "Stop whining," Ivan said suddenly.
                Al stopped immediately. He hadn't noticed the pitiful noise he
was making. He buried his face, feeling angry and embarrassed. Ivan
misinterpreted Al's internal conflict as distress. He must have, for Al
couldn't determine any other reason for what the Alpha did next.
                Without warning, Ivan lifted an arm and wrapped it securely
around Al's body, pulling him in close. It took a moment for the shock to
dissipate, for Al to remember how to breathe. Since the first night Ivan had
crawled into bed with him, the Alpha had let the Omega cling to him without
complaint, but he had never responded before. He had never even looked down at
Al before. Not, Al realized, that Ivan was looking at him now. His eyes were
still plastered to the fire, sparkling as they reflected the flickering light.
Al froze instinctively, then he slowly let himself sink into the embrace he had
only moments ago been fantasizing about. As expected, he felt small. Not
delicate or helpless, but like someone in need of soothing. Ivan held Al
tightly, yet gently—as always. The comfort he lent was subtle, as if he really
did think that Al was distressed, but wouldn't verbally acknowledge it to
preserve the Omega's dignity. Still, it quieted Al's insecurities. It made him
feel valued, as if he was something worth guarding.
                I was right, Al thought, pressing his cheek to Ivan's chest.
This feels so good.
                "Ivan—?"
                The Alpha grunted in acknowledgement. When Al didn't reply, he
glanced down.
                Al smiled up at him, and said: "I'm hungry."
===============================================================================
Ivan sighed. Al was incorrigible.
                "I just asked if you were hungry."
                "I know. Now I am," he replied, ignoring his previous
dismissal.
                I knew you had to be, Ivan thought. The Omega's eating habits
were inconsistent. Al hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, just a half-bowl
of porridge. He's still healing,he needs to eat more. Ivan felt like Al's
Omega-parent, goading him into eating, sleeping, and taking better care of
himself. You're too skinny, he noted, gently squeezing Al's ribs. How can you
think you're not little? You're half-starved! It angered Ivan when Al refused
to eat, but he held his tongue, afraid of bullying the Omega into a fit. Al was
the kind of Omega who would do something just because he had been told the
opposite. He would not be ordered or forced, something Ivan had discovered
early. If Al Kirkland didn't want to do something, then Al Kirkland didn't.
                Stubborn,Omega!
                Of course, it was a two-way street. He was a very self-involved
Omega, very brazen. If Al Kirkland did want to do something, then he did it
without thinking—like cuddling with Ivan.
                He's like an animal seeking comfort. He just likes the warmth,
my body-heat, Ivan justified, holding Al one-armed. The Omega had fidgeted,
crawling absently onto the Alpha's lap and burying his face below Ivan's
collarbone, like a nesting pup. Ivan's leg was numb under Al's weight, but he
didn't move. He hadn't wanted to disturb Al, whom he had thought was asleep.
Asleep again? Ivan had never met anyone who slept as much as Al. The Omega
mumbled incoherently now and then, but mostly he just whined. It was a sad
sound, as if he was distressed. What now? Ivan wondered, trying—and failing—to
feel annoyed. Before he could stop himself, he had raised an arm to hold the
Omega close. It was instinct, a reflex. But it felt good. Al relaxed and rested
his head on Ivan's chest, his body curled against the Alpha, feeling safe. So
good.
                It's the physical contact he likes,not me, Ivan reminded
himself. I'm just a big,warm body. I'm replaceable. He won't stay here forever.
When his leg heals,he'll leave. Someone else will hold and comfort him then.
Maybe one of his Alpha friends—
                Ivan swallowed a growl.
                His stomach knotted at the thought of being left alone again.
Al was—annoying, talkative, disobedient—good company that he didn't want to
lose.
                I want to keep him, he thought selfishly, feeling possessive.
But if there was ever an Omega who wouldn't be held against his will, it was Al
Kirkland.
                Ivan consoled his loneliness by gently squeezing Al. He wanted
to hold him tighter, but he had to be careful. Al was small; his bones were
fragile. Ivan didn't want to accidentally bruise his pretty bronze skin,
especially since he was already injured. Ivan had to be gentle, or he risked
hurting the Omega through neglect. It had happened before with other Omegas,
who had been afraid of Ivan because of it. More than anything, he didn't want
to hurt Al. And he didn't want Al to be afraid of him.
                Quickly, Ivan grabbed the fire-poker to keep his mind
distracted and his hands busy. He liked to be busy, he disliked idleness. He
needed to feel useful. His childhood had been too short for playing; play had
been discouraged—beaten out of him—at an early age. But Al's impish smile and
sparkly jewel-blue eyes made Ivan want to joke and play with him, like a pup.
He often found himself inadvertently wrestling with Al when the Omega refused
to comply, not because he didn't want what Ivan was offering, but because he
wanted to play. Al liked to poke at him, provoking the Alpha. He liked to tug
at Ivan's clothes and hair, like a toddler abusing an old, good-humoured dog.
His mischievous smirk seemed to say: Play with me! And Ivan wanted to. He
wanted to wrestle Al, tickle him, and make him screech. He wanted to see Al's
flushed face, gasping, smiling, moaning. He wanted to pin the gorgeous Omega
under him and tease every inch of his golden body—with his tongue. He wanted to
hold Al, not as a friend or caretaker, but as a mate. Instead, he ignored Al.
He actively tried not to look at him. He pushed him (gently) away when the
Omega felt frisky. Ivan wouldn't—couldn't—admit how much he liked holding Al,
because he was afraid of wanting more.
                He likes the physical contact, but that's all it is to him. It
means nothing. It's just convenient,like me.
                I shouldn't indulge him, he thought. He had saved Al out of
pity, he hadn't expected the Omega to survive. He hadn't intended to get
attached. I can't. If he did, it would only hurt that much more when Al left.
                "Why are you staring at me?" Al asked, frowning. A faint blush
coloured his cheeks. "Did you hear me?"
                "Yes, I heard you."
                Unceremoniously, Ivan stood, leaving Al unbalanced. The Omega
fell forward with a soft: "Oof!" He looked up at Ivan from his stomach, thick
eyelashes lowered, and pouted, somehow looking cute and sexy. A too-big sleeve
had slipped off of his shoulder, hanging lopsidedly, revealing a generous
amount of perfect, soft skin.
                Ivan swallowed a mouthful of saliva and turned away.
===============================================================================
Where are you going?" Al asked.
                "I'm going to get you something to eat," Ivan replied curtly.
                He stalked to a weathered box in the corner, heavy-footed. Is
he angry? Al wondered, noting how tense the Alpha suddenly looked. He hadn't
meant to upset Ivan. He knew that he was a burden, unable to hunt for himself.
He knew how frustrating it must be for an adult Alpha to have to play caretaker
to an adult Omega, an injured one, which is why Al tried to keep their
relationship as lighthearted as possible. But Ivan didn't like to play. No
doubt, he thought Al was annoying. I can't help it, he sighed in defeat, I'm
bored. And Ivan is so easy to provoke! There was something about the big, stoic
Alpha that made Al want to tease him, poke him, tug at him, fishing for a
reaction. Come on,Ivan! Fight back! He wanted to see the Alpha smile a genuine,
nonthreatening smile. He wanted to hear the Alpha's laugh. Fight me!Tackle me!
Pin me down,crawl on top of me,and—
                Al blushed. Fortunately, Ivan's back was turned.
                 The Alpha had opened the box and was digging through it. It
caught Al's attention. The box had sat there for as long as Al had been in
Ivan's company, but he had never seen its contents. It seemed limitless. It was
the place Ivan stored his valuables, tools, and weapons. Al had asked about it
once, expecting Ivan to ignore him as always, but to his surprise the Alpha's
eyes had narrowed in warning, and he snapped: "Don't touch it!" Since then, he
had actively kept Al away from the wooden box. His secrecy didn't make Al want
to investigate any less, of course, but he respected that it contained the
Alpha's private property and he let it be. However, as Ivan pulled out a
hunting-knife, Al accidentally caught sight of a grey jacket, which was folded
neatly. It looked like a uniform, stitched with a foreign insignia, and his
curiosity returned tenfold. A hundred questions formed on Al's tongue, but he
stayed silent. Ivan was already tense. Al didn't want to upset him by breaking
the only real rule the Alpha had imposed.
                Ivan closed the box's lid, clutching the hunting-knife. "Stay
here. I'll be right back," he said. It sounded more like a warning than a
farewell.
                Al waited for Ivan's footsteps to fade, swallowed by the
forest, before he wobbled gracelessly over to the box.
                He slid his fingers beneath the lid, opening it slowly. He just
wanted a peek. I just want to know what you're not telling me, he thought,
hoping that the box's contents would reveal Ivan's past. The lid lifted and
fell back. It was a lot fuller than Al expected, everything stacked neatly. The
grey uniform jacket sat on the top. Al took it and unfolded it carefully. He
had never seen the insignia before, but the cut was unmistakable: a military
jacket. The fabric was course between Al's fingers. Generic. Mass-produced.
There was a dark stain on the sleeve. He set the jacket aside and sifted
through a pile of tools, a couple of weapons. A knife's hilt was engraved with
the same State-issued symbol. He lifted a tinder-box, which was not full of
tinder, but of small trinkets, mostly jewelry. Prizes. The word jumped into
Al's head before he could stop it and he felt suddenly chilled. Spoils of war.
His stomach clenched tightly as he looked through the contents, unable to stop
himself: a ring; a bracelet; a pendent; a wood necklace engraved with two sets
of initials—someone's claiming gift. A pen-knife; a compass; a cracked hand-
mirror. Al's hands were shaking by the time he lifted an Omega-pup's doll. It
had a stain on it the same dark shade as the jacket. Quickly, Al shoved it back
into the tinder-box and closed it. He dropped it. It clanged off of something
near the bottom of the box, wrapped in an old oil-skin. Al knew it by its
shape, he needn't look, but he did. A big, heavy steel sword as wide as Al's
leg. It was well cared for, still sharp.
                Al pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a whine. He should not
have been surprised. He had been expecting Ivan's past to be something
unsavoury, why else would he keep it secret? But the physical evidence hit Al
like a blow. The blood on the Omega-pup's doll made him feel ill.
                No,no he didn't. He felt tears sting his eyes.
                Oh,Ivan—
                "I gave you one rule."
                Al whipped around, wide-eyed.
                Ivan's silhouette stood at the cave's entrance, big and
powerful, his eyes reflecting the firelight, gleaming. His teeth were clenched;
his fists were balled. He took a step forward. Slow, deliberate. He didn't
blink. He pierced Al with a haunting gaze. Al had never seen the Alpha look so
angry. It was unlike his empty threats. It was real.
                "I told you not to touch."
                "I-I—I'm sorry!" Al choked out. He could feel himself cowering
as Ivan advanced. "I just wanted to know—"
                "Well now you know," said Ivan menacingly.
                Without warning, he threw a dead pheasant against the cave
wall. Its bones cracked on impact. Al flinched, shrinking lower.
                "Are you happy?" Ivan asked, growling. He reached behind Al and
slammed the box closed. "Now that you know what I am, what I've done, are you
fucking happy?"
                Al gasped when Ivan grabbed his collar and jolted him forward.
Rough. He faced Ivan, nearly nose-to-nose, but for once he couldn't meet the
Alpha's eyes. He felt guilty, ashamed. Afraid.
                "None of that belongs to you," said Ivan, shaking in anger.
"You shouldn't have touched it. I told you not to fucking touch it!"
                A terrible roar filled the cave. Al acted in reflex. He grabbed
the hunting-knife from Ivan's belt and slammed the hilt into the Alpha's
temple. "Get away from me!" he shrieked, slithering out of Ivan's grasp.
Clumsily, he escaped to the opposite side of the cave, to the bed. There,
against the cave wall, he extended the knife's blade in threat. "Don't touch
me!" he snarled as aggressively as he could.
                Ivan eyed Al, his chest heaving as he breathed, trying to curb
his fury. A low growl reverberated in his throat. He took a step toward Al, his
murderous gaze fixed on the defensive Omega. Al held his breath, paralyzed with
fear. Could he really stab Ivan if he needed to? His whole body trembled.
Ivan's shadow swallowed him. He didn't blink. He reached for Al with a powerful
hand. Al readied to lunge. Then, just before he reached the Omega, Ivan drew
back. In effort his hand curled back into a shaking fist and he suddenly
changed direction. With a loud, frustrated growl he left the cave and was gone.
                Al barely felt the pain in his leg as he collapsed on the
bedding, the knife landing mutely beside him.
===============================================================================
WESTERN EMPIRE
BLACK FOREST FORT
 
Matthew?"
                Matt was staring out of the bedchamber's window at the forested
landscape below. The narrow window was barely wider than an arrow-loop; the
bedchamber was large, but barren, not unlike Lars'. Why don't Alphas want to be
comfortable? he had thought. Then again, it wasn't a house; it was an army
base. A fort. It looked like a fort and it smelled like a fort: cold, hard,
empty, and built for practicality, not luxury. At least the bed was soft and
the crackling hearth fire warm. Matt had been so exhausted that he had fallen
effortlessly into a deep, dreamless slumber as soon as Gil had let him. But it
had been a short reprieve. Since Gil had brought Matt to the Black Forest Fort,
the Omega felt trapped. He felt safer surrounded by the thick stone walls,
protected like he hadn't been in the forest, but—
                I'm a prisoner here. I can't escape. If I do choose to
leave,I'll die.
===============================================================================
TWELVE HOURS AGO
Can you walk?" Gil asked.
                Drowsily, Matt nodded. He felt dizzy, hungry, but he didn't
want to be carried into the fort like a damsel. Gil set him down, but took his
arm in escort, folding Matt's hand into the curve of his arm; afraid that the
Omega would collapse or run, Matt didn't know. His mouth felt dry as he looked
up at the Black Forest Fort's imposing stone walls and he leant cowardly into
the Alpha's solid body. Gil called up to the guards, ordering them to open the
gate. "It's okay, just stay close," he whispered to Matt as he led the Omega
inside. The gate closed heavily behind them, making Matt feel instantly
trapped. His heart beat faster. Timidly, he hugged Gil's bicep, seeking a
shield from the dozens of baffled eyes that suddenly turned in his direction,
watching him; some in confusion, some in suspicion, and some like they had
never seen an Omega before in their lives. The soldiers didn't dare question
their red-eyed commander, but they congregated in the courtyard without orders,
awaiting Gil's explanation.
                "Captain?" said a big, blue-eyed blonde in bewilderment.
                "Lieutenant." Gil nodded curtly and kept walking. He led Matt
up a flight of wooden stairs, then stopped. In a booming voice that made Matt
flinch, he said (in German):
                "This is Matthew. He is a guest of the fort and he is under my
protection. He is NOT to be touched."
                As Gil talked—presumably explaining Matt's presence—Matt tried
to ignore the soldiers' eyes. It felt like déjà vu, standing on a dais and
clutching an Alpha for safety while others gawked at him. But unlike the Low-
Landers, who had smiled and cheered at the news being relayed, the Westerner
soldiers stared in stony silence. Matt heard the wind whistle through tower
rafters; the faraway cry of a crow; the lazy flap of a flag. He heard his own
heart beat in his ears. The atmosphere was tense and unwelcome. The Alphas
themselves looked cold and tired, and the fort looked grey.
                They know that I'm not supposed to be here, Matt thought. He
remembered what Captain Le Roux had said about the West's laws. They know it's
illegal.
                Gil's speech ended abruptly. The Alphas all echoed: "Yes, sir!"
and then dispersed wordlessly to their duties. It was not a friendly reception,
Matt thought, but if Gil was worried he didn't show it. On the contrary, he
seemed to be more relaxed now than he had been in the forest; more in command.
He led Matt into the keep, ignoring the blue-eyed Alpha who tried fervently to
catch the captain's attention. It was dark and quiet inside, the walls blocking
out the sounds of the courtyard. In silence, they climbed to the second level
where Gil stopped in front of a door. "This is my private bedchamber," he said,
inviting Matt inside. "You'll be safe in here."
                "Safe for how long?" Matt asked.
                Gil shut the door, then turned. Matt tensed as the Alpha
stepped further into the room. Forthright, he said:
                "I'm not going to sugar-coat this, okay? You're in danger,
Matthew Bonnefoi. And if you haven't figured that out yet, then you're a lot
denser than you look. In less than a day, Le Roux will return with a company of
Southerners who will lay siege to this fort to get to you. I can't let that
happen."
                Matt wrapped his arms around himself and shook his head. "But
why? Whyme?"
                "It's because you're Francis Bonnefoi's pup—"
                "Yes, you all keep saying that, but nobody has told me why my
Papa is a wanted Alpha." A note of frustration leaked into Matt's voice. "What
crime was Captain Le Roux talking about?"
                "Francis Bonnefoi," Gil hesitated, "is a murderer charged with
regicide. Patricide," he added darkly. "It's said he murdered his Alpha-father,
the Clan Leader, fifteen years ago. That's why he left the South."
                "No." The word was quiet, but the conviction surprised Gil.
"You're wrong. My Papa's not a murderer."
                "The South thinks otherwise."
                "The South is wrong!" Matt snapped, feeling angry in defense.
"I know my Papa. I know how much he loves us. He would never hurt his family,
not for any reason. He loved his clan. Leaving it hurt him badly. I don't care
what the South believes, he's not a murderer. It's impossible."
                "Maybe."
                Matt frowned at Gil. The Alpha sighed deeply, his shoulders
slumping. He looked as tired as his soldiers.
                "I don't know, okay? I wasn't there," he said tersely. "It was
fifteen years ago, I was five. I was busy chasing birds and abusing my little
brother. All I can tell you is what I've heard."
                He gestured to the bed, inviting Matt to sit. Reluctantly Matt
sat on the edge, shifting as the mattress dipped beneath Gil's added weight,
pulling him toward the centre. The Alpha sat on the opposite end at a polite
distance and faced Matt like a storyteller. He said:
                "The Southern Empire called Bonnefoi a traitor for murdering
his Alpha-father, but I'm not the only one who thinks that the circumstances of
Bonnefoi Senior's death were more than a little suspicious. The Southern Empire
has always been power-hungry," he said, guessing at Matt's naivety on the
subject. "It swallows the free clans like a beast, steadily expanding its
territory. It has been for generations.
                "Fifteen years ago the Emperor set his sights on the free
French clans and conquered them all, except one. Francis' clan resisted the
Southern Army. They fought back, and—miraculously—they won. So the Emperor
changed tactic. If he couldn't defeat them in the field, he would conquer them
by negotiation. Rather than waste resources on a siege, he called a truce with
the French. He sent a small party of envoys to the French city to negotiate a
treaty. The Southerners spoke pretty words, making promises that I, at least,
don't think they ever intended to honour. It's said that Francis was there, the
Clan Leader's fifteen-year-old heir. He was a pup, but he was arrogant. That's
how the story goes, anyway. He was loud and rude to the Southerners, and made
no effort to play-nice and hold his tongue. It was his pride that angered the
Southerners. He openly criticised his Alpha-father, the Clan Leader." Gil
paused to shake his head, as if he couldn't believe the gall of young-Francis;
as if the mere thought of disobeying one's sire was criminal. "It was a very
public display," he continued. "Eventually, Francis stormed off as a sign of
protest. He hated the South; he had made that very clear.
                "I wonder," he thought aloud, "if he had been older, or
smarter, or just better behaved, would his clan have believed him? Would they
have tried to protect him?" He shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter.
                "That night, the French Clan Leader was found dead in his
chambers and Francis was blamed. I don't know what evidence they found to
support it, but after Francis' public disgrace nobody had trouble believing it
was him. He singlehandedly proved everything that the Southerners had been
saying true: That the French clan was poisoned from within, in danger of
betrayal. I don't know if it was fear, or anger, or grief that made the French
clan-members believe it, but they did. They swore loyalty to the Southern
Emperor in exchange for the Southern Army's protection and a promise of
revenge. The French militia joined with the Southern Army and they hunted
Francis, the pup whom they branded a blood-traitor. The pup who hated the South
so much that he had murdered his own Alpha-father.
                "I'm sorry," Gil added, looking at Matt.
                Matt stared at the floor, his hands folded tightly, white-
knuckled. He pursed his lips as he processed what he had just been told.
                "You don't believe it, do you," he said softly. It was a
statement, not a question.
                Gil shrugged noncommittally. "It sounds a little too easy to
me. Francis was a convenient scapegoat, don't you think? He was only fifteen. I
think the French clans were scared and desperate, and I think the Southerners
took advantage of a paranoia that was already growing inside. The South
couldn't defeat the French by force, so they took a different route and
crippled the clan from within, purging it of rebellious influence in the
process. Had Francis stayed, he would've been a figurehead for future
rebellion. Who better to rally the troops than the Clan Leader's heir? In the
end, I think it had to be Francis who got blamed for the murder. He was the
only logical choice, because the Southern Empire couldn't risk the French
unifying and regaining their freedom. To the South, Francis' life was a
representation of liberty. That's why they wanted him dead.
                "That's why they want you dead, Matthew."
                Matt looked at Gil in disbelief. "Me? No, I—"
                "You're Francis Bonnefoi's pup, which means you've got the
blood of the French clan before it was annexed. You represent now what Francis
did fifteen years ago, a birth-right to lead the French clan to freedom. If the
French knew of your existence, then rebels—separatists—might come forward in
defiance of the Southern Empire and plot to restore Francis' bloodline, you, as
their leader."
                Matt shook his head fervently, curls bouncing. He felt
overwhelmed. "No, that's not true. I don't understand. On the Isles, the Clan
Leader is chosen by ability, trial-by-combat."
                "This isn't the Isles, Matthew," Gil said stonily. "Here, blood
is worth more than anything. Leaders aren't just governors, they're symbols of
power."
                "But that's not me," Matt argued. "I'm not like that, really
I'm not. I don't want anything to do with the clans in the South. I just
want..." to go home.
                His voice faded as he stared vacantly at his hands. This is too
much, he thought. How did this happen to me? For years he had prepared himself
for a domestic life as an Alpha's Omega-mate, and that alone had been taxing.
He had expected to be bred. He had promised to be a good Omega-father to his
pups, following Arthur's example, loving and devoted. He had decided to be a
good mate, to put his Alpha-mate first. But that's all. He had never even
expected to leave the Isles, let alone go from pair-bonding with a Low-Lander
to being a Western soldier's voluntary captive.
                These past two weeks have really sucked.
                Forget the Rhine, Matt felt like he was drowning in social
politics.
                "Why did you save me?" he asked Gil. He couldn't hide the note
of suspicion in his voice. Recent events had put him permanently on-guard. "I'm
a danger to you and this fort, you said so yourself. All of your Alphas know it
too, I saw it on their faces. They're afraid of the South, aren't they? So are
you. So why did you break the law? Why are you risking the South's wrath for
me? If what you've told me about my Papa is true, then this isn't your fight."
                "No, it's not."
                "Then why—?"
                Gil broke eye-contact. "Because when I saw you alone in the
forest, I wanted to help you. And I still do."
                Help me?
                "Mate me, you mean," Matt supplied.
                Gil exhaled a short, nervous laugh. "See, I knew you weren't
dense," he said, staring keenly at the floor. His albino-pale cheeks reddened.
                Matt had never seen an adult Alpha blush before. Then again,
most Alphas had taken mates by the time they were twenty-years-old; most had
pups by then. It was disarming to see one—a soldier, a red-eyed wolf—so
flustered at the thought of mating. Despite his defense, Matt felt himself
blush in reply.
                This is ridiculous, he thought. He's a stranger,he's taken me
captive,and he wants to mate me. I should be terrified of him.
                Instead, he said: "Mating-law trumps blood-law, that's what you
said to Captain Le Roux."
                "Omegas belong to their Alphas and are adopted by their Alpha's
family and clan. It's the same everywhere, I think," Gil said, speaking to the
floor. "The West protects its kin. By adoption or not, if a clan-member is
threatened then the West's laws protect him, no matter how great the danger.
The Western Empire doesn't surrender," he stated proudly, regaining a spark of
confidence. "As long as the Omega is mated to a Westerner, the Empire protects
him."
                "That's why you lied to Le Roux. You told him that I was your
intended mate so that you could protect me."
                "Yes, that's why."
                "But I can't be yours," Matt remembered, touching the gold band
on his finger. "I'm already pair-bonded—"
                "But not mated," Gil said. Slowly, he lifted his red gaze. "I'm
sorry if you're in love with him." He bobbed his chin, indicating the ring.
"But your life now depends on being mated, not pair-bonded. I don't know what
it's like on the Isles, but here on the Mainland you're not considered a true
pair-bonded couple until you've been mated by your Alpha. And you haven't."
                "I know I haven't, but—"
                "If you leave this fort unmated, there is nothing to protect
you from Le Roux," said Gil. He stood, distancing himself from Matt. The
bashful Alpha was gone; the soldier was back. "It won't take the Southerners
long to find you, and when they do you will die. You pose too much of a threat
to the Southern Empire. Those Alphas will rape you and kill you. They'll take
pleasure in it. And the law will let them."
                "But—"
                "This isn't a game!" Gil snapped suddenly. Matt flinched. There
was an odious growl in his voice, revealing anger as he stood over the Omega,
but Matt could see fear as well. It's not me he's angry at. Again, he noted how
tired the Alpha looked; how worried.
               "This is a war," Gil growled. "It's fucking ugly. And if you
test it then you're going to get very, veryhurt. It's not a fucking fairytale,
okay? It's real. There's no shining white knight waiting to rescue you,
sweetheart. There's no hero. There's just me."
                Matt didn't move. He stayed perfectly silent. The Alpha's
temper barely fazed him, overpowered by the threat of his words and dread of
the looming decision he had to make, but Gil misinterpreted Matt's silence for
fear. He must have, because he backed off suddenly and knelt, overcompensating
for his outburst. Suddenly, he looked more like a blushing suitor than a
soldier.
                "I'm sorry, uh..." Absently, he raked a hand through his
silver-white hair, mussing it. He eyed Matt guiltily. "I'm not very good at
this," he admitted, attempting a half-smile. It failed, unrequited. "I'm not
trying to frighten you," he said earnestly, "but I won't lie. I'm just telling
you the truth, okay? I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do.
It's your choice, but I am the only thing standing between you and Le Roux. I
think you know that."
                "My choice," Matt repeated, feeling hollow. Deliberately, he
looked down at the kneeling Alpha. He felt cold. He didn't realize he was
shivering until Gil held out a hand. It was so white it was nearly translucent,
skin stretched taut over strong bones and crosshatched with old, pale scars.
Matt hesitated. It was a long time before he moved, but Gil didn't retreat. He
didn't lower his hand; he didn't break eye-contact; he didn't retract his
offer. He stayed motionless, waiting for the Omega to come to a decision.
Finally, Matt sighed and reached for the Alpha's hand.
                "How could I reject such a charming proposal?" he said
sardonically.
                Gil eyed him uncertainly. "You'll do it then?" he asked. He
pulled the Omega with him as he stood. It was a fast, forceful action, more
like himself. Matt nearly lost his balance.
                "If you mean be your mate," said Matt, lifting his head to meet
the Alpha's eyes, cold violet staring into fierce red, "then yes, I'll do it.
                "I don't want to die."
===============================================================================
PRESENT
Matthew—?" Gil repeated.
                Reluctantly, Matt tore his gaze away from the window and faced
Gil. It had been hours since he had seen the Alpha, not since he had accepted
Gil's proposal. Gil had left him in the near-empty bedchamber to eat, wash, and
rest. As Matt scrubbed his skin clean, rinsing unscented suds from his curls,
he found himself missing his family afresh. He tried not to cry, but tears fell
even as he tried to wash his face. Stop it, he chastised himself. Stop
crying,he's going to think you're pathetic! But he couldn't help it. He felt so
alone. The last time he had properly bathed and slept in a bed, Al had been
there. The last time he had felt trepidation to pair-bond with an Alpha, his
whole family had been there to support him. I miss them so much. And Lars...
I'm sorry, he thought, feeling guilty as he rubbed the Alpha's ring. I'm
sorry,but I don't want to die. He dressed in the clothes Gil had left for
him—an Alpha squire's hand-me-downs—and briefly considered removing Lars' ring,
but in the end he left it on. It was the only physical reminder he had of what
he had left behind. He peered into Gil's small looking-glass and habitually
began finger-combing his pale-blonde curls, pulling them back from his face the
way Francis liked it, but he stopped abruptly. Tears filled his eyes and he
couldn't meet his own reflection, so he looked away. He ate a small meal,
hunger abated by anxiety, and then crawled into Gil's bed and slept for a long
time, until the tolling of a bell shocked him awake. He bolted upright,
disoriented and afraid of the last bell he had heard, but it was only the
noontide bell tolling the time. The sun was high in the midday sky, but its
light was weak. A hazy shine filtered in through the narrow window, revealing a
curtain of grey mist.
                He could see it now, coating Gil. It made him look like an
apparition. He stood in the dead-centre of the big room in his shirt-sleeves.
He had removed his metal and leather armour, and his heavy cloak in
preparation. Without the articles of his profession—the regal insignia; the
proud sword—his clothes looked threadbare, in desperate need of cleaning and
mending. His shirt was faded and torn in places; his trousers were worn thin
and frayed; his knee-high boots were well cared-for, but old and cracked. The
Fort Commander's attire looked not unlike the fort itself, holding determinedly
together by meager threads. It made Matt wonder how long Gil and his Alphas had
been living at the old fort, isolated, and defending an Empire that looked as
if it had forgotten them. Yet despite his ragged appearance, Gil was strong.
Like the fort, he was proud. There was a fearlessness about him that Matt
liked. He held his head high, his shoulders back, his chest out. He was a very
handsome Alpha. There was a wildness about his person that lent spice to his
appearance, which, for all of his stiff formality, was still dashingly devil-
may-care. There was a glint in the Alpha's red eyes, the curve of his lips,
that whispered mischief. Matt's stomach fluttered giddily in reply, but the
feeling was fleeting. He remembered what the Alpha's return implied and a
sinking feeling replaced the giddy one.
                "Can't we wait?" he asked meekly. It was a futile request, he
knew, likely to annoy Gil, but he was scared. "In three weeks, I'll be in
Heat—"
                "Matthew," said the Alpha soberly, "you don't have three days.
Le Roux will be here by sunset. We've already waited as long as we can."
                Matt nodded in apology. His heart was pounding as he stepped
into the centre of the bedchamber to meet Gil and his fate, resigned as he
began to unbutton his borrowed shirt. He tried to hide his nerves, but his
fingers trembled violently. He felt cold, full of dread. As he released a
button, he pictured Gil watching him, as Lars had once done, and he felt his
cheeks heat in embarrassment. Don't think about what you're doing,just do it,
he told himself.It won't be that bad. It can't be that bad,or nobody would ever
want to do it. It's just mating. It'll be over quickly. All I have to do is let
him—
               He flinched suddenly when Gil gabbed his hand, stopping him. In
shock, Matt's face revealed his fear.
                Oh,no! Did I do something wrong already?
                Gil lowered Matt's hands, neglecting the shirt buttons. "Keep
it on if you want," he allowed.
                Holding Matt's hand, he led the young Omega to the bed.
===============================================================================
Gil had never felt so tense, not even before a battle. At least in battle he
was surrounded by his comrades, who obeyed him, who trusted him. In battle
there was always a plan-of-action, rules to follow. In battle he was unafraid
of a poor performance. He was confident, brazen even. In battle he knew what he
was doing. Here, however, he did not. Here, he was alone with a traumatized
Omega, barely an adult by clan-law, whom he had no idea what to do with and no
one to consult. Gil had spent his whole life surrounded by Alphas, after all:
loud, rough, rude soldiers-in-training, who were virile, physical beings. He
had never had to worry about hurting any of them. Alphas were made of sterner
stuff, made to test the world with the gifts nature had bestowed upon them. But
Omegas were different. Omegas were softer and quieter and more mysterious.
Omegas were uncharted territory as far as Gil knew. It had been two years since
he had so much as seen an Omega, and not one so young and pretty as Matt.
Looking at Matt, Gil felt utterly lost.
                But I'm not the only one, he realized, feeling selfish. Matt's
elegant figure was shaking from head-to-toe. He was tense, his eyes downcast.
He doesn't know what to do either.
                Gil watched Matt crawl obediently onto the bed, body twisting,
long legs pulled up to his chest in defense. He kept his head bowed, silky
pale-blonde curls hiding his face as he awaited the Alpha's lead. He sat as
still as a statue as Gil removed his clothes, feeling bashful as he did so. He
had never been stark-naked in front of an Omega before. And he knew he was
nothing pretty to look at. Maybe if he was handsomer Matt might feel more
inclined to—He shook the thought from his head. This is no time to feel sorry
for yourself,Beilschmidt! You've got a beautiful Omega waiting for you,just
look at him! Gil knew he was blushing, staring like a fool, but he couldn't
look away from Matt. His eyes hungrily drank in every detail, every angle,
every clothed curve. Matt had been an attractive vagabond, but now, clean and
rested, Gil felt as if he had struck gold. He tried hard not to let it show,
but already he felt his lower-body stir.
                He stalked hastily forward until his knees struck the bed-
frame, too eager. Slow,go slowly. Don't scare him. Tentatively, he reached out
and touched Matt's cold hand, but the Omega gave no response. Gil climbed onto
the bed on his hands-and-knees and positioned himself in front of Matt, placing
both hands on the Omega's folded knees, but there was still no reply. Matt kept
his gaze plastered to the window. He hadn't looked at Gil even once.
                Please look at me, he thought. He knew why Matt didn't want to,
but it didn't make Gil feel any less slighted. Please don't make me feel like a
villain.
                He tried to soothe the Omega by touch, but his soldier's hands
were rough and clumsy—too eager. He tried to coax the Omega, sliding his hands
up the length of Matt's thighs to his wide hips, but that only produced a
shiver.
                He's not going to like it no matter what I do, Gil realized.
Because he doesn't want me touching him at all. Why am I even wasting my
time?I'm just prolonging his discomfort.
                Decisively, Gil untied Matt's belt and tossed it aside. Don't
worry, it'll be over soon, he thought (more than a little embarrassed that this
would likely be true).
                Matt didn't look at Gil as the Alpha slowly stretched out the
Omega's legs, drawing his trousers down, but his skin flushed in response.
Gil's stomach flipped and his nostrils flared, filling with the Omega's heady,
sweet scent. He couldn't suppress a groan as he touched bared skin. The mere
sight of Matt's skin, as white as virgin snow, made the Alpha's mouth water. He
wanted to lick it—
                Don't! He stopped himself, hands returning to Matt's hips.
Don't tease him. He's already trembling.
                Indeed, Matt was leaning back into the pillows, trying to
distance himself from the Alpha between his legs.
                He doesn't want my touch, Gil remembered, but self-control was
quickly failing. He couldn't not touch the half-naked Omega lying defencelessly
beneath him. It was too tempting. Gil had never held an Omega before, not like
this. His heart was beating in time with Matt's, but instead of fear it was
excitement that fuelled him. He tried to resist the raw, instinctive desire
that flooded him, but found himself leaning further down, wanting to smell, and
touch, and taste Matt, his soon-to-be mate. And he did. He felt his cock
growing uncomfortably hard as he indulged in the young, fertile Omega, provoked
by the soft sounds he produced.
                I'm going to mate you, he thought, feeling intoxicated. I'm
going to put an invisible mark on you and make you mine. I want it. I want you.
I want you to look at me. I want you to praise me. I want you to beg me. I want
you to love me.
               A sudden whine escaped Matt and Gil's half-closed eyes snapped
open.
                "Matthew—?"
                He intended a soothing tone, but his voice was a hoarse growl.
In reply, Matt closed his eyes. A stab of guilt pierced Gil, but it was quickly
submerged by lust. His hard, aching cock was demanding release. Gil had never
mated an Omega before—his profession forbid it—but he wanted this one now.
                "It's okay," he growled, fighting a losing battle to his baser
instincts. "Matthew, I'm not going to—" hurt you. But that was a lie. Gil knew
next to nothing of Omega Heat cycles, but he did know that Omegas were supposed
to be mated for the first time during a Heat to numb the pain. But Matt wasn't
in Heat, and he wouldn't be for three weeks. Gil wished that the circumstances
were different, that he had courted and claimed Matt properly as a real suitor,
but wishing was a waste. He knew they couldn't wait; he couldn't wait. And the
truth was: It was going to hurt.
                "Hold onto me," he said instead. He took Matt's hands and
wrapped them around his neck. The Omega's fingers felt fragile, like the hollow
wing-bones of a small bird. His touch was cold and shy.
                If you get scared or if it hurts too much, then use me,Matthew.
Squeeze me,claw me. I don't care. You can't hurt me. Do whatever you have to.
                "Ready?"
                The pressure Matt's fingers applied was evidence enough that he
wasn't ready, but he gave a small head-bob in consent. It was all Gil needed.
Instinct took over after that. And once he started, he couldn't stop.
===============================================================================
Matt clenched his teeth. He dug his fingers into the Alpha's shoulders, nails
scoring the skin. He tried hard not to make a sound, but Gil's jerking rhythm
pulled embarrassingly high-pitched whines and gasps from him. He felt tears
bead in his eyelashes, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
                So this is being mated—? he thought, as if distanced from the
act.
                At first, it hadn't been so bad. Matt's body had instinctively
responded to the Alpha's exploratory touch with fondness, like he was afraid it
would. Gil's strong scent and the heat of his healthy, virile body so close,
pushed against him skin-to-skin was invigorating; arousing. He had had to
clench his jaw and claw at the bed-sheets to keep quiet as Gil touched him. He
had had to keep his gaze focused on the window, otherwise afraid that the Alpha
would see desire in his eyes; red-faced and biting his lip. Gil's hands were
callused, blunt tools that he used to tease the young Omega. And his body was
so invitingly warm. It had taken willpower not to arch up into Gil and press
himself more firmly against that delicious Alpha body. Oh,gods. I can't help
it.It was like being in pre-Heat, but worse, because instead of fantasy the
object of his body's erotic desire was right there in front of him. His whole
figure shivered in delight.
                It was then he made the mistake of turning his head and looking
at Gil, and—Oh,gods! He's so handsome!
                Soft sighs fell from his parted, puckered lips involuntarily. I
want you to touch me. Stop teasing me and give me more. A bit harder. A bit
faster. A bit rougher. Gilbert—!
                At the last minute—before he could call-out the Alpha's name—he
bit his tongue, and a long, desperate whine escaped him instead.
                "Matthew." His voice was a husky growl that sent a shiver of
pleasure down Matt's spine. "Hold onto me," he ordered. And Matt did.
                "Ready?"
                Matt nodded.
                Then the pleasure was gone, replaced by a sharp pain as Gil's
hard, wet cock penetrated him deep.
                The force of it hurt. It was intrusive; it felt foreign. His
body twitched and flinched helplessly in reply, trying to accommodate the
Alpha's thick girth, but the pain of being stretched and torn prevented it.
Matt's head spun. His heart pounded and his breaths were laboured, trying to
keep pace with Gil's rhythm. The Alpha's weight pressed down on him, undulating
back-and-forth as he grunted in effort, as if guided by some powerful primal
force. A piercing pain made Matt's eyes fly open and he cried-out: "A-ah!" but
Gil didn't stop; didn't slow. Matt clawed at the Alpha's back in retribution,
his body clenched as he hugged tight. He pressed his face against Gil's
shoulder and immediately felt the Alpha's wiry arm snake around his lower-back,
supporting him. He could hear Gil's heavy, wet breaths in his ear; the strong
drumbeat of his heart. His body was hot and sweaty, so hard, and corded with
lean athletic muscle that moved lithely beneath his glistening skin. A whisper
of something—pleasure, maybe—seized Matt, making him feel fleetingly
lightheaded, but it was gone too soon. Tears beaded in the Omega's eyes as the
Alpha reached climax. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his mouth to Gil's
skin to muffle his voice. The Alpha's swollen cock jerked finitely and released
inside of him, filling the Omega with the hot, sticky seed of his pups.
                "Hah—!" Gil gasped, short-of-breath. Then he sighed deeply in
satisfaction and collapsed atop Matt. Matt managed to bite back a strangled
sound and fell silent, panting. Trapped.
                It felt like forever before Gil lifted his weight off of Matt,
his sticky cock sliding out. He took care to unclench Matt's hands, fingers
stiff and nails biting into the Alpha's back. Without Gil's support, Matt fell
back onto the pillows, shaking uncontrollably. He was already starting to feel
cold again, especially when Gil rolled clumsily to the opposite side of the
bed, taking his body-heat with him. He laid on his back, his chest heaving.
Matt stared at the ceiling, afraid to make a sound. The atmosphere was tense
and smelled of salty Alpha semen, sweat, and blood, the scents of post-mating.
It was quiet, except for their deep, measured breaths.
                That's it,it's done. I've finally been mated. I'm pair-bonded
for real this time. I belong to the West now. I belong to Captain Gilbert
Beilschmidt.
                Matt rolled onto his side, wincing. His body hurt. It didn't
feel like his anymore, not when there was Alpha semen coating his insides,
glazing his thighs, mixed with his own blood. Tears flooded his eyes; his lip
trembled. He felt cold and exposed. Overwhelmed. He wanted more than anything
to be held, to feel solid arms wrapped securely around him, reassuring him. He
wanted to feel safe.
                Gil rose swiftly from the bed, his weight gone from the
mattress. Matt heard him shuffling about in search of his clothes, tugging on
each old article meticulously; wordlessly. He was halfway to the bedchamber
door before he stopped. Matt heard his footsteps on the floorboards move back-
and-forth in indecision. He stayed still and silent and waited tensely to see
what Gil would do. He felt hopeful when the Alpha returned to the bed,
momentarily reassured. But it was short-lived. Gil grabbed a heavy blanket and
draped it courteously over Matt's half-naked, shivering figure, then, feeling
satisfied and fulfilled, he retreated. Matt heard the bedchamber door close
behind him. He heard Gil's footsteps fade as he descended the stairs, leaving
his Omega-mate alone.
                Matt sniffed sadly. He had never felt worse to be proved right.
The Alpha had promised to protect him, but in the end he had mated him and left
without a word. Matt couldn't believe that he had dared hope for anything more.
                I want to go home, he thought desperately. He still felt so, so
lost. Dad,Papa,Al... I just want to go home.
               In the harsh light of sunset, the newly-mated Omega buried his
face in a pillow and cried.
===============================================================================
WESTERN EMPIRE
WILDERNESS
Al awoke to a heavy shuffling noise. He had not intended to fall asleep, but
found himself curled into a defensive ball, his face buried in a pillow that
smelled like Ivan. It was dark in the cave. The fire had burned low, the embers
glowing softly in the fire-pit. Al's eyes felt heavy, his lashes clumped, as if
he had been crying in his sleep. He rubbed at them, uttering a soft sigh as the
fog of sleep evaporated. That's when he saw it, a shadow. A very, very large
shadow. Ivan? he thought, but it wasn't. It was bigger, broader—twice Ivan's
size—and covered in a shaggy coat of coarse brown fur. Al's eyes went wide and
he sucked in his breath, not daring to make a sound. He stayed perfectly still
and watched as the bear's massive claws scraped the ground, its body lumbering
through the cave in search of food. It found the dead pheasant and a rack of
drying fish. If Ivan had finished mending the basket, the fish would be safely
stored out of the bear's reach, but the basket lay broken on the floor,
forgotten. Al knew it was the pungent fish smell that had drawn the hungry
beast into the cave. The dead fire hadn't frightened it off. Ivan never let the
fire die for exactly that reason, to keep predators at bay. But Ivan wasn't
there, he had left in a rage. And Al—foolish,stupid, idiot—had fallen asleep
and left the fire untended.
                What should I do? he panicked, eyes skirting the cave for a
weapon.
                The bear finished the fish, licked it maw, and lumbered over to
the bed, its nose following a scent. Al closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and
clutched the pillow tightly, trying not to shake. He felt the bear's hot, wet
breath on his skin, its nose twitching in curiosity. Suddenly, it pawed at Al's
body, trying to push him over. Al grunted. It felt like a punch to the side.
                Go away. Please go away—
                A long, rough tongue licked the blood from his leg, having
discovered the injury.
                Al was shaking uncontrollably now. Forlorn, he eyed the box in
the corner with Ivan's sword tucked inside.
                Then a growl erupted from the cave's entrance, drawing the
bear's attention. Al's eyes swiveled and saw Ivan, weaponless, his lips pulled
back to expose his bared canines. Al had never seen such large canines on an
Alpha before. He spread his arms, trying to make himself look as big and
intimidating as possible, but the bear wasn't discouraged. It reared back, away
from Al, and shook its head fiercely at Ivan, its jowls flapping. Its roar
dwarfed Ivan's, filling the cave. Inadvertently, Al shrieked and covered his
head.
                "Run, Al."
                It took Al a second to process Ivan's calm words. Too late, Al
screamed. The Alpha ducked sideways, grabbed the discarded hunting-knife, and
growled again, provoking the bear to chase him. He drew it away from the bed;
away from the petrified Omega. Al watched, wide-eyed in horror as the beast
struck at Ivan, who dodged the massive claws by an inch. He stabbed the knife's
blade into the bear's hide, but it did nothing except enrage the beast. The
bear stood on its hind legs, swiping with its paws. Ivan flew back, struck by a
nasty blow. Blood soaked his shirt-front.
                "Ivan!" Al screamed.
                "ALFRED, RUN!" Ivan bellowed.
                Al ran, but in the opposite direction as the entrance. He threw
himself clumsily and desperately to the back-wall, hastily retrieving Ivan's
sword from the box. It was heavy. The suddenness of its weight unbalanced Al
and he fell against the wall, dragging the blade on the floor. Two hands, then.
Gripping it tight, he hefted it up and charged lopsidedly at the bear. The
sword's weight and shape gave him momentum, gravity pulling him forward. Just
as the bear lunged at Ivan to deliver a fatal blow, Al thrust the blade deep
into its thick neck. The beast's roar drowned in a gurgle of blood. It
twitched, staggered. Then it fell down dead, the sword skewering its throat.
                Al, too, staggered and fell to his knees, still shaking. His
muscles felt like jelly. Where had that strength come from?
                Wherever it came from,it's gone now.
                "I-Ivan—?" he stuttered.
                The Alpha sat against the wall, his broad, bloody chest heaving
as he panted. His violet eyes looked luminous as they pierced Al, staring at
the Omega in utter disbelief, as if seeing Al anew. He looked from Al to the
bear's corpse, run-through with his sword, and his lips parted in awe.
Involuntarily, he muttered something quiet in Russia; a curse, maybe. After a
minute of stunned silence, he regained his composure, and said:
                "Are you okay?"
                The Alpha's calm voice reawakened Al, shattering the heavy
silence, and the young Omega failed to curb the emotion that welled inside of
him.
                "Of course I'm fucking okay!" His outburst took Ivan by
surprised, loud and high-pitched. Al's big blue eyes were wide. "You—You—You
tried to fight that thing bare-handed, you idiot! That's why I'm okay! Because
you—You almost got yourself killed!" he shrieked in anger.
                "Me?" Ivan balked. "You just killed a fucking bear, Alfred!"
                "I had to! It was going to kill you!" Adrenalin was making him
hysterical. "You got hurt..."
                Ivan opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when he saw Al's
distress. "It's okay," he said calmly instead. He reached out to the shaking
Omega. "Come here, little one. It's okay." Al moved instinctively into the
safety of the Alpha's strong arms. "It's over," he said, stroking Al gently.
"You're safe now."
                "We're safe now," Al corrected, pressing himself against Ivan's
body. He nuzzled the Alpha's neck and face, making a pitiful whining noise that
threatened tears. "Are you okay?" he worried.
                "Yes," Ivan replied, hugging Al one-armed. He rested his cheek
upon Al's golden crown. "Thank-you for asking."
                "The blood—"
                "Just a flesh-wound," Ivan grabbed Al's investigative hand and
held it, squeezed it. "Don't worry about me, little one. I'm okay.
                "I'm sorry I frightened you," he added after a minute of
silence, "before, I mean. I lost my temper. I do that sometimes. I don't know
why."
                Al could feel Ivan's callused thumb rubbing back-and-forth over
the hand he still clasped. It was a meditative motion; for his benefit or
Ivan's, Al didn't know. For both, perhaps. He peeked up at Ivan's ashen face
then, pale from blood-loss. His violet eyes were half-closed and downcast in
shame. His skin was growing cold.
                "I wasn't frightened," Al lied, feeling compelled to reassure
the Alpha. He looked so sad. "I'm mean, it's okay. It wasn't just you, I
shouldn't have looked at, you know... the box." He flushed in guilt. "I—I'm
sorry."
                Ivan closed his eyes. "Me too. I'm sorry, too."
                "Ivan?" Al touched the Alpha's ice-cold cheek. "Hey, you okay?
Ivan—? Ivan!"
                The Alpha chuckled. "Yes? I told you, it's just a flesh-wound,"
he said, grinning at Al's concern. "I've just got to patch it, stop the
bleeding."
                Reluctantly, he released Al and started for the box of medical
supplies he kept handy to tend to Al's leg, but Al pressed a hand to his
shoulder to still him. Wordlessly, he fetched the box and then proceeded to
doctor the Alpha as best as he could. Ivan's shirt was ruined, so Al took a
small folding-blade and simply cut it off of him, revealing the torn flaps of
bloody skin underneath. He sucked in his breath, but Ivan's voice calmed him.
"It looks bad, but I've had worse," he promised. And, indeed, as Al cleaned the
three-tined wound, he saw old scars reveal themselves on Ivan's skin. It was
then he realized that he had never seen the Alpha without his shirt before. His
torso was a canvas of old wounds, big and small; some smooth, some jagged, some
only half-healed. Al tried not to look, but he couldn't help it. He was
captivated by those marks, feeling both horror and admiration.
                "Do they... hurt?" he asked, fingers dancing over a long, white
scar that began at the Alpha's broad shoulder and vanished behind his back.
There were a half-dozen others the same: lashing scars.
                "No, not anymore. They're just... not very pretty."
                "You were a soldier," Al guessed, voicing a long-lived
suspicion. "A soldier from where?"
                "The East," Ivan replied soberly.
                "You left?"
                "Deserted." The word stabbed the silence, heavy with shame.
                "Why?"
                Finally, Ivan opened his half-closed eyes and looked at the
Omega, who's blue gaze was soft in sympathy but lacking in pity. Ivan was not
someone to be pitied, Al thought. He wouldn't have wanted it.
                He said: "How much do you know of the Eastern Empire?"
                "Nothing," Al said honestly. He shrugged. "It's big."
                "Yes, it's big. And it's strong. And it's rotten." As he
talked, his gaze shifted and he spoke to the cold fire-pit over Al's shoulder.
                "It's a beautiful place, a cold, brutal beauty," he said
nostalgically. "I was born on the coast in the far north, a place as wild as
you can imagine, with the open sea and open sky. There was nothing suffocating
about it. At night, the sky would glow with light, so bright you didn't need a
fire. Have you ever seen the sky lights, Al?"
                Al shook his head.
                "It's said by some that they're apparitions of the gods. Others
of a more scientific opinion call it a reflection of the sun, the stars." He
shrugged. "I don't care what causes them, only that they're beautiful.
                "It's been eight years since I've seen those lights," he
continued, voice sobering. "In the East, military service is mandatory. Alpha-
pups from every corner of the Empire are taken at ten-years-old to the Capital,
where they begin their training. No exceptions. Eight years ago, when the
recruiters came to my village, my sister tried to hide me. She made me stand in
a bucket and lowered me into the well behind the house. I was a lot smaller
then," he added with a humourless smile. "Then she faced the soldiers by
herself. I was afraid. I clung to the rope and I listened to my older sister
argue, telling them I'd gone. I heard them ransack the house. Then I heard my
younger sister scream. I couldn't take it. What sort of Alpha lets his Omega-
sisters protect him? So I yelled. I yelled: Here! I'm here! over and over again
until they heard me. When they pulled me up, I saw my sisters crying. I saw my
older sister's bruised face. She glared at me, angrier than I had ever seen
her.
                "That was the last time I ever saw her. The recruiters took me
to the Capital with dozens of other Alpha-pups and I never saw either of my
sisters again."
                "Can't you go back to your village?" Al asked, hoping his voice
didn't betray him. Ivan's confession reminded him of Matt, and he wondered
sadly if he would ever seen his twin-brother again. "Aren't they still there?"
                "No. I did return once, but they were gone.
                "In the Capital," he resumed his narrative, "Alpha-pups live in
the army barracks. I shared a room with sixty others. We shared everything:
beds, bowls, clothes, nothing belonged to us. As part of our training, we were
made to do the menial tasks the soldiers didn't want to do. Omegas aren't
allowed in the barracks, so we did all of the cooking, the cleaning, the
washing, the mending. We tended to the soldiers needs. Hierarchy was beaten
into us. They never let us forget that we were the bottom. Obedience and
discipline are the two pillars of the Eastern Army."
                Ivan paused, and Al intuitively knew that he was remembering
the bite of each disciplinary lash.
                "Alpha-pups live in the barracks for five years, training. By
the time they come-of-age, they're deemed ready to see battle. They're also
deemed ready to meet their Omega-mate. In the East, mates are prearranged by
the State. As Alpha-pups train, their skills are under constant assessment, so
the State can match them to a compatible Omega in order to breed the strongest
pups. Most pups meet their mate for the first time at fifteen-years-old. Each
couple is given three months leave before the Alpha must return to the barracks
for duty. By then the Omega is supposed to be pregnant. Most assignments last
from six to eight months, if you're lucky. If the Alpha survives those months,
then he is given another three months leave to meet his newborn pup and
impregnate his Omega again. And—repeat," Ivan said tonelessly. "This goes on
until the ten years of mandatory service are up, at which time the Alpha is
discharged from the military and allowed to go home to the family he barely
knows."
                "That sounds horrible," Al criticized. He scrunched his nose.
"I mean, you don't even choose your own mate? What if you hate each other?"
                Ivan shrugged. "It's not a perfect system, but it's not
supposed to be. It's supposed to breed strong soldiers, which it often does. By
the time they come-of-age, most people are resigned to it; there are few
alternatives, after all. Not everyone agrees with it, of course. Some try to
fight it, but the State is not something that you can fight. You can't escape
it. Not unscathed, anyway."
                "Is that why you left?" Al guessed, remembering that Ivan had
left the East at fifteen-years-old.
                "Yes, that's why I finally left.
                "I never wanted to be a soldier," he admitted. "They told me I
was strong. They praised me and told me that if I didn't make a mistake I'd be
rewarded with a choice Omega someday. I obeyed my orders. I said Yes,sir! when
I wanted to say Fuck you! I was a good soldier, but I've never had the
disposition for it.
                "I was eleven the first time I was taken on campaign. After an
embarrassing defeat in the South, the Tsar was desperate for a victory, so he
sent the Reserves—us, new recruits—to attack the West. We were ordered to take
the fort and leave no survivors. Kill everyone. I couldn't do it and I was
punished for it. The next time I saw battle, it was just a skirmish. We
outnumbered the Westerners two-to-one, victory was definite, but I froze. And
again I was punished. The third time, I acted on impulse. One of my bedmates—a
pup from the Capital—was injured, covered in blood, and I acted without
thinking. I stabbed the Western soldier from behind, like a coward. It didn't
save my friend. He died of blood-loss, but I was praised for my initiative, my
courage," he spat. "They praised me. They patted my back and gave me a drink
and hot food and let me sit by the fire. I was the first Alpha-pup of my year
to kill an enemy, and—I won't lie—I felt connected to the soldiers just then,
no longer an outsider; no longer just a pup. The acceptance, the affection they
showed me was more than I had expected. It was intoxicating.
                "So I did it again and again and again, just to see their
smiles. Nobody had ever been so proud of me before. I was very small when my
parents died, so I'd never had an Alpha-parent in my life. My sister had always
been soft. I'd never had to earn her approval. But those soldiers... that's all
it was. If I did something good, I was praised; if I failed to impress them, I
was ignored. It played with my head, the back-and-forth. I was only twelve;
thirteen, by then. And I wasn't even supposed to be there."
                "That tinder-box," said Al cautiously. "It's filled with
trophies, isn't it?"
                Ivan's eyes flickered to the box in the corner, then he covered
his face with a hand. It took him a while before he spoke. Al thought that he
had gone too far, but eventually Ivan said:
                "I didn't want to forget them." His voice was very quiet. "I
didn't want to become someone who lost count of his kills. Who didn't care. I
thought"—his voice broke; he swallowed—"it's not right to just let them be
forgotten."
                Tenderly, Al took Ivan's free hand, which was shaking badly. He
squeezed it, and Ivan squeezed back so hard Al felt his bones shift. It hurt,
but he didn't pull back.
                So soft, barely a whisper, Ivan said: "There was this Omega
once. He was small, maybe five-years-old." The words got stuck in Ivan's
throat, but he soldiered on. He couldn't seem to stop. "He was still clutching
his doll when I found him. It was just a little thing, you know?" Vaguely he
gestured a size, spreading his thumb and forefinger. "He was covered in blood.
I-I tried to make it stop, I did, but I think I made it worse. I-I scared him.
He was s-so s-scared. He was crying for his mother, s-s-suffering, choking to
death. He looked s-s-so scared, I just—I-I—I just—"
                A tear rolled down Ivan's cheek. Al brushed it off. He released
the Alpha's hand and cupped the sides of his face. His violet eyes met Al's for
a moment, shining with unshed tears.
                "I cut his throat," Ivan confessed. "I made the suffering stop.
And I took his doll, such a little thing. I hated myself for a long time. I
still do."
                "No, please don't say that," said Al softly, rubbing Ivan's
cheeks and neck with his fingers. He felt desperate, as if experiencing Ivan's
pain second-hand. The Alpha reached up and placed his hand over Al's, pressing
it closer. He exhaled and his body shuddered and he leant into the Omega's
soothing touch. His eyes closed, lashes wet.
                "I was fifteen, then," he continued bravely. "I knew what would
happen when I returned to the Capital. They would give me an Omega to mate, to
breed, but..." He shook his head. "All I could think of was that poor Omega-
pup, so small. I couldn't do it. What if my mate gave birth to an Alpha-pup,
and he was made to do what I had done? What if my Omega-mate hated me for it?"
he added, repeating Al's query. "So I ran. I deserted the Eastern Army. I
deserted my comrades, my home, and I ran away. I never expected to survive. I
didn't want to."
                Slowly, he opened his eyes. "I've never told anyone that," he
admitted. "There was no one to tell."
                "Do you feel any better?" Al asked gently.
                "That depends." Nervously, Ivan licked his lips. He held Al's
hand. The heartbreak in his eyes was crushing. "Do you hate me now, Al?"
                Al's heart swelled. The pain on Ivan's handsome face was so raw
and honest that it hurt. Stripped of armour, he looked so vulnerable, scared
even. In his violet eyes, Al no longer saw a predator, but the tender soul of
the pup he had once been; the heart he still had. Hate you? he thought,
absently stroking the Alpha's white cheek. It was absurd. In proof, he leant
forward and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Ivan's lips.
                "No," he whispered. "I think I love you."
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Seven *****
THE LOW COUNTRIES
Arthur, chéri."
                Arthur felt Francis' long, warm fingers gently petting his
head. He knew his Alpha-mate's touch, even half-asleep. Groggily, he opened his
eyes. His head ached. He was lying on a daybed in front of a roaring fire in
the tower-house. Francis was kneeling in front of him, looking pale and
haggard. His beautiful blue eyes were ringed with dark circles of fatigue.
                "I fell asleep," Arthur said softly.
                "Yes, you did, chéri. I'm glad." Francis' smile was kind, but
thin. It was weary, like his voice, which was raw, as if he had used it to
capacity, calling-out; screaming for his pups. His cheek was rough at Arthur's
touch, unshaved. Francis was beautiful. He rarely looked sloppy or
underdressed; he rarely slouched or dragged his feet; his smile, his eyes were
rarely bereft of sparkle. But in the fire's unapologetic glow, Francis finally
looked his age. He looked old and tired, and Arthur bet that he looked the
same. Over the Alpha's shoulder, he could see the Low-Landers, like refugees.
Alphas had claimed plots of floor and wide ledges for their families to sleep
on. The Clan Leader's guards had issued everyone a bed-roll, and now the
expanse of floor looked like the pelt of a great slumbering beast. There was
only one large rose window too high to reach, letting in pale sunlight near the
roof. Arthur guessed at the time, but he had lost track of the days. How long
had he been imprisoned here, forced to wait and worry while the Alphas searched
the Low Countries for his lost pups? How long had he sat there on the daybed,
reserved for he alone, a guest, staring hatefully into the communal fire's
flames?
                "I want to go with you! Please, take me with you!" he had
begged Francis. How could he do nothing while his pups remained lost? More than
anything—anyone—he wanted to search for them. But Francis refused.
                "No, Arthur. It's not safe. You'll only slow us down. I can't
search for our pups if I'm worried about you."
                Arthur knew he was right. He knew that he was too slow, too
weak; he didn't have an Alpha's sense of smell; he couldn't track. He would
only be a burden to the search party. But he still resented Francis for leaving
him behind every day. That is, until Francis returned each night long after
sundown, filthy and exhausted, and completely forlorn. Empty-handed. He and
Scott would have stayed out longer, but the Low-Landers wisely corralled them
back each and every night, insisting that they needed  food and rest,
especially if they were going to go even farther the next day.
                "It's too dangerous to be out after sunset," they said. But all
Arthur heard in their wisdom was cowardice.
                If it's too dangerous for full-grown Alphas,then how much more
dangerous is it for my pups?
                He growled and grimaced at the Low-Landers' kindness. He was
sinister and ungrateful, and he wished more than anything that they would snarl
back, but they didn't. They were sympathetic, blaming his foul mood on the
awful tragedy that had befallen he and his family. The other Omegas pestered
him to eat and rest, trying to take care of him. They spoke softly and
respectfully, even when Arthur snapped. He wanted a fight. If his brothers had
been there, they would have fought with him. Owen and Liam and Patrick wouldn't
have passively pat his head and said there-there; they would have barked and
growled and told him to wipe the tears and snot from his face; show a little
dignity; don't give up hope. That's what Arthur wanted. That's what Arthur
needed: strength. Not the soft-spoken and half-hearted words of comfort that
the Low-Landers' used. They said things like:
                "It hasn't been too long yet, don't fret."
                "Lars' hunters are the best trackers in the clan, they'll find
your pups."
                "It's okay to cry, you know. We all understand."
                Arthur hated them all. He hated them, because how dare they
pretend to understand how he felt! No Low-Lander had lost his pups. Their pups
were all safe and sound in their Omega-parent's arms. They got to hold and hug
and kiss their pups. They got to protect them. But Arthur's arms were empty.
And the worst part was—
                It's my fault. I didn't stop it. I let it happen. I brought
them here.
                "Arthur," said Francis soberly.
                Arthur blinked the tears from his eyes. He was tired of crying,
so tired.
                "I'm leaving now."
                Arthur nodded, comprehending. He pushed himself forward and
kissed Francis, for safety; for good-luck. He didn't know, he just did it every
time Francis left. It had become a routine that, superstitious by nurture, he
was afraid to break. Afraid of losing Francis, too. Just so afraid. He kissed
Francis for a long time. Then he pulled back, releasing his Alpha-mate, feeling
the weight of emptiness, and he repeated the same tired request:
                "Find our pups, Francis. Don't come back without them."        
                Francis kissed Arthur's cold hand, and said: "I promise."
===============================================================================
WESTERN EMPIRE
BLACK FOREST FORT
Gil saw Ludwig and hastily ducked down an ally in retreat, hoping that his
younger brother hadn't spotted him.
                "Gilbert!"
                The captain cursed his bad-luck.
                Ludwig's long, strong legs hurried deliberately toward Gil. It
was a subconscious march, used to intimidate. (Ludwig had the best marching-
gait in the fort.) "Captain," he said, barely bowing his head in respect. Then,
at once, the soldier was gone and the concerned younger brother was back; a
little confused, a little upset. "Can we please talk about that speech you made
yesterday?"
                Gil had been actively avoiding Ludwig since returning to the
fort. He resumed it now. "I'd really rather not."
                "Gilbert!" Ludwig growled. His fair cheeks reddened in
frustration. "What the fuck is going on?"
                "Not now, Luddy," he said affectionately, checking to ensure
that they were alone. He smiled in reassurance. "I've got things to do. We'll
talk later—"
                "No." Ludwig's big, meaty hand seized Gil's bicep as he tried
to leave. He glared at his older brother. Gil had always envied Ludwig his blue
eyes. They looked like the cerulean sky, but today the sky was cloudy. "As
Lieutenant, I have no business questioning you," Ludwig acknowledged, "but as
your brother, I want to know what the fuck is going on. Tell me now, Gil,
before you do something really—" he paused, his nostrils flaring, "—stupid." He
sighed in defeat and released Gil, too late. "You mated that Omega." It wasn't
a question; it was a fact.
                Gil said: "Yes."
                Ludwig shook his white-blonde head, as if trying to erase the
discovery. "Gil, that's illegal! When the Great House finds out that you've
taken a mate, you'll be Court Martialed, you know that! You just threw away
your entire future!"
                Gil groaned internally. He had enough to worry about already
without Ludwig adding to it:
                Matt. The fort. Matt. His Alphas. Matt. Le Roux. Matt. The
West, the South. Matt. The war. Matt.
                He thought that he would feel better than this, having mated.
Alphas bragged about it, after all. They craved it, talked about how good it
felt. But Gil just felt hollow. Maybe there's something wrong with me—? Maybe I
did it wrong? It sure hadn't felt wrong. It had felt really, reallygood while
doing it. Matt's body was so warm inside. But as soon as he had finished, he
had began to doubt himself. Are Omegas supposed to bleed that much? He felt
sick with guilt. Matt was so small and fragile-looking; his skin bruised so
easily. Gil wondered if all Island Omegas were fragile, like Matt. Maybe that's
why they never left their isolated homeland, protected by the Channel. Maybe
Islanders were supposed to mate Islanders, and Westerners were supposed to mate
Westerners. Maybe I was too big for him—? Or maybe I'm just really lousy at
mating.
                Really,Beilschmidt? berated his Conscience. You've got a
generations-old war coming to a breaking-point on your doorstep,and all you can
think of is your mating performance?
                Gil clenched his teeth in frustration. It wasn't like him to
linger.
                Ludwig was still lecturing, voicing things that Gil already
knew.
                "Gil, you broke a vow!" he said heatedly.
                "I also took a vow to protect people!" Gil snapped abruptly,
taking Ludwig off-guard. His red eyes narrowed defensively, but Ludwig
recovered fast.
                "Protect him? By what, mating him?" Ludwig's tone was saturated
with disdain.
                "I did it to save his life—"
                "Oh, don't even try, Gil," Ludwig warned. Gil hated it. He
hated the disappointment in his younger brother's sky-blue eyes, as if he
thought Gil weak-willed; just another deprived soldier who had leapt at the
chance to defile an Omega. The look on Ludwig's face was worse than the threat
of Court Martial. It was worse than anything. "Don't dig yourself a deeper
hole," he said sternly. "I want to know why you really did it? Why him?"
                Gil opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared at the ground.
"I don't know," he admitted.
                Ludwig sighed. After a tense minute of silence, he asked: "What
did he say?"
                Gil blinked. "Who?"
                "Your little Omega-mate. After you saved his life," Ludwig
mocked, "what did he say about it? You did talk to him, didn't you?" he added,
suspicious when Gil failed to reply.
                "Uh, no—? I left."
                "You left?"
                Gil flinched at the volume, the disbelief that burst from
Ludwig.
                "So, what then? You just left him alone in your bedchamber?
He's just in there feeling abandoned? Probably scared, in pain, crying—?"
                "What? No!" Gil's stomach dropped. "I just... He doesn't want
me in there, Lud, trust me. If you had seen the way he looked at me, you'd
know. He doesn't want me."
                Ludwig's flushed face had gone from disappointed to horrified
in a split-second. Now he was staring at Gil as if studying a new species. (And
not a very intelligent one.) He was wide-eyed, his brow creased, his mouth
slack. After a minute, he seemed to process Gil's words. "Are you sure?" he
asked skeptically. "You're his Alpha-mate now, Gil. It's not something to be
brushed aside. Gods, Gil, you're the best strategist I know; how could you
think walking away was a good idea? The poor thing has just been mated for the
first time, not while in Heat. Do you understand how painful that's supposed to
be? And he's young. And he's a foreigner; he doesn't even speak our language.
You found him lost and alone in the forest, didn't you? He must be terrified.
And you didn't say anything? You don't think he wanted to be comforted, or
held? You just mated him and then left? I might not know a lot about Omegas,
but I do know that you're not supposed to leave them, not after promising to
protect them. You're a fucking coward, Gil."
                Gil flinched. That one hurt, because he knew it was true.
                "You're his Alpha-mate," Ludwig repeated angrily. "It's your
job to make him feel safe, not abandoned!"
                "I didn't know, okay?" Gil argued. He was panicking now. "I—I
don't know what to do with Omegas!"
                "That's because you were never supposed to take one!"
                "Oh, fuck." Gil stumbled back and banged his head against the
wall, dejected. "Do you think he hates me?"
                "If he didn't before, he does now," Ludwig guessed. Gil made a
strangled sound and continued to bang his head in self-punishment. Ludwig
sighed again, anger abating. He shook his head as he watched his older brother,
and said: "Great start to mated life, Gil."
                Gil paused. He turned toward Ludwig, a gritty red spot on his
pale forehead. "Should I go back in?" he asked.
                "It's a bit late for that now."
                "Then what do I do?" he begged, desperate for advice. He felt
helpless for the first time in a very long time, and he hated it.
                "I don't know," Ludwig said, bankrupt of advice. "Just... try
not to burn anymore bridges."
                Just then, a bell tolled. It was a dull bong, bong, bong, but
Gil felt it reverberate in his head. Needlessly, he said:
                "Le Roux is here."
===============================================================================
Matt was submerged in a reel of twisted dreams. He was running. He was always
running. A torrent of water chased him, licking his heels. Its frothing roar
became a chorus of battle-cries. It transformed into a tide of soldiers, a host
of Alphas in mixes of blue and black-and-white. And red. Spots of red flashed
before his eyes. They ran him down and pierced his body with sharp weapons.
They mated him, not with their big Alpha cocks, but with long, cold swords; in-
and-out. Each thrust stabbed him, tearing his body from the inside-out. And the
blood—there was so much blood. Matt was drowning in blood.
                "Matthew, wake up."
                Matt was pulled abruptly from the nightmare. He didn't even
remember falling asleep; he just remembered crying. As he awoke, the stabbing
pain of sword-thrusts became a throbbing ache in his backside. His legs were
curled against his chest, trying to protect himself. He was shivering.
                "Matthew," Gil repeated, shaking the Omega's blanketed
shoulder, "wake up. Le Roux is here. It's time."
                It's time. Those words filled Matt with dread. Slowly, he
forced himself up. His whole body ached, feeling like jelly. He had no
strength. He tried to stand, but his legs collapsed beneath him. The Alpha
caught him with whip-fast reflexes and held the Omega braced against his chest.
Matt clung to Gil with weak, shaking fingers, trying not to cry; trying not to
make a sound.
                "Can you walk?"
                "No." Matt's voice was a pitiful whisper. "I don't think so."
                Gil lifted Matt, cradling him in his arms like a newly pair-
bonded couple—which, technically, they were. Matt felt Gil's warm, callused
hands on his naked thighs. His fingers touched the mess of dried semen and
blood, and Matt felt suddenly ashamed.
                "I'm sorry," Gil said quietly. His face was austere. "I'll help
you get cleaned up later, but right now there can't be any doubt that you've
been mated. I want evidence to show Le Roux."
                Gil's words were cold, but his tone was not. His hands were
not.
                He helped Matt pull on his trousers, tied at the waist, and
lent the Omega a long coat that Matt hugged like a shield, but otherwise his
whole body was unchanged from the mating. He could feel the dried Alpha semen;
he could smell it. Even his bed-rumbled shirt was perfumed with Gil's topical
sent. Matt tried to tame his curls. He tried to slap some colour into his face,
but it was useless. He knew what his bedraggled appearance implied even without
the aid of a looking-glass, and so did everyone else.
                Gil left the bedchamber with Matt aloft in his arms. The stone
corridor was cold compared to the heat of the room, and Matt pressed closer to
Gil's body as the Alpha descended, carrying Matt down the stairs. At the keep's
door, he stopped. He asked again: "Can you walk?" And Matt knew that Gil was
giving him the chance to preserve a shred of dignity.
                This time, he said: "Yes."
                His feet touched the floor, legs shaking. He took Gil's arm in
escort and squeezed it, staying close.
                The instant they left the keep, Matt wanted to duck back
inside. The courtyard was swarming with Alphas of the Black Forest Fort, who
were guarding a small party of Southerners that included Captain Le Roux. The
Southern Alpha's eyes landed on Matt and his nose twitched, lips twisted. Matt
read impatience on his face, but he remained in place, conscious of the guards,
and careful not to make any sudden movements. Matt recalled what Gil had said
about Le Roux being a cautious Alpha, but it wasn't due to fear. In French, he
said:
                "Let me see him."
                "It's okay," Gil whispered to Matt. He stopped Matt a few feet
from Le Roux and untangled their arms. "I'm right here, I promise." Then he did
something that scared Matt: he stepped back, leaving Matt to face the
Southerner's scrutiny—the dozens of unfriendly, judgemental eyes—alone.
                Le Roux stepped closer and sniffed at Matt. Matt knew that he
was shaking, but couldn't stop. So he kept his head bowed, trying to hide
behind his mussed curls. He was grateful for Gil's long coat, until Le Roux
said:
                "Take it off, it's not yours. It's soaked in Beilschmidt's
scent. I won't be fooled," he warned. But when Matt hesitated, Le Roux grew
impatient. "I said take it off," he snapped, yanking it down. Matt felt the
bite of the wind as the coat fell away. He heard Gil growl, but the blue-eyed
blonde—the Lieutenant—grabbed his shoulder, stopping his advance. Le Roux
ignored them. He got closer, too close. Matt could feel his hot breath. The
Alpha sniffed at his hair and neck, then shook his head. "I want proof," he
said.
                Before Matt could react, Le Roux reached down and spread the
Omega's legs. Matt couldn't help the cry of pain that burst from him, a yelp
that echoed in the silent courtyard.
                "If that's not proof, I don't know what is," someone whispered.
                A soft, scared whine left Matt as Le Roux knelt. He dragged his
hand over Matt's tender backside, groping it, and grasped his legs. Then he
pressed his nose to the inside of the Omega's upper-thigh and breathed in
deeply. Matt trembled. It was so humiliating, having an Alpha between his legs
in public. He tried not to think about everyone who was watching, witnessing
it. He squeezed his eyes closed. It felt like a long time, though; too long.
Even Matt's Omega nose could smell Gil's pungent scent on himself. He was
saturated in it. An Alpha would have no trouble discerning it. There was no
need for such an extensive examination. No need for such a blatant show of
disrespect to a rival's Omega-mate, but the Southern captain lingered.
                "Le Roux, enough."
                It was Gil's raspy voice, slow and deep and angry. When the
Southerner finally retreated, Matt instinctively turned and saw that several of
Gil's Alphas had their hands on him, holding their commander back. Gil was
seething. His red eyes looked like hellfire as he glared murderously at Le
Roux. He knew he couldn't attack, though. He let his Alphas hold him—grateful
for it in the back of his mind—but his calculated self-control was breaking by
the second. For how much longer could they restrain their irate commander? The
blue-eyed blonde kept a big, solid hand on Gil, squeezing him hard. Louder, Gil
growled:
                "Get away. You got your proof, now get away from him."
                Le Roux stepped back, looking dissatisfied.
                Matt didn't care. Freed from scrutiny, he ran straight into
Gil's arms and felt them immediately wrap around him. He no longer cared who
was watching. Just then, he wanted everyone to disappear except for Gil. He
wanted the Alpha to stay with him, hold him. He hugged the Western captain's
middle and pressed his forehead to his chest. Gil's heart was beating madly.
                Don't let go! Matt thought desperately. Don't let go, please
don't let go!
                Le Roux clucked his tongue in contempt. "Congratulations on
your pair-bonding, Beilschmidt-pup," he said darkly. "I look forward to the
Court Martial."
===============================================================================
WESTERN EMPIRE
WILDERNESS
Al smiled as he watched Ivan's hands, submerged in a basin of water. It
reddened as he washed off the bear's blood. The carcass had been skinned and
was hanging on a drying-wrack outside of the cave's entrance. Al was feeding
the fire nearby, letting the smoke seep into the flaccid hide. It had taken a
long time to flesh and skin the beast, and they were only half-finished. It was
a long, tedious process. It would be several days before the hide could be
treated and tanned, but the vastness of its coat, its thick brown fur, was too
valuable to waste. It would make a good rug. Besides that, it was
prestigious—not that there was anyone to admire their handiwork. Still, few
Alphas could brag that they had killed a bear; and even fewer Omegas. Al
couldn't believe the size of the beast. Did I really kill that thing? It still
felt surreal. He had never seen such a monstrous creature before. (There were
no bears on the Isles.)
                Ivan saw Al staring and bit back a grin. "What?" he asked,
feigning annoyance.
                "Nothing," Al shrugged. Cheekily, he said: "Just enjoying the
view."
                Ivan snorted. He stood too fast and grimaced, his hand going to
his wounded chest.
                "Hey, you okay?" Al, too, stood too fast and accidentally hit
his left leg on the woodpile. He yelped, hopping.
                Ivan threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound
that echoed. He held his stomach. Al loved the sound of Ivan's laugh. "Oh,
we're a real fearsome pair, aren't we?" the Alpha joked.
                "The very fiercest," Al replied, smiling.
                He cocked his index-finger, requesting that Ivan come closer.
The Alpha obliged and, when he was within arm's reach, Al grabbed his shirt and
pulled him down into a hungry kiss. It was wet and indulgent. Ivan's lips were
warm and his tongue tasted like the mint leaves he liked to chew. His big hand
cupped Al's face before moving back, threading the Omega's feather-soft hair.
Al moaned.
                "I love how tall you are," he said when they parted.
                "I'm not that tall, little one. You're just small," Ivan
countered. He pecked Al's nose, then returned to work.
                Al watched Ivan for a few minutes. Shirtless, Ivan's back
muscles rippled as he bent and stretched, collecting tools. His biceps bulged
as he effortlessly lifted heavy objects that Al would have strained to drag.
The Omega felt a warm sensation stir inside of him. It was familiar, born in
his belly and then migrated south. He shifted from foot-to-foot, knees
together. He listened to Ivan's heavy, measured breaths; saw the sweat shine on
his pearly skin. Absently, he bit his bottom lip, carefully considering.
Finally, he plucked up the courage to say what he had wanted to for days.
                "Ivan, can I ask you something?"
                "Hmm? Yes, go ahead."
                "Could you please look at me?" Al asked, feeling himself blush.
"It's important."
                Al's tone took Ivan off-guard. It was serious, yet harboured a
pinch of doubt. The Alpha stood, wiping his hands on his trouser-legs as he
faced Al, rapt now. What could a bear-killer possibly be nervous to ask?
                Al swallowed. "I don't know if you've noticed," he said
methodically, "but I've been in pre-Heat for about five days now." It had been
five days of Al clinging to Ivan, feeling bare without the Alpha's scent and
touch. But Al was an affectionate being by nature; perhaps Ivan didn't know
what it meant. "It's very likely that I'll go into Heat tomorrow," he
explained, "and I want you to stay with me when that happens."
                Ivan's eyes widened, his pale eyebrows arched in surprise. He
tensed.
                "I want you to mate me," Al clarified needlessly. "It's okay if
you don't want to be my pair-bonded Alpha. I'm not a very traditional Omega,
and I don't care about the law. I don't care if we're together just for a
little while, even if it's only once." He blushed redder. "I just want you to 
stay with me. I want all of you, Ivan. Is that okay?"
                Ivan stared at Al, stone-cold silent for the longest minute of
the Omega's life. Then he said: "No."
                Al's heart plummeted.
                "You may not be a traditional Omega and I may not be a typical
Alpha," Ivan said, "but I left the East because I didn't want to pair-bond with
an Omega I didn't love. I want to love my mate; I always have. It's not just an
alliance, or a contest. Not to me. An Alpha should cherish his Omega-mate, he
should love him—"
                Al nodded. He felt stupid. He bowed his head, rejected.
                "—like I'm in love with you, Al."
                Al's head snapped up, wide-eyed. Ivan—the bastard!—was smiling.
Al couldn't believe his ears.
                "I love you, little one," he repeated, closing the distance
between them. He cupped Al's cheek; Al leant into the gentle touch. The Alpha's
violet eyes were soft. "So, no. I won't stay with you tomorrow, not unless I
can stay with you forever. I won't mate you once, Alfred Kirkland. Not if I
can't be pair-bonded with you. I want to be your Alpha-mate. That is, if you
want me."
                "Yes! Yes, I do!" Al gasped. Desperately, he clutched Ivan's
shirt-front and pulled him even closer. He felt the Alpha's body-heat, his
beating heart. His own heart swelled in reply. Ivan's confession overwhelmed
him. He was an Alpha of few words, but he chose every one carefully. He didn't
say things he didn't mean. And these were so honest; so deliberate; so simple
and straightforward. No lies, no secrets. It hit Al like a bolt of white-
lightning and he suddenly felt weak in the Alpha's arms. "Yes."
                "Are you sure? I don't have a home, or a family," Ivan reminded
the impulsive Omega. He stroked Al's cheek. "I don't belong anywhere."
                "You belong with me," Al said fiercely. "I've never really
belonged, either. Not with the Omegas, and not with the Alphas. But I don't
care, not anymore. Not when I'm with you. You and I... let's be outcasts
together, okay? Please, Ivan,"—softly now—"I love you. I want you to stay with
me forever."
                "I will," Ivan promised, kissing Al. Once, twice. "As long as
you want me, little one, I'll never leave your side."
===============================================================================
WESTERN EMPIRE
BLACK FOREST FORT
The days passed slowly, wasting. And Matt wasted with them. He lived in Gil's
bedchamber, sleeping, not because he was tired or ill, but because there was
nothing else to do. He slept to fend off boredom. He ate the food and bathed in
the water the Squire brought him. He was a young Alpha, the same age as Matt; a
respectful, obedient Alpha whom Gil trusted. He visited twice a day, every day.
Gil was usually gone by the time Matt woke in the morning and returned long
after the Omega had gone to sleep at night. It was seldom that they spent time
together. Matt learnt that his new Alpha-mate worked very long hours. He learnt
a lot about Gil second-hand from the Squire, who spoke fluent French.
                "Captain Beilschmidt works harder than anyone else," he said.
"He's a good Fort Commander, a good Alpha."
                There was admiration in the Squire's voice and in his eyes. He
respected Gil—they all did, Matt discovered. They never said it, of course. The
Western soldiers were less outwardly affectionate than anyone Matt had ever met
(even his uncles), but he could see it in the way they stopped to salute when
Gil passed by, their heads bowed; he could hear it in the proud timbre of their
voices when they chorused: "Yes, sir!"; he knew it in the way they ceased
whatever they were doing to accompany Gil, to aid him in a task, or to lend him
support. Gil never had to ask twice. He never had to raise his voice. A simple
hand signal from the captain could silence the entire fort.
                They love him, Matt realized, watching the courtyard from his
narrow window.
                Gil was overseeing a combat practise, studying his Alphas
critically. Matt could spot him easily because his silver-white hair gleamed in
the pale sunlight. He stood beside the Lieutenant, Ludwig, who was the officer
in charge of training. Ludwig was one of the most gifted with a sword, and—if
the Squire could be believed—the fort's harshest disciplinarian.
                "He works you to the bone, I swear!" the Squire complained.
"But he never makes you do it alone. He's not one of those sadistic officers
who watches you suffer, you know? I had to do extra laps once, and right as I
was about to collapse the Lieutenant pushed me forward and ran with me. He
stayed with me until I was done. He looks big and scary, but he's not
heartless. I do believe he's inhuman, though," the Squire added
conspiratorially. "No mortal Alpha should be able to push himself that hard
without vomiting. It's not natural." He shuddered; Matt laughed.
                He watched Ludwig now, as the Lieutenant barked orders in a
deep baritone that dwarfed Gil's.
                Ludwig was Gil's younger brother, and Gil loved him. Matt knew
it the instant he was introduced to Ludwig. In the privacy of his bedchamber,
Gil's wolfish face had split into an indulgent grin as he ruffled his brother's
white-blonde hair. Dismissing formality, he had said:
                "Matthew, this is my little brother, Luddy."
                There was nothing little about Ludwig, though. He was a half-a-
head taller than Gil, and broader, with wide shoulders, a barrel-chest, and
thick, muscular limbs. He had large, blunt-fingered hands made for hard work,
and a stern no-nonsense expression that would have been intimidating if he
wasn't being treated to a head-tousle just then. Ludwig frowned at Gil's
belittling introduction.
                "Lieutenant Ludwig Beilschmidt," he corrected, inclining his
head politely toward Matt, his new brother by mating-law.
                "If you ever need anything and I'm not around, you can trust
Lud," Gil had said when Ludwig left. "He'll take care of you, I promise."
                Matt smiled absently as he spied on the brothers, Gil talking
with Ludwig as he gestured. Ludwig nodded. He whistled, a loud, shrill sound
that harassed Matt's sensitive ears, and the Alphas fell into line. They spoke
in German, but Matt read the situation with his eyes. Gil and Ludwig took two
wooden practise swords and began demonstrating what it was they intended the
soldiers to learn. Every so often, one of them would pause and point out
something of significance, like his partner's footwork, or proper attacking
posture. Gil talked a lot and used Ludwig as a model. In return, the Alphas all
listened intently, nodding in understanding. But neither were they afraid to
ask questions if they got lost. As the lesson continued, nearly every soldier
stepped forward to pose a question, unafraid of being teased or reprimanded.
                That's the mark of a good teacher, Matt thought, resting his
chin on his folded arms. Ludwig was stern, but not cruel. And Gil—Gil smiled as
he talked, praising effort and clever questions. He likes to teach. And he's
good at it. His Alphas aren't afraid of making mistakes,because they know
Gilbert will cover for them. He asks for everything they've got and then makes
up the balance himself. He becomes what they lack,whatever they need. It's no
wonder he's always exhausted.Matt didn't know if that made Gil a good Fort
Commander or not, but it did make him a good teacher, a good friend. He's like
everyone's big-brother. And they absolutely adore him.
                "It's not how you treat your equals or superiors, but how you
treat your inferiors and those in your care that shows your true character,"
Scott had said once.
                Watching Gil now, Matt believed it.
===============================================================================
Gil and Matt didn't talk much. If they did, it was Gil asking Matt if he needed
anything. They slept on opposite sides of the bed, and Gil hadn't tried to
touch Matt since the Omega had recovered from being mated. Gil awoke early,
before sunrise, before the breakfast bell, and he returned late at night. He
let Matt have the bedchamber to himself, allowing him to do and have whatever
he wanted, provided he stayed inside. "It's not safe outside," he said
ambiguously. He never elaborated, and Matt never asked. He decided—since Gil
trusted his Alphas—that it was due to the fort's deadly purpose. I'm too
fragile to be out there amongst all of that dangerous Alpha work, he thought in
resignation. It was nothing that he hadn't heard before. In a way, Gil reminded
Matt a lot of his family, especially Francis. They looked nothing alike, and
they acted nothing alike, but there was a familiarity in Gil's protectiveness
that made Matt miss his Alpha-father. But unlike Francis, when Matt cried Gil
left him alone. Matt had begun to suspect that tears made the Western captain
very uncomfortable; he never seemed to know what to do. He also suspected that
the Black Forest Fort had never witnessed so many tears before Matt's arrival.
Alphas were tough, after all. Alphas did not cry.
===============================================================================
One day, born of boredom (and sanitary necessity), Matt took a needle and
bobbin of thread and re-stitched the entire bed mattress, which was coming
undone at the seams; it coughed-up feathers whenever he or Gil shifted in bed.
Then he asked the Squire to bring a washboard and a tub and scrubbed the bed
linens until they were threadbare, but clean. He soaked and starched them,
hating the feel of the dirty sheets. They hadn't been cleaned since Gil had
mated him. If the Alpha noticed, however, he didn't voice it. He merely fell
into bed that night exhausted as always. He stayed on his side and he didn't
move an inch.
                The next day, Matt took liberties. Nothing in the bedchamber
was off-limits to him—not that there was very much—so he dusted, scrubbed, and
polished everything in sight. When he reached the dusty bookshelf, he tossed
the contents onto the bed and began re-shelving the books according to size and
genre, but stopped halfway. Gil's books were not fictions, like Arthur's; they
were mostly instructional. There were a lot of illustrated manuals about
warfare, and one outdated medical text, but Matt was more interested in the
language books he found. Shoved to the back of the bookshelf, hidden, were a
half-dozen French and English books, all of them stuffed with old worksheets
graffitied with Gil's messy scrawl. For every practise phrase in French or
English, there was a German accompaniment (and lots of angry scores and
scribbles). Is this how he taught himself French and English? Matt wondered.
The practise sheets were wrinkled and full of mistakes, but they revealed the
Alpha's dedication.
                Intrigued, Matt took the collection to the bed and spread them
out.
                Long after dark, Gil returned, surprised to find Matt still
awake. "What are you doing?" he asked, recognizing his old workbooks. Matt
thought he saw a blush on Gil's cheeks, but it was hard to tell in the dim
candlelight.
                "I'm learning German," he replied, showing Gil.
                "Why?"
                "Because you speak German and so does everyone else. I might as
well, too. I am in the West, after all."
                Gil cocked a silver-white eyebrow, unconvinced.
                Matt sighed. "I'm bored."
                Gil nodded at that, satisfied. He undressed and flopped
gracelessly down onto the bed, but instead of going straight to sleep, he
inched toward Matt, spying on the Omega's neat notes. "That's wrong," he tapped
the parchment. His fingernails were dirty. "It needs an accent, otherwise it's
a different sound. And this"—he dragged his opalescent finger, nicked with
scars—"you've written it backwards." Matt corrected his mistakes under Gil's
scrutiny, pleased to have a little guidance. German, he decided, was not as
easy as French. "I think I have a French-German"—Gil yawned deeply, exposing
razor-sharp canines—"dictionary here somewhere, if you want. I'll find it for
you tomorrow..."
                Then he was asleep: pale head resting on Matt's pillow, his
mouth hanging ajar, passed-out like a young pup.
                Matt pulled a blanket up over Gil's shoulders and continued to
study.
===============================================================================
From then on, Gil began speaking to Matt in German. "It's good practise," he
argued. They started to exchange simple sentences, like greetings; then Gil
promoted Matt to questions. He started refusing to reply to any requests Matt
made in English, grinning playfully while he waited for Matt to translate his
request into German. Often, it took a while and frustrated Matt. He would glare
at the smug Alpha as he flipped rapidly through the dictionary Gil had given
him. But constructing a comprehensible sentence was only half the battle,
according to Gil. Gilbert Beilschmidt was something of a secret perfectionist.
"You're pronouncing it wrong," he would say, smiling, making Matt want to chuck
the heavy dictionary at him. Once, he did. His usually dormant temper awoke
with vengeance and he threw the dictionary at Gil without hesitance, without
thought. Gil ducked, and a cold fear instantly seized Matt. His face paled and
his eyes went wide in regret. "I–I'm sorry!" he panicked, afraid of the Alpha's
reaction. But Gil wasn't listening. He was clutching his stomach and wiping
tears of laugher from his eyes. That's when Matt discovered Gil's sense of
humour.
                "I was starting to worry about you, you know," Gil admitted,
grinning at Matt. "But I'm glad. My schatzhas a bit of a temper."
                "What does schatz mean?" Matt asked, for the umpteenth time.
                But Gil only shrugged. "Look it up," he said cheekily, and then
walked off.
                Matt only asked because schatz seemed to be a slang-term,
because it wasn't in the dictionary. And nobody—not Ludwig, or the Squire—would
tell him what it meant. So Matt decided that it was likely a rude word, or an
insult—Gil had a rather ripe vocabulary (not unlike Uncle Scottie)—that he was
better off not knowing.
===============================================================================
Gil was not a typical Alpha-mate, but he tried. As Fort Commander he was always
busy, the work never-ending, but he never failed to consider Matt. "Are you
hungry, sleepy, cold, bored—? Are you feeling okay? Do you want me to stoke the
fire? Do you want hot water?" he would ask (usually in procession, like that,
before Matt had a chance to answer). It was a mental checklist that Gil went
through every morning and evening. Sometimes it flattered Matt; sometimes it
annoyed him. If nothing else, Gil was attentive to detail. It was an aspect of
his job, after all. But it was obvious that he had no previous experience with
Omegas. Every time he asked a question, he was asking for the Omega's guidance,
trying to learn. Trying to make up for his lack of knowledge and
preparation—or, maybe for something else.
                Gil was not as easy to read as Al, but Matt found himself
thinking of his twin-brother when he looked at Gil. They shared the same bawdy
sense of humor. Gil liked to joke and tease and play. He was a very physical
being, like Al—though not as physically-affectionate—and he liked to tell
stories with wild gestures. The kind of stories that made Matt roll his eyes
(while trying hard not to laugh).
                Gil was a positive person; not sunny, but durable. The Black
Forest Fort was a cold and forlorn place, and his Alphas were tired and afraid,
but Gil's pride, his strength, never faltered. When others said: "I can't do
it!" Gil always said: "Yes, you can. I know it. I'll help you." He was the last
glowing ember of a dying fire, constantly trying to rekindle the flame. But
Matt was afraid that all of his effort was useless. Gil was fighting a losing
battle and he seemed to be the only one who didn't know it. Matt knew. And
Ludwig knew. They were the only two people who ever saw the captain's stress,
his exhaustion, his worry, his fear.
                He's trying to juggle too much, Matt knew, feeling something
akin to sympathy for the Alpha. But he's doing the best he can.
                Matt was ashamed that it had taken him nearly a fortnight to
realize it. He was an observant being by nature, but he had been so focused on
his own misery that he had neglected to recognize Gil's. So he resolved to do
something for Gil that only he—in the whole fort—was capable of doing.
                He was going to take care of him.
===============================================================================
Matthew, schatz, I know how much you like to be clean," said Gil tiredly, "but
you've got to stop bothering my Squire to bring you hot water every day. He has
other duties besides trudging back-and-forth up the stairs playing serving-boy,
okay? Besides, you already bathed this morning!"
                Gil tried to keep a gentle, diplomatic tone, but the Omega's
obsession with personal hygiene was exhausting.
                "Yes, I did," Matt acknowledged, "but I didn't bother him
today, honestly. I trudged back-and-forth up the stairs myself. And the bath
isn't for me, it's for you."
                Gil stared, taken aback. Skeptically, he eyed the brass
washtub, which sat in the middle of the bedchamber, steaming with hot, scented
water. Then he looked at Matt, who looked anxious.
                "Are you trying to imply something?" he joked, trying to ease
the tension.
                He stepped farther into the bedchamber, closing the door behind
him. He stripped off his coat and grimaced; his whole body ached. Absently, he
started to toss his coat onto the tabletop, but he stopped when he saw it set.
That's when Gil noticed that the bedchamber's scent was different. It didn't
smell like dust and musk, or his own stale sweat; it smelled clean. It was
clean. And it was ordered. His spare clothes were washed and folded on the bed.
The bed itself looked neater and less lopsided. His red gaze swivelled,
sweeping the room, inspecting the territory that was no longer just his. He
looked at the table again. He could smell the fat, juicy scent of boiled
sausages; his favourite. And beside the meal sat a frothy beer. His mouth
watered; his stomach growled. Finally, he looked at Matt.
                "What's all this?"
                "An apology," said the Omega shyly. He, too, looked clean and
well-groomed. He had brushed his angel curls for the first time in—well, since
Gil had known him.
                "A—what?"
                Matt inhaled, then spoke. His speech sounded preconceived, as
if he had rehearsed it beforehand. He said:
                "Gilbert, you saved my life—twice—and I never even thanked you
for it. I'm sorry. You didn't have to rescue me. You could've walked away; it
would've been simpler. I've caused you nothing but trouble, and yet you've been
so kind. You've risked yourself to protect me and I've done nothing but cry and
complain. I'm so sorry. I've been such a horrible Omega-mate to you, but that
changes now. If you let me, I'll take care of you properly. I will. I want to
repay your kindness. I'll be a better Omega-mate, I promise. So please, please
forgive me."
                It took Gil a minute to realize that he was staring stupidly at
the Omega, slack-jawed.
                "Forgive you?" he repeated in recovery.
                Matt stared hopefully at him; violet eyes a little sad, a
little scared.
                "I think you're confused," said the Alpha. "It should be me
apologizing to you."
                Matt shook his head dismissively. "Nothing that's happened to
me is your fault, Gilbert."
                "Really? Nothing?"
                Matt bowed his head, curls tumbling. He blushed. "I don't
resent you, Gilbert. I'm grateful for your—"
                "Cock? Sorry," he added hurriedly, feeling stupid. He half-
smiled in appeasement. "I make jokes when I'm uncomfortable."
                Matt laughed softly in reply. It was the sweetest sound Gil had
ever heard.
                "I don't resent you, either," he said seriously, in case the
Omega doubted it. Matt struck him as someone who was good at making excuses,
more likely to blame himself than someone else.
                "I'm glad," Matt said, softer still. He peeked up at Gil
through a veil of pale-blonde curls.
                Gil's stomach flipped. He remembered what those pale locks felt
like, like the finest silk. Silk and satin, that's what Matt felt like; like
luxury. It had only been a fortnight since Gil had mated Matt, but already he
found himself craving the Omega—always at the most inappropriate times, too.
Lust made it impossible to focus on his work. The mere memory of Matt's body,
it's internal heat, it's slick wetness, was enough to make the Alpha hard. It
was torturous knowing that he couldn't quench it. Nothing he did to relieve
himself came remotely close to the feel of being inside Matt. I'm a fucking
pervert, he thought. How many times had he had to leave the bedchamber before
the Omega noticed his state? Thinking about him was one thing, but being so
close to him and being unable to touch him was unjustly cruel. How many nights
had he pretended to be asleep, lying with his eyes closed, perfectly immobile,
and clenching his fists beneath the blankets every time Matt shifted in bed?
Some nights, it took all his self-discipline not to roll on top of Matt and
take him—mate him—again.
                And yet, here they were. And Matt was apologizing to him.
                "Please," said the Omega gently, inoffensively. "You're tired
and sore, Gilbert. I can tell by the way you keep rolling your shoulders.
You've been working so hard, you should relax. Let me help you relax," he said,
indicating the washtub. It did look inviting.
                "Okay," he agreed. "If it'll make you happy—"
                "It will." Matt's face brightened. He looked relieved.
                Matt smiled as he waited for Gil to undress, collecting the
discarded articles as the Alpha dropped them. He hovered like an Omega-parent
supervising a pup. Gil found it a bit annoying—it was disconcerting to have
someone's rapt attention whilst naked—but mostly he found it funny. He climbed
into the washtub and let his body submerge in the hot water. It felt good. It
smelled good. Gil didn't know what Matt had scented the water with, but it was
a subtle fragrance that pleased his sensitive nose. He sighed contentedly as he
leant back as instructed. It had been a long time since he had had a bath that
was more than a washcloth and a basin of cold water. What's the point in
indulging myself? he had thought. Soldiers were supposed to be hard, tough-
fibred; that's what Vater had taught him. Any kind of self-indulgence was a
waste of time. But as the tension eased from his aching body, Gil began to
reconsider. When Matt—his beautiful Omega-mate—smiled at him and batted those
pretty, long eyelashes, handing him a frothy mug of beer, Gil grinned in self-
satisfaction and completely surrendered to the luxury.
                "This is the part of being pair-bonded I'm actually good at,"
Matt joked self-consciously.
                Oh,I can think of something better, Gil thought—then stopped
immediately. He was stark-naked, after all.
                "It's not necessary, you know," he said instead. "I've been
taking care of myself for a long time."
                "Have you—?" Matt's tone was teasing. He fingered Gil's old
shirt in example, then tossed it into a basket.
                "Hey, I need that!" Gil insisted. "If I go outside naked
they'll all laugh at me." He pouted.
                Matt covered his mouth, laughing.
                "They're filthy and full of holes, they're rags!" he
criticized.
                "They're fine—"
                "My Alpha-mate," Matt said with mock-seriousness; he cocked his
head and his voluptuous hip, "is not going to go strutting about the fort in
rags."
                Gil feigned insult. "I do not strut!" he said, parrying Matt's
tone with mock-horror.
                "Oh, yes you do," Matt said. He was laughing freely now; such a
sweet sound. Brazenly, he mimicked Gil's walk, then covered his face with his
hands.
                "Oh, you're a cheeky little thing, aren't you? If I weren't
confined to this tub, I'd—"
                Matt flinched; the laughed died abruptly.
                "—tickle you."
                Matt relaxed.
                Well,that's the dumbest thing I've ever said, Gil thought in
self-degradation. Originally, he was going to say "smack you", but he was
afraid that the Omega would take it literally. That's all he needed: for Ludwig
to think that he was a horny pervert andphysically abusive. It was truly
incredible, though, how defensive Matt's posture instinctively got when he
thought he had done something wrong. It's a reflex, but I wonder why? Gil
wondered if Matt had been abused in the past. Briefly, he considered the
Omega's family members as potential culprits, but then he remembered Matt's
heartfelt defense of Francis' innocence and he discarded the unhappy thought.
Nobody who was hiding abuse looked the way Matt had when talking about his
Alpha-father. He's just timid, he decided, dissatisfied. He hasn't got much
self-confidence. He doubts himself—and everyone else. He doesn't trust.
                Gil watched Matt as the Omega puttered ceaselessly around the
bedchamber, tidying and catering. Frankly, it made Gil dizzy. But Matt looked
significantly more at-ease when he was busy, focused on a menial task. He
seemed to know what he was doing and took comfort in the repetition. He hung a
towel close to the fireplace hearth, warming it for Gil; then refilled the
Alpha's empty beer-mug. He did it habitually, absentmindedly. As if he had been
bred to do it. Again, Gil wondered about Matt's home-life and what kind of
Alphas he lived with. Lucky ones, he thought, feeling both indignant and
jealous. I bet they've never had to lift a finger to do anything for themselves
in their whole lives.
                "Here, they're clean," said Matt, offering Gil a shirt and
trousers as he hauled himself out of the washtub.
                "Thanks."
                "Does this mean you forgive me?" Matt asked after a minute.
                Gil had bathed and drank and eaten and was tugging on the
freshly-ironed clothes that Matt had given him, but the Omega still looked
worried, as if he thought it was all inadequate payment.
                Gil hated that look.
                "I told you," he said gruffly, "there's nothing to forgive—"
                "Please."
                For the second time that night, Gil was taken aback by the
Omega's tone. It was unexpectedly unyielding. Gil paused, only half-dressed.
Matt was staring at him intently; not challenging, but determined. He looked
misleadingly timid—small and pale and soft—but a secret strength lived in those
violet eyes, a fierce pride that Gil hadn't seen since he had found Matt in the
forest. That look, that hidden quality, is what had kept Matt alive. It was
something that Gil recognized: the look of a survivor. Your body might be soft
and fragile,but your will is not, he thought, staring keenly at Matt. Just
then, he felt something for the Omega that was deeper than lust or obligation.
He felt respect. Matt looked sad and helpless and—in truth—it was alluring; a
treasure in need of guarding. My treasure. But the look in those violet eyes
revealed something more. There was something feral about Matt that Gil liked. A
lot. He's a fighter,a survivor. He's got the heart of a warrior. Slowly, the
Alpha's lips curled into a smile.
                "Okay," he said, tugging on the shirt. He looked Matt directly
in the eye, and said: "You win. I forgive you."
                There was something satisfying, almost arrogant, in the Omega's
receptive smile. "Thank-you," he said.
                Gil inclined his head, like a gentleman accepting a lost duel.
Then he turned his back, but Matt wasn't done.
                "Come here," he said. He pointed to the bed.
                Gil cocked an eyebrow in curiosity, but obeyed. He sat down and
stretched his long, languid body, relaxing in a cloud of pillow, but jolted
suddenly when he felt Matt's hands on his neck. His eyes flew open—he hadn't
realized he had closed them—and he tipped his head back, blinking at the Omega
beside him. Gently, Matt repositioned Gil so the Alpha's back was exposed. Then
he applied pressure to Gil's muscles, rolling his delicate fingers over the
tense knots, and Gil involuntarily arched his back in reply. A groan escaped
him. It felt so good.
                "Where did you learn to do this?" he asked, eyes rolled back in
ecstasy.
                "My Dad taught me. My Alpha family members are all hunters;
their bodies are their livelihood, so they need to be taken care of. That's
what my Dad told me. Alphas need to relax. I used to practise on my poor
uncles. I gave one of them a welt by accident once. But I think I've gotten
better since then."
                "Hmm? Oh, that's nice," Gil sighed. His brain was foggy,
unfocused. His body felt limp in Matt's arms. "This much pampering isn't good
for my reputation, you know. They're going to think I've gone soft."
                "Maybe," Matt allowed. His fingers roamed over the Alpha's
shoulders, which were corded with lean athletic muscle; they rubbed the column
of his strong neck, and the base of his spine; they grazed his collarbone, and
pressed firmly down on his biceps and pectorals, exploring the defined planes
of flat, rock-hard muscle. "Maybe," he repeated in a husky whisper, "but only
on the inside."
                Gil cracked open one red eye and grinned. "Maybe," he mimicked
Matt's tone, "I should make you apologize more often, Matthew."
                For a split-second Gil thought that he had insulted the Omega,
taking the joke too far. But this time Matt just smiled, those feral eyes
sparkling with laughter.
                "You can call me Matt if you want to," he said shyly;
hopefully.
                "Matt." Gil liked the taste of it. In reply, he reached up and
took Matt's hand. He shook it. "Nice to meet you, Matt. I'm Gil."
===============================================================================
WESTERN EMPIRE
WILDERNESS
Al rearranged the lay of the blankets on the bed, folding and kneading the
fabric, the fur. He smoothed the surface in a methodical way, then frowned,
cocked his head, and restarted. He stacked and un-stacked pillows, then lay
them all flat and draped one of Ivan's old shirts over top. That's better, he
thought, wiping his sweaty brow. He was flushed with his oncoming Heat. He
could feel it budding and blossoming inside of him. It wouldn't be long now,
which is why he felt compelled to nest. It was his most Omega-like quality,
Arthur said. Al might have rejected typical Omega tasks and hobbies, but he was
meticulous about his space, especially while in Heat.
                "Are you okay?" Ivan asked, watching Al fan himself with a
hand.
                "Yes, it's just hot in here. Don't you find it too hot?"
                "No."
                Al caught Ivan's eye and knew that he knew. In proof, the Alpha
said: "Relax, little one. It'll be okay—"
                "No, no it won't." On his hands-and-knees, Al tugged at the
bedding, rooting it from bottom to top. "It has to be right," he muttered,
feeling frustrated.
                "What does?"
                "The nest!" Al said, harsher than he intended. He felt anxious,
worried that it wouldn't be ready in time. He was feeling more uncomfortable,
more tense by the second. "It has to be right. It's important that it's cozy,
uh... not a mess, you know? It has to feel safe," he babbled, trying to
explain. None of his Alpha-relatives had ever understood it either. Arthur did;
Matt did. But Alphas were irritatingly clueless sometimes. "It won't be like
other times, because it won't be just me. It needs to be big enough. It needs
to be soft enough. It needs more... bounce."
                "Bounce—?"
                "Yes, exactly. Bounce."
                Ivan blinked at Al as the Omega punched the bedding with both
fists, gauging its 'bounce'. "It's not squishy enough," Al complained.
                "Squishy," Ivan repeated. He frowned. "Well, if you insulate
the bottom with a couple of hides—" He grabbed one from the floor, but Al
snatched it.
                "No, don't!" he yelled, panicking. He hugged the soft hide to
his chest. "I just... I have to do it myself, okay?"
                "Okay." In appeasement, Ivan retreated to the opposite cave
wall and settled down. From there he watched Al fuss, giving a craftsman's
advice in disguise. "Did you know that aquatic mammals have double-coated
pelts? It's to protect them from the wet and cold, it's waterproof. It's
thicker," he said conversationally. "In the East, we use furs to line our
winter coats and then cover it with a waterproof layer, usually a seal-skin.
It's soft and supple. It's flexible," he hinted. "But sometimes it's not
enough, so Omegas wrap their pups with blankets—usually wool. With all those
layers on, it's very squishy."
                Al followed Ivan's indirect instructions and completed the
nest, and he felt much better for it. He sighed and sat down on the bouncy,
squishy bedding, finally satisfied. When he looked at Ivan, he saw that the
Alpha was staring at him and smiling.
                "You think it's silly, don't you?" he said, feeling
embarrassed. "But it's not, not to me. It's important. I'm not usually this
weird about it, but this time is different, because this time I'm sharing it
with you, so it has to be perfect. I want it to be perfect for you," he added
softly. "It's all I can do, really. I'm not a very good Omega otherwise. I'm
not soft, or gentle, or nurturing. I'm not quiet and submissive, I'm too loud.
That's what Dad tells me. He wants me to be more like Matt. But I'm not like
Matt." He shook his head. He didn't know why he was suddenly telling Ivan all
of this, but he couldn't seem to stop. He blamed it on Heat hormones, which
tended to toy with his emotions. And Ivan was a good audience for his monologue
of self-pity. He was quiet and he didn't interrupt as Al named all of his
faults, as if confessing the truth to Ivan before the Alpha mated him; before
it was too late to change his mind. Secretly, Al feared that if Ivan knew the
real Alfred Kirkland he wouldn't like him at all. But he loved Ivan more than
he feared rejection.
                He's asked me to be his Omega-mate,he deserves to know what
he's getting.
                "I can't sew. I don't cater. I'm not a good nurse. I hate
cleaning things. I'm not patient. I'm not quiet. I don't like being cooped
inside. And I can't read very well," he said periodically. "I can cook, I
guess. But I'm really lazy about it. I know that without Dad nagging me. And
I... I've honestly never given much thought to having pups." He shrugged
sheepishly. "I'm not very domestic. I'm not even attractive. I'm just not a
good Omega," he repeated in conclusion.
                Al was feeling badly about himself, when Ivan suddenly said:
                "And what is a good Omega, little one? Is it Matt?"
                Sadly, Al recalled his biggest fear: that Ivan would choose
Matt if Matt were there. "Yes, Mattie's perfect."
                "Perfect," said Ivan. He crossed the cave and sat down next to
Al in the bouncy, squishy nest. "Then perfect must mean something very
different in your world, because you, little one, are my perfect." Gently, he
lifted Al's chin and kissed him chastely. Al melted in Ivan's embrace. His
heart pounded, pumping hormone-infused blood through his veins, urging him to
take more. But when he tried to deepen the kiss, Ivan pulled back. "And I was
staring at you, not because I think you're silly," he said seriously, "but
because you're beautiful."
                Al was speechless. He wanted to argue, but the truth in Ivan's
violet gaze forbid it. It made him so happy he was afraid he would cry. "Ivan,"
he said huskily. He pressed his lips to the Alpha's and sucked. He touched
Ivan's face, running his fingers over his cheekbones, his jaw, his neck, pawing
at him insistently. His body reacted favourably to the intimate contact. The
sultry taste of Ivan's lips, the feel of his strong, hot-blooded body, the
musky scent mingled faintly with peppermint; it was making Al desperate. He
shivered, tingling in all the right places.
                "No one's ever told me I'm beautiful," he admitted quietly.
                Ivan's lips brushed Al's. "Get used to it."
                "I love you," said Al, nose-to-nose with the Alpha.
                "I love you, too."
                "I want you."
                "Yes, I want you—" Ivan's deep voice rumbled in his throat, his
eyes dilated, "—my beautiful little Omega."
                "Mm, there it is," Al smiled seductively. He placed both of his
hands on Ivan's face and stared directly at him, unabashed. "There's the look
I've been waiting for."
                "And—?" Ivan's roaming hands slipped beneath Al's thighs and
lifted him onto his lap. Al emitted a sudden, soft gasp in reply. Then he sunk
into Ivan's touch, straddling him. His thighs squeezed the Alpha's legs on
either side with erotic intent. Ivan kissed his neck, licking and nipping with
the largest canines Al had ever seen. He felt a smile curl the Alpha's lips as
he nosed under Al's chin, teasing Al's jugular with his teeth. "Are you
afraid?" said the Alpha with a deep-throated growl. It sent a shiver of
pleasure down Al's spine; he felt it in his belly.
                "No."
                "Are you sure this is what you really want, Al?" Ivan kissed
Al's jugular, feather-soft. "Me?"
                "Yes," Al replied without hesitance. "Yes, Ivan. I want you,
sweetheart." He drew Ivan's head up. "I want you with me forever."
                Then he covered Ivan's mouth with his, silencing all doubt.
===============================================================================
I'm going to go to the river to bathe," Ivan said, untangling Al. The Omega was
hot and flushed, ready to be mated, but Ivan wanted to do it right, too. He
didn't want to sully Al's painstakingly neat nest, and, truthfully, he needed a
private minute to compose himself. He didn't want to lose control of his
faculties and take Al like a rooting beast. He didn't want to hurt him, or
scare him. And Al, too, looked as though he needed some time to nest properly,
to make a space for himself. To prepare himself mentally. He was nearly there,
Ivan could see it; he could smell it. Oh, gods! He smells so good,so
deliciously sweet! I want to taste him. I want to bite him and make him
mine,mine. Only mine.
                The Alpha wanted the Omega like he had never wanted anything in
his entire life.
                I won't last much longer, he knew.
                "Don't be long," Al pleaded, squeezing Ivan's hand. He sounded
a little scared. His Heat was oncoming fast. By the time Ivan returned from the
river, he would be ready. To hide his feelings, Al added: "Or I'll start
without you."
                "Don't you dare," Ivan warned, kissing Al's hand. "I'll be
right back."
===============================================================================
Al waited. He felt a Heat-wave crash over him and bit his lip, swallowing a
cry. He shifted from left-to-right, trying to find a comfortable position, but
his skin was so sensitive, everything felt like a stroke; a caress. His body
tingled where Ivan had pet him, remembering the Alpha's touch; craving it. Al
was red-faced, hot, and panting, but he tried hard to regain some semblance of
composure. He didn't want Ivan to return to find him writhing, covered in sweat
and Heat-slick. It would be so embarrassing. But the longer the Alpha took, the
more likely that picture became. Al waited, but eventually the tension was too
much to bear and he took his cock in his hand, needing release. I'll start
without you. It had been a joke then, but now it was true. Al thought of Ivan
as he intimately touched himself, panting and whining and moaning. Where are
you?Why aren't you here yet? Time was an abstract thing for an Omega in the
throes of a Heat-wave. Al often forgot the time. But he was sure it had been
more than the few minutes that Ivan had promised.
                "I'll be right back," he had said. But how long ago was that?
                Al waited, but he started to worry. As he tossed from side-to-
side, consumed by desire, the conscious part of his brain began to doubt. Where
is he? he thought, eyeing the cave's entrance. It was dark. It looked so far
away. Why hasn't he come back?
                Al's brain fought an internal battle, like a tug-o-war rope
being pulled back-and-forth between debilitating lust and mind-numbing fear.
                He shivered. He cried. He made himself climax.
                Did something bad happen to him? he panicked. He threw his head
back and moaned, loud and long. He called Ivan's name, absent of the fact.
                Did he get hurt,or lost?
                Did he change his mind?
                Al's heart clenched and he cried. He sobbed. He hurt.
                Ivan,I love you. Ivan,please come back to me. Please,don't
leave me here alone. I need you. I love you.
                Al waited and worried. Days passed—one, two, three—and finally
the worst Heat of Al's life abated.
                But Ivan never returned.
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Eight *****
WESTERN EMPIRE
BLACK FOREST FORT
Matt was asleep when he heard the sound of distant footsteps, the beating tap,
tap, tap of soft leather on stone, which forced entry into his dreams. His
eyelids fluttered open, but his sight was obstructed. The bedchamber was dark
and quiet, and Matt's body was lying pressed against Gil's back, drawn to his
body-heat. It was Gil's naked skin that pillowed Matt's cheek, and his tapered
waist that the Omega absently hugged. It was the Alpha's bulk that blocked his
view of the doorway. As he slowly regained awareness of his surroundings, Matt
realized that he had migrated to Gil's side of the bed sometime in the night.
But he could be embarrassed about that later. Just then, the footsteps were
getting closer.
                "Gil," he said, shaking the Alpha's shoulder. "Gil, wake up."
                Gil produced a sleepy grunt and forced his eyes open. "What?"
he asked, turning. Matt's proximity seemed to revive him. His red gaze focused
and suddenly he was awake and on-guard. "Schatz, what's wrong?"
                "Someone's there," Matt reported, just as the footsteps reached
the bedchamber's door. Then it opened.
                Gil bolted upright, drawing a dagger from under his pillow. It
was the one he had once lent to Matt, engraved with his family's crest. Matt
instinctively shrank back, staying close to Gil's side. The Alpha's left arm
was outstretched in an attempt to shield his Omega-mate. It was instinctive, a
soldier's reflexes. An Alpha-mate's reflexes.
                "Captain," said the intruder in German. He sounded surprised.
"I expected to find you sleeping,sir."
                "Then you should have knocked,Second-Lieutenant." Gil lowered
the dagger, but he didn't relax. "What do you want, Wolfe?"
                Second-Lieutenant Wolfe stepped inside, a big, imposing
silhouette in the corridor's meek light. He was not an Alpha with whom Matt was
well-acquainted. All he knew was what Gil's Squire had told him: that Wolfe had
been a hunter before joining the army, and because of his skills he had climbed
the ranks fast. He was twenty-nine, one of the oldest Alphas at the fort, and
the only one Gil hadn't trained himself. Wolfe was not a stray, like so many
others, but an officer who had been transferred from the West's capital by
recommendation.
                "The Kaiser thought it unwise to let one family rule the fort,"
said the Squire, implying the two Beilschmidt brothers, "so he sent Second-
Lieutenant Wolfe to act as a counterbalance. But between you and I, I really
don't think the Second-Lieutenant wanted to be posted out here so far from the
Great House. He's here because his orders are direct from the Kaiser, but I
don't think he likes it."
                No, Matt agreed. I don't think he likes it at all.
                Wolfe was a scout. His job was to take large parties of Alphas
into the wilderness to secure the south-western border, and because of that he
was often gone for weeks at a time. As such, he had only recently returned to
the fort, and had been shocked by Matt's presence. Despite his reticent face,
Matt didn't think Wolfe approved of Gil's decision to mate him, and he resented
the Omega because of it.
                He blames me, Matt knew, trying to avoid Wolfe's gaze. It was
cold. When it pierced him, Matt felt a shiver of unease.
                "Wolfe—?" Gil prompted. He shifted, wrapping an arm around Matt
and drawing the Omega against his side. "It's late. Say what you need to and
go."
                "It's just a report, Captain. It's not urgent. I only meant to
deliver it." Slowly, Wolfe walked to the table and set down a rolled piece of
long parchment. It was meticulous; his cold eyes didn't stray from Matt, as if
keeping sight of a threat. When he turned, they reflected the corridor's light,
flashing like a predator's.
                "Next time, if it's not urgent," Gil said, annoyed, "I'd rather
not be disturbed so late,Second-Lieutenant."
                Wolfe's eyes narrowed at Matt. He said: "No doubt." Pause.
"Sir."
                Then he left.
                "He doesn't like me," Matt said.
                "No," Gil agreed. "But," he looked down at the Omega nestled
beneath his arm and grinned, "he doesn't like me either. Wolfe is a lawful
Alpha, but he doesn't like taking orders from someone younger than himself.
He's reliable and he's strong, but he sees in black-and-white. Maybe it makes
him a good soldier, maybe it doesn't. It makes him stubborn, though. It's not
that he dislikes you, schatz, it's just that you're not supposed to be here.
It's against the law. He's not a violent Alpha, but try to stay away from him,
okay?"
                "Out-of-sight, out-of-mind?" Matt joked.
                Gil gave Matt an affectionate squeeze. "That's the spirit. By
the way," he shifted and faced Matt. His tone was curious with a pinch of
concern. "I thought you were sleeping."
                "I was."
                "But you heard Wolfe in the corridor—?"
                "Yes."
                "While asleep—?"
                "Yes."
                Gil frowned, waiting for Matt to elaborate. "Just how good is
your hearing?"
                Matt paused, thinking on how best to answer the Alpha. "My ears
can see things that my eyes can't," he said. Gil cocked his pale head and
blinked in interest, like a snowy owl. It was cute. Matt bit back a charmed
smile. "It's an evolutionary adaptation, like an Alpha's sense of smell. I read
all about it. Omegas have heightened hearing so that we can care for and
protect our pups. My hearing is more acute than most, I think. You see,
everything in the world has a sound; everything vibrates when struck. Raindrops
hitting leaves," he said in example. "Or paws on the forest floor, wings in the
sky. The flow of water. A stitch being threaded. It all produces a sound,
however faint."
                "And you can hear it?" Gil asked in disbelief.
                "If I concentrate, yes," Matt confirmed. "I can hear better
with my eyes closed, with less distractions. But it's really no different than
how you can know things based on a scent. You can read scents, can't you,
because they're so distinct? My hearing is the same. For example, what's your
range?"
                Gil shrugged. "A couple of miles, give or take. It depends on
the wind, the weather, and how strong the scent is. Blood-scents are tricky to
distinguish, but pungent scents like fire-smoke are easy. I can smell fire for
miles."
                "The distance of my hearing is the same, give or take," Matt
said.
                "That's amazing, schatz," Gil complimented. It felt good. Matt
blushed. "So, if you close your eyes right now," said the Alpha playfully,
"what can you hear?"
                Matt closed his eyes. He felt self-conscious knowing that Gil
was watching him, but he tried to concentrate. He found it difficult to focus
on anything besides Gil's breaths and his voice when the Alpha started asking
rapid-fire questions and making suggestions. Finally, he pressed a finger to
Gil's lips to silence him. "I can hear sentries on the walls, pacing back-and-
forth; the sound of leather and metal on stone. I can hear the flags flapping
in the breeze. I can hear the Alphas sleeping in the barracks; some sleep-talk,
some snore, and some have nightmares. I can hear the wind whistling in the
rafters; I can hear it echoing back from inside the well, and from in the bell-
tower. I can hear wings in the tower; large wings. Owls, I think. I can hear
embers crackling in a brazier somewhere... in the kitchen. I can hear thunder
rumbling in the distance."
                Slowly, Matt opened his eyes, awaiting Gil's verdict.
                The Alpha's face was awestruck. "Amazing," he repeated. "That's
a gift, Matt."
                "Maybe," Matt said, burying his face in embarrassment.
                "No!" Gil smiled in encouragement. He bounced as he moved,
looking down at Matt. "Just think of how great it would be if we had a pup who
inherited both of our gifts!"
                Matt's eyes widened, taken aback by Gil's enthusiastic mention
of offspring. "Oh, I-I—"
                "Oh, no! I didn't mean that I—I was just, uh..." Gil blushed
scarlet. "Uh, never-mind."
                Matt snuggled back down beneath the covers, but he didn't
retreat. He stayed close to Gil's body, thinking on what the Alpha had
unwittingly proposed. Pups, he thought, feeling the heavy weight of duty. He
had always imagined himself as an Omega-father with pups, of course, but he had
never considered the Alpha-father before. Silly, really, since he couldn't
conceive pups on his own. It's just that when he had imagined his pups before,
he could never see the face of their Alpha-father. But now... My pups will be
Gil's pups. Coyly, Matt looked up at the handsome, blushing Alpha beside him.
My pups will inherit his genes, his strength. Matt was surprised by how
receptive he was to the idea, and of how willingly the family portrait appeared
in his mind. He waited and waited for the familiar bite of fear or trepidation,
but was disappointed by its absence. He felt defenceless, but—strangely—not
afraid.
                "Gil," he asked softly, "do you want pups?"
                "Oh, uh, I..." The Alpha blushed redder and scratched his head
in embarrassment. Matt waited. "I've never really thought about it," he
answered, chuckling nervously. He looked over at Matt, intending a smile, but
the moment their eyes met he sobered. His face relaxed and his red eyes became
thoughtful. "No," he corrected, "that's not true. The truth is, I've never let
myself think about it. I pledged myself to the military when I was thirteen-
years-old. There was never any point in wishing for something I couldn't have.
Like an Omega-mate." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. His eyes were
somewhere else.
                "But now—?" Matt prompted gently.
                "Yes," he said honestly, "I want pups. I think I always have.
But we don't always get what we want, do we?"
                "No," Matt agreed, lowering his gaze, "we don't.
                "What was it like?" he asked after a minute. He adopted a
lighthearted tone. "The army, I mean. Will you tell me about it?"
                Gil sunk down beside Matt. He shoved an arm under his pillow to
prop it up and leant intimately forward so they were only inches apart. It
reminded Matt of the way he and Al used to lie in bed, giggling and
storytelling late into the night. The Alpha's lips curled teasingly, a little
devil-may-care; Matt liked it. When he spoke, his voice was relatively soft.
"What do you want to know,schatz?"
                "I want to know about you," Matt replied shyly, "and your
family. Tell me about your childhood."
                "Well," Gil began (he loved storytelling), "my Alpha-father was
a General, but he never took the vows I did. It was after his time that the
Empire introduced vows of celibacy into the commander's oath. They thought it
would be better if military leaders weren't distracted by mates and families. I
was born in a fort at the far-eastern border, which my Vater commanded. It
wasn't like it is here in the forest. The fort I was born into was a community
with a village and farmland, but it was still an army life for my family.
Ludwig and I have been bred to it, I think."
                "And your Omega-parent?"
                "My Omega-father died shortly after Ludwig was born."
                "I'm sorry."
                "Don't be, it was a long time ago. I was five. I guess, looking
back, I was five when I joined the army. Maybe I wouldn't have been so keen if
my Omega-father had been there to stop me. At first, I just liked to play in
the barracks with the soldiers, you know? But soon I was getting underfoot and
volunteering to run errands and begging my Vater for combat lessons. I tried to
imitate the soldiers whenever I could. I thought it would make my Vater proud
of me if I became the perfect soldier."
                "Did it work?"
                "I don't know. I think Vater was proud of us, but not because
we were perfect. The gods know I sure wasn't perfect. But despite what you
might be thinking, it was a happy childhood. I'd drag Ludwig along with
me—Gods! He was such a little cry-baby back then! But don't tell him I told you
that," he added, grinning wickedly. "I pledged myself to the Western Army
officially on my thirteenth birthday. I was finally issued a uniform and a
proper job as a lookout. A bell-ringer, actually, which comes with more
responsibility than a simple lookout. I was really proud of myself for it. The
others teased me, but I took it very seriously. I think that's what I remember
the most, the community of the fort. Growing up there, it was like having a
hundred brothers and sisters."
                "And I thought having one brother was a handful," Matt joked.
                Gil laughed. Then he asked: "What about you, Matt?"
                Matt tensed. "What about me?"
                "Tell me something about yourself."
                "There's really not much to know. I'm not very interesting."
                "I doubt that." Gil waited. When Matt failed to speak, he
gently nudged the Omega's shoulder. "Come on, tell me something. Anything. Tell
me something about yourself that nobody else knows," he challenged.
                Matt glanced helplessly at Gil, who smiled.
                "Come on, schatz. I'm an awesome secret-keeper," he promised.
                "Okay..." Matt hesitated. He averted his eyes and spoke to the
pillow between them. "Ever since I was eleven-years-old, on the night of the
first frost, I wait until everyone else in the house is asleep and then I sneak
outside. I go down to the river near our house, and I strip off all my clothes,
and I jump into the water. It's freezing, but I love it. I float there on my
back and watch the moon and the stars. It's so peaceful. I stay there until I'm
completely numb, then I get out, get dressed, and go back to bed. And nobody
knows," he laughed slyly, emboldened by the confession. "It's the only time I'm
ever really alone," he admitted. "No family guarding me, or worrying about me,
because they don't even know about it. It's my secret. I've never told anyone
that before."
                Finally, Matt lifted his eyes and met Gil's. He didn't look
scandalized, just pleased.
                "Do you like being alone?" he asked.
                Matt thought for a minute, then said: "Yes, but it's got
nothing to do with me."
                Gil cocked his head.
                Matt said: "Have you ever been in a crowd of people who are all
staring at you, and yet somehow you feel completely ignored? Because that's
basically my life. People look at me, but nobody actually sees me.Nobody talks
to me, not really. They pay me compliments, but they don't really care what I
have to say as long as I'm flattering them in return. I mean, do you know often
I get cut-off mid-sentence?" he asked, letting a note of irritation flavour his
voice. "My own family does it all the time. But it doesn't matter as long as I
play my part and make them all look good. Al, he's the one people talk to; he's
the one they want around. I'm the one they forget. Out-of-sight, out-of-mind,"
he said bitterly. "They stare at me like I'm a luxury on someone else's arm,
unobtainable, just an accessory; just there to make that person look good. And
as long as I stay there, quiet and smiling, they overlook me as if I'm not even
there. So yes, I like to be alone.
                "I'm sorry," he added, glancing sheepishly at Gil.
                "For what, telling the truth?" Gil asked. His raspy voice was
gentle, but reprimanding. "Matt, I'm your Alpha-mate now. I don't ever want you
to think that you can't tell me things. Don't just be whatever you think I want
you to be. I don't like pretenders. Just be yourself, okay?"
                Matt smiled in reply, but it was sad. "I honestly don't even
know who that is anymore.
                "But that's enough about me," he said, forcing a change of
topic. "I told you, I'm not very interesting. But I'm a good listener. It's
your turn again, Gil. Tell me more about you."
===============================================================================
Gil was roused early the next morning. Groggily he crawled out of bed,
groaning. Gil was a light-sleeper and an early-riser; he could usually operate
on very little rest. He didn't usually need someone—Ludwig—to shake him back
into consciousness. But he also didn't usually stay up until dawn, talking,
laughing, and sharing secrets with his Omega-mate. "Captain," said Ludwig in
German. Briefly, Matt awoke, but when he recognized the Lieutenant he abandoned
all propriety and burrowed back beneath the blankets. "Captain. Captain.
Gilbert!" Ludwig biffed Gil over the head. The red-eyed Alpha growled
unhappily. "Yeah, yeah," he yawned. Half-asleep, he patted Matt's head before
he left.
                The next time Matt awoke, it was midday.
                "Matthew—? Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you!" said
the Squire.
                "No, it's okay," Matt said, waving in dismissal. Yawning, he
sat up, dragging the blanket with him. He wore it over his head, preserving the
warmth.
                "Guess what?" said the Squire, sitting down on the edge of the
bed. He was smiling a big, excited smile.
                Matt leant closer in confidence. "What?"
                "My leave was approved. I'm going home next week, and—" He
blushed happily, and his smile grew as big as his whole face, "—Finn," he named
his intended Omega-mate, "is going to be in Heat then, so... we're finally
going to be pair-bonded!"
                "Oh, that's wonderful!" Matt smiled.
                "Do you want to see a picture of him? I mean, it's just a
sketch I did, but still... Look, see? That's my Finn."
                Matt took the sketch. "He's really beautiful," he complimented.
The young Alpha glowed with pride. "You're a very talented artist."
                "Oh, thank-you. You can't really see it because it's just a
charcoal sketch," he pointed, "but my Finn has the most amazing blue eyes
you've ever seen."
                "I believe it," Matt said, returning the sketch. "He's a very
lucky Omega."
                The Squire left soon afterward, sighing in mock-exhaustion. He
had been chosen to accompany the Second-Lieutenant as part of an armed scouting
mission. A sighting of Southerners had disturbed the fort's higher command
(i.e. Gil had thrown a—private—fit in anger: "Le Roux, that fucking liar!" he
snarled). Gil had ordered his scouts out to investigate, with orders to kill
on-sight. Matt had tried to placate the captain's anger, but Gil was furious
that Le Roux had broken their agreement so soon.
                "He never intended to keep his word. He's after the fort. And
you," he said to Matt.
                "Me? But I thought we were done with me! I thought that's why
you and I..." Matt quieted fast when he saw an indignant look on the Alpha's
face.
                "Never-mind." Gil shook his head and heaved a deep sigh. "I've
got my rounds to do. I'll see you later."
                He was halfway out the door when he stopped. "Hey, Matt?" he
said, cocking his head. "Do you, maybe, want to come with me?"
                "Really?" Matt asked eagerly. He set aside Gil's black tunic,
half-mended.
                "Sure," Gil shrugged nonchalantly. "Let's put your German to
the test," he joked.
                Matt leapt up and took Gil's arm in escort. It was a bright,
sunny day. The Alphas were surprised to see Matt accompanying the captain, but
rather than frown in disapproval, their dreary, tired faces cheered. They
saluted as Gil passed, then, when the captain issued an "at-ease" order, they
inclined their heads to Matt, respecting his position as the captain's Omega-
mate. Some of them even smiled. After a month, they had all gotten used to Matt
being there and they trusted Gil, besides. "Know what's funny?" Gil whispered
to Matt as they strolled. "Technically, you outrank most of them now." Matt did
find that funny—and ironic. He stifled a laugh. Gil took him on a leisurely
tour all around the fort, introduced him to the soldiers, and let them explain
the logistics and operation of their various duties. A few of them hesitated at
first, thinking military equipment an unsuitable topic for an Omega, but a
pressing look from Gil encouraged them to obey, and soon they were talking
animatedly, encouraged by the Omega's interest. Matt smiled as they shared. He
asked a lot of questions, paid a lot of compliments, and—once—even asked if he
could be the one to pull the catapult's lever in practice. And they let him.
                "That was fun," he said to Gil afterward.
                "Matt," he said, lowering his voice for privacy. He cocked his
head at his Alphas. "They love you. Seriously," he added, ignoring Matt's snort
of dismissal, "you just made their day."
                "I didn't do anything. I just talked to them."
                "Which is more attention than any of them has got in months,"
Gil admitted. "You talked to them. You asked them questions. You took an
interest in them and their work. You remembered all of their names. Matt, you
have no idea what a smile from a pretty Omega does for morale."
                "Oh, I see," Matt teased. He poked Gil's chest in accusation.
"So, you had ulterior motives when you asked if I wanted a tour of the fort, is
that it?"
                "No!" Gil laughed. "It was a happy side-effect." Playfully, he
ruffled the Omega's curls. Matt tried to escape, but Gil pulled him back,
holding him around the middle, and grabbed at his ribs. An embarrassingly high-
pitched yelp left Matt before he dissolved into a fit of laughter. "Ticklish,
schatz?" Gil grinned wickedly.
                "No, don't! Gil, stop it!" Matt shrieked in laughter.
                "Uh, Captain?" Ludwig interrupted.
                Gil—bent precariously over Matt, whom he was holding in his
arms, supporting the Omega as he play-fought for freedom, flushed and
laughing—looked guiltily up at Ludwig, as if he had been caught doing something
naughty.
                "Yes, Luddy?"
                Ludwig switched to German, unaware of Matt's private lessons.
"Maybe don't flirt with your Omega-mate in the middle of the courtyard where
everyone can see you—? It's not very professional, Gil. Just a suggestion."
                "Flirting, no. I wasn't flirting. I was just playing."
                "Gil,we played a lot as pups," Ludwig reminded him, "and the
last time you tickled me,I was six."
                "Uh,yes,but—"
                "Take it inside,Gil." Finally, Ludwig broke into a teasing
half-grin. "Your Alphas are all laughing at you."
                Gil relaxed. "Oh,yeah? Well good," he nodded, drawing Matt
close to his side. "They should laugh whenever they can."
                Pleased, he smiled down at his Omega-mate. Matt smiled back,
feeling safe and relaxed. He fit comfortably beneath Gil's arm, just tall
enough to rest his head against the Alpha's shoulder. He did so, looking
playfully up at Gil. Gil, who's vibrant red gaze landed on Matt's lips. Before
the Omega could interrupt or break eye-contact, Gil swooped down. Matt panicked
and turned his head and Gil kissed his cheek. Like Lars, Gil straightened and
stared at Matt in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but Matt blurted:
                "I'm sorry!" Hastily, he ducked beneath Gil's arm in escape.
                Gil glanced at Ludwig, who politely pretended not to notice.
"Matt," said the red-eyed Alpha, nodding toward the keep.
                Matt followed him, feeling nervous. Oh,fuck. And today was
going so well. Why did I just do that?
                Gil stopped in the corridor, just out-of-sight. He said: "Why
won't you let me kiss you?"
                Habitually Matt bowed his head in shame. Gil didn't sound
upset, just curious. But the Alpha was quite good at masking his feelings, and
Matt had just embarrassed him in front of the entire fort, shattering the
illusion of them as a happily-mated couple. Guilt churned in his stomach. "I'm
sorry," he repeated. I shouldn't have flinched. Now Gil looks like an Alpha who
can't control his own Omega-mate. It's a poor reputation for a Fort Commander.
"I-I—I didn't mean to—"
                "Matt?" Gil leant forward, peering into the Omega's downcast
face. "Are you okay? Is something wrong?"
                Bravely and quickly, Matt said: "I'm sorry, Gil. I'm sorry that
I embarrassed you, but I don't want you to kiss me. It's unfair, I know. You're
my Alpha-mate and my body belongs to you, but I... I don't want to kiss someone
who I'm not in love with."
                An awkward silence stretched for a minute too long, then the
Alpha shrugged.
                "Oh, is that all?" he asked, tipping his head to look at Matt.
He hooked a finger around a pale curl and pulled it aside, revealing half of
the Omega's blushing face.
                "Is that... okay?" Matt asked cautiously.
                Gil's smile was kind. "Yes, that's okay. Come here." He pulled
Matt into a friendly hug. "I thought I had done something wrong, so I'm glad. I
want you to tell me these things, remember? I won't get angry. Not if you tell
me the truth. But," he said a minute later, "can I make a request, too?"
                "Of course," Matt replied in surprise.
                Gil pulled back, his hands resting lightly on Matt's back.
"Please," he said earnestly, "don't ever be afraid of me. I know that I'm not a
choice Alpha. I know this isn't exactly the mated-life you had planned, but I
swear I'll never hurt you. I want you to trust me, okay? Hey, look at me,
schatz." Tenderly he cupped Matt's face. "I promise I'll always take care of
you, no matter what, okay?"
                Matt looked up into Gil's vibrant red eyes and was nodding even
before he spoke. "Okay," he said honestly. It was a small thing, but he
suddenly felt as if a weight had been lifted. He had never said the following
words to anyone but his family: "I trust you."
                Gil leant down, and this time the Omega didn't flinch. He
fought the flight instinct that had plagued him his whole life, and stayed put—
                —and Gil kissed his forehead.
===============================================================================
LATER
Captain, sir," reported a sentry.
                Gil was browsing the armoury—sans Matt—and trying not to replay
the Omega's confession over-and-over in his head: "I don't want to kiss someone
who I'm not in love with." The fact that Matt had practically ran to escape the
Alpha's kiss was proof enough that he was not in love with Gil. But that was
fine. The circumstances of his and Matt's pair-bonding hadn't exactly been
romantic. And it's not like Gil was in love with him, either. No. The hollow
feeling in the Alpha's stomach was because he had skipped supper. It was
hunger; maybe the beginnings of a stomach flu. It had nothing to do with his
Omega-mate's rejection.
                Gil looked up at the Alpha's knock. "Yes?" He waved at him,
permitting he enter the large, circular chamber.
                "The scouting party has returned, sir."
                Gil set down his ledger, mating problems temporarily forgotten.
He didn't trust the sentry's tone. It sounded heavily burdened. "And—?"
                Regretfully, the sentry shook his head.
                Gil's stomach clenched. He hated losing his soldiers. Every
death was a devastating blow.
                "Who?" he asked, steeling himself.
                The sentry hesitated. Then he said: "It's Grey, sir. Your
squire."
===============================================================================
Gil entered the sick-room with purpose and was led to the young Alpha's
bedside. The surgeon had tried to save the Squire's life. His torso was
cauterized and bandaged, but it was useless. Blood saturated the linen. So much
blood. He had already lost too much blood. When Gil asked the surgeon for a
diagnosis, the Alpha simply shook his head sadly in apology. There was nothing
to be done except wait for Gil's young Squire, Grey, to die.
                The news had hit Gil hard. Shock and fear had twisted his
insides, but now all he felt was grief. As he knelt at Grey's bedside, he felt
an intense stab of guilt. The youth was weak and deathly-pale. Gil took his
hand.
                "Captain—?" he croaked softly.
                "Yes, I'm here. You did well, Soldier." He squeezed the cold
hand. "You served your country. You made the Empire proud."
                Slowly, Grey turned his head. Gil had never noticed before how
blue his eyes were. "And you? Sir, are you..."
                "The proudest of all," Gil confirmed. He smiled. It hurt.
                "I-I—I'm scared."
                "Don't be. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
                "Captain..." In effort, the Squire pulled at something tucked
into his breast-pocket. It was a piece of paper; a corner was wet with blood.
Gil took the liberty of removing it for him. He tried to place it in the cold
hand, but Grey refused it. "Take it back... to him," he said, choking. Only
then did Gil realize that he was holding a sketch. "Tell him... Tell him I
love..."
                "I will," Gil promised. He squeezed Grey's hand, but the young
Alpha didn't flinch. He couldn't even feel it.
                "I-I—I can't see. I'm scared," he repeated, softer still.
                "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
                "But I-I—I am."
                Gil didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He held the
dying Alpha's hand tight against his chest.
                "Captain."
                "Yes? Yes—? I'm here," said Gil, but he received no reply. His
Squire was dead.
                Gently, Gil reached down and closed the fifteen-year-old's blue
eyes. He whispered a prayer, kissed the dead soldier's forehead, and then left.
===============================================================================
The instant Gil closed the bedchamber door, Matt knew that something was wrong.
The Alpha tugged off his coat, let it fall to the floor, and then kicked off
his boots. He spotted Matt, but quickly looked away.
                "Oh, Matt," he said quietly, a catch in his voice. "I thought
you'd be asleep."
                Matt didn't miss the insinuation: Gil had hoped Matt would be
asleep.
                "Oh, I was," Matt said, watching Gil's lethargic movements. It
was dark, but he didn't light a candle. "I heard the bell."
                "Oh." Gil walked to the window and looked out. He stood in only
his loose shirtsleeves and trousers, without any armour—physical or emotional.
His posture was tense. Matt could see his wiry shoulders arched, his head bowed
low, as if gazing upon the courtyard bellow. Stoically, he said: "The scouting
party returned. Grey is dead."
                Matt clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle a whine. His eyes
flooded with tears, but he blinked. The Alpha's blunt words felt like a punch.
                It was silent for a long time. Gil didn't move an inch. He
stayed at the window, hands laying flat against the stone. Matt sat on the bed
and tried not to cry. Grey is dead? It was sad. The Alpha was only fifteen-
years-old, just a squire. He had had such a lot of energy and so many future
plans. He had been kind to Matt. And he adored Gil. The fact that he was
dead—so fast, no warning—cut Matt deeply. Matt had only just been talking with
him that morning! But Matt had only known the young Alpha for a month. Gil had
known him for years. Oh,Gil. He looked at the tense Alpha, standing alone at
the window. It was dark, but starlight illuminated Gil's silvery figure. He
reminded Matt of the forlorn heroes from Al's favourite stories. Quietly, he
slipped out of bed and approached the Alpha. When Gil didn't move, Matt gently
placed his hand on the Alpha's back. It was cold. For once, Matt was the warmer
of the two, still bathed in conserved body-heat from the bed. He wrapped his
arms around Gil from behind and hugged him, and Gil let him. Like stone, he
didn't move an inch, but he let Matt hold him and rest his curly head on his
back.
                "It's my fault," Gil said quietly.
                "No," Matt denied, but Gil ignored him.
                "He was only fifteen. I found him when he was twelve. Found
him, like a stray. His family had been killed in a border-raid, so I took him.
I made him my squire. I shouldn't have. I should've sent him to the Great House
to work as a farmer or a craftsman. He should've been someone's apprentice, an
artist maybe. He was a good artist. I shouldn't have let him come here. But he
wanted to be a soldier, my squire; said he owed me. And I said yes." Gil's
voice broke; his body shuddered. He took a deep breath. "He never had the heart
of a soldier. I knew that, but I brought him here anyway. I trained him as a
soldier, and I gave him a soldier's duties, and a soldier's pride. And now he's
dead because of it," Gil whispered, "and it's all my fault. If I had been there
today..."
                "Gil," Matt soothed softly, "you can't know what would have
happened. If not Grey, it might have been you."
                "It should have been me."
                "No—"
                "He was going home next week," Gil interrupted. Matt saw the
Alpha's fists clench. "He has—had—an Omega waiting for him."
                "I know. He showed me a picture."
                In reply, Gil pulled the blood-stained sketch from his pocket.
It was creased. Wordlessly, he gave it to Matt.
                "He was my responsibility," Gil said dejectedly, "and I failed
him."
                Gil's unspoken question—his fear—hung between them: What if I
fail others,too?
                Matt rubbed Gil's back as he spoke. "I see it now," he said
after a minute.
                "What?"
                "Something that Ludwig said," Matt repeated, "Gil has a
weakness for strays."
                Gil snorted derisively. "Weakness is right. My whole company is
made of strays and misfits, ordered out here to fight a losing battle. Half of
them shouldn't even be here. Half of them are going to die."
                Matt shook his head. He looked up at Gil, but the Alpha's gaze
was downcast. "Ludwig is wrong. And so are you, Gil. It's not a weakness.
Compassion and kindness are not weaknesses. I'd be dead if it wasn't for you."
                "And Grey would be alive."
                "Gil." Brazenly, Matt reached up and cupped Gil's cheek,
turning the Alpha's head so they faced each other. His red eyes shone with
unshed tears. "You're only one Alpha, you can't save everyone."
                One tear fell; then another. Gil turned and hugged Matt,
burying his face in the Omega's shoulder. Matt held him and rubbed his back and
pet his hair, whispering soothing words that Gil didn't hear. He squeezed Matt
tightly in his arms, bracing his weight against his Omega-mate. Gil was heavy,
but Matt didn't mind. He was happy to be there to support him, even if his own
heart ached. He tried to stay strong. He didn't buckle beneath the weight of
his own emotions; he held back his tears, because for the first time Gil
neededhim.
                "Matt."
                Gil's lips spoke against Matt's neck, wet and hot. He kissed
Matt's neck, once, twice, nuzzling the Omega with his nose. Matt felt the
Alpha's teeth graze his skin, but he didn't bite. He kissed Matt's throat and
collarbone. At a loss, Matt stood there and let him. He could feel Gil's heart
beating fast, and the wetness of tears on his skin. The Alpha felt weak; that
was obvious. A comrade had died and he was feeling the sting of loss—a loss of
control, which the Fort Commander hated.
                He needs to feel strong again, Matt knew, letting Gil paw
absently at him. He needs an outlet for his grief.
                Matt walked backwards, gently pulling Gil with him until he
felt the wall at his back. Gil lifted his head, and when he did Matt looked at
him very deliberately and dropped a hand to Gil's belt. The Alpha tensed. He
didn't move as Matt unbuckled the belt and tossed it heedlessly to the floor,
all the while staring up at the Alpha with carnal intent in his violet eyes. He
cupped Gil's cock through his trousers and felt it twitch in response. Gil
uttered a soft gasp. Only then did he lean in, pressing their bodies together.
He placed a knee between Matt's splayed legs, snug up against the Omega's
groin. Matt moved his hips slowly in reply, grinding against the Alpha. Gil
made a growling noise deep in his throat. The tears were gone from his eyes
now. He opened Matt's shirt, careless of the buttons, and bowed his head to the
Omega's soft skin; kissing and licking and nipping; indulging in what had been
off-limits to him before. The feel of Gil's tongue was foreign, but good. Matt
honestly didn't know if it was something he would have wanted from anyone, or
just from Gil, but just then he didn't care. He let the Alpha tug his trousers
down until they hit the floor and then he gracelessly stepped out of them. He
wrapped his arms around Gil's neck as the Alpha half-lifted him off the floor.
A strong hand grasped Matt under the thigh; Matt wrapped his leg around Gil's
hips, using the wall for support. It was a bit clumsy and a bit messy. The
Alpha's slick cock lingered at the Omega's entrance. Both of them were
breathing hard in anticipation now; a little excited, a little scared. Nose-to-
nose, Gil looked directly into Matt's eyes, and said:
                "Are you sure?"
                Matt locked his arms around Gil, fingernails biting the Alpha's
ghost-white skin. "Yes."
===============================================================================
Hours later, Matt was lying on his back in the bed with Gil beside him,
sleeping. The Alpha's head was pillowed on his chest, his arms wrapped around
Matt's middle. Matt stroked the Alpha's hair and listened to his deep, quiet
breaths; he felt his chest rise-and-fall rhythmically; his heart beating
peacefully. Gil had fallen asleep fast, but Matt was wide awake. He had never
been mated upright against a wall before. It was reckless. It was—kind of
exciting, he admitted in private. It had hurt, of course, but it felt much less
intrusive than the first time they had mated. In fact, at times it had felt
something akin to good. He had cried-out and clawed at Gil, like before—Gil's
strong back was scored with scratches—but this time Matt hadn't been afraid of
it. Maybe it was grief, maybe not. Maybe it was a sign of growing affection for
his Alpha-mate. Whatever it was, one thing was certain. This time, Matt had
wanted Gil to mate him.
                A knock sounded at the door. Gil was dead-asleep. Matt called:
"Yes—?"
                Ludwig entered, holding a lantern that illuminated the couple
in bed. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said by way of apology. "The
Captain—Gil," he corrected, realizing that he was talking to his brother-in-law
and not another soldier, "should inspect the troops before they leave the fort
again."
                Matt bit his lip indecisively. "Could you do it instead?" he
asked coyly, afraid of overstepping his position.
                Ludwig's blue eyes surveyed his brother's languid figure. In
reflex, Matt hugged Gil protectively. "Yes," said the lieutenant after a short
hesitance. He met Matt's eyes and a silent understanding passed between them.
"I think that's a good idea."
                He bowed his head and retreated, but stopped at the door.
Before leaving, he turned back to Matt, and said:
                "Matthew?"
                "Yes?"
                "Take care of my brother."
                Matt smiled. "Yes, sir."
===============================================================================
WESTERN EMPIRE
WILDERNESS
Alfred tested his injured leg by squeezing it gently between his fingers,
feeling the broken fibula bone as Ivan always did. It was tender, and his skin
was pale and bruised an ugly yellow, but it hurt much less than it had. It was
healing well. Al was lucky. Pups healed a lot faster than adults, according to
Ivan, who ignored the Omega's indignant protest: "I'm fifteen, I'm not a pup!"
Meticulously Al re-bandaged his shin, tying it tight, and then rewrapped it in
heavy clean linen. He had seen Ivan do it countless times. Then, exhaling
slowly in apprehension, he placed both feet on the floor and stood. His left
leg throbbed in protest, but the bone held his lightweight. "Thank the gods,"
he said aloud. He took a few experimental steps back-and-forth, bearing the
pain and testing his strength. After a month of nothing but bed-rest, his leg
was weakened. It felt shaky, but no longer in danger of breaking. He grabbed
the stout walking-stick that Ivan had procured for him and left the cave.
                "I'm going to go to the river to bathe." That's what Ivan had
said before he left, so that's where Al began his search.
                He hobbled to the rocky shore, letting his keen eyes rake the
long grass and lazily flowing water. It wasn't deep; Al could see the riverbed
as clearly as he could the sky. He skulked along the edge for several yards,
then stopped and retreated; back-and-forth. He tried to find Ivan's scent, but
his nose wasn't sensitive enough and the river distorted all smells, washing
them away. He listened intently to the forest, but all he heard was babbling
water, birdsongs, and dry leaves rustling in the breeze. If only I had Mattie's
hearing, he thought, straining his ears. If Ivan was nearby, injured or
trapped, Matt would have been able to hear him.
                But what if he's not injured or trapped? said Doubt in Al's
head. What if he changed his mind,decided that he didn't want you after all,and
left?
                Al's fists clenched. He felt angry and sad. Ivan's I love you
played over-and-over in his mind, taunting him. A cruel jest? No, Ivan wouldn't
do that. He wouldn't have lied to me.
                But he might have changed his mind, said Doubt. He wouldn't be
the first to give you false hope.
                No,Ivan's not like that. He would have told me to my face. He's
not a coward.
                He's a deserter. Maybe he deserted you,too.
                Al shook his head.
                Resting his leg, he leant heavily on the walking-stick. To his
left, the reeds tickled his skin; to his right, they were crushed, lying flat
in the soil. Al frowned. The riverbank dipped subtly, but instead of sinking
into the water, the earth was smooth, as if something had been dragged out. He
followed the trail of flattened reeds with his eyes and saw a sinewy tree
branch that was hanging limply. When he was close enough, he could see that it
hadn't been cut down, but broken, as if a heavy weight had crashed into it. He
followed the trail further, hunting for other signs of a struggle, and finally
found a patch of grass covered in dry blood. Al didn't need an Alpha's sense of
smell to know it was Ivan's. What he couldn't determine was what had attacked
the unsuspecting Alpha. If, indeed, he had been attacked and had not simply ran
off to escape his commitment to Al. Al tried to ignore the humiliating thought
as he searched for signs of wildlife, but found none. If Ivan had been attacked
by an animal, then the thing would have left evidence—a corpse, or bones, or
shredded cloth, but there was nothing, which only left one option. If it wasn't
something that had found Ivan, then it had to be someone.
                "Oh, Ivan," Al whispered, scanning the dense woods in fear,
"what happened to you?"
===============================================================================
Al returned to the cave with a plan. He took Ivan's leather belt and secured it
around his waist, then stuck the Alpha's hunting-knife into it. He packed an
oil-skin with water, food, tinder, and medical supplies, and tied it to the
belt. Then he took the Alpha's coat and boots, which were too big. And his
sword. He dug in the box for the sword's belt and then secured the sheathed
weapon over his shoulder, wearing it on his back. It wasn't as heavy like that.
Finally, he fetched the dried bear-skin from outside and threw it over himself
like a cloak. It was heavy and coarse, but its density cut the wind. It would
keep the underweight Omega warm and hide his mild scent. The bear was the
largest, most dangerous predator in the forest, after all; no beast would risk
attacking it, no matter how hungry it was.
                I'm glad there's no looking-glass, he thought briefly. I must
look like a barbarian.
                But for the first time in a long time, Al didn't give a damn
what he looked like. The only thing he cared about was finding Ivan.
                "Just hold on, Ivan," he said in determination. "I'm coming,
I'll find you."
                Then he took his walking-stick and left the cave.
===============================================================================
Ivan leant back against the tree he was tethered to, trying—and failing—to find
a comfortable spot free of knots and rocks. His whole body was stiff; it ached.
And the three-tined wounds on his chest throbbed, torn open in the struggle. It
had been two days since he had stood and stretched; three days since he had
consumed anything except water; and four days since he had seen Al.
                Al.
                He couldn't even think the name without feeling a stab of guilt
and regret. I hope you're alright. Ivan didn't know the details of Omega Heats,
but he knew that it was unpleasant if left unmated. (He had heard a rumour,
once, that an Omega's Heats got worse every year he was left unmated. Al was
only fifteen, but it didn't quiet Ivan's fears.) He hoped that Al had suffered
through it alone. He hated to consider the alternative: that the Alphas, the
Easterners, who had found and captured him for a deserter had also found Al.
Ivan'sAl: alone, injured, helpless, and in Heat. The mental image of them
touching Al, kissing him, violating his beautiful body, stealing his virginity;
stealing him away from Ivan—! Ivan squeezed his eyes shut and growled, trying
to rid himself of the thought. Every time he imagined it, he felt fury consume
him. If not for the ropes restraining him, he would have lunged at the soldiers
and ripped them apart. Even now, his hands shook as he tried to suppress his
rage.
                No, he told himself sternly. If they had found Al,they would've
said something about it by now. They would want me to know about it,to taunt
me. My Al is safe. He had to believe that, or go mad worrying.
                The rage abated and slowly he opened his eyes. He glared
maliciously at the other Eastern Alphas, who were sitting around a merrily
crackling fire. Ivan was too far to benefit from the fire's heat, but close
enough for his captors to guard him. There were five of them, a small scouting-
party. For one blissful moment Ivan imagined choking the life out of the lot of
them with his bare hands, but he knew he was too weak to fight all of them. A
couple, yes; but five—? He would be dead before he could squeeze the life from
even one. He hated it. He hated feeling weak and helpless, at the mercy of
others. He was a capable, independent Alpha. He had been taking care of himself
for a long time. He had been free for a long time. He hated feeling trapped.
                Absently, he let his eyes scan the forest. It was dark now,
another day fading into night. The foliage around the campsite was dense. He
stared at a bramble bush a few feet away—and realized with a sudden start that
the bush was staring back.
                Al's big blue eyes stared deliberately at Ivan. Ivan would know
those spirited eyes anywhere.
                Ivan's eyes bulged in reply, in disbelief, in fear. Fervently,
he nodded in a directionless way, trying to tell Al to leave.
                What the fuck are you doing? Get away from here!Leave me
be,it's too dangerous!
                He would never forgive himself if Al got captured. Angrily, he
glared at the stubborn Omega, heart beating in panic. Alfred,please—for
once—obey me and run!
                But he didn't. Rather, the ballsy Omega looked right at Ivan,
lifted a finger to his lips to indicate silence, and then winked. Ivan could
have strangled him. Al's crafty smile did not fill Ivan with confidence.
Instead, he worried for the Omega's safety—and sanity. Are you fucking insane,
Alfred? Before he could give a wordless reply, however, Al's pretty face
disappeared into the bushes, leaving Ivan to wonder where he had gone. He tried
to follow Al's trek, but it was too dark. He couldn't see or hear the Omega; Al
moved as silent as a specter. Ivan waited—and waited, and waited for any sign.
                Finally, one of the soldier's lifted his head and sniffed
curiously at the air, his nose twitching. Befuddled, he turned to his comrades,
and said: "Do you smell that?" He glanced nervously from face-to-face. "It's
smells like—"
                "Bear," said another, catching his comrade's fear.
                Together, four of the five soldiers collected their swords and
jogged off into the forest toward the scent, ready for a fight. One stayed
behind to guard Ivan, the prisoner. He paced anxiously around the fire, his
hand hovering over the pommel of his sword. He glanced back at Ivan, who cocked
an eyebrow, pretending to be bored, before turning in the direction of the
apparent threat. That's when it happened. As soon as his back was unguarded, Al
pounced out of the bushes like a wildcat, grabbed the Alpha, and pressed Ivan's
hunting-knife to his jugular.
                "Don't move," he warned, drawing the soldier's sword from the
scabbard. He tossed it aside, where it landed uselessly in a pile of dry
leaves. "Don't speak. If you make a single sound, I'll cut your fucking
throat," said the Omega mercilessly.
                The Alpha snarled, but stopped when Ivan translated Al's threat
into Russian.
                "Walk slowly, hands up," Al said, letting Ivan translate. He
held the knife at the Alpha's throat as he led him backwards to Ivan's tree.
"Sit," he ordered, then took a rope from his belt—Ivan's belt—and bound the
Alpha's hands and feet. As a precaution, he took a strip of linen bandages and
used it to gag the irate Alpha. Then the cheeky Omega patted his head. "Cozy?"
he grinned. The Alpha glared at him and grunted.
                "Al," said Ivan in disbelief. As soon as Al knelt in front of
him, Ivan leant forward and seized the Omega's soft lips. He kissed him
roughly. He couldn't hold back. It was fast and hard and inconsiderate—and felt
so good. It was everything that he had been craving ever since he had first
smelled Al's delicious Heat. Then abruptly  he pulled back, his temper flaring.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he snapped.
                Al rolled his eyes. "Rescuing you, of course."
                Quickly, Al cut the ropes imprisoning Ivan.
                Ivan pulled Al against his beaten body. "You fool!" he said,
squeezing Al; kissing him. "You stupid, stubborn, reckless Omega! You shouldn't
have come here, it's too dangerous!"
                "Dangerous?" Al pulled back, gaping at him. "Do you have any
idea how worried I've been? You left and then didn't come back, Ivan! I waited
for three fucking days, but you never came back! I thought you decided to... I
thought something horrible had happened to you, and I was right!"
                "You knew, and yet you placed yourself in deliberate danger?"
Ivan challenged. "You shouldn't have come!"
                "Stop!" Al snapped, fisting handfuls of Ivan's soiled shirt. He
held tightly, hands shaking. "Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do! I
love you, you stupid Alpha! I wasn't about to just leave you! Would you—" his
voice broke, betraying tears, "—have left me?"
                Ivan stared at the Omega, speechless. "No," he said finally,
fervently—softly. "Of course not. I love you, Al."
                "I love you, too," Al said in relief. He stood and offered Ivan
his hand. "Now, let's get the fuck out of here."
===============================================================================
Can you stand?" Al asked, helping Ivan to his feet. The Alpha looked horrible,
bruised and beaten. His pale skin was sallow; dark shadows of fatigue encircled
his eyes; his lips were parched; and his breathing was uneven. The wounds on
his chest had reopened and bloodied his shirt, sapping his strength. He was in
a lot of pain, but he tried to hide it.
                "It's worse than it looks," he said shortly, dismissing Al's
proffered hand.
                Al pouted. "Stop saying that," he replied unhappily. "It's
entirely as bad as it looks. You're just a big, stupid, selfish Alpha, who—"
                "Alfred!" Ivan silenced him. "Can we please not do this now?"
                Al considered the situation. Fleetingly, he glanced at the
Eastern soldier, who glared sullenly at the reunited couple. Oh,gods. I'm
acting like a brat, he realized. I've got to get Ivan out of here before—
                He stopped.
                "Ivan, wait. Be quiet," he ordered, holding up a hand to deny
the Alpha's protest as he listened carefully. The forest was alive with subtle
sounds, but it was the pace of footsteps that drew his attention. "They're
coming back," he reported. His decoy—the bear skin—hadn't distracted the
soldiers for as long as Al had wanted. "We've got to go now."
                But now wasn't soon enough.
                Four large Eastern Alphas crashed into the campsite, angry at
having been deceived. Al clutched the knife in his white-knuckled fist, even as
Ivan drew his sword from the sheath on Al's back. He held it out one-handed,
his body poised for attack. Where he found the strength, Al didn't know. The
big, irate Alpha stepped protectively in front of Al, who shrank back in fear.
He felt like a coward for doing so, but it was an instinctive reflex. Al might
have been strong-willed, but he was physically weak compared to their enemies.
A single blow from one of those fists could be deadly, never-mind the swords.
He knew that he couldn't face a fully grown Alpha—a trained soldier—and win, so
he hugged the tree-line in a defensive way. The Omega was all out of tricks.
Oh,fuck! What do I do? His eyes scanned the dense forest from left-to-right,
searching for an escape. Too late—
                —the Alphas lunged.
                "Run!" Ivan snarled at Al, meeting the attack head-on.
                This time, Al obeyed. He dodged to the left, but one of the
Alphas blocked his path. In fast retreat, he crashed into the tall tree Ivan
had been tethered to. To the right, Ivan was engaged in a swordfight. To the
left, the stray Alpha was charging at Al, intending to kill. Al looked to his
only route and climbed. He pulled himself easily up into the tree branches like
a squirrel, moving swiftly. The Alpha followed him, growling and spitting up
insults, but Al's lightweight out-paced him. He had been climbing trees since
he was a pup. Unafraid, he climbed higher-and-higher onto thinner boughs.
Eventually, he had to discard the heavy belt and cloak, dropping them in an
attempt to quicken his pace and lighten his weight. Naked except for the thin
clothes on his back, Al felt the wind's bite as it blew through the topmost
boughs, threatening to knock him off. Finally, he could go no further.
                It's okay, he thought logically. I'm much too high.He can't
follow me here,he's too heavy.
                The Eastern soldier was not a climber. His body was big and
heavy; he was dressed in thick armour; and he refused to let go of his sword
for better balance. He clenched it as he slipped, and cursed as he crashed up
through the branches, slashing at leaves.
                He'll stop soon.He'll have to.
                But the Alpha was determined. Al could see the white's of his
eyes; eyes that glared up stubbornly. His teeth were clenched, his canines
bared as he pulled himself upward, heedless of the danger.
                "Stop!" Al yelled at him, hugging his perch. He could feel the
thin boughs waving and bending precariously beneath him, jostled by the Alpha's
ascent. "Please, stop! You're going to fall!" Al warned.
                A rotten branch beneath the Alpha cracked, but he didn't stop
and he didn't slow. He ignored the Omega's warning, misunderstanding it. He
didn't speak English. Suddenly, the branch broke altogether.
                "Drop the fucking sword!" Al yelled, but too late.
                The Alpha fell, crashing down through the branches at an
alarming speed. He landed hard on the ground, his bones breaking on impact,
still clutching the sword in his dead fist.
===============================================================================
Alfred!" gasped Ivan, jogging to the Omega.
                Al leapt gracefully—carefully—to the ground, trying to avoid
the Eastern soldier's broken corpse.
                "Are you okay?"
                Meekly, Al nodded. He surveyed the campsite and saw three
Alphas lying face-down on the ground. "Did you kill them?" he asked, eyes going
to Ivan's sword. It was clean.
                "No, I just knocked them out," he replied, as if it was
nothing; as if he wasn't injured and starved and sleep-deprived.
                Al looked up at the violet-eyed Alpha, who was only slightly
out of breathe, and said (very seriously): "You're incredible."
                Ivan smiled. "So are you, little one. I'd still be a prisoner
if it wasn't for you." He pulled Al into a one-armed hug and nuzzled him
affectionately.
                "What about him?" Al indicated the bound-and-gagged soldier,
who had resigned himself to spectator.
                "Leave him," Ivan said. "He's not going anywhere until the
others wake, which won't take long," he added, a note of urgency in his tone.
"We have to go," he said, and Al knew he wasn't talking about returning to the
cave.
                "Go where?" Al asked, feeling suddenly cold; hollow. All he
wanted to do was return to the cave, which had become as much his home as it
was Ivan's. It was safe and warm and belonged only to them, but that brief
interlude of his life was over. They couldn't go back there, not to stay. It
wouldn't be long before the Eastern soldiers returned, not just a small
scouting-party, but a whole company of invaders set to kill both of them, the
runaways. There would be no hesitance next time, no capture, only death.
"Ivan?" Al repeated, as they started off. "Where are we going to go?"
                Ivan's pace was slow. He leant heavily on Al for support, but
there was strength in him yet. He paused for a moment and looked kindly down at
Al. "Home," he said simply. "We're going home."
                Al frowned. Then his eyes widened in understanding. "You mean,
to the Isles?" he gasped in disbelief.
                "Yes," Ivan smiled. "Your leg has healed well, Al. You're
strong enough to travel, so I'm taking you home. It'll be dangerous. The way
west takes us through the heart of the Western Empire, and we'll have the
Easterners on our scent, but," he squeezed Al's shoulder, "I think we've both
proved we're tougher than we look. I think we can do it."
                "Home," Al repeated, letting himself smile. He felt
overwhelmed.
                "Yes."
                "But Mattie..." he remembered.
                Ivan nodded. "We'll search for your brother, I promise. But
know that you're my priority, Al. I won't sacrifice you for him," he said
honestly. Suddenly, he stopped and his face grew grave. "When those soldiers
took me, I thought I was done. I was going to be executed for desertion. I
didn't think I would ever see you again." Gently, he stroked Al's cheek. Al
kissed his fingers in reply. "I'm not going to lose you again, little one. I'll
get you home safely, I promise."
                Al didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He smiled,
pulled Ivan close, and kissed the brave Alpha. The handsome Alpha. The Alpha
whom he was desperately, helplessly in love with. He kissed Ivan like it was
the first time all over again: shy and sweet and chaste and perfect. He felt
Ivan's lips curl against his and Al's heart fluttered. He was ready to go home,
he realized—ready to take Ivan home with him.
                This, he thought hopefully, is just the beginning.
===============================================================================
It was daybreak by the time they reached the cave. Morning sunlight filtered
in, bright yet crisp. The days were getting shorter and chillier as summer
faded into autumn, and without a fire the cave was cold and moist. It didn't
feel like a home anymore, which was for the better. Al and Ivan shared a
meaningful look and then wordlessly started to pack what they needed for the
journey west. Al wandered to the cold nest that he had built for his Heat,
remembering how it had felt to lie there alone and afraid, helpless to the
Heat-waves that consumed him. He knelt and absently ran his fingers over the
soft, squishy pelts, which were saturated in his lingering scent.
                I was so ready to be mated, he thought regretfully. He had
never wanted anything like he had wanted Ivan.
                "Al?" said the Alpha.
                Al looked back at him: pale, bruised, and bloody, and yet—so
beautiful. Ivan had discarded his tattered shirt, and his scars gleaned in the
sunlight. Al loved them. To him, they were not symbols of shame and
disobedience, but of the Alpha's strength and resilience, proof that he was a
survivor no matter the cost. He was a protector; a provider. He was someone who
was unafraid of life. Every cut, scratch, and lash had forged Ivan into the
Alpha he was.
                Impulsively, Al opened his arms, and said: "Come here."
                Ivan frowned, but obeyed. "What is it—"
                Al pulled Ivan down into a deep kiss. It was eager. The
dragging friction of wet heat between them tasted like desperation. I want
him,all of him, Al thought, pulling the Alpha down by the neck. He wanted
Ivan's weight on top of him, but Ivan planted a hand on the bedding to brace
himself, careful not to crush Al. Al produced a small whine in protest.
"Alfred, what are you—" Ivan started in confusion, but Al's lips silenced him.
His lithe hands spread across the Alpha's broad back, rubbing the planes of
taut muscle beneath his fingertips. "Al," Ivan tried again, pulling back. He
started down at the Omega, whose big blue eyes were bright with lust.
Carefully, he brushed back a flyaway strand of wheat-blonde hair, and sighed.
"What's wrong?" he asked knowingly.
                Al blinked, taken aback. "I... I don't know," he said,
surprising himself.
                Until Ivan had voiced it, he hadn't even realized that
something was wrong. But now—now he could feel it. It was mistrust, despite
Ivan's promises. The last time he and Ivan had shared the nest, after all, Al
had ended up alone.
                "Ivan," he said, feeling uncharacteristically nervous, "you're
coming back with me, right?"
                "To the Isles? Yes, I'm taking you home."
                "And when we get there, you're going to stay, right? You're not
going to leave me?"
                Al saw Ivan's violet eyes soften in understanding. He bowed his
head to the Omega's forehead, and answered the question Al had been too afraid
to ask:
                "I'm sorry I left you alone, little one. I promise I'll never
do so again. I meant what I said before, I never want to lose you again. And if
that means going to the Isles, then that's what I'll do. You're my priority
now, Al. I won't leave you. Al—?" he asked, noting the Omega's silence; his
doubt. "You believe me, don't you?"
                "Yes, I do. I mean... I want to," Al admitted, feeling ashamed.
"It's just... I think I'm scared."
                "Scared of what?"
                "Of losing you. Of you leaving me," he said, putting into words
the feeling that had plagued him always, even before he had met Ivan. He feared
the fate of unrequited love. He had felt it's bite too many times before and
couldn't bear the thought of losing Ivan to it now. "That's what I'm truly
afraid of."
                "Don't be," said Ivan plainly. "Don't doubt that I love you,
Alfred, because I do."
                Al felt tears of frustration prick his eyes, but blinked them
away. "I'm sorry I keep making you say it," he said in apology. "I'm awful, I
know. It's just... I can't seem to believe that you really want me. That this
is really happening to me," he said in disbelief. "Sometimes, it feels like a
dream."
                "Alfred, listen to me." Deliberately, Ivan took Al's hands in
his. His tone was stony, but his considerate touch was gentle—as always. "I
know that you've been hurt before. I know that you've been cast aside by fools
who can't see what I see, but you've got to believe me when I say I love you
and I want you and that's not going to change. I'm going to mate you and make
you my Omega-mate, Al, and then I'm never going to leave your side of my own
free will again."
                "Yes, I want that. I want to be yours," Al said, an eager catch
in his voice. "And I want you to be mine. I want us to belong only to each
other. I want it now," he dared, lying back in invitation. He wanted Ivan,
ready to prove their bond. He felt like he needed it. Once they were
mated—pair-bonded—Ivan couldn't ever leave him, which is what the insecure
Omega secretly yearned for. He wanted that security more than anything. "Mate
me," he said huskily, pawing at the skeptical Alpha, relaying his need in the
rhythm of his adolescent body. "Let's do it, Ivan, right here, right now."
                "Al—"
                "Come on!" Al urged, but the Alpha didn't move.
                "Alfred," he said, letting a stern growl of authority enter his
voice. He held the squirming Omega immobile. "If you don't believe my word now,
then me mating you isn't going to change anything. It's not going to make you
feel better. I won't mate you," he said decisively. "Not like this. Not here,
not now. I won't mate you until you're in Heat. I don't want to hurt you,
little one."
                "I'll be fine—"
                "Not like this," he growled. "Not in a rush. Not with hunters
on our scent. I don't want to be distracted. When I mate you, I'm going to do
it right. I want to do it right."
                Al exhaled in reluctant surrender. "Me, too," he said
truthfully. "It's just..." he bit his lip, "I've already waited for so long,
Ivan. I waited for you for three days. I wanted you so bad then, I couldn't
stand it. I just don't want to wait anymore, not when you're here with me now.
You say that you love me, that you want to mate me and take care of me, but
you're torturing me!" he whined. "I mean, don't you want me? Aren't I pretty
enough—?"
                "You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen," Ivan smiled, "but
the answer is still no."
                Al batted his gold eyelashes and pouted, sighing softly.
                "Stop whining," Ivan deadpanned in resolve. "Don't you trust
me, Al?"
                "Yes, I do," Al said, but it sounded sulky even to his ears. "I
trust you. I love you, that's why I want you to—"
                "Alfred, enough." Ivan pressed a hand to Al's mouth, covering
it. His other hand plunged beneath the waist of Al's trousers and coiled around
the Omega's cock, producing a startled gasp. Al felt himself go scarlet in
reply. He looked up at Ivan, whose lips were curled into a mischievous grin. "I
know what it is you really want right now," he said, stroking the Omega from
root to tip. Al shuddered. "It's a promise I've already made. This—" he
squeezed the slick length; Al whimpered, "—doesn't change anything. It's not
the hunger to mate you that keeps me by your side, you foolish little thing.
It's you. Just you, my little one. Mating you," he said deeply, voice sending a
shiver down Al's spine, "won't change how I feel about you. You've got to trust
that. You've got to trust me, okay?
                "Okay?" he repeated, mock-stern.
                "O-oh—kay!" Al gasped.
                "Do you trust me?"
                "Yes, yes—! I trust you."
                "Do you love me?"
                "I love you."
                "Good," Ivan said, satisfied. He removed his hand and Al's
racing heartbeat slowed; a little relieved, a little disappointed. However, the
reprieve was short-lived. Ivan's hands skirted over Al's flat midriff and
landed on his hips, fingers hooked into the waist of his trousers, toying
before tugging them forcefully off. Al felt cold air attack his naked legs and
shivered. He started to sit, but fell back when Ivan splayed his long legs,
leaving Al's genitalia on full display. His face reddened even more so, but he
didn't fight. He felt anxious. He was not a shy Omega, nude or not, but he had
never had a lusty Alpha between his legs before.
                "I-Ivan—?" he questioned, hating the quiver in his voice.
                The Alpha's grin had become a seductive smirk. "Are you afraid
now, Alfred Kirkland?" he teased.
                Al swallowed. "No."
                "Good," Ivan said. "You want proof that I love you, that I'm
attracted to you? I'll give you proof."
                Then he bowed his head.
===============================================================================
Ah! I-I—Ivan, wha—?"
                It was all Al could do not to make a sound as the wet walls of
the Alpha's mouth closed around his cock. His hands fell to his sides in fists,
idle, giving up as his hips found a slow, thrusting rhythm. It felt so good.
Ivan's mouth was hot inside and the pressure he applied as he sucked made Al
purr in pleasure. He threw his head back into the pillows and let his eyes
momentarily roll back, seeing nothing but bright sunlight and the Alpha's
shadow, reflecting his movements. It felt good to be given pleasure like a
gift, without having to strive for it; without having to earn it, or compete
for it.
                "Mm,Ivan," he moaned.
                The shape of Ivan's mouth changed and Al knew that he must be
smiling. He felt the Alpha's wicked-sharp canines graze the sensitive skin of
his cock, which sent a tremor throughout his lower-body. He felt Ivan's
searching hands find purchase on his backside, his thumb knuckle pressing down
hard enough to make Al whimper and squirm.
                Oh,gods. What is happening to me? Al's whole body felt like
jelly, except for his aching cock, which was slick and hard, erect with
tension. He could feel an orgasm budding in his belly. It was a familiar
feeling, and yet—Oh,fuck! He had never been touched by someone else before, not
like this. He wanted it. He wanted more.
                "Oh,fuck!" he cried breathlessly, squeezing his thighs against
Ivan's shoulders. "Oh,gods,yes—there,there. Oh,that feels so good!Oh, I-
Ivan,you're incredible!" he praised, half-mad as he rode the breaking wave of
climax.
                Ivan lifted his head, smacking his lips with his dripping
tongue. Al lay in the nest, limp and panting.
                "Wha—What the fuck?" he gasped, too tired—and satisfied—to be
embarrassed.
                Ivan chuckled. Gently, he stroked Al's sensitive golden thighs.
"Are you satisfied now, little one? My hungry little Omega. Do you believe me
now? Do you want to know my secret?" he asked, leaning down playfully. He
grinned wickedly, and whispered: "I've wanted to do that for a really long
time."
                Al stared, left momentarily speechless by the stoic Alpha's
seductive confession.
                He started to reply, to argue, but he couldn't think of
anything clever to say. His mind was still submerged in the aftermath of stormy
climax and in the sexy Alpha who had caused it. He merely stared up at Ivan,
indulging in the handsome face; the heady scent; the deep, growling voice. It
made the hungryOmega's mouth water all over again. That is, until he looked
into the Alpha's eyes. Ivan's smile was caddish, but his violet eyes were
tender. He was looking down upon the young, blushing, blue-eyed Omega with
nothing but love and respect—and the proof of heated arousal that silenced all
of Al's previous doubts. Suddenly, he felt foolish about before. How could he
have ever doubted Ivan, the Alpha who had rescued him; the Alpha whom he loved?
                Finally, Al relaxed and looped his arms around Ivan's neck. "I
think you owed me that," he said arrogantly.
                "I think I did, too. I'm sorry it was late."
                Al pulled Ivan down into a wet kiss.
                "Better late than never," he smiled. "But sweetheart—? Don't
ever be that late again."
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Nine *****
BLACK FOREST FORT
WESTERN EMPIRE
Matt awoke abruptly before sunrise, yanked from an abstract, erotic dream by
the tense yearning of his aching cock. He awoke hot and panting and slathered
in messy Heat-slick, his body curled into a defensive ball in a self-conscious
attempt to hide; to contain the desire that flooded him. He hadn't expected his
Heat to start so suddenly, with no warning. Then again, Al's Heat had always
been Matt's warning, he following his brother's monthly cycles to the day. Al's
Heat had occasionally caught him unaware, but Matt had never had to pattern his
own schedule before. Like clockwork, it came exactly one week after Al's.
                "Oh,fuck," he cursed, rolling over. He laid on his back and
stared at the high, wooden ceiling. His adolescent cock throbbed. He reached
for it—then stopped.
                Gil's heady Alpha scent cascaded over him like a rich, earthy
perfume. He was lying asleep on his side of the bed, barely a foot away,
peaceful and unsuspecting. Thoughtlessly, Matt moved toward him, desperate for
the Alpha's touch. The friction of the bed-sheets grazed the Omega's sensitive
skin, forcing him to suppress a frustrated whimper. The instant he came into
contact with Gil's warm body, however, there was no suppressing anything. He
cuddled the Alpha's back, rubbing their bodies together, kissing the pale skin
of his neck; his shoulders; his spine.
                "Gil," he whispered, pawing at his sleeping Alpha-mate. Gil
grunted. Matt tried again, louder. "Gil," he said, annoyed.
                Gil's eyes opened slowly. "What?"
                "I'm in Heat."
                "What?"
                The Alpha rolled onto his back and stared up at the Omega,
blinking the sleep from his eyes. He breathed in, red irises submerged in black
as his pupils dilated hungrily. He swallowed, wide-awake.
                "I'm in Heat," Matt repeated impatiently. "I need you to mate
me."
                "Now?"
                "Now."
===============================================================================
Gil didn't need asking twice. The thick, sweet scent of Matt's Heat saturated
their bed linens, enveloping the Alpha in a cloud of pheromones. As soon as the
scent filled his nose, his heart began to race, his mouth watered, and his cock
twitched in arousal. He wasted no time undressing—he wore little to bed—and
found himself groping at Matt's clothes and sweaty skin, egged on by the
Omega's breathy whines, which were becoming louder and more insistent. He pawed
urgently at Gil. He pulled eagerly and Gil obliged, crawling over Matt's
prostrate body, letting his weight down on top of the wet, writhing Omega.
Half-blinded by lust, he nuzzled Matt's neck, wanting the Omega's sweat and
Heat-scent on him. He licked Matt's skin, wanting to taste him—bite him.
                "Ouch!" Matt's yelp became a moan as Gil's tongue lapped at the
puncture wounds left by his canines.
                "Ah,Gilbert," he whined loudly, violet eyes squeezed shut in
desperation. He reached for the Alpha's erect cock and pulled it forward in a
way that made Gil flinch. His panting voice was a mix of breathy helplessness
and irate frustration when he ordered: "Mate"—hah—"me"—hah—"now."
                Gil's slick cock slid effortlessly into Matt's body, his girth
filling the Omega's hot insides so perfectly that Gil couldn't have crafted
better, like a sheath custom-made for a single sword. For a second, neither one
of them moved. Matt relaxed into the pillows, breathing deeply in anticipation,
his violet eyes still closed; and Gil simply savoured the feel of Matt's body,
the feeling of being sheathed. He looked down at his Omega-mate through glassy
red eyes and a smile tugged at his lips. Then it was gone and Gil was moving.
The pace of his eager, throbbing thrusts created a pulsating friction between
them that sent jolts of pleasure throughout the Alpha's entire body. He growled
and groaned deeply. It wasn't like before. As good as it had felt to mate Matt
without the aid of Heat, this was something entirely different. Gil felt as if
he had been blind, deaf, and dumb before, but now he could feel it. All of it.
And it felt good. The slightest tremor or shiver from Matt rippled into a
greater wave of incomparable pleasure; the softest noise aroused the Alpha
further, encouraged him; and Matt's scent—Oh,gods! Matt's scent was driving Gil
wild. He hungered for it like a starving, single-minded beast. He wanted to
possess Matt with every fibre of his being. His basest instincts demanded him
to claim the Omega again, again; to mark him; to make him—
                Mine. Mine. Mine.
                Like an addict, Gil sated his deepest desires in Matt,
listening to the symphony of Matt's cries. (He had never heard the Omega's
voice call so loudly before.) He clawed at Gil's back, throwing his sweaty
curls from side-to-side in sweet agony as he gasped and moaned and begged—
                "More. More. More."
                 Too soon, the Alpha climaxed and released the seed of his pups
deep inside of his Omega-mate. He laid atop Matt, too spent to lift his own
weight—his body felt like he had been electrocuted, struck by lightning—but the
Omega didn't seem to mind. Matt was still riding the last echoes of his own
climax, his voice softening from the high-pitched cry it had been.
                "Gil?" he whispered, panting. His whole body was trembling with
aftershock; Gil could feel it. He hugged the Alpha close, Gil's flushed cheek
resting on Matt's chest beneath his chin.
                "Yeah," he answered, feeling drowsy.
                It was a long time before Matt spoke again, and when he did he
sounded like he was entranced. Dreamily, he said: "I've never felt anything
like that before. That's was amazing—you'reamazing, my darling. Thank-you."
                But Gil was already asleep.
===============================================================================
Gil left early that morning. He was already gone by the time Matt awoke,
feeling anxious and uncomfortable. He could feel another Heat-wave budding
inside of him, but tried to ignore it. He only hoped that Gil would return soon
to give him the relief he needed. The ache in his cock—his heart—was stronger
now that he knew what it felt like to be mated in Heat, and he was desperate to
relive the thrilling experience. The question of why Gil had left barely
entered Matt's mind before he was drifting back to sleep, whimpering softly as
reality blended effortlessly into the familiar haze of an erotic dream. Only,
this time, his dream-lover had a face. A beautiful, sharp-featured, strong-
jawed, red-eyed face.
                "Gil..." he sleep-talked, his voice full of whispered yearning,
"please come back, darling. I need you..."
                Too enveloped in a Heat-dream, he didn't notice that the
bedchamber door had been left unlocked.
===============================================================================
Captain, you're late," said Wolfe glibly.
                The Second-Lieutenant was standing at the head of a lineup of
ordered soldiers: their heels pressed together, hands behind their backs, chins
held high and straight as they waited obediently for their commander to appear.
The party was small, but it consisted of Gil's best combatants. He felt bad for
making them all wait in the pouring rain. He hated tardiness. But Gil ignored
Wolfe's subtle, disapproving glare as he hurried into the courtyard, still
buttoning his jacket—absently into the wrong holes—and thankful for the rain
that cleansed him of Matt's Heat-scent.
                "I'm sorry—" he began, and then stopped. He was the Fort
Commander. He didn't have to apologize for being tardy, or for anything else.
He never had before. Damn it,Matt! he blamed his Omega-mate, to whom he had
become uncharacteristically considerate. Matt's need to apologize was
contagious; Gil did it now in reflex. They're all going to think I've gone
soft. To save face, Gil cleared his throat and began again. He let a growl into
his voice as he conveyed his orders, eyeing each soldier individually to test
each one's obedience. He was pleased—relieved—when none could meet his
challenging gaze. They kept their eyes respectfully downcast in submission.
Good,I'm still in command, he thought, relaxing a bit. Then he looked at Wolfe.
                "Captain," said the Second-Lieutenant shortly, "a word,
please?"
                Gil dismissed his Alphas to their duties and followed—I should
be leading!—Wolfe into the empty armoury.
                "Permission to speak plainly, sir?"
                Gil felt the fingers of apprehension creep over him. He nodded.
                "Captain Beilschmidt, your performance as Fort Commander has
suffered since you brought that Omega—excuse me, sir—your Omega-mate to the
fort. You've been distracted and disorganized and you've been neglecting your
duties, passing them off to Lieutenant Beilschmidt instead of taking them upon
yourself. Today you were late, untidy"—he eyed Gil's clothes, which were
rumpled and buttoned improperly—"and you smell strongly of your mate."
                "Matthew's in Heat," Gil explained.
                "Irrelevant," said Wolfe coldly. "Bathe after mating him then,
because that scent is verydistracting."
                "I overslept—"
                "No doubt," Wolfe interrupted. His tone was angry, his words
short and sharp. "I'm sure you were very tired after satisfying your Omega-
mate, Captain. I'm sure the Alphas were all very tired also, after a night of
standing guard in the rain, doing their jobs, and yet none of them were late
this morning."
                Gil clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue, to defend himself and
Matt, but the truth of Wolfe's words hit him like a physical blow and guilt
choked his response. He felt like a young pup being reprimanded and he hated
it. He bit back a snarl and glared stiffly in reply.
                "Thank-you for bringing these concerns to my attention, Second-
Lieutenant," he said, struggling to keep his voice even; diplomatic. The words
tasted like bile in his mouth. "I will be more attentive in the future."
                "There's a reason Omegas don't belong in military strongholds,"
Wolfe replied bluntly. "He's nothing but a distraction. The fact that you care
more for him than your job—"
                "I said I would deal with it!" Gil snapped, drawing unwanted
attention from outside. He stepped toward the other Alpha and lowered his
voice. "Let me remind you, Wolfe, that Iam the Fort Commander here—not you.
It's not your place to criticise me."
                "Let me remind you—Captain," Wolfe spat, eyeing his junior,
"that you are currently in violation of our laws; laws you took an oath to
uphold, and it's all because of that little bitch—!"
                Gil's fist struck Wolfe hard in the face. The Alpha stumbled
back in shock and wiped blood from his nose.
                "Don't ever," Gil growled in a low, threatening voice,
"disrespect my mate again."
                He left the armoury abruptly, leaving Wolfe to contemplate the
captain's words. He was fuming; angry at the Second-Lieutenant's accusations
and subtle threats; and angry at himself for inviting the criticism. He needed
to calm down before anyone else spoke to him; otherwise, he was afraid of
lashing-out. Gilbert Beilschmidt was a rather self-disciplined Alpha, but he
was not without a temper, which was deadly when provoked. He was doubly-
thankful for the cold rain that drenched him as he walked—strut—cooling his hot
temper. He had never liked Wolfe, but he had never considered him as a threat
before. Now, all Gil could think of was protecting Matt from the Second-
Lieutenant's spite. He clenched his fists as he paced (unaware that his Alphas
were steering clear of him, giving the captain a wide berth; many looked
concerned). Briefly, he considered returning to his quarters to check on Matt,
feeling suddenly worried for the Omega's safety, but he ignored the instinctive
urge. If he returned now, Wolfe's words would only be proven true: that Gil
cared more for Matt than his job.
                Is that true? he wondered. He felt conflicted.
                Gil had been the Fort Commander of the Black Forest Fort for
two years now, and he had been an officer of the Western Empire for nearly six.
He had been called a prodigy more than once, praised for his skills and
loyalty. He had always put the Empire first. He had always held a position of
command within the army, taking the role his father had left for him: first as
a combat instructor, then as a scout-leader. Finally, he had come to the Black
Forest Fort as a lieutenant. He had been permitted to bring his handpicked
company with him, Alphas (misfits) whom Gil had trained himself. When the
former Fort Commander retired, Gil was promoted to captain and chosen by the
Kaiser to replace him. His rite had been undisputed, then. It had been a great
honour for one so young; a great responsibility. But the bigger honour was that
every single one of his Alphas chose to stay with him at the desolate fort,
even when given the opportunity to leave. They had stayed—and Gil loved them
for it. They had been his surrogate family for so long. The fact that he might
be neglecting them now like a distracted parent hurt him deeply.
                What if Wolfe is right?
                Gil hated to consider the thought, but Second-Lieutenant Wolfe
was not a vindictive Alpha. He was cold and calculating, but law-abiding. He
had always served in the Empire's best interest, which is why the Kaiser had
chosen him. He's a heartless bastard, Gil thought grimly, but he's not wrong.
I'm not supposed to feel this way about Matt. I care for him more than I
should. I think it's because—
                Gil had never expected to care so much for the Omega whom he
had found lost in the forest, but...
                —I'm falling in love with him.
===============================================================================
Matt moaned, pushing his flushed face into a pillow as he emerged slowly from a
deep, restless sleep. It took his brain a long time to comprehend where he was,
and longer to acknowledge the intrusive slide of possession inside of him, and
the fast rhythm of heavy breaths against the nape of his neck. It took him a
long time to rouse his mind out of the foggy dream, where  the act was wanted.
There was no need to protest the slick girth filling him, though; no need to be
afraid of the urgency coiled like a viper in his stomach, ready to strike. Not
anymore. It was natural. It's what his body craved; it's what his heart wanted.
The feelings of lust and intimacy and affection that flooded him when he
thought of his Alpha-mate were strong. He felt safe with Gil.
                Gil, he thought, smiling. His fingers curled into the bed-
sheets as his mind awoke, catching up with his body, which was already awake
with arousal. He moaned again, his cheek pushed further into the pillow as he
consciously began to move his hips in reply to the Alpha's thrusts.
                Gil, he thought, excited. He tried to rise, to look over his
shoulder at his handsome Alpha-mate, to smile for him, kiss him, but strong
hands held him down with bruising firmness, trapping the weakened Omega between
bed and body.
                Matt blinked. Gil—? he thought, confused.
                The haze of pleasure receded quickly into panic when Matt
realized with a petrified start that they were not Gil's hands forcing him
down. It was not Gil's voice growling overhead. It was not Gil's strong scent
filling his nose. It was not Gil's cock thrusting desperately inside him. Any
lingering feelings of lust and affection and safety evaporated as pleasure fast
became fear and Matt was struck with the cruel reality of what was happening to
him. He twisted his head around, struggling to see, praying he was wrong—
                —but he wasn't. The Alpha mating him was not Gil.
                Matt screamed.
                There were no words in the shrill noise that burst from the
Omega's lips, just a piercing wail of fear and utter helplessness. He tried to
escape, to crawl out from under the Alpha. He thrashed from side-to-side,
trying to dislodge him, trying to buck the heavy weight off himself, clawing
desperately at the bed-sheets, but the Alpha was too strong, made stronger and
more determined by the intoxication of the Omega's Heat. He didn't let go. He
didn't stop. He looked as if he was in a trance, consumed by the act. His eyes
were closed and his mouth was open as he trust into the Omega. Matt's body
involuntarily jerked each time, but his mind was a blank canvas of
incomprehensible horror. He barely registered his own terrified screams until
they were abruptly cut off by a furious yelp, and the Alpha was pulled
aggressively off of him—out of him.
                What's happening? he thought, disoriented. Instinctively, he
curled into a ball, drawing up the bed-sheets to shield himself as he tried to
hide. He was trembling from head-to-toe, and the infuriated roar of an Alpha
didn't help.
                Matt's eyes sought the roar's owner, his rescuer, and saw
Ludwig drag his attacker across the floor. He threw him hard against the
stonewall and proceeded to beat the fighting—spitting, snarling,
thrashing—Alpha into reluctant submission. From his huddled perch, Matt could
vividly see the Alpha's dark eyes come back into focus, lust yielding to fear
when he recognized the lieutenant.
                "Oh,no," he whispered in German. He looked petrified.
"Oh,no—no,no,no! I'm sorry!" he cried, his nose broken and lips bloody. The
physical abuse seemed to revive him. "I-I—I didn't mean to! It was an
accident,I swear! Lieutenant,please—I-I—I'm so sorry! Matthew!" he gasped in
desperation, reaching toward the Omega beseechingly. Matt flinched. "Please
forgive me!"
                Ludwig's face twisted in disgust, red with anger. His lips
pulled back from his teeth and he growled, exposing his canines. He snapped at
the soldier and battered his reaching hand aside.
                "Please,Lieutenant!" the soldier begged remorsefully. He was
shaking, crying. "I didn't meant to!"
                Ludwig's reply sent a shiver of fear down Matt's spine. His
voice was a deadly growl of forced calm. He said:
                "Leave."
                The soldier's eyes widened in disbelief, but not in gratitude.
He looked as if he had just been sentenced to the noose. "But—but—but I can't!
Please, Lieutenant! They'll call me a deserter, I'll be Court Martialed!"
                Ludwig grabbed the front of his black-and-white tunic and
slammed him into the stonewall, silencing him. "I know," he snarled
impatiently. "I'm giving you the chance to run away. The chance to live," he
emphasized, his blue eyes glaring, barely controlling his temper. "Because if
you're here when the captain returns, you'll face worse than a Court Martial.
Your days of being a soldier are over," he said unsympathetically, shoving the
soldier toward the open door. "Leave this fort now and never come back, because
if you do Gilbert will kill you. Go!"
                The heartbroken soldier took off down the stairs. Matt heard
his boots pounding the stone in a hasty escape.
                Matt sat on the bed, stiff as stone as Ludwig's blue eyes
captured him. It was very brief. As soon as the Alpha saw the Omega, he looked
quickly away and spoke to the floor:
                "Are you okay?"
                The question dislodged something inside of Matt; he felt hot
bile flooding his throat. He made an indefinable noise and managed a small,
"I'm going to be sick," before launching himself off the bed. He had barely
made it to the ceramic washbasin before he was heaving and gagging and vomiting
sour stomach fluid. His skin was hot and sweaty, but he felt cold. His body was
covered in goose-bumps. And he was crying. He couldn't stop the flow of tears
that spilled from his eyes and rolled down his pale cheeks as he choked, trying
to expel food that he hadn't eaten. Finally, he slumped against the table,
exhausted. He was trembling violently. He couldn't make it stop.
                He flinched when Ludwig draped a blanket over him, but he let
the Alpha pull him to his feet and guide him back to the bed. Ludwig kept a
hand planted firmly on Matt's covered back, afraid that he would collapse. Matt
hated it. He didn't want to be touched. Once in bed, he recoiled. He had never
felt so vulnerable in his whole life.
                Ludwig was halfway to the door before Matt mustered the courage
to say: "Gil's going to kill me, isn't he?"
                It was said quietly, sadly. His heart felt heavy.
                Ludwig stopped, turned. He looked back at his brother-by-
mating-law, whose violet eyes were full of tears that would not cease flowing.
"No," he said sternly, "he's not. Gil's not like that. Not unless..."
                He faltered suddenly, hit by a whiff of the Omega's compelling
Heat-scent. His nose twitched, and for a brief moment the strong, unmated
Alpha's eyes glazed over with lust, but it was short-lived. He shook his head,
fighting the instinct hardwired into his DNA.
                "Matthew," he said very seriously, "this is important. Are his
pups inside you?" He bobbed his blonde head in the direction of the soldier's
escape.
                "No." The Omega's voice was small, but certain. "They're not.
He didn't..." He knew the feeling of an Alpha's cock swollen with unreleased
seed. He thought of how much it had hurt when Ludwig had inadvertently ripped
it out. "He didn't finish," he said honestly. The words were hard to speak. His
soft voice trembled, afraid of Ludwig's steely, judgemental gaze. "Please," he
begged, "he didn't. I don't have his pups in me, I swear it. Please believe
me—"
                "I do," Ludwig interrupted.
                A tense seconds-long silence engulfed them then, but it felt
like forever. Matt tried to stop the relentless flow of tears, but failed. He
felt lost. Finally, he looked up at Ludwig and helplessly said:
                "Ludwig, what do I do?"
                Ludwig swallowed. He looked immobile, like stone. "You get his
scent off of you before Gil comes back."
                His words were practical, but his deep tone resembled a
warning, whether intentional or not. Matt nodded in understanding.
                "You're not going to tell him?" he asked.
                "No."
                Then he left. Quickly and abruptly, Ludwig left Matt alone to
scrub himself raw in a futile effort to erase the evidence of rape so that Gil
would never find out. It was dishonest of them, but he agreed that it would be
far worse if Gil knew the truth. The captain cherished his Alphas; his
brothers-in-arms. Knowing that one of them had betrayed him—however
accidental—would crush him. A silent confidence had passed between the two
brothers-by-mating-law as Ludwig left the bedchamber, both of them sharing the
desire to protect the red-eyed Alpha, whom they both loved. Trusting Matt's
discretion, Ludwig nodded as he left, and locked the door behind him.
===============================================================================
Gil rushed through the day's tasks, barely aware of what he was doing. Since
his unpleasant confrontation with Wolfe, he was determined to prove himself as
a capable leader, but—to his chagrin—it was difficult. Try as he might, his
mind refused to stay focused. He had left his brain back in his bedchamber with
his Omega-mate: his beautiful Omega-mate who was in the throes of Heat. Leaving
Matt's side that morning had been the hardest thing he had ever done. It had
taken every fibre of his self-control to leave the warmth of his bed and
sleeping Omega-mate and descend out into the cold, wet courtyard below. But he
did it because it had to be done. There was work to do—always work to do at the
fort. It was a struggle, but Wolfe was right: Gil couldn't neglect his
responsibilities as the Fort Commander because he now had an Omega-mate who
needed him. There were many others who needed him, too. Even though Gil's,
ahem, heart yearned to be with Matt... who had begged the Alpha to stay with
him... who had begged for the carnal pleasure of his cock...
                The captain's mouth watered just remembering it.
                "Captain."
                Ludwig's voice called Gil back from a daydream. Gil nodded,
bidding him speak (trying to hide his red face).
                The blue-eyed Alpha's face was stark-white in contrast and his
lips were pinched. He looked unsettled. "Gil," he began in private. He opened
his mouth, then closed it again.
                Gil frowned impatiently. "Lud—?" he prompted.
                Ludwig shook his head. "Never-mind."
                Ludwig's coy behaviour was uncharacteristic, but it was quickly
swept from Gil's mind. His private thoughts were preoccupied elsewhere. He
raced on through a mental-list of tasks, neglecting to notice the odd looks his
Alphas gave him, or how often one of them had to correct the captain's
judgement. He was making a lot of mistakes, but, lost in a daydream, didn't
even notice. Finally, at high-noon, Gil decided to forego dinner in favour of
visiting his Omega-mate. I just want to check on him to make sure he's alright.
I'll be quick. He raced back to his bedchamber, ignoring the snickers and
hidden smiles of his Alphas—and a damning look from the Second-Lieutenant.
Heedless of slander, Gil leapt upstairs as fast as his legs would carry him and
reached for the bedchamber door, which he was surprised to find locked. He
never locked the door; he preferred to be accessible should anyone need him. In
fact, the only Alphas who even had a key to the captain's quarters were he and
Ludwig. But before he could consider the implications, he heard Matt's soft
voice cry-out from within. Discarding any suspicions, he unlocked the door and
burst inside, ready—excited—to service his insatiable Omega-mate once more.
                Matt was lying on the bed where Gil had left him, naked, curled
onto his side, his lovely face flushed, his eyes closed and lips parted, and
his snow-white skin glistening with beads of delicious sweat. At once, Gil's
mouth watered hungrily and a low growl of desire reverberated in his throat.
Mine, he thought as he advanced, feeling entitled to the Omega; shedding layers
of clothing as he did.
                Matt didn't notice his Alpha-mate until the mattress dipped
beneath his added weight. His reaction was one of shock. For a split-second, he
looked scared.
                Gil chuckled benignly as he crawled closer. "Sorry, schatz. Did
I scare you?"
                Matt's smile looked forced, but Gil blamed it on the agony of
his Heat. "Gil..." he said softly, breathing deep.
                Gil waited a moment for Matt to finish the sentence, but
shrugged it off when he failed to do so. The throes of Heat-fervor, indeed. He
licked his lips as he drew the Omega's luscious body against his and bowed his
head to Matt's neck. The scent was intoxicating. It filled him with lust,
urging him to take, take, take. It was a heady blend of soapy sweetness, with
an underlying tang that urged the powerful Alpha to take, reminding him that
Matt was: Mine. Mine. Mine. Gil breathed in deeply, his sensitive nose catching
a pale whiff of something mildly offensive before he buried it in Matt's long,
unruly curls.
                "Matt," he growled seductively.
                "Uh—uh huh," Matt stuttered in reply.
                Only then did Gil finally realize that his Omega-mate was not
pawing at him like he had done before. He was not trying to seduce the Alpha,
or guide him, or pull him forward in need. Rather, Matt's fingertips just
barely touched Gil's back. His eyes were closed. And he was trembling.
                Gil sat back on his knees and studied Matt, desire morphing
into apprehension as he considered his actions. What did I do wrong? he
worried. He was seized by the thought of Wolfe's threat and wondered if the
Alpha had said or done something to Matt to upset him. "Schatz," he asked in
concern, "are you okay?"
                Matt nodded mutely.
                "Schatz," Gil took Matt's hand and pressed a kiss to his
knuckles, "what's wrong? Tell me what's wrong."
                Slowly, Matt opened his violet eyes, which were full of unshed
tears. He pursed his lips, as if trying to seal the truth inside, trying to be
strong, but his resolve was crumbling. Suddenly, he didn't look sexy and needy
anymore. He looked scared. His resolve broke—so very scared. In a soft,
trembling voice, he said:
                "You left, Gil. I-I—I'm in Heat, and you—you—you left—"
                "Oh, schatz," Gil sighed sympathetically, flooded with selfish
relief. Matt's loneliness wasn't nearly as bad as what Gil had been imagining.
He tried to collect Matt into a soothing hug, trying to reassure him: "It's
okay, I'm here now." He couldn't deny that Matt's need for him was a very
desirable thing. But to his surprise (and confusion), the Omega shied away.
"I'm sorry, schatz, but I thought you were sleeping," he explained, trying to
justify his actions and failing to do so. The look on Matt's face made him feel
guilty: like he had felt guilty for leaving his Alphas to fend for themselves.
He tried to apologize, but Matt wasn't listening. Gil had interrupted him
before he could finish:
                "—you left the door unlocked," he said, tears rolling down his
cheeks.
                Gil froze. The cold fingers of dread squeezed his insides,
leeching out the happiness he had felt only minutes ago. He didn't want to
think about what Matt's words, his despairing tone, implied. Slowly he removed
his hands from the Omega and sat straighter. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly
dry, and very deliberately said:
                "What?"
                Matt's guilty eyes were confession enough.
                Overcome with fear and budding fury, he grabbed the Omega's
biceps. "Was someone in here? Did someone touch you?" he demanded in horror.
                Matt whined and covered his face with his hands; in shame, or
fear—or both.
                "Matt!" Gil gasped, his voice rising in volume. "Who was it?
Who touched you? Tell me!" he ordered. "What happened? What did he do? Did he—"
He couldn't complete the thought, not aloud; the words got stuck in his throat.
Instead, he pushed Matt back into a brace of pillows and pulled his wet legs
apart, revealing the source of the Omega's sweet Heat-scent. Matt's whole body
trembled, but he didn't fight. He let Gil between his legs, searching for a
scent that didn't belong. Much to Gil's chagrin, it didn't take long to find.
Essence of the other Alpha's scent lingered inside of the Omega's body.
HisOmega. Histerritory. It was faint, a mere skin-to-skin touch, but it was
distinct.
                Gil bared teeth and roared loudly, seething in anger.
                Matt yelped at the noise, as if struck.
                "I-I—I'm sorry. I-I—I'm so, so sorry," he whispered, voice
muffled by his hands; by sobs.
                "Who?" Gil repeated, clutched by murderous intent.
                "I-I—I don't know," Matt lied. It fueled Gil.
                He grabbed Matt's wrists and pulled them away from his face.
"Who was it?" he yelled.
                Matt shook his head, tears falling freely. Afraid—so afraid—but
determined not to reveal the Alpha's identity; trying to protect the weak-
willed fool from the captain's wrath.
                That's when Gil realized what he was doing, how insane he
seemed. What must Matt think of him? The poor Omega was cowering beneath him,
as if Gil was a feral beast. He recognized the symptoms of Matt's panic-attack,
like he had once seen in the forest: white-faced, gasping, crying, his whole
body convulsing.
                Oh,no! he thought as instinct took over.Don't be scared,Matt.
Not of me.Oh, please.I won't hurt you,my darling. I would never hurt you.I—
                "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, loosening his hold on
Matt's delicate wrists. His voice was rough, but he tried to soften it. He
tried to soothe his Omega-mate's debilitating panic. "I am never going to hurt
you. Please don't be afraid of me. Please believe me, schatz."
                "I-I—I'm so sorry," Matt whispered timidly, breathlessly. "I-
I—It was an accident. A horrible accident."
                Gil forced back a growl and wrapped Matt in his arms. The
Omega's body sunk against him, fingers clutching him for support. "I know," Gil
managed gruffly, trying hard to curb his temper; trying to let go of the
murderous rage that coursed through him. He felt Matt shudder in reply and
began absently stroking his head. He held the Omega in a tight hug—a little too
tight, perhaps. He crushed Matt to his chest in an primitive show of strength
and dominance and ownership. "It's okay. Don't be scared," he repeated, even as
his own voice shook. "I'm here now,schatz. It's okay. It's not your fault, it's
just a horrible accident. I'm not angry with you, Matt. Not you, my schatz. I'm
sorry. I should've been here with you. I should've been here to protect you.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, schatz. It's—
                "It's all my fault."
                Gil's insides twisted painfully. "Oh, gods," he gasped in
realization. "It's all my fault."
                "Gil." Matt's lips brushed Gil's neck as he spoke. He squeezed
Gil tighter. "Mate me."
                "What?"
                Gil tried to pull back in astonishment, but Matt clutched him.
He stared down at the distraught little Omega. He had expected Matt to be upset
with him, to blame him. He had expected Matt to resent him for not being there,
for not protecting him. He had expected to have to beg Matt's forgiveness. Of
all the things that Gil had expected Matt to say, it definitely wasn't: "Mate
me." For one tense moment, Gil froze, thinking perhaps that he had misheard his
mate. Then Matt repeated the request:
                "Mate me, please," he begged, growing desperate. "I want it to
be you, Gil. Only you. Not him. Please, I need you to mate me and erase his
touch, erase his scent." He was crying, clenching Gil's shoulders. "Please,
Gil, my Alpha-mate. My darling. I need you. I need your pups inside me. Please
mate me, Gil. Please don't cast me off."
                "Whoa, what?" Gil's head was spinning. He could barely keep
pace with what was happening. He was feeling too many things simultaneously.
"Cast you off?" he repeated in bewilderment. "No, Matt! Why would you ever
think that? You're my Omega-mate," he said fervently, cupping Matt's face.
Their eyes finally met: Matt's heartbroken violet staring frightfully into
Gil's tormented red. "Matt, I promised to protect you. I couldn't just... I
mean, I'd never just... Just no!" he said firmly. "I'm not going to cast you
off, schatz! I don't ever want to lose you!"
                Matt's eyes softened. "You... still want me?" he asked
hopefully.
                "Yes."
                Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
               "I-I—I want you, too.
                "Now.
                "Please, Gil." Matt's voice faded into a helpless, breathless
plea as he kissed Gil's cheeks, his jaw, his neck; as he crawled onto the
Alpha's lap, arms wrapped securely around his neck; as he pushed his lower-body
deliberately to the Alpha's reawakening desire. "Please."
                "Oh, Matt," Gil sighed. It was the last coherent thing he said.
                Gil pushed his Omega-mate down and mated him. He mated Matt
over and over again until the memory of the other Alpha was drowned in a sea of
heat and sweat and slick; and the loud, impassioned cries of the Omega, who
moaned and begged his Alpha-mate for more, more, more; and the determined
growls and satisfied groans of the Alpha, who complied. Gil didn't go back to
work that day. Or the next. Or the next. He stayed in the bedchamber—the door
locked—and mated his desperate Omega with renewed vigour, fueled in equal parts
by guilt, anger, and desire; repenting for his mistakes; determined to reclaim
Matt as his. Only his. And all the while consumed by a feeling less tangible
than everything else. It was something that he couldn't quite name or explain,
but he knew that he had never felt it before knowing Matt.
                I think I love you, he thought absently, feeling strong and
vulnerable at once. His head was foggy, consumed by mating. I think I love
you,Matthew Bonnefoi. My Omega-mate—mine—I love you.
               It only ended when both of them were panting and sweat-covered
and completely and utterly exhausted, so totally spent that neither of them
could move. They laid together in bed, tangled in each other's slippery limbs,
neither one saying a word. They laid there just listening to the other breathe.
Gil held Matt loosely in his weakened arms. He could feel the Omega's rapid
heartbeat against his chest, and was ready to be lulled to sleep by the rhythm
of it and Matt's sweet, dissipating scent. He could feel the insistent draw of
sleep creeping nearer, but he fought it. He didn't want to sleep yet. There was
something that he needed to do. Something that he should have done a long time
ago.
                "Matt, schatz?" he said. The Omega was so quiet, Gil hoped he
was still awake. He wanted to do this now—before he lost his nerve.
                A sleepy sigh sounded in reply.
                Gil took a deep breath. "I have something for you."
===============================================================================
Matt barely registered Gil's words. "Oh, yes?" he said tiredly, feigning
interest. It was a struggle to stay awake with his head pillowed comfortably on
the Alpha's lean chest. The bed (nest) was so warm, and his body was so
exhausted—so satisfied. He whined softly in protest when Gil suddenly moved.
With effort, Matt pushed himself up onto his elbows, ogling the rippling
muscles in his Alpha-mate's corded back as he leant far down over the bed's
edge, fishing in a pile of discarded clothes. When he finally resurfaced, he
was blushing and clutching something very small in his fist. Matt cocked his
tousled head in curiosity.
                "I want you to have this," Gil said. Informally, he took Matt's
hand and slipped a ring onto the middle-finger.
                For a moment Matt merely stared at the silver band, his swollen
lips parted in awe. Then he looked up at Gil.
                "That's my personal crest," Gil explained. "It's not my
Vater's, or my family's. I chose it and crafted it myself. I, uh, thought the
black eagle would be good," he said, blushing redder. "I'm not a very good
craftsman, though. It's a little rough. It looks kind of big and clunky on your
finger. If you don't want to wear it, you don't have to—"
                Matt pressed a finger to Gil's lips to silence him. "Of course
I'll wear it," he smiled, flattered. "It's beautiful."
                Gil smiled in reply and visibly relaxed. "I should've given it
to you when we were first mated," he added, "it would've been more appropriate,
but I didn't think you would've wanted it back then."
                "Maybe not," Matt admitted shyly, "but I want it now."
                In proof, he leant forward and kissed Gil's flushed cheek. "I'm
very proud to be your Omega-mate, Gil. I hope you know that. I'll admit, this
isn't what I imaged my mated-life to be like, and—gods know—it hasn't been easy
for us, but I'm glad it's you," he said honestly. "I'm glad that you're my
mate, Gil, and not someone else."
                Gil's vibrant eyes looked softer than Matt had ever seen them.
Without breaking eye-contact, he entwined his fingers with Matt's and laid back
down. They snuggled close together, but rather than suffocating, it was
comfortable. Matt's languid body sunk against the fleece pillows and gently
squeezed Gil's hand. It felt good. Gil's proximity made Matt feel safe and
protected. Like the silver band on his finger. Unlike Lars' gold band (which
adorned Matt's opposite hand), Gil's claiming-gift did not inspire feelings of
imprisonment or social obligation; rather, it made the lost Omega feel like he
finally belonged somewhere. It might have been a backwards and long drawn-out
claiming, but somehow it meant more to Matt because of the things they had
suffered together. The simple fact that Gil wanted to keep Matt as his Omega-
mate after what had happened to him—after everything that had happened to them
both—just proved how committed the Alpha was. I've never been so happy to be
proven wrong, Matt thought, gazing at his Alpha-mate. A month ago he had
thought of Alphas only as self-serving creatures, but that was before he had
met Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt. If nothing else, Matt finally
believed—accepted—that he and Gil would be together forever, a fact that made
him unexpectedly happy.
                I'm so lucky to have you, he thought, smiling tenderly at the
handsome, red-eyed Alpha. I'm so glad it's you,Gil. I really am.
                "I'm glad it's you, too, Matt," Gil replied. Gently, he rubbed
his callused thumb over the silver band.
                Matt pulled their linked hands up to his lips and kissed Gil's
knuckles. Then he closed the distance between their bodies, rested his curly
head upon the Alpha's warm chest—his strong, beating heart—and closed his eyes.
                "Thank-you, darling," he whispered as he fell effortlessly
asleep, "for everything."
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Ten *****
WESTERN EMPIRE
WILDERNESS
Uh, no—I-I-I—I can't! Oh, Alfred!" Ivan howled, throwing his silver-blonde head
back in distress.
                Al clenched his teeth as he tried with all of his might to
force the Alpha's hand down against the grass, but to no avail. He didn't have
the needed strength. And Ivan's mockery wasn't helping. The pair were lying on
their stomachs at the edge of a prickly thicket, facing each other in the
grass, their right hands clasped tightly together in a back-and-forth struggle
for physical dominance. Well, less back-and-forth and more the Omega throwing
all of his weight against the big Alpha, who merely laughed.
                "Ah! Oh, Alfred! You're just too strong! I can't—I can't—Nope,"
he said suddenly, and slammed Al's hand down easily.
                Al's whole body fell sideways. He looked up at Ivan, who was
grinning down at him victoriously, his muscles flexed. "You're such a jerk," he
said. Before Ivan could reply, Al grabbed the Alpha's hand with both of his and
leapt at him, trying to take him by surprise and force him onto his back. Ivan
played along and feigned wide-eyed surprise—badly—falling backward and dragging
the Omega on top of him.
                "That's cheating," said the Alpha, his voice a deep,
reverberating purr. He threaded his fingers through Al's hair, toying with the
Omega's feather-soft locks, drawing their noses together.
                Al's bright blue eyes glared down at him. How infuriating! he
thought. What he said was a reluctant: "I want you so much right now."
                Ivan's lips curled into an arrogant grin, which he pressed to
Al's yielding lips. "Patience, little one," he said in a husky whisper. It sent
a shiver of arousal down Al's spine.
                "Don't do that," Al said, pressing himself closer; nosing
Ivan's neck.
                "Do what?"
                "Don't tease me," the Omega said seductively, kissing the
Alpha's jaw; his neck; his chest.
                Ivan chuckled, a little breathless. Al felt it in the Alpha's
throat. "I'm not the one doing the teasing," he said.
                Al smirked.
                Later, Al found himself wrapped in a fur blanket, cuddled
beneath the comfortable weight of Ivan's arm, his head resting on the Alpha's
chest. He had always been able to fall asleep easily, anywhere, but with Ivan
beside him it was effortless. He simply closed his eyes, feeling peaceful and
safe, and awoke hours later. He knew this because the moon's position in the
sky had changed, the sky crowded with paling stars. Al yawned in waking,
resurfacing from the depths of a pleasant dream.
                "Ivan?" he murmured, meeting the Alpha's reflective gaze. "How
long was I asleep for?"
                "Not long enough," said the Alpha indulgently. "Go back to
sleep, Al. It's not yet dawn."
                Al fought selfishness, and said: "No, I'm fine. You should
sleep for a little while. I'll keep watch."
                "Al—"
                "Sleep," Al ordered, struggling into a sitting position, his
blanketed back braced against a smooth tree trunk. "I can keep watch just as
well as you can—better, in fact. I'll hear any threat a lot sooner than you
will. I'll wake you if I do," he added in appeasement. Then he tipped his head
and patted his lap invitingly. "You're not invincible, honey," he said; half-
mocking, half-serious. "You need sleep, too."
                Heaving a sigh, Ivan complied. Maybe he was tired, or maybe the
pillow of Al's lap was too tempting; either way, he laid down in the soft
grass, resting his head in the Omega's lap. Al knew how much Ivan disliked
relinquishing control and wouldn't put it past the Alpha to merely fake being
asleep for Al's benefit. It was exactly the sort of thing Ivan would do:
pretend to sleep, while actually staying alert for danger. It irked Al. It's
been days,he needs to rest. So as soon as the Alpha settled down, Al began
stroking his head in the gentle, soothing way that Arthur did when he was
trying to coax his Alpha-mate or pups to sleep. It had never failed to work
before, the recipient always falling victim to the Omega's sly tactic, and Al
was pleased to see that not even big, strong, tough-fibred Ivan could resist.
The Alpha's body relaxed and minutes later he was breathing rhythmically, fast-
asleep.
                Al hadn't thought of his parents for a long time. It was a
painful thought, but he revisited it now in the quiet of breaking dawn. He
thought of Arthur and Francis and his four Alpha-uncles, and how heartbroken
they would all be thinking him dead. He thought of Matt, too. He missed his
brother desperately. He hadn't been much of a brother in the days leading up to
the flood and he regretted it now. Neither he nor Ivan had found any trace of
Matt on their journey, and though Ivan was kind, Al knew the Alpha was only
searching for Al's benefit. He didn't truly believe that Al's timid Omega-
brother could be alive. He had all but admitted it when he had warned Al about
the savage Western Empire, which crawled with merciless soldiers. "I've never
seen soldiers kill with such cold efficiency," he had said, trying to impress
upon Al the importance of staying hidden. The Eastern Empire favoured brute
force, whereas the Western Empire was calculating. If the Eastern Army hadn't
been the larger force, the West's strategy would have won their engagements. "I
wouldn't trust a Westerner half as far as I could fucking throw him," Ivan
growled. "I'm sorry," he added when he noted Al's silence, but the unspoken
confession hung between them: If the Westerners found your brother,he's
probably dead. And if he's not,he'd be better off that way. Al tried not to
think about it, just like he tried not to think about his heartbroken parents.
The only thing that kept his tears at bay was knowing that soon he would be
home—if they could survive the Western Empire, that is.
                They hadn't encountered anyone yet, but the evidence of the
Westerners' presence was unmistakable. Once or twice, they had stumbled upon an
abandoned watchtower and Ivan had grabbed Al by the back of his shirt and
thrust him protectively behind him before realizing the absence of any threat.
For all of the Alpha's sober self-control, he was becoming more
anxious—jumpy—the farther west they travelled. The Eastern Army really fucked
him up, Al thought in sympathy. Ivan wouldn't admit it, of course, but Al knew
that the Western Army terrified him.
                Please, he prayed, for Ivan's benefit, don't let us meet any
Western soldiers. Al didn't think the Alpha would be as merciful with any
Westerners as he had been with his former Eastern comrades. He didn't want Ivan
to have to suffer anymore. It was—honestly—why he was so eager to leave the
Mainland.
                You'll be safe on the Isles, he promised, petting the Alpha's
silver-blonde head. My family will protect you. You won't be alone
anymore,Ivan. You'll never have to be alone again.
===============================================================================
At sunrise, Ivan stirred. Al tried to convince him to sleep longer, but the
Alpha insisted that he had slept for too long already. "I'm fine," he said,
even as he rubbed his sore muscles.
                He's still weak, Al knew. The injuries and abuse Ivan had
sustained had left his health considerably depleted. He might have been strong
enough to wrestle a skinny Omega, but Al worried how he would fare against real
danger. It's why he hovered and insisted on doing the menial tasks, like
cooking breakfast.
                "I'll do it, you just relax," he said to Ivan, smiling
offhandedly.
                Ivan, however, disliked the note of unintended condescension he
heard in Al's upbeat tone. He snatched an armful of firewood from the Omega,
and snapped: "I can take care of myself, Alfred, I'm not a swaddling pup."
                "Neither am I," Al argued, trying to grab back the firewood.
"Just let me do it, okay?"
                "I don't need you to take care of me."
                "Maybe I want to! Did you ever think of that, you stupid,
thick-headed Alpha? Maybe I want to take care of my intended mate!"
                They both froze. Ivan's body was twisted away, hugging an
armful of firewood to his chest like precious cargo with one hand, while he
tried to repel Al with the other; Al reaching around his bulk, swatting
indignantly at him. For a minute they merely blinked at each other. The Omega's
resolve crumbled first. He tried so hard not to laugh that he snorted loudly,
which made Ivan burst out laughing. Then they were both laughing, the domestic
spat forgotten.
                "Is this what our mated-life is going to be like together?"
Ivan teased, chucking the firewood into a discarded pile. "Are we going to
fight over everything, little one?"
                "Probably," Al confessed, beaming up at the Alpha. "I can't
wait."
                After a quick fried breakfast, Al treated and re-dressed Ivan's
injuries—his chest was healing, albeit slowly—and Ivan inspected Al's leg. It
had become so routine for both of them that neither even flinched, trusting his
partner's care. Al took extra care with Ivan. He had never been entrusted with
delicate medical applications before, leaving it to Arthur and Matt, who were
more practised, but Ivan's confidence in him made him feel good about his own
abilities.
                They were packing-up their temporary campsite when Ivan
suddenly stiffened. Deliberately, he stood and raised his nose to the sky.
                "It's time to go," he announced soberly.
                Al followed his line-of-sight and, squinting, saw a thin spiral
of smoke in the distance rising above the trees. The Easterners.
                "Come on," Ivan said, setting off. "We've got to stay ahead of
them and we've already lingered here too long," he added grumpily, angry at his
body for needing sleep. If Al had allowed it, the injured Ivan would have
thrown all of their supplies and Al over his shoulders and then walked day and
night until they reached the distant Low Countries.
                Idiot, Al thought, frustrated with the stubborn Alpha. He'll
kill himself if I don't do something.
                "Give me that," he said, stealing a heavy satchel as Ivan
reached for it.
                Ivan frowned. "It's too heavy for you, Al. Give it to me."
                "You've got enough," Al declared, slinging the satchel across
his shoulders. His knees nearly buckled, but he refused to let it show. "I'm
perfectly capable of carrying my share. Now, let's go," he said, and marched
off before Ivan could argue.
                The Alpha hid a smile. "Yes, dear."
===============================================================================
Three days later, the Eastern Army was slowly gaining in its pursuit of the
deserter and his young Omega companion. Ivan tried to hurry their pace, but it
turned out to be counterproductive. Al's leg was healed enough for him to walk,
but he still needed time to rest or risk further injury. (Ivan did, too, though
he wouldn't admit it.) The Eastern soldiers had the benefit of being healthy
and strong, with officers who threatened punishment for anyone who slowed the
company's marching pace. Unlike Ivan and Al, the soldiers had no need to hide
their presence and cover their tracks as they crashed through the dense Black
Forest. If the Western Army were alerted to their presence in the forest, all
the better. It would save the Easterners from having to hunt them down to
engage them in battle. Ivan and Al were trying to outrun a war. No matter what
they did, the fact remained that they were trapped between the Western and
Eastern Armies, protected only by the no-man's-land of the forest. But that
wouldn't last forever. Sooner or later, they were going to be discovered by one
side or the other, and Al knew—when that happened—Ivan didn't have a plan.
                "Al," Ivan said one day, walking a few paces ahead of the tired
Omega. "If we're discovered by the West or the East, I want you to run."
                Al scoffed. "And leave you? Not fucking likely—"
                "I'm not asking, Al."
                Ivan's tone took Al by surprise. It was inarguable, as was the
look on the Alpha's stony face. His violet eyes glinted like precious stone,
cold and hard. Meekly, Al nodded in agreement.
                Yet, they needn't have worried about the West or East, because
it was not the Western Army or the Eastern Army who eventually found them.
                It was the South.
===============================================================================
Well,look what we've found," said a silky, foreign voice, making Al jump in
surprise.
                He had wandered off in search of firewood, refusing Ivan's
offer. "No, no, you unpack the sleeping-rolls," he had said, determined to let
the Alpha rest. They had been walking for a long time and night was already
creeping over the treetops, casting the forest in shadows. Al promised to hurry
and not search too far. "If you're not back in fifteen minutes, I'm coming to
get you," Ivan warned. Al had rolled his eyes. "Yeah yeah," he said,
disappearing like a spectre, the silence of his light-footedness masking his
presence. Ivan had already done a perimeter check and his nose had declared the
vicinity safe. Al trusted Ivan's nose, but the Alpha was exhausted and the
Omega had absently wandered too far. He hadn't realized it until he met a wide
river, but by then it was too late. The earthy water had served to cover the
Southerners' scent.
                "What a pretty little Western bitchyou are," they said,
emerging like faeries from the water. They stepped out of hiding behind thick-
rooted trees and dense, slimy water foliage.
                It was rather ingenious of them, Al thought, his heart racing
in panic. Unlike the Eastern Army, whose blunt advance was loud and forceful
and left nothing hidden, the Southerners—too used to dodging Western
patrols—were using the forest itself to disguise their presence so they could
advance into enemy territory undetected. Al's defensive Omega senses hadn't
even noticed them, and even now he couldn't tell how many Alphas there were.
Their reflective eyes glinted in the dying sunlight, like hidden beasts in a
fairytale.
                "Come here,darling, let's have a good look at you," said an
Alpha, grabbing for Al. He was soaking-wet, but didn't seem to care.
                Al leapt back. He dropped everything he had collected except
for a long stick, which he brandished like a thin sword, despite it being too
weak to serve any real damage. Still, he whipped it back-and-forth and growled
deep from within his throat. "Stay back!" he warned, baring his teeth.
                "That's not German," said one of the soldiers.
                "No, it's English," said another, and then spat to show his
dislike.
                Al recognized that the soldiers were speaking in French, but he
couldn't understand it. He cursed himself for ignoring all of Francis' lessons.
                Too focused on the soldiers in front of him, Al reacted too
late when the stick was suddenly ripped from his hands from behind. "I know
you," growled a middle-aged blue-eyed Alpha, tossing the stick aside. "You're
Bonnefoi's pup! What happened,darling?" he sneered, grabbing Al's biceps;
fighting the Omega's protests. "Doesn't the Western captain want you anymore?
What'd he do,mate you and then throw you back out? Or did you run away from
that sadistic,red-eyed bastard? Did you miss us that much,sweetheart?"
                The Southerners laughed. One wolf-howled.
                "Get away from me! Don't you fucking touch me!" Al snarled.
Without warning, he thrust his knee viciously into the soldier's stomach, then
punched him hard in the jaw before he could recover. He stumbled back as the
blue-eyed Alpha buckled, gasping.
                "Think you're tough,do you?" said his comrade, cutting off Al's
escape. Angrily, he grabbed the Omega's hair and yanked it hard. Al bit back a
cry as stinging tears filled his eyes.
                "Wait," said the blue-eyed Alpha, who rose grudgingly to his
feet. His brow furrowed in puzzlement, then his eyes narrowed in realization.
"You're not the same Islander-bitch we found before. But"—he leant close to Al,
sniffing him—"you've got the same scent,Bonnefoi's scent. You're definitely his
Omega-pup. You smell just as sweet as your brother," he added, pupils dilating
in hungry arousal. "Fuck," he chuckled, addressing his comrades, "Bonnefoi's
mate has been busy. Just how many siblings do you have,darling? Do they all
smell as delicious as you?"
                The Southerner pressed his nose to Al's neck and inhaled
deeply, groaning. Al wriggled and glared. He didn't know what the Alphas were
saying, but he knew by the blue-eyed soldier's tone that it was not
complimentary.
                "Fetch Captain Le Roux," he ordered, straightening. "I think
he'll be very interested in our new little friend. I certainly am. I like an
Omega with some spirit," he added, licking his lips.
                In reply, Al spat on him and was promptly backhanded across the
face. "Bitch!" the Alpha growled. The blow knocked the weakened Omega down and
left him dizzy.
                "Hurry!" the Alpha snapped at his comrades, one of whom hastily
departed in pursuit of Captain Le Roux. In a show of animal dominance, he
planted a heavy foot on either side of Al's horizontal figure, legs straddling
him as he stared down, like a hunter eyeing his prey. "You're going to be sorry
you did that," he threatened. "I'll admit,you've got more fight in you than
your brother,and I like that. But hasn't anyone ever told you how Omegas are
supposed to act,sweetheart? Maybe I'll be the one to teach you.Would you like
that?I'll teach you to be a proper,submissive Omega-bitch. I'll make you howl
for it with my cock inside you. Maybe you'll even like it,huh?Tell me," he
asked rhetorically, nudging Al with the toe of his boot, "how old are
you,darling? Are you older than your pretty brother? Gods," he purred, leaning
down, "your brother was such a delicious treat. Inferior breeding-stock,of
course,being a filthy Islander,but good enough to mate. You're good enough
too,darling,even with that scowl. No," he mused tauntingly, "it'sbecauseof that
scowl. I lost my chance to mate your brother," he said in a deep, foreboding
whisper, "but I'm not going to lose my chance to mate you. I'll taste a fucking
Islander if it's the last thing I do."
                Impulsively, he grabbed Al's collar and yanked him forward into
a rough kiss. Al whimpered in surprise and pursed his lips, but he couldn't
turn his head; he couldn't dodge the Alpha's dry lips, which tasted like bitter
wine and sweat. He tried to punch the Alpha, but the blue-eyed soldier caught
his wrist and squeezed, bruising it. His comrades laughed in cruel delight. Al
felt his face heat in fear and embarrassment. Don't cry! he commanded himself,
even as tears filled his blue eyes. He desperately wanted to yell for Ivan, but
he didn't want to alert the Southerners to the Easterner's presence. So instead
he stayed fixed there, half-sitting and half-lying in simmering silence as he
suffered the Alpha's unwanted jeers and advances, all the while scanning the
forest for a feasible escape-route.
                The blue-eyed Alpha wet his lips slowly as he released Al,
savouring the taste. "Mm,delicious," he hummed.
                It was a good thing he thought so, for his sake, because—as it
so happened—kissing Al was the last thing the blue-eyed Southerner ever did.
                No sooner had the words left the Southerner's lips, than the
blade of a hunting-knife embedded itself deep between his shoulder-blades at
the base of his neck and he fell face-first to the ground, dead. Al's eyes went
wide as the soldiers howled in outrage. No,no,no—! he thought, his gaze
swiveling in the direction of the knife's projection. As expected, he spotted
Ivan, already engaged in battle with several Southerners. The blue-cloaked
soldiers of the South fell upon him like a wolf pack attacking a much larger
predator, spitting and snarling. Blades struck and lashed, tearing Ivan's
clothes; his skin. Ivan growled and slashed his sword one-handed in
retaliation, using his powerful free fist to beat back the onslaught of
enemies, but it wasn't enough. The Southerners were too many and too well-
trained, and Ivan was fighting at half-strength.
                "Ivan,no!" Al cried in distress. "Run!" he begged futilely. He
felt angry and frightened as he screamed. And helpless—so horribly helpless.
But even as he spoke, Al watched Ivan get struck down. "No! No, please! Don't
hurt him!" he screamed, charging thoughtlessly forward. He clawed at the
Southerners, trying to pull them away from the felled Alpha, but they merely
shoved him back into the restraining arms of another soldier. "Please, let him
go! Please, I'll do anything you want, I swear!"
                "Anything—?" asked a gravelly voice in accented English. A
moment later, an iron-knuckled hand landed on Al's shoulder. It was strong and
twisted, like the gnarled root of an old tree.
                Al froze. He saw the hem of a royal-blue traveling cloak,
bearing a black fleur-de-lis; then an armoured body; then the hilt of a long,
sheathed sword; and then finally the weathered face of a grey-eyed Alpha:
Captain Le Roux.
                "Bring forth the Easterner," he snapped his fingers, never
taking his steely gaze off Al.
                Ivan was forced to his knees and dragged before the Southern
Army's cryptic captain, his arms restrained by two soldiers as a third pulled
back his head. Ivan's blazing glare made Al nervous. He was so afraid that the
stubborn Alpha would try to fight, or do something as equally reckless and get
himself killed. Stay down, Al silently begged. He tried to convey the message
in his anxious expression: Please,if you love me at all,Ivan,you'll stay down!
Ivan's jaw clenched unhappily, but he didn't move. Le Roux merely cocked an
eyebrow at him in disinterest, and then returned his gaze to Al.
                "Bonnefoi certainly found himself a productive Omega-mate,
didn't he?" he said, recycling the observation of his now dead officer. "I've
already had the pleasure of meeting your lovely brother, dear, albeit briefly.
He smelled just like you; though, that was before the Fort Commander mated him.
After it, he smelled like that damned Westerner. I expect he still does—what a
waste. If he's even still alive, that is. I've heard that Western Alphas
sometimes beat their Omega-mates to within inches of their lives to teach them
obedience; more often as not, the poor little Omegas don't survive. Barbaric,
isn't it?"
                Al's face paled. "What in hell are you talking about?"
                "Your brother, dear. He has—had?—the most beautiful violet
eyes. And such soft skin. It's a real shame that he's nothing more than a
Western-whore, now."
                "My brother is not a Western-whore!" Al snarled fiercely in
denial.
                "Yes, he is," Le Roux shrugged fluidly. "Or, haven't you heard?
Bonnefoi's pretty Omega-pup was captured by the Fort Commander of the Black
Forest Fort. That's the Westerners' stronghold, dear." He pointed in an
ambiguous direction, presumably toward said fort. "He's a cruel Alpha. It's
said that his eyes have turned permanently red from bloodlust. I've seen it,
it's true," he teased. "What, you don't believe me? Well, you'll see soon
enough," he added in a malicious tone. "I almost pity your poor brother. Being
such a degenerate Alpha's mate is a fate worse than death, and if you think
he's the only one who's had a taste of your pretty brother, then think again.
It's a fort, after all. How many Alphas in there haven't touched an Omega in
months? Killing him would be a mercy, now—"
                "Stop it!" Al shouted, his teeth bared; fists clenched. "Just
stop it! I don't believe you! You're a fucking liar!"
                Le Roux heaved a sigh of mock-pity. "And if I'm not? If I'm
telling you the truth? Do you really want to risk it, little Omega? I know
where your poor brother is. And I'll help you rescue him... if he's still
alive, of course. I'll help you if you help me."
                "And why the hell would I do that?" Al spat rudely.
                "Because if you don't," said Le Roux simply, "then I'll
disembowel your unlucky Alpha friend here and now."
                Before Al could protest, Le Roux drew his sword and stalked
purposefully toward Ivan's kneeling figure. The blade had already nicked the
Easterner's snow-white neck, producing a trickle of blood, before Al tactlessly
hollered:
                "No, stop!"
                Le Roux turned slowly, his head cocked. "Oh—? You did say you'd
do anything to save this Alpha, didn't you, dear?"
                Al fell silent. He felt sick.
                Le Roux chuckled and lowered his sword. "You've made the right
choice," he praised, reading Al's blue-eyed face like a book. Promptly, he
retreated to the Omega's side and belittled him further by ruffling his hair.
"Think of it this way," he said diplomatically. "By aiding me in my noble
crusade, you... Oh, I'm sorry, what was your name, dear?"
                "Alfred," choked Al.
                "Alfred," Le Roux repeated, grinning. "By aiding me, you have a
chance to save your beloved brother from a fate worse than death, as well as
the life of this Easterner, whom I assume is your intended Alpha-mate—? Yes,"
he said, stroking Al's cheek in a mock-paternal way that made the Omega's skin
crawl. "And the price for both of their safety is just one little fort that you
owe no loyalty to, and a few villainous Alphas whom you don't even know. Once
I've gotten what I want, I'll let you, your brother, and your surly intended
go. I promise. Come now, I'm being more than generous, little Alfred. It's much
more than what a blood-traitor's spawn deserve."
                Al swallowed a mouthful of bile and squeezed his fists tight,
fighting to keep his voice even. "What exactly is it you think I can do?" he
asked quietly.
                "Nothing, chéri."
                Al visibly flinched. Don't, he thought, infuriated. Don't you
dare use my Papa's endearments,you bastard!
                "All you have to do is show your pretty face, Alfred," said Le
Roux. He slapped Al's cheek. "That's all. You're nothing but my leverage. See,
in some devilish way I think that Beilschmidt really does care for your
brother. It may be love; it may be greed. I saw the look on his face. Either
way, I'm willing to gamble his fort against your safety, little Omega—the
safety of his brother-by-mating-law. Beilschmidt's weakness is his blood
loyalty.
                "You, Alfred Bonnefoi," said Le Roux, smiling darkly, "are my
ticket to destroying the Black Forest Fort—and everyone in it."
===============================================================================
Le Roux's Alphas bullied Ivan into rope bonds that chafed his wrists and ankles
and restricted his movements, forcing him onto his stomach in the grass like a
serpent. His face was black-and-blue and swollen where the Southerners' fists
had struck; his nose was bloody. Al begged to be allowed to go to him and was
permitted by Captain Le Roux, who—rightly—believed that Ivan's bondage was
enough to hold Al as well without needing ropes. He wasn't going to escape
without the Easterner and Le Roux knew it. He was a very cautious, conniving
leader, not unlike the Westerners that Ivan had warned Al about.
                These Mainlanders all rely on tricks, he thought spitefully.
                In the isolated northern clans of the world—the Isles, the
North, the Eastern Empire—physical strength was valued above all else. Omegas
were expected to breed big, strong, healthy Alpha-pups; Alphas whose worth was
based on his own talents. A hunting-party operated together as a pack, but each
member was expected to contribute his own individual strength. Hunters had
little patience—or respect—for the physically weak. It was why the Islanders,
and the Northerners, Al remembered, chose leaders by trial-by-combat. Only the
strongest were expected to survive in life, and few packs wasted time nurturing
Alpha-pups who couldn't contribute to society. Omegas, too, were expected to be
strong—in an Omega-like way. Omegas needed to be able to give birth to as many
pups as possible. A productive Omega was praised for his contribution to the
pack. The fact that Francis and Arthur only had two Omega-pups was enough to
invite ridicule (in secret, of course; nobody dared insult Scott Kirkland's
family to the short-tempered pack-leader's face). Neither Scott nor Francis had
an Alpha heir, and it was Arthur who was blamed for it. "He should have died
when he caught the cold-death as a pup," Al had heard the pack-members say.
"The medicine-man refused to doctor him, knowing him too weak. It's only by the
will of the gods that he's alive today, nothing more." Al, however, disagreed.
Arthur might have looked small and frail, but looks were often deceiving and
Al's Omega-father was, truly, one of the toughest clan-members he knew. The
fact that Arthur hadn't conceived more brothers or sisters for Al was not
something that Al cared about. Why should an Omega dedicate his life to
birthing pups for his Alpha-mate? Why did they do it? Could it be for society's
praise, or did Omega's genuinely desire it? Was it hardwired into their DNA? If
so, Al was missing that particular gene.
                I want my life to mean something, he had always thought. I want
to do something great. I want history to remember me,not my Alpha-pups.
                But it seemed that the Southerners disagreed. Since Al had
journeyed to the Mainland, he had surmised that Omegas were even less versatile
here than on the Isles. They were expected to breed as many pups as possible,
strong or weak. It didn't matter, because the Mainlanders didn't value physical
strength as much as they valued bloodlines. As long as their leader was of a
sovereign line—inbred, or otherwise—he was not required to be strong. He
needn't be; he had the command of armies at his disposal, after all. Unlike the
Islanders and Northerners, who fought together as a pack, or the Easterners,
who favoured brute force, the Westerners and Southerners used shadier tactics
to achieve victory. They may have called it strategy, but Al called it
trickery. It was manipulative and unfair; that's what his uncle Scott would
have said:
                "An Alpha should be strong and proud enough to take
responsibility for his own actions (and the actions of his family). There's no
honour in tricks and blackmail."
                It's why Al had trained and practised so hard to strengthen his
skills, so that his family and his Alpha friends would see him as more than
just a weak Omega. He wanted more than anything to make his family proud,
but—try as he may—he couldn't compete with the Alphas if he played by their
rules. His biology was adapted to other talents. He couldn't hunt with his
nose, so he hunted with his ears; that wasn't such a big deal. His hunting-
partners had always been intrigued by it, like Lars had been. However, physical
combat was different. Al had tried and tried and tried to defeat his Alpha
friends in fair hand-to-hand combat, but his body was not naturally built for
combat and he always lost. (Al hatedlosing.) Sooner or later, he always fell
back on his tricks—like a sneaky Mainlander. He felt guilty about it, of
course. Scott hated Alfred's tricks (which had even managed to lay the fearsome
pack-leader out on his back once or twice), but without relying on his tricks,
Al was as useless a fighter as any other Omega. He might have been bigger and
stronger than the average Omega, but it wasn't enough to defeat a big, healthy
Alpha. Maybe that's why he felt so critical of the Mainlanders who used such
sly tactics, because Al had always been so critical of himself.
                "Trickery is not the Islander way," lectured Scott in Al's
head. "Tricks are for cowards."
                I think Captain Le Roux would disagree, Al thought. The
Southern captain's cold logic seemed to be victory by any means necessary. He
seemed almost anxious—excited—to attack the Black Forest Fort. Al got the
impression that he had been waiting a long time for a tactical advantage over
the Western captain, whom he clearly thought of as a rival. The Beilschmidt-
pup, as Al had heard him described, must be a very formidable opponent for Le
Roux to go to such lengths to achieve victory. Al thought it all seemed rather
personal. He wondered what the Westerner had done to earn such a black
reputation in Le Roux's opinion.
                Captain Beilschmidt is the one who has Matt. The thought
twisted Al's stomach, but he steeled his resolve.
                Don't worry, Mattie,I'll find you. I'll rescue you from that
place,I promise.I'll protect you from this awful war and we'll go home
together. All of us, he added, looking down at pale-faced Ivan. I swear,I'll
get us out of here,even if I have to use tricks to do it.
                Al ignored the snide looks that the Southerners gave him and
sunk to his knees at Ivan's side. He cradled the Alpha's silky head in his lap,
and whispered: "It's going to be okay. I'm here, sweetheart." The gesture of
soothing his intended mate calmed Al's nerves. He combed his fingers delicately
through Ivan's hair and was rewarded by a gentle sigh. Ivan pressed his cheek
against Al's thigh. His swollen, discoloured eyelids remained closed, even as
he spoke.
                "Al," he said quietly. His voice was sluggish. "You need to
escape. At the first chance you get, you need to—"
                "Shut it," Al interrupted.
                "Alfred." Ivan's violet eyes peeled open, looking soft.
"Please."
                "Ivan," Al replied in a gently reprimanding, maternal tone,
"no. I'm not leaving you here to die, sweetheart."
                Ivan was about to reply, but stopped when a Southerner cleared
his throat in an attention-seeking way. He was young, maybe twenty, and had
eyes the same stormy-grey as Le Roux's, though this Alpha's look was much
softer.
                "I was told to... that is, my Alpha-father—I-I—I mean, Captain
Le Roux," he corrected hastily, "permitted me to, uh... See, I'm the company's
chief medical officer," he stuttered, blushing nervously. "I thought you might
let me... That is, I thought I could help."
                Al considered the timid soldier, Le Roux's Alpha-pup. He was
standing with his knees pressed together shyly and hugged a large burlap
satchel to his chest like a shield. His English was good, better than any other
Southerner Al had yet heard, including Le Roux. He read a rare intelligence in
the Alpha's self-conscious eyes.
                "Please—?" he asked, reaching tentatively for Ivan.
                Ivan growled, his lips pulled back from large canines. The
Southerner snatched his hand back, as if bitten.
                "Please, I can help," he repeated, addressing Al. His eyes were
big and round; not so alike Le Roux's after all. "I have a poultice that will
soothe the infectious spirits poisoning his body," he explained, pointing to
Ivan's wounded chest. "He is very strong, but the disease will claim his life
if he does not purge the poisoned blood. It will turn his skin black. He won't
survive. In a couple days, he'll concoct a fever... and he won't recover from
it. It's a miracle he's lived this long. Please," he begged Al, bowing his
head. "So many soldiers will die when my Alpha-father—when Captain Le Roux lays
siege to the Black Forest Fort, and I'll be powerless to help any of them. I'm
not trying to trick you, Alfred Bonnefoi. I took an oath as a healer. Please,
let me help you now before it's too late."
                Silently, Ivan reached up and took Al's hand, and he squeezed
it—hard. Frightened. "Nyet," he whispered.
                Al held Ivan's hand and pet his head in comfort. "I'm here," he
said. "It's okay, I won't let him hurt you. Trust me, Ivan."
                Ivan didn't speak, he only grunted as he buried his face
against Al's middle. It was as much consent as he was going to give. Al nodded
at the Southerner.
                He looked relieved as he began laying out the tools of his
trade. His fingers were long and exceptionally fine-boned for an Alpha. He
worked nimbly, cleaning, treating, stitching, and bandaging Ivan's injuries. Al
assisted where he could. He removed Ivan's tattered shirt with a medical-knife.
(That was the last one, Al noted. Ivan was very hard on clothes.) Ivan clenched
his teeth and fists and grimaced in discomfort, and buried his face in Al's
shirt to muffle the noise of a pitiful whine. It reminded Al of his sulky
uncles, especially Scott—who whimpered like a newborn when injured (he really
hated needles)—and endeared the Easterner to him even more. But it wasn't only
the pain that bothered Ivan. It was also the necessity of being tended to by
another Alpha, especially an enemy. He hated feeling weaker than a rival. Al
held him and stroked his head and talked quietly, constantly, trying to
distract him.
                "Does the Black Forest Fort really have my brother?" Al finally
asked softly.
                He couldn't pretend that the horrible thought didn't bother
him. He had to know for certain. He didn't trust Le Roux's word, but for some
reason he did trust the captain's timid Alpha-pup. He looked afraid of lies,
and fear was a powerful motivator. Fear and love.
                The Southerner's head snapped up, shocked by Al's candidness.
He swallowed, then nodded. "I'm sorry."
                The Southerner re-packed his tools and quickly left, and Ivan
emerged from the safety of Al's lap. Hissing in pain, he shifted into a
lopsided sitting position; knees bent and wrists and ankles bound. Al wanted to
scold him and tell him to lie back down to rest, but he couldn't bring himself
to do it. He felt suddenly hollow, bone-tired. And Ivan looked so pitiful. Yet,
the Alpha's body-language was protective. It invited the Omega to come close
and be comforted by the Alpha's touch, however restricted. Ivan's violet eyes
said: Come here,little one. I'll keep you safe.
                I love his eyes. They're so beautiful. Like Matt's.
                Obediently, Al crawled to Ivan's side. Ivan kissed his cheek
and tasted tears. Al had started crying without even realising it.
                "It's okay, Al," he said in that deep, rumbling voice that Al
loved, even though it made the Omega feel small. Small and precious, not weak.
"Tell me," Ivan said, nuzzling Al's temple. "Tell me how to make it better."
                Al's lip trembled as tears flooded his eyes. He couldn't make
them stop. "You can hold me," he whispered. In surrender, he lifted Ivan's
bound hands and ducked into the circle of his embrace, letting the Alpha's
strong arms drape heavily over his shoulders. He felt the pressure of Ivan's
hug as he laid his head down beneath the Alpha's neck, and felt the vibration
in his throat when he quietly said:
                "Yes, little one, I can do that."
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Eleven *****
THE LOW COUNTRIES
Arthur,chéri, it's time to go."
                Arthur was standing atop a shallow incline, surveying the
wreckage of the village. The floodwaters had receded, but the damage done to
the Low-Landers' homes, fields, and storehouses would cripple their chance of
surviving the winter. They would have to work fast to make repairs and empty
all of their coffers to purchase food now that the growing season was over. The
free-trade agreement that they had just signed with the Islanders might be the
only hope many Low-Lander families now had of dodging starvation.
                It was late-October; the heart of the harvest season. At home,
Owen would be managing it all. He was a good hunter, but a better judge. He was
fair and everyone trusted him to distribute the gains of the harvest to ensure
that every family had enough to eat; oft times reminding them—the hunters, like
Scott—that their diets needed more than just meat to stay healthy. Arthur
missed Owen. And Liam and Patrick, whose scouting-parties would be guarding the
pack against thieves and butchers, protecting the harvest from rival packs
whose harvests were not so plentiful. If Scott were home, he and his hunters
would be leaving for the last hunting trip of the year—which was a month-long
excursion—and Al would be upset that he couldn't go. Instead, he would neglect
his chores and run off with Liam and Patrick, playing at being a warrior.
Arthur was always bothered and worried by  it, but Francis let Al go. He
reminded his Omega-mate that Al could cause much less trouble running around
the perimeter than he could getting in the way of the harvest. Francis was in
charge of doing the inventory; he was good at sums. He kept logbooks, something
that the Islanders had never done before, and something which Scott had
initially scoffed at. But time had proven the tediousness of bookkeeping
useful, especially wherein petty disputes were concerned. Besides, Francis had
the nicest handwriting of any pack-member. He had taught Matt to write neatly
as well, and Matt sometimes helped out when Arthur didn't need him elsewhere.
Because Scott didn't have an Omega-mate, Arthur—as the second-in-command's
mate—held the most senior Omega position in the pack, which kept him busy.
Matt's assistance was often a blessing, but, unlike with Al, the family tried
to keep Matt confined to the house during the harvest season for two reasons:
                Firstly, with all of them working such long hours elsewhere,
they needed someone to keep the household in order. Without Matt, they would
all return each night to no supper, no baths, no clean clothes, no rest; they
wouldn't have anyone to bring them dinner at noon, and tea later on; they
wouldn't have anyone to soothe their sunburns or treat minor injuries. Simply
put, they wouldn't have anyone to take care of them. And more than anyone else,
the four Kirkland Alphas needed someone to take care of them. They were a
pitiful, undignified sight when left to themselves.
                And secondly, the harvest was a very busy time with lots of
inter-clan business taking place. Tradesmen and merchants flocked to Scott
Kirkland's pack—it was one of the biggest packs in the whole clan—which filled
the village with strangers. The day a wine merchant had tried to abduct twelve-
year-old Matt was the day Arthur and Francis had decided to stop letting their
timid Omega-pup run about the village unescorted. If Al hadn't attacked that
Alpha—wild and fearless; other clan-members had had to pry Al's teeth from the
merchant's bicep—then they might have lost Matt that day for good.
                Arthur had always felt bad about restricting Matt, which is why
he was more lenient than the Alphas, but he still worried. He worried about
both of his pups, who had developed in such different ways. He worried about
both of them getting hurt by different things and for different reasons. He
worried about what people said to them and about them, and about what people
thought of them. He worried about their futures in the pack, and often worried
about what kind of Alpha-mate each of them would someday pair-bond with.
Sometimes, he prayed for good, kind, strong Alphas to mate his pups for their
own safety, and for his own peace-of-mind. Other times, he prayed that neither
of them ever found an Alpha-mate. The thought of losing Al and Matt had always
throbbed at the back of Arthur's mind, but he had resigned himself to it, as
every Omega-parent must. Al and Matt were too valuable to keep locked away,
they couldn't stay with the family forever. He was always going to lose them in
some way or another.
                But not like this. Never like this.
                Arthur felt tears pool in his eyes as he looked at the broken
floodgates, the wide canal, and the forest beyond.
                It had been two months. Scott and Francis and the Low-Landers
had been searching the Low Countries and surrounding regions for two months
while Arthur waited and worried (and cried). They had combed the landscape for
any sign of Al and Matt, dead or alive, but they had found nothing. Nothing.
There was no sight, no sound, no scent of the Omegas. Nobody could find a trace
of them. It was like Arthur's pups had never existed at all. They were just
gone.
                "Arthur," Francis repeated gently. He placed a hand on his
Omega-mate's slight shoulder; even slighter now that he refused to eat. "It's
time to go."
                Go. They were going, leaving, leaving Al and Matt. After two
months of searching—hoping—they were finally giving up and going home. They
were leaving Al and Matt behind.
                Arthur thought he had cried all of his tears by then, but they
rolled down his cheeks, now. He didn't care who was watching anymore; at this
point, everyone had seen him cry. He arched his shoulders and clutched his
stomach and bowed his head and he cried; teeth clenched, body trembling.
Francis pulled Arthur close and tightly wrapped his arms around him, but he
didn't speak. He was finally despairingly bankrupt of promises and reassurance,
and he, too, was grieving for his pups—silently, stoically. Arthur could feel
it.
                "I-I—I can't l-l-leave..." he whispered, clutching Francis.
After two long, desperate months, leaving the Low Countries would be finally
admitting that Al and Matt were dead. "I-I—I can't l-l-leave them, Francis...
I-I—I can't."
                Arthur felt Francis' chest expand as he took in a deep breath.
His voice was horse when he spoke. It sounded tortured as he forced out the
words:
                "We have to. It's time."
                Time to accept it. Time to go home.
                Francis and Scott all but carried Arthur onto the ship. Arthur
kept his head bowed. He felt heavy, weighted down by grief that he knew he
would carry for the rest of his life. Omegas didn't recover from the death of
their pups. They just didn't. He kept his head bowed, even as the Clan Leader
of the Low Countries conveyed his deepest sorrows and regret. He apologized
again, but Arthur didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to see the Clan Leader
or Lars, who stood solemnly aside. Every time Arthur looked at them he felt
sick with guilt. It's all my fault, he thought regretfully.I should've stopped
it. I shouldn't have let Alfred and Matthew come here. Arthur didn't want to
see sympathy on the Low-Landers' faces; it only made him angry. What did they
have to be sorry for anyway? What had any of them lost? He didn't want to look
at Scott either. Every time he did, he was torn between wanting to hug his
brother for support, and wanting to lash-out and claw at him for letting this
happen. In the end, he chose the former.
                Arthur stood at the stern of the ship, watching the Low
Countries slowly fade away into the fog. Scott stood on his left, holding his
shoulders; Francis stood on his right, holding his waist. Maybe they wanted to
comfort him, or maybe they wanted to prevent him jumping overboard. Either way,
Arthur was—deep down—glad for their presence. He didn't know what he would have
done without them. He didn't know what he was going to do without Al and Matt.
How did you recover from a broken heart?
                As a thick fog swallowed the last sights of the mainland,
Arthur closed his eyes and saw his pups in his mind. He saw them as newborns,
as toddlers, as children, as youths, and finally as adults: just as they had
been the last time he had ever seen them. They were both so beautiful. They had
been his beautiful, perfect pups since the day they were born.
                My Alfred,my Matthew. I love you. I love you more than anything
in this world or the next. I'll always love you, my pups.
                My beautiful,perfect pups...
                Goodbye.
===============================================================================
BLACK FOREST FORT
WESTERN EMPIRE
Matt awoke suddenly, gasping for breath. The rapid floodwaters of his nightmare
receded as the bedchamber came back into focus. He had dreamt of the storm
again. The memory of it still frightened him. Even now, his waking-mind could
see Al's pale, terrified face as he clung helplessly to the canal wall, and he
could hear his parents' screams, even though he hadn't heard them at the time.
He felt guilty as he reached up and wiped tears off of his cheeks. It had been
two months already since that tragic day; his family probably thought that he
and Al were dead. For all Matt knew, Al was dead, and that thought hurt more
than anything else.
                A soft whine escaped him, and he pressed a hand to his mouth
before he woke Gil. Gil had been sleeping like a rock lately, falling
unconscious the moment his head hit the pillow, only to be roused four or five
hours later by his Alphas. Matt did whatever he could to ease his Alpha-mate's
discomfort, but Gil's fire was slowly burning out. Gently, he pulled a blanket
up over Gil's bare shoulder and laid down next to him, resting his head against
the Alpha's bicep, taking comfort in his close proximity; his scent and body-
heat. Since the beginning, Matt had always felt safe with Gil, and over the
last two months those feelings of security had been slowly yielding to
affection. If anything happened to Gil now, Matt didn't know what he would do.
Not only because he would be abandoned once again in the heart of a war-zone,
but because he would lose someone he deeply cared for. Until Al, Matt had never
experienced that feeling of loss before. That horrible, sickening feeling of
utter helplessness. He hated it; was afraid of it. And Gil had become the
closest friend Matt had ever had. Al would always be his twin-brother, but
Gil... maybe Gil was something more.
                I can't lose you,too, he thought, pressing a kiss to Gil's arm.
                On top of everything else, Gil had never stopped trying to
track Al's whereabouts. He had ordered all of his scouting-parties to report
any sign of Matt's twin-brother, however miniscule, though no one had found
anything yet. Even so, Matt appreciated the effort. Gil didn't know Al, after
all, and had no reason to waste his time and resources searching for him; just
like he had no reason to send messengers to the Low Countries in an attempt to
contact the Kirkland family, but he did that, too. Not that any of his
messengers had been able to slip past the Southern Army. Le Roux had been
weaving a web around the Black Forest Fort for a lot longer than Gil knew,
cutting the Westerners off from everything. The Southern Army had been
intercepting all of Gil's messages until he had finally stopped sending them.
It was a crushing tactical defeat. By preventing all communication with the
Great House—the Western Empire's capital—Le Roux had ensured that Gil couldn't
send word for aid or re-enforcements. He had ensured that the Black Forest Fort
and everyone in it were on their own.
                Gil hadn't actually told Matt any of this, of course, but nor
did he deliberately keep secrets from his Omega-mate, and Matt had seen enough
letters and overheard enough angry conversations to know that the Southern
Army's advance had isolated them. It was only a matter of time before Captain
Le Roux laid siege to the fort, and then what? What would Gil do when that
happened? What could Gil do, except abandon the post he had been trusted to
protect?
                Matt closed his eyes and tried not to think of it.
                Maybe Al was better off, after all... wherever he was.
===============================================================================
WESTERN EMPIRE
WILDERNESS
I need you to do something for me," Al said quietly to Thierry, Captain Le
Roux's Alpha-pup. "It's really important."
                Thierry looked at Al's flushed face, his fervent eyes. "Are you
okay?" he asked in concern.
                "No," Al replied.
                It had been nearly a week since Le Roux's Alphas had captured
he and Ivan, and three weeks since they had set off for the Low Countries. Al
had been so distracted since then, he hadn't stopped to consider that nearly a
month had passed since his last Heat, and if his math was correct, then...
Nervously, he glanced around the crowded camp of Southern soldiers, dozens of
unmated Alphas lounging about in boredom. Whenever a pair of eyes landed on
him, he felt the owner's hunger. Al wondered how many of them were sensitive
enough to know that he was in pre-Heat, and that he would soon be reduced to a
desperate, writhing ball of hormones helpless to reject any Alpha who
approached. The mere thought twisted Al's gut and made him breakout in a cold
sweat; or, maybe that was because his body felt so uncomfortably hot.
Regardless, he refused to let it happen. He wouldn't be mated by anyone except
Ivan, even if that meant taking extreme measures to prevent his Heat at all. He
looked down at Ivan, who was sleeping soundly on Al's lap, and gently squeezed
his intended's big hand, drawing courage for what he was about to request.
                "Do you have these ingredients?" he asked Thierry, handing him
a list he had scratched onto a piece of bark.
                The medic's grey eyes scored the list, then he frowned. "Uh,
yes, but... Alfred," he said apprehensively, eyeing the Omega, "half of these
ingredients are poisonous. And the doses you've indicated are dangerous. What
is this for?" he asked dubiously.
                "It's a potion to stop an oncoming Heat," Al answered.
                Thierry's frown deepened, then his eyes grew big and round in
embarrassed realization. "Oh! Oh, you mean that you're... Oh."
                "This is really important," Al repeated, injecting as much
urgency into his tone as possible without betraying fear. "If I don't take this
potion soon, I'll go into Heat sometime within the next forty-eight hours. That
can't happen," he emphasized. "Please," he said, folding Thierry's hands around
the ingredients list.
                It was the only potion Al knew how to brew by heart, not
because Arthur had taught him, but because he had stolen the recipe from his
Omega-father's book. A private book, which Al and Matt had been warned against
touching. Scott often teased Arthur, calling his talent for healing witchcraft,
which bemused the other Alphas, much to Arthur's chagrin. But Al had seen more
than one Omega come to the pack-leader's backdoor late at night to beg potions
of Arthur Kirkland; potions that the pack apothecary refused to prescribe. Al
had stolen the recipe the first time because he couldn't accompany Scott's
hunting-party if he was in Heat, and he had really wanted to go. It was the
first time he had been invited on a real, month-long excursion—and Alec Frasier
had been going, too. He knew the potion would make him sick for a while, but
that's also why he trusted it to work. It was an aspect of the body's natural
defenses to protect itself when internally attacked. Even if an Omega was in
pre-Heat, a threat to his health—like illness—would trigger a reaction to
divert all of his energy to fighting the threat and repairing itself. It was
why most Omega's didn't experience Heats if they were sick or starving. Heats
were a signifier of health; the longer and more intense the Heat, the healthier
the Omega (or, such was the Old Wives Tale). It was dangerous to intentionally
poison oneself, of course, but Al had risked it back then and it had worked. He
had recovered from the illness and gotten what he wanted, which gave him
incentive to try it again. It had worked twice since then with no notable side-
effects, so he had no reason not to risk it now. Now more than ever, it was
necessary.
                "Alfred," said Thierry seriously, "if you take this potion,
it'll make you very, very sick. Omegas... you're meant to have Heats. This
potion will prevent your body from doing what it's naturally programmed to do."
                "I know, but it'll be fine. I'll be fine. I've taken it
before—"
                "That's another reason why you shouldn't take it again then,"
Thierry argued. "Alfred, you're poisoning your body to prevent its natural
reproductive function. Do it enough times and you won't be able to conceive
pups ever."
                "I know!" Al snapped impatiently. "And if you've got a better
solution right now, I'd love to hear it. But if not, don't you dare patronize
me. I know that what I'm doing is damaging," he said stubbornly, "but I will
not go into Heat here. Do you understand?"
                Sheepishly, Thierry looked from left-to-right and surveyed the
encampment of leering soldiers. Both of them knew what the sweet scent of Al's
pre-Heat implied, and both of them knew they didn't have much time left to
prevent it developing into something much more appetizing—and chaotic. As
horrifying as it would be from Al's perspective, it wouldn't be much better for
the Southern Army. If Al went into Heat in the open and unguarded, Le Roux's
command would crumble against the force of raw arousal and violent competition
that would consume his Alphas as they fought for dominance and ownership of the
young Omega. Al refused to let that happen, even if he had to poison himself to
do it. He refused to be the prize of an Alpha who had ripped apart his comrades
like a big snapping, slobbering beast. His determined gaze told Thierry as
much.
                The Alpha pursed his lips anxiously, cowed by reality. "I've
never brewed anything like this potion before," he confessed. "I'm just an army
medic, a surgeon, not an alchemist. If I brew it incorrectly, it could kill
you, Alfred."
                "I have faith in you," Al said, squeezing the Alpha's hand. He
tried to smile, but it revealed his fear. "Thierry," he begged, "please help
me."
                The medic opened his mouth to refuse, but it came out: "Okay."
===============================================================================
TWELVE HOURS LATER
Al was leaning back against a tree, looking soft and flushed, fidgeting, and
fanning himself despite the night's chill. He looked very uncomfortable, but he
smelled wonderful. Ivan was afraid he knew why; he had smelled Al's Heat-scent
before. He tried to stay calm for Al's sake. He tried not to be bothered by it,
but the truth was he was panicking inside; half-aroused, half-afraid. If Al
went into Heat here, then Le Roux's Alphas would—Ivan clenched his jaw; his
fists. He tried not to feel angry or aroused, but his body was instinctively
reacting to the appetizing change in Al's hormones. The more pronounced his
Heat-scent became, the harder it was for the unmated Alpha to concentrate on
anything but claiming him and mating him. Over and over and over again, until
everyone knew that Al Kirkland belonged to Ivan. Only Ivan. It was a battle of
self-control, but one he had to win. Because if Al went into Heat, then Ivan
would have to protect him. Somehow, he would have to fight off the other
Alphas. Or, maybe he could strike a bargain with Le Roux and have Al taken
somewhere safe. Al would have to endure another Heat alone, but it was better
than the alternative. At least he would be safe. Besides, the Southern captain
needed Al if he was going to use him as leverage against the Westerners. But
for that to work, Al only needed to be alive, unspoiled or not. Even if Al was
raped countless times, Ivan was fairly certain Matt Kirkland would still want
his twin-brother returned to him.
                What do I do? Ivan worried, feeling torn between mind-numbing
anger, arousal, and panic. WhatcanI do?
                It was then he spotted Le Roux's Alpha-pup hurrying over, and
he growled. Somewhere in his subconscious, Ivan was grateful for the medic's
assistance—his wounds were healing much better, now—but given their situation,
he felt defensive of anyone who approached. Ivan's growl was low and
antagonistic, but it didn't stop Thierry. Could the medic smell Al's Heat-
scent, too? Is that why he was unperturbed by Ivan's warning? Deliberately, he
moved in front of Al, only to have the Omega crawl heedlessly around him.
                "It's about time," Al said to Thierry. He sounded annoyed, but
Ivan heard fear as well.
                After all, if he—an Alpha—was panicking, then how much more
frightened was Al about his upcoming Heat?
                "What is that?" Ivan asked as Thierry handed Al a glass bottle.
It contained a mouthful of a clear, scentless liquid. "Al—?"
                Al ignored him. Thierry said:
                "I'm sorry, Alfred. I brewed it three times, just to be safe. I
wanted to be certain it was right. I... I think it is."
                "Alfred," Ivan repeated sternly, "what is that?"
                Finally, Al faced Ivan and smiled. And it was Al's smile, not
the smile of an Omega scared witless. There was courage in it, despite
everything; the same unrefined courage that was reflected in his strikingly
blue eyes, made bluer by his flushed cheeks. Gods, Ivan thought, momentarily
stunned,is there anyone more beautiful in the whole world? Deliberately, Al
planted both of his hands on the Alpha's shoulders and applied enough pressure
to still his trembling.
                "This is going to be a little scary, and probably get really
gross," he admitted, "but I don't want you to worry, sweetheart. Because I'm
going to be okay, I promise."
                Before Ivan could argue or interrogate Al, the Omega kissed him
on the lips.
                Then he swallowed the potion.
===============================================================================
LATER
Ivan looked on in horror as Al lurched forward and vomited for the umpteenth
time. His whole body convulsed as he gagged and gasped and coughed, covered in
cold sweat. He looked like death warmed-over. He was hollow-eyed and pale.
Tears of fatigue and pain and effort rolled freely down his sallow cheeks. He
breathed deeply, his weight braced on trembling hands-and-knees as he vomited
bile and acidic fluid. He had purged what little food they had been given to
eat hours ago. Ivan did everything he could to try and ease Al's pain. He
braced the Omega's weight, and held back his sweaty hair, and rubbed his back,
but it was difficult to play caretaker with his hands and legs bound.
                "Oh, what have you done to yourself, little one?" he asked. He
wasn't expecting an answer; Al merely croaked dryly, which made the Alpha feel
worse. At that moment, he wished that he had been taken ill instead, if only to
spare Al the horrible pain. And Ivan the fear.
                The truth was, Al looked so weak—he was so weak—that a recovery
didn't seem possible. Shaking, vomiting, dehydrated, sobbing, and convulsing;
the strength sucked from his bones. Al Kirkland looked like he was going to
die.
                Ivan knew why Al had done it, of course. As soon as ten minutes
after taking the potion, his Heat-scent had begun to fade as the symptoms of
poisoning took over. What Ivan didn't know was what Al had done. The fact that
he had voluntarily ingested poison worried Ivan, and no amount of hope from
self-conscious Thierry could convince the Alpha that his intended Omega-mate
wasn't going to die. If he did, Ivan would kill Thierry. He would rip the
Southern soldier apart with his bare hands. Then he would kill himself, taking
as many Southerners with him as possible.
                The only good thing about Al's state was that Le Roux's Alphas
were staying as far away from the sick Omega as they could get.
                "What in hellisthat? It's disgusting!"
                "Here,don't let him touch you!
                "Is it the flu? Is it the pox? Is it the plague?"
                "Is it contagious?" Le Roux asked his Alpha-pup, betraying the
slightest hint of fear.
                "No," Thierry answered. "It's definitely not contagious,Papa—I
mean,sir. Captain. I, uh... suspect that it won't last for more than a couple
days."
                "It had better not," Le Roux warned, as if Al's illness was
Thierry's fault (which—technically—it was). "I want that pup on his feet in
time to march on the Black Forest Fort. Our whole plan of attack depends on him
being alive. Is that understood?" he asked sternly. His steely gaze relayed the
order: Fix him!
                "Yes,sir."
                Ivan growled deeply at the look of disdain Le Roux cast Al, his
lip curled back to reveal his teeth in revulsion. He knew it was a good thing
that the Southerners didn't find Al attractive right then, but Ivan still felt
insulted on the Omega's behalf. When Al suddenly collapsed in Ivan's looped
arms, exhausted, the Alpha made an intentional show of holding him and stroking
him and kissing his clammy, sweaty skin to prove that Al's state didn't bother
him. To shield Al from ridicule. To lend Al comfort, as only an Alpha-mate can.
And to feel Al's heart beating in his chest to prove he was still alive, if
only just.
                Alfred Kirkland,what in hell did you do to yourself? he thought
in agony.
                "Don't worry," Al croaked weakly, drawing Ivan's attention. He
looked so faint; he could barely keep his eyes open. Gingerly, he reached up
and touched Ivan's cheek. "It's going to be okay, sweet—"
                Before he could finish, Al lurched forward and—
===============================================================================
BLACK FOREST FORT
WESTERN EMPIRE
—vomited.
                Matt wiped his mouth and stared incredulously down into the
sullied washbasin. He didn't feel sick. And by some sheer miracle he hadn't
eaten anything questionable yet (he lived in a fort, after all). The nausea had
surfaced so fast he had barely had time to react to it, and then it was gone
just as suddenly. But he did feel something... internal. It wasn't physical,
though. It was intuitive, something he couldn't put into words. Arthur would
have called it Omega's intuition. It's how he described everything that Alpha's
couldn't understand. And this feeling was certainly something no Alpha would
ever understand. Instinctively, Matt had pressed a hand to his lower abdomen
before he even realized it. And he froze.
                Then he counted.
                He counted the days of the month backwards since his last Heat,
and he realized:
                I'm late. I should've gone into Heat two days ago,but I didn't.
               Matt hadn't ever missed a Heat since he had started having them
two years ago. The absence of it now could only mean one thing, that he was—
                The bedchamber door swung open and Gil strode loudly in, his
boots stomp, stomp, stomping over the floor. "Hey, schatz," he said, distracted
by a task. But when Matt failed to reply or even move, Gil reconsidered his
stunned Omega-mate. "Matt," he asked, cocking his head, "you okay?"
                "Mm hmm," Matt murmured, trying to look composed. He pursed his
lips, but the moment he looked up and saw his Alpha-mate's puzzled face, he
broke into a giddy smile of disbelief. "Yes," he said, feeling dazed. "Yes, I'm
fine. I'm perfectly fine, Gil. I'm just... fine." He pressed his left hand to
his mouth to quell a high-pitched hiccup of nervous laughter and apprehension
and fear; his right hand planted firmly on his abdomen.
                Gil offered a bemused half-grin as he regarded his Omega-mate's
curious behaviour. "Uh, okay then," he said skeptically, feeling as though he
had missed something. "I just came back to get that report I finished last
night. Have you seen it—Oh, thanks," he nodded, taking the book Matt handed
him. Matt's hand was trembling. Gil started to turn away, but he paused again,
unable to shake the feeling that something was amiss.
                "Are you sure nothing's wrong, schatz?"
                Matt swallowed. Wrong—?
                He was the fifteen-year-old Omega survivor of a natural
disaster, now trapped in a military fort in the middle of a war-zone; pair-
bonded to an Alpha facing a Court Martial (if the enemy didn't kill him first);
wanted dead by the enemy for a blood-crime he didn't even commit; and who had
just realized that he was—
                His dazed, wide-eyed gaze landed on the Alpha, violet met by
wine-red, and an unexpected wave of affection overwhelmed him. He looked at the
big, strong, handsome Western Captain, who was everything he could have ever
hoped for in an Alpha-mate and a sire for his pups, and everything else
suddenly faded away as his eyes flooded with tears. Impulsively, he wanted to
leap joyfully into Gil's warm, protective arms and hug him and kiss him.
                But he didn't.
                Instead, he took a deep, calming breath and blinked the tears
from his eyes. He smiled, walked to his Alpha-mate's side, and kissed his
cheek.
                "No, darling," he said. "Nothing's wrong."
===============================================================================
Gil was still puzzled by Matt's peculiar behaviour as he entered the armoury,
but he sharpened the moment he spotted Ludwig, who was taking inventory. The
lieutenant stilled for a moment, then stiffly inclined his head to acknowledge
Gil's higher status. Gil gave him a wordless at-ease command and stepped
awkwardly into the circular chamber. The brothers hadn't interacted much
lately, except to relay orders and give reports. They had both been too busy to
act like brothers, and neither one had yet acknowledged the tragic
circumstances of Matt's last Heat, because neither of them knew what he should
say. What do you say to your little brother who saw and smelled your Omega-mate
naked and in Heat? Your little brother who rescued your Omega-mate from
rape,because you weren't there to protect him? Because you're a fucking failure
as an Alpha-mate. And a fucking coward because you can't admit that you made a
mistake. Gil simply decided to go with:
                "Thanks."
                Ludwig's face revealed his understanding, but he still asked:
"For what?" Gil wished he hadn't. He wished his brother would just accept his
unvoiced apology and forgive him for his mistake so they could put it behind
them and move on, but the look on Ludwig's stony face told Gil he wasn't going
to make this easy. When Gil failed to explain his ambiguous gratitude, Ludwig
sighed. "You made a mistake, Gil."
                "I know," Gil agreed. "I should've been there with him—"
                "You made a mistake bringing Matthew here," Ludwig cut in.
                Gil stared at him, taken aback. His brother's sky-blue eyes
were cold. He wanted to argue, but how could he? Ludwig's proceeding words
echoed Gil's greatest fears:
                "You can't be the Fort Commander and an Alpha-mate," he said
sternly. "There's a reason it's against the law and it has nothing to do with
cruelty. What's cruel is forcing your Omega-mate to live in a fort in the
middle of a war-zone. He's too young, too soft. He doesn't belong in here, Gil,
and frankly I'm starting to wonder if you do either. You can't just neglect the
fort to be an Alpha-mate, and you can't neglect your Omega-mate to be the Fort
Commander. It doesn't work. Look at you," Ludwig criticized. "You're not
sleeping; you're barely eating; you're short-tempered and unfocused; you're
worried about things you shouldn't be, like your Omega-mate's brother, who's
dead for all we know, instead of being worried about the immediate danger we're
facing. You're too weighted down, Gil, and it's starting to break you. That's
not what the fort needs from its commander right now. The Alphas need your
strength. They need you to lead them, to inspire them, because right now
they're all fucking terrified. Their courage is hanging in shreds. The last
thing they need is a commander who looks scared—"
                "I am scared!" Gil yelled, shocking them both. His voice echoed
in the stone chamber.
                "I'm scared because I don't know what the fuck to do! Is that
what you want me to say, Ludwig? That I don't know what I'm doing? Fine! I'll
say it: I'm fucking terrified!
                "It kills me to know that people I care about are getting hurt
because of me," he admitted. "It fucking kills me to know that if you hadn't
been there to save Matt, then he would've been... he would've..." Gil's lip
twitched in anger as he tried to speak the words. "He might have someone
else's... pups," he spat. "I know I keep making mistakes, Lud. I know I'm
letting people down. Like Grey." He paused; swallowed a lump of grief. "I
shouldn't have sent him out on that scouting-mission; I shouldn't have brought
him here at all. But I did, and now he's dead. I brought them all here," he
said, implying his Alphas. "I brought them here to fucking die. How many more
of them are going to die because of me? Le Roux is coming for us, and when he
does it won't be merciful. What if next time it's you, Lud? Or Matt? You're
right, okay? I shouldn't have brought Matt here, but I did. I did, and I don't
regret it because... because I'm fucking in love with him," he confessed. "If
anything were to happen to him, I'd lose my fucking mind.
                "I lost Grey because I chose Matt," he said, looking ashen and
torn. "Then Matt was attacked because I chose the fort. No matter what I do,
someone gets hurt. I'm destroying everything, Lud. I'm tearing this fort apart
brick by fucking brick and I don't know how to fix it short of abandoning it.
But if I do that then Le Roux wins. If I do that then I'm not the Alpha Vater
raised. It would be like throwing away everything he died for. Everything I've
ever believed in. And I hate myself for wanting that, for wanting to run away,
but—gods!—sometimes that's all I can think about. I just want to take Matt and
get the fuck out of here, go somewhere else and start over. But I can't. No
matter where in the Empire I go, I'll be a wanted Alpha. Wanted for mating Matt
in the first place. I've dug myself a hole and I've dragged you and Matt and
everyone else down with me, because I'm too weak to face the consequences of my
actions.
                "I can't do it! I'm too fucking weak!" he snarled, grabbing
angrily at his hair. "And everyone fucking knows it! You said it yourself, Lud,
the Alphas know it! They know I can't protect them! Matt knows I can't protect
him! Gods, what if I have pups someday and I can't protect them—"
                Ludwig's steely fist flew out and punched Gil in the face. His
silver-white head whipped to the side on impact and he stumbled sideways,
dazed.
                He was wide-eyed and gasping. He hadn't realized he was
gasping.
                He said: "Thanks."
                Ludwig nodded. "Deep breath," he ordered, as if he was coaching
a new recruit. "You need to calm down, Gil. You can't panic."
                Gil blinked dumbly for a moment, then nodded. "I... I know."
                "You need to sleep, brother," Ludwig advised. "You're not
thinking logically. You're letting passion rule your decisions. You're worrying
about pups you don't even have," he added, pushing his point. "Go lie down for
a bit," he ordered, patting Gil's shoulder.
                Gil shrugged him off. "I can't," he said, shaking his head.
"I've got too much to do."
                "You're no good to anyone broken, Gil," Ludwig argued. "And
you're sure as hell in no fit condition to give a motivational speech.
                "You need to stop fixating on everything that could go wrong
and accept that you can't protect everyone," he said, more gently. "You can't
save everyone, especially not like this. We've got a war with the Southerners
coming to a breaking-point on our doorstep. We need our commander, the Alpha we
trust. The Alpha we all swore loyalty to. Not whatever the fuck it was I just
witnessed. If it helps," he suggested, "Matthew needs that commander, too.
Because if Le Roux gets in, then guess who he's going after first?"
                Gil clenched his jaw and nodded resolutely.               
                "We all need you to be you, Gil, not this frightened ghost
you've become. Right?" Ludwig offered his hand.
                Gil clasped it. "Right," he agreed.
                "Thanks."
                Before Ludwig could reply, the armoury doors swung open with a
heavy bang, revealing a panting, red-faced Alpha, who had been posted to sentry
duty.
                "Captain!" he gasped, buckled-over.
                The Beilschmidt brothers both tensed in alert. There was fear
apparent on the sentry's face.
                "Yes?" said Gil, sounding a lot more commanding than he felt.
Sounding as if he hadn't just confessed all of his deepest, darkest fears and
insecurities to his younger brother, rambling like a madman until Ludwig had
needed to physically silence him. At least, he thought in solace, things can't
possibly get any worse right now. He cleared his throat, injecting as much
confidence into his tone as he could, and demanded: "What is it?"
                The sentry straightened and pointed over-the-shoulder to the
front gates. Regretfully, he said:
                "It's the Black Guards, sir. The Black Guards from the Great
House. They've been sent here by the Kaiser, Captain Beilschmidt. Sent to
arrest you for treason."
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Twelve *****
BLACK FOREST FORT
WESTERN EMPIRE
I'm sorry, Captain," said Reinbeck, a member of the Black Guard—the Kaiser's
private police. "I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances."
                His partner, Lutz, nodded in somber agreement.
                "It's been a long time," said Gil to his former schoolmates. He
hadn't seen them since accepting his posting at the fort. "How's your Omega-
mate?" he asked Lutz.
                "Very well, thank-you. He's expecting our third pup," Lutz
replied, unable to suppress a smile. "We're hoping for an Alpha this time."
                "Good luck," Gil said, teasing; though his tone revealed his
unease. An uncomfortable silence stretched for a minute, the Guards exchanging
a weary look with Ludwig, then Gil sighed. "Is there any point in me trying to
explain or defend myself?" he asked ruefully.
                "Is the accusation untrue?" asked Reinbeck.
                "No, it's true."
                "Did you knowingly and deliberately take an Omega-mate,
forsaking your sworn oath? Did you illegally bring him here to the Black Forest
Fort? Is he really a Southerner?"
                "Yes, yes, and"—Gil bobbed his head, then said—"he's an
Islander, actually. I did it to protect him from the Southern Army."
                "Did you mate him?" Reinbeck asked bluntly.
                "Yes."
                "Then I'm sorry, Captain Beilschmidt, but the law is the law."
                "Please don't resist, Gil," Lutz added, stepping forward in
sync with Reinbeck. "Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt, Commander of the Black Forest
Fort of the Western Empire, you are hereby under arrest."
===============================================================================
KNOCK. KNOCK. "Matthew Beilschmidt?"
                Matt froze. He had heard the gates open and close, admitting
the two capital representatives; he had heard a hushed murmur breeze through
the courtyard, whispering "Black Guards". Gil had never explained to him what
the purpose of the Black Guard was, but Matt could guess based on the secrecy
of their entry that they were a prestigious order. How they had managed to
sneak past the Southern Army to reach the fort spoke volumes for their
competence. Of course, the fact that there was only two of them contributed to
their stealth. Matt spied them from the bedchamber window. Both Alphas wore
long black traveling cloaks over form-fitting black clothes, hoods pulled up,
which made them look like duel hangmen. It was a disconcerting impression. He
tried to focus on their conversation, but the fort was suddenly a hive of soft-
spoken whispers and activity; the wind blew fiercely, whipping all the flags;
and thunder rumbled overhead. He saw the Black Guards escort Gil into the
armoury, then re-appear without him. A sentry was posted, and the chamber was
locked. Matt waited, counted. Then he heard the distinctive sound of leather
soles on stone as the mysterious Black Guards climbed the stairs of the keep.
                They knocked again. "Matthew Beilschmidt," one said, louder.
                Matt briefly considered barricading the door closed, but knew
it was useless to resist. Gil hadn't, after all. Gil had known this day was
coming for a long time. And even if he did refuse to come out, the Alphas would
simply break in. So, taking a deep breath, he unbolted the door.
                The first thing the Guard said to him was:
                "Whoa."
                A young Alpha—Gil's age—looked at Matt in slack-jawed surprise
before his partner cleared his throat in an obvious way. "Oh, uh... excuse me,"
he said, bowing his head politely as he stepped into the bedchamber. A second
Guard walked in behind him, a couple years older than the first, followed by
Ludwig and Wolfe. Ludwig looked pale; Wolfe looked infuriatingly smug.
                "Can I get you something to drink?" Matt offered. He was so
nervous, he didn't know where to put his hands; he clasped them in front of
himself like a beggar. His heart was pounding, and he suddenly felt embarrassed
about the unordered state of Gil's bedchamber.
                "No, thank-you," said the older Guard, the taller one.
                Wolfe said: "I'd like a drink. A hops beer if he's got it, or
spiced wine."
                Matt ignored him.
                "I'm Lutz, this is Reinbeck," said Lutz. He pointed to the
shorter, stalker Black Guard, who smiled bashfully. "I presume you know why
we're here?" Lutz asked hopefully. Matt nodded meekly. "I'm afraid Captain
Beilschmidt has been placed under arrest. Reinbeck and I are here to escort him
back to the Great House to stand trial; we'll leave tomorrow at twilight. In
the meantime, Lieutenant Beilschmidt"—he indicated Ludwig—"will serve the fort
as Acting-Commander, and you... well, as of this moment your pair-bonded union
with Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt has been officially dissolved. I'm sorry," he
added, noticing Matt's disbelief. "The Great House doesn't recognize your union
as being legal, and therefore doesn't acknowledge you as a citizen of the
Western Empire."
                Matt tensed and wrapped his arms protectively around his
middle. "What does that mean?" he asked softly.
                "It means this fort no longer owes any loyalty to you by
mating-law, and Reinbeck and I are legally obliged to escort you out."
                "Out—?"
                "Out of the Western Empire," Lutz clarified. "Protocol dictates
that we escort you to the closest border and leave you there. Under normal
circumstances, we would send a message ahead to your closest relatives to
collect you there, however, circumstances being what they are, I'm afraid we
can't afford to do that. But we do have to ask you to leave the fort."
                A nervous, humourless chuckle escaped Matt. "Are you serious?
You're really going to kick me out? Here? Now?" he emphasized. He cast a
worried look at Ludwig.
                "The law clearly states," said Lutz, stepping forward, "that
unmated foreign Omegas—"
                "But I'm not unmated! I'm Gil's—"
                "No," Wolfe interrupted snidely, "you're not. Not anymore. Now
you're just the lost little bitch you were two months ago."
                "Second-Lieutenant," Ludwig growled in reprimand, "I'll ask you
to mind your tongue."  To the Black Guard, he said: "I realize that Gilbert is
in the wrong here, but please be reasonable. Matthew wouldn't last a day
outside the fort and you know it. The Southerners will kill him. If you force
him out, then you condemn him to death. He's not the one to blame. He was a
lost foreigner who didn't know our laws when he mated with Gilbert," he lied.
"He's a victim of circumstance." That said, Ludwig stalked to Matt's side in
support. "I'll take responsibility for him—"
                "This is ridiculous," Wolfe argued. "The Omega is an illegal
immigrant here. I don't care how sweet or pretty or innocent anyone thinks he
is, the law is the law. If we make an exception for him, then the code we've
all sworn to uphold is worthless. These are desperate times; we're at war. We
can't afford such a distraction. How do you expect the Alphas to defend the
fort if he"—he jerked his head at Matt—"goes into Heat again? Omegas are not
permitted to live here for a reason. And foreigners are not entitled to our
protection. Why should we risk our lives for him? What purpose would it serve?
We need to protect ourselves right now, and this Islander bitch," he spat
cruelly, "is not one of us!"
                "I'm not," Matt snapped sharply in reply, "but my pup is."
                The room fell silent as everyone processed the Omega's
outburst. He felt everyone's eyes slide from his face to his abdomen and back
in shock.
                "Matt..." Ludwig gaped. He opened and closed his mouth like a
fish, speechless.
                "He's lying!" Wolfe snarled. "He's not pregnant, it's just a
trick. An Omega trick."
                Matt narrowed his eyes, but he didn't bark back. Instead, he
looked determinedly at Lutz and Reinbeck and opened his legs invitingly. "Go
ahead," he said, steeling his nerves; holding his abdomen protectively. "I'm
not a liar."
                Lutz hesitated, then knelt down. "Excuse me," he mumbled,
avoiding eye-contact with the Omega-father-to-be. He took a few deep whiffs of
Matt's scent, then stood. "Yes," he confirmed. "It's faint, but true."
                Ludwig made an involuntary noise in his throat, halfway between
a croak and a groan, but nobody reacted to it.
                "Well..." Lutz resumed after a tense minute, seemingly at a
loss, "this changes things somewhat..."
                When nobody else spoke, Matt did.
                "I'm pregnant with Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt's pup," he said,
in case there was any lingering doubt. "My pup will be born a citizen of the
Western Empire by generations of his Alpha-father's bloodline. If you cast us
out," he spoke purposely in plural, "then you're condemning one of your own—an
unborn pup—to death. Just what does your law say about that? Are you still
going to make me leave?"
                Reinbeck looked away sheepishly, so it was Lutz whom Matt
focused on. The Black Guard's pale eyes looked suddenly soft.
                "No," he said quietly, "of course not. Of course you can stay."
                "What? But the law—"
                Lutz pierced Wolfe with a cutting glare. "By law, Beilschmidt's
pup is a citizen of the Western Empire and the Omega-parent is therefore
entitled to the fort's protection. But even if he wasn't, I will not cast out a
pregnant Omega. The crimes of the parents do not condemn a pup to death. Not in
the West. Matthew," he said more kindly, "I'm afraid you can't stay at the fort
forever, but as long as you're the Omega-parent of a Westerner, we'll take care
of you. Both of you." He bowed, respecting the re-establishment of Matt's high
position, then jabbed his elbow into Reinbeck's ribs. Reinbeck bowed, too.
                Matt sighed in relief. "Thank-you."
                Lutz and Reinbeck nodded politely to Matt, then left.
(Reinbeck's voice echoed in the corridor: "Law or not, I get why Gil claimed
him. Did you see his face? Those hips? Wow! I'd have mated him, too!") Wolfe
followed them out, looking volatile and growling like a sore-loser. Matt felt a
pinch of trepidation as he watched him leave, knowing that it wouldn't be his
last encounter with the antagonistic Alpha. As Ludwig was leaving, still
looking dazed, Matt grabbed his forearm.
                "Ludwig, please don't tell Gil," he begged, holding a hand to
his flat abdomen. "I want to tell him... when it's right."
                He thought Ludwig would argue, but the Alpha nodded in
agreement. "Okay," he said simply, looking down at his young brother-by-mating-
law. He smiled wanly, blue eyes flicking to Matt's midsection and back. "Take
care of yourself and that pup," he advised kindly, though his voice harboured
worry, "because this isn't over. It's only going to get worse, and if Gil..."
Ludwig paused; pursed his lips. "If Gil's not here I promise I'll protect you
as best as I can, but you haveto take care of that pup," he repeated in
earnest.
                Matt felt tears spring to his eyes. "Ludwig... brother, what's
going to happen?"
                Ludwig didn't correct the title; he just shook his head. "I
don't know." Tentatively—gently, as if he was afraid of breaking the Omega—he
laid a companionable hand on Matt's shoulder. "I wish I did, but I don't. Just
promise me you'll stay strong and stay safe, Matthew. Brother," he added
proudly.
                Matt took a deep breath and nodded. "I will."
===============================================================================
Gil was pacing back-and-forth when the armoury door opened and Ludwig slipped
inside. He stopped abruptly, and said: "Matt—?"
                "They're going to let him stay," Ludwig reported, though he
wore an odd expression. It was good news, but the lieutenant's brow was creased
and his sky-blue eyes looked pale and distant. He looked tired.
                Gil exhaled. "Oh, thank the gods." He hung his head; in relief
or in thanks to a higher-power, he didn't know. His worries began to lessen,
but he tensed again when he saw Ludwig's face. "What?" he added after a minute.
Ludwig wasn't speaking, just staring at Gil as if seeing his brother anew; as
if trying to memorize him, or appraise him. "Don't worry about me, Lud," he
misinterpreted. He punched Ludwig's shoulder in a fraternal way. "I'm going to
be fine, you'll see. You need to focus on the fort now, Acting-Commander," he
said, smiling. "No distractions, remember?" he added.
                Ludwig's return smile was wry. Then he did something Gil wasn't
expecting. Without warning, Ludwig threw his arms around Gil and hugged him
tightly, like he hadn't hugged him since they were pups; like he wouldn't ever
see him again. Gil froze, then slowly relaxed. He patted his brother's back.
                "Hey, it's going to be okay, Lud. It's not—"
                "You can't die, Gil," Ludwig interrupted. It sounded like an
order. "You can't."
                Then, just as sudden, he let go and stepped back as if it
hadn't happened. Ludwig nodded to Gil and bowed his head, as if Gil was still
the captain. Gil hesitated, then nodded in acknowledgement. Ludwig left, and
Gil resumed his restless pacing, somehow more anxious now than before Ludwig's
visit. He wondered—worried—about everything that had happened, and about
everything that was likely to happen, and agonized over how to fix it. How in
the world was he going to avoid a death sentence? He had to think. There had to
be something he could do—bribery; insanity; could he beg? There had to be a way
out of this that wouldn't leave Matt a widow after only two months of being
pair-bonded. Even if Gil was dishonourably discharged from service, it would be
worth it. He didn't care about himself or his career anymore, he only wanted to
keep Matt safe. Matt was the thing that mattered most to him now. He only
wished it hadn't taken him so long to realize it.
                Why couldn't I have figured it out two months ago?I could've
resigned from service and left the fort and no one would've been any the wiser.
It would've been so much easier. We could've been together. But now—?
                Gil could only hope and pray that the Black Guards would see
Matt safely back to the Isles once he was dead.
                Suddenly, the bell-tower started chiming, loud and long in
warning. Once, twice, trice.
                Someone—or an army of someones—was at the gates.
===============================================================================
The Black Forest Fort was the biggest, boldest, bleakest-looking castle Al had
ever seen. (It was the only castle he had ever seen.) He stared straight up at
the tall stonewalls and the Alphas who perched like gargoyles on the
battlements. It had started to rain, soaking the shoulders of their coarse
black-and-white tunics and clanging on metal and leather armour. The sentries
held long spears that jut menacingly into the iron-grey sky. They looked mean,
unforthcoming. Le Roux stood beside Al, holding his bicep, as if he thought Al
would try to run.
                He wouldn't run. Not without Ivan.
                "Remember our deal, Alfred," he said, using Al's given-name
with a casualness that made the Omega's skin crawl.
                Al sneered, but didn't deign Le Roux a glance. He kept his eyes
fixed on the fort, thinking: Mattie is in there somewhere. A prisoner. Is what
Le Roux said true? Has Mattie really been mated by a Westerner? He didn't want
to believe it until someone inside of the fort confirmed it. He sure as hell
didn't trust Le Roux. Looking up at the sentries, Al felt a surge of anger and
revulsion toward them. The thought of his brother being used like some Omega-
whore was enough to twist his stomach. Don't worry,Mattie. I'm here. I'm going
to find you. I'm going to save you—and Ivan—and we're going to go home. Until
then, he had no choice but to play along with Le Roux's plan.
                Finally, a towering Alpha approached the edge of the
battlements, looking down on the party of Southerners. He had white-blonde hair
that tugged in the breeze despites his best efforts to order it. In a deep,
loud voice, he said:
                "Captain Le Roux,what business do you have here?"
                He spoke in German. Le Roux took the opportunity to ignore the
question, and asked in French:
                "You are not the Captain. Where is Beilschmidt?It's he I've
come to bargain with, not some halfwit second-in-command. Fetch me the Fort
Commander."
                "I am Ludwig Beilschmidt, Acting-Commander of this fort," said
the Westerner in thickly accented English. (Al supposed he didn't speak
French.) "Tell me your business here, Le Roux—quickly."
                "I want to speak to Captain Beilschmidt," Le Roux growled
unhappily. "Fetch him here. Tell him that I have a proposition for him that
involves the brother of his Omega-mate."
                On cue, Le Roux tugged Al forward for all of the Westerners to
see. But if they recognized his looks or scent as being related to Matt, they
didn't show it.
                Ludwig eyed Le Roux wry, then said: "No."
                "No—?"
                "No," he repeated definitely.
                Le Roux bared his canines in frustration. He gripped Al with
bruising firmness. "Perhaps you misheard me, Acting-Commander. This is Alfred
Bonnefoi, brother of—"
                "Yes, I heard you," Ludwig interrupted. "But I don't see why
that should matter to me."
                "He's your brother's brother-by-mating-law," Le Roux snapped
bluntly.
                Ludwig nodded. "Yes, but he's nothing to me. The law binds me
to Matthew, not this Alfred."
                "I'll kill him," Le Roux threatened, jostling Al. "I'll cut his
throat right here."
                "Go ahead."
                "I'm not bluffing." Le Roux drew a knife and pressed it to Al's
throat. Al felt the cold kiss of steel.
                Ludwig shrugged, and repeated: "Go ahead. No one will stop
you."
                "Argh—! Where is Beilschmidt?" the Southerner yelled. "I want
him to come here and see this!" Forcefully, he shook Al. A bead of blood rolled
down Al's neck.
                "I'm afraid the captain is unavailable," said Ludwig blithely.
"But it doesn't matter, because I'm telling you as the Acting-Commander that
the Black Forest Fort does not bargain with liars. This parley is over now," he
declared, signaling to his Alphas. Several archers readied to fire.
                "Then bring me Matthew!" Le Roux ordered. "Let Beilschmidt's
precious Omega-mate look upon the face of his helpless brother!"
                "Absolutely not," said Ludwig dryly. "Now leave our territory,
or we'll stick you full of arrows. I will not say it again."
                 Le Roux's pale, calculating eyes swivelled between the bowmen
before locking on Ludwig. "You're going to regret this," he threatened.
                The Westerner grunted. "I doubt it," he said, then stalked
away.
===============================================================================
Back at the encampment, Le Roux seethed in anger. His Alphas gave him a wide
berth as he marched to the captain's tent. Al struggled to keep pace as he was
dragged along. He still felt weak and woozy, and though he was famished he
couldn't smell food without feeling nauseous. It was a slow recovery. The
lingering dregs of illness clung to him in his bones and sapped his strength.
He had pretended that it was all normal for Ivan's benefit, but the truth was
that the Heat-inhibiting poison had never left him feeling so depleted before.
He thought of Thierry's warning, that the poison became more damaging with
every dose, and tried to quell the fear and paranoia that clutched him. He
didn't feel like himself. Instinctively he knew that something was wrong, but
he couldn't place it, and he couldn't admit it for fear of Ivan's reaction.
Instead, he tried to ignore it. Yet even as he ruminated over the Westerner's
words, his head felt foggy.
                Le Roux implied that Mattie is Ludwig's brother-by-mating-law.
And Ludwig called Mattie by his given-name. Le Roux called him
Beilschmidt'sprecious Omega-mate,and Ludwig didn't deny it. Why would he,unless
it's true?
                Despite Le Roux's facts, a part of Al had always doubted the
Southerner's word. Now, it was impossible to.
                It's true.Mattie really is in there. He really has been taken
as a Western Alpha's Omega-mate.
                "So," he said cheekily to Le Roux, trying to focus on other
things, "the plan kind of backfired, didn't it?" He couldn't help grinning at
the Southerner's loss. It felt good, even if Al had nothing to do with it.
Either the Westerners really were as cold and ruthless as Ivan described, or
they didn't trust Le Roux either. "I guess I'm not as valuable as you'd hoped.
Such a pity."
                Le Roux's steely gaze seized Al and for a moment Al thought the
Alpha would strike him. A moment later, Al wished that he had. Instead, the
spiteful captain shoved him into a gaggle of nearby soldiers. "Rest assured, I
won't be making that mistake again. I know exactly what your value is, Alfred
Bonnefoi," he spat maliciously. To the Alphas, he said: "Officers, report to my
tent at once. The rest of you—he's yours. Have fun."
                Al barely had time to curse before several hands were pulling
and pushing and grabbing and groping him. He squirmed in protest as they shoved
him back-and-forth, pawing at his clothes. He spit on one Alpha who ducked in
for a sloppy kiss and got growled at and laughed at and poked and pinched in
jest. He kept his lips pursed tightly and his jaw clenched so as not to make a
sound, but he felt a whine creeping up his throat. He didn't want to give the
bullying Alphas the satisfaction of his cries, and he especially didn't want
Ivan to know what was happening, but it was easier said than done when they
were touching him with such disrespect. Al had always considered himself
desensitized to Alphas vulgarity, but he had never been treated like this
before. The things these Alphas howled at him weren't in jest, but true; they
weren't teasing, but threatening him. It didn't matter that he didn't
understand their words, because he recognized the look in their eyes—not just
lust, but greed. Mine. Mine. Mine, said their eyes. And it scared him. When
someone got overexcited and shoved Al too hard, he fell to his knees with a
painful yelp. Then the soldiers fell upon him, forcing him onto his back.
                "S-stop—cough cough—g-get off of me, I can't—cough cough—I
can't—" cough cough cough cough
                I can't breathe.
                Al gasped as the soldiers' heavy, humid bodies pressed down on
him. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him; he tasted blood.
                "What are you doing?Get off! Get off of him!"
                Al nearly cried in relief when Thierry shooed the soldiers away
and pulled him into a sitting position, letting him cough and cough and cough,
finally coughing-up bloody phlegm. On his hands-and-knees, he gasped and
swayed.
                "What is wrong with you all?" Thierry snapped. He was the
smallest Alpha present—he probably weighed a fraction of the others—but they
yielded to his medical expertise when he said: "Can't you see that the Omega is
sick?How do you know it's not contagious?"
                At that the soldiers scattered, pushing and shoving each other
in their haste to reach the river to wash off Al's contagion. Al would have
laughed if he had the breath for it.
                "Thanks," he said weakly, taking Thierry's hand.
                "You're not drinking the tea that I brewed you," Thierry
reprimanded him. "I told you to drink it. It'll soothe the effects of the
poison."
                "It tastes awful," Al complained. It's not worth it. He may not
have known the extents of his sickness, but he did know that tea wasn't going
to cure it. He said: "I think it would make me nauseous even if I wasn't ill.
Don't worry, the effects will wear off in a few hours—"
                "Alfred," said the Alpha sternly, "you don't have a few hours.
You need to recover as quickly as possible if you intend to escape."
                Al blinked at him in surprise. "I, uh... I'm not going to..."
                Thierry cocked his head. "I'm not stupid, Alfred. And I know
you're not either. You know my Alpha-father is lying to you. He has no
intention of letting you and your brother live."
                Al's shoulders sagged. He had suspected as much from Le Roux,
but somehow Thierry's confirmation made it real. "I know," he admitted,
thinking of the Southern captain's failed plan. He would've used me to find
Mattie,then he would've pretended to let us go and later called our deaths a
misfire or accident once he'd gotten what he wanted from us. Fortunately,
Acting-Commander Beilschmidt had unknowingly crushed that plan when he had
denied any interest in Al. Maybe Mattie is better off inside the fort, he
considered now. At least they aren't planning to kill him—rape him,breed
him,torment him—but at least he's alive.
                Al swallowed a mouthful of ripe bile that had nothing to do
with his sickness.
                "Will you help us escape?" he asked Thierry hopefully.
                Thierry hesitated. "I won't try to stop you," he said instead.
                Al nodded. It was enough.
                Thierry walked Al back to Ivan's prison. The Alpha had been
tethered like a rapid dog to a tree with soldiers posted to either side, as if
Le Roux expected trouble from the injured Easterner, but the guards,
themselves, looked bored. One was half-asleep on his feet, and the other was
lazily inspecting the cleanliness of his fingernails. Neither of them seemed
interested in Al or Ivan, whose tense shoulders relaxed at the Omega's
approach. He looked relieved to see Al whole and physically unharmed by the
Southerners or Westerners, but also confused by the Omega's return.
                "That was quick," he said suspiciously, looping his arms over
Al's head to hold him. "Where is your brother?"
                Al settled down onto Ivan's lap and rested his head on the
Alpha's shoulder. "Inside the fort. Apparently the Westerners aren't as
gullible as Le Roux hoped," he reported.
                "Le Roux didn't hurt you, did he, little one?"
                "No," Al replied, careful to keep his voice neutral. In
reassurance, he leant up and pecked Ivan's lips. "I guess I'm still worth more
alive than dead. But I don't think Le Roux is done yet. He wants that fort,
that much is obvious. I don't think he's left anything to chance. He wouldn't
have marched his whole company all the way out here if he didn't have a Plan B.
He must've schemed an alternative attack in the event the Fort Commander
refused to yield."
                "He has," said Ivan. "I overheard his officers talking earlier.
He's planning a siege. I think it's already begun."
                Al considered the castle's high stonewalls; the sentries, the
archers; the pale-haired Acting-Commander, who looked as strong and unyielding
as the fort itself. Al didn't know much about warfare, and what he did know was
field battles. When Islanders fought formally, each opposing force met at a
neutral location. It was open and honest. They showed their faces to each
other, they didn't hide behind walls. And they attacked with the intention of
accepting the outcome, no matter the cost. The stronger force won and that was
it. Al didn't know anything about Mainland battles or siege warfare. He didn't
know how long a fortress like the Black Forest Fort could survive without
reinforcements or supplies. Ivan shrugged when Al asked him.
                "It depends. A fort like this should be able to sustain itself
for months, maybe a year if she's well-supplied," he guessed. "But something
tells me that's not the case here. If it were, the Southerners wouldn't have
been able to get so close in the first place. There should be scouts and
sentries posted throughout the forest in the watchtowers," he explained. Al
nodded. He remembered how paranoid Ivan had been while traveling through the
forest, so afraid of attracting the Western Army's attention. "I doubt the
Black Forest Fort has more than a couple months at most," Ivan said, sounding
solemn about it.
                Al knew how much Ivan disliked the Western Empire, but he
supposed the longer the Black Forest Fort held, the longer he and Ivan had to
live. Ironically, their best chance of survival now depended on preserving the
army that Ivan had once sworn an oath to destroy.
===============================================================================
The Southern Army's attack began at dawn. It lasted all day and throughout the
night, never ceasing. Matt laid awake, unable to sleep for the constant
barrage. He got up and he paced back-and-forth in his bed-clothes, anxiously
rubbing at the silver ring on his right hand. He stopped at the window every
few seconds to look out, hoping each time that the situation had changed for
the fort's benefit, but it was always the same: Le Roux's Alphas attacked and
Gil's Alphas defended, like a chess game come to life. The torches of the
Southern Army glowed brightly in the darkness through the rain. Oil torches,
Matt knew. Gil had showed him how to light one once. The high battlements of
the fort teemed with busy Westerners whose steadfast efforts worked tirelessly
to ensure the stronghold wasn't breeched; the rest had fallen back to the keep.
Every few hours a fresh crew would arrive to relieve their comrades so the
others could return to the barracks to eat, sleep, and try to dry their
drenched clothes by the fire.
                On the third day at the breakfast-hour, Matt grabbed Gil's
cloak and tugged it on, then left the bedchamber. Like every day since Gil's
imprisonment, he left the keep and crossed the courtyard to the armoury, where
he begged the sentry for permission to see his Alpha-mate.
                "I'm sorry, Matthew," he said regretfully. "Orders."
                Matt nodded, then went to the kitchens to help cook meals and
launder clothes. The first time he had showed up begging work, they had refused
and sent him away. It wasn't right, they said. He should be inside. A day
later, Matt returned. "Please," he said in choppy, incomplete German, "I'm
going crazy in that room. I need to keep busy. I need to do something to
distract myself. There's got to be something useful I can do—?" Finally, the
Cook had ceded and let Matt serve the solders' meals. He ran back-and-forth
from the kitchen to the barracks, smiling at the surprised Alphas and
remembering what Gil had told him about morale. When he noticed the
unserviceable state of one soldier's coat, he took it, cleaned it, and mended
it as best as he could. He collected the soldiers' castoffs while they slept
and tried to dry the articles for when they awoke. Some of the Alphas felt
self-conscious being naked in an Omega's presence, but they got over it
quickly. The promise of dry, clean clothes was worth the fleeting
embarrassment. And it made it easier to tend their injuries, which were
mercifully minor—a few cuts and scrapes. Matt aided the Surgeon with his
limited knowledge of home remedies, and spoke soothingly as he held the hand of
Alphas who required more severe medical attention. "You're so brave," he said
sweetly, letting the Alphas squeeze his hand as the Surgeon worked. (One Alpha
whimpered and buried his face against Matt's shoulder as the Surgeon stitched a
wound; Matt stroked his head and repeated "it's okay, it's okay," sympathizing
with the soldier's deathly fear of needles.)
                Of course, Matt's usefulness lasted only for as long as Ludwig
was unaware of it. As soon as the stern Acting-Commander saw Matt running
about, he dragged him away from whatever he was doing and escorted him back to
the captain's bedchamber.
                "How many times do I have to tell you to stay in here?" he
said, frustrated. "For gods' sake, Matthew, you're pregnant!"
                Matt sighed in exasperation. "Yes, I'm pregnant—not paraplegic.
I'm not useless, Ludwig. I want to help—"
                "It's too dangerous outside," Ludwig argued. "Or haven't you
noticed that we're under attack? I know you're just trying to help, but do you
have any idea what would happen to Gil if you got hurt?"
                "Do you have any idea what will happen to me ifGil gets hurt—?"
Matt snapped back. Insomnia was making him short-tempered. "Please, Ludwig. I
can't stay locked in this room all day, I... I keep picturing Gil, and I... I
need a distraction," he said ambiguously. "Please?"
                Ludwig hesitated, then sighed. "Fine." Diplomatically, he said:
"I'll give you a task, but you will stay here. Gil had been planning for a
siege for ages. No one knows more about Le Roux's strategy than he does, and if
I could have him in the war-room with us, I would. But circumstances being what
they are—the law being what it is," he growled, "that's impossible. So, see if
you can't find anything useful in this mess." He waved in indication of the
bedchamber's disorganized state. The last few chaotic days had laid waste to
the Alpha's humble library. "You can read German, can't you? Can you read Gil's
chicken-scratch? Good. Find me something—anything—useful."
                "Okay," Matt agreed. It was better than nothing.
                Ludwig nodded curtly. "Send anything you find with a messenger.
Don't leave this room. I mean it, Matthew. If I catch you outside again, I'll
lock you in here."
                "I'm sorry," Matt replied, bowing his head. "I can't stand
being in here alone. I just wanted something to do."
                Ludwig's eyes softened, but his tone was stern as ever. "You
have something to do, keeping yourself and Gil's pup safe. No matter what
happens to the rest of us, you have to survive, Matthew. You and you alone are
carrying the continuation of our bloodline. If something happens to Gil and I,
that pup"—he nodded to Matt's middle—"is the last Beilschmidt there is. You
understand how important that is to us, don't you? You understand how important
that is to Gil—?"
                Matt's chest tightened in grief and the weight of
responsibility. "Yes, I do."
                "You have to be strong," Ludwig said. Awkwardly, he reached out
and patted Matt's shoulder, feather-soft. "If something happens to us, then you
have to be strong enough to survive. To escape. If the fort gets taken," he
said seriously, "there's another way out. Go down into the cellar. In the far
north-west corner there's a potato crate with a false bottom. If you pull off
the bottom board, you'll see the entrance to a tunnel. It's dark and low,
you'll have to crawl the whole way, but it'll take you away from the fort. It's
about three kilometres long, more than enough of a head-start on any pursuers.
Head west. Follow the sunset. And the markers—they look like this," he said,
making a double-cross with his burly fingers. "Count them. When you reach
seventy-five, turn toward the Rhine and follow it back to the Low Countries.
Can you remember that?"
                "Yes," said Matt.
                Ludwig looked unconvinced. "Repeat it back to me," he ordered.
Matt did.
                Finally, the Acting-Commander nodded. "If something happens to
us," he repeated earnestly, "promise me you'll escape."
                Matt pressed his silver-ringed hand to his abdomen and nodded.
"I promise."
===============================================================================
That night Matt's candles burned long into the night as the siege continued and
he sorted Gil's library. He knew it was a pointless task, designed by Ludwig to
keep Matt occupied. Anything Gil deemed useful would have been taken to the
war-room ages ago and shared with the officers. Gil was not a secretive Alpha;
he trusted all his soldiers. And yet, the longer Matt spent reading Gil's
diaries, taking especial notice of the dates, the more he recognized a
recurring pattern. The days on which Gil wrote about encounters with the
Southern Army were the days his scouting-parties returned from the forest. At
first, this made sense. The scouting-parties were often sent on reconnaissance
missions to gather information about the enemy's movements, but as Matt began
tracking the parties to determine which ones operated where, he noticed that
Second-Lieutenant Wolfe had been the most senior officer almost every time a
scouting-party encountered Captain Le Roux.
                Wolfe.
               Matt suppressed an involuntary shiver as he sat back, thinking.
                Wolfe was the most experienced officer, so it made sense that
his scouts were sent into the most dangerous territory. But every single time
Le Roux was there—? Matt didn't trust coincidences, but nor did he want to
consider that one of Gil's officers had betrayed him. He knew that Wolfe
disliked Gil, of course, but after making such a fuss about Gil breaking the
law, would Wolfe really have committed treason? Gil had called Wolfe
stubborn—he had called Wolfe a lot of things—but also dutiful. He had been sent
to the Black Forest Fort by the Kaiser, after all.
                Sent? Matt thought skeptically. Or exiled?
                Gil's squire, Grey, had confided in Matt that Wolfe did not
like the fort. He had taken the promotion because he had been ordered to, but
did Wolfe really consider it a promotion to be sent away from the capital,
where he had served his entire career? Did he really thank the Kaiser for
sending him to the farthest reaches of the Empire, isolated, to be the
underling of a twenty-year-old Alpha? Did he really feel praised, or did he
feel abandoned? Matt tried to put himself in Wolfe's position and suddenly the
Alpha's unfriendly attitude made sense. He was bitter. He resented the Great
House for the position he had been placed in, especially after so many years of
loyal service. But does he resent them enough to betray the fort to the
Southerners? Grey had been adamant about—
                Grey!
                Quickly, Matt flipped to the back of Gil's diary, the day of
Grey's passing. He read and re-read the passages, but nothing hinted at foul-
play.
                Of course not, Matt thought. Wolfe's not stupid.Even if he was
a Southern spy,he wouldn't reveal anything in an officer's report.
                Sighing he defeat, he closed the diary and glanced at the
bedside table, where Grey's charcoal sketch of Finn was sitting.
                I wonder if he knows yet, Matt thought, feeling sad. He thought
of blue-eyed Finn learning of his intended Alpha-mate's death and a wave of
anxiety flooded him. He rubbed his flat abdomen, his silver ring glinting in
the dull candlelight.
                He had been so afraid to wish for pups of his own once; so
afraid of mating and giving birth. He had read too many medical texts at too
young an age and the prospect of being pregnant had always frightened him. But
all those fears seemed to quiet when Gil was with him, the Alpha's mere
presence—his smile, his voice, his scent, his touch—chasing away the
trepidation. Without even realizing it, Matt's fears had simmered since he had
pair-bonded with Gil, because he trusted Gil to protect him and any family they
had together. He trusted Gil not to hurt him or his pups like other Alpha-
fathers sometimes did. He trusted Gil not to abuse or abandon them. Matt was
still apprehensive about telling his Alpha-mate that he was pregnant,
especially now—the fort was under siege; the timing couldn't be worse—but after
everything Ludwig had said about Gil, and Gil's own admission that he wanted
pups, Matt trusted Gil to love the pup that was slowly growing inside him. He
finally understood the happy glow pregnant Omegas seemed to have. It's because
they felt safe and ready to have pups; ready to stop worrying and fighting the
natural instinct that pulled at them. (Or, was that just Matt?) He finally
understood that unexplainable feeling people seemed to talk about; that
excitement, which was equal parts nerves and joy. And he finally understood the
difference between the Omegas he had been observing all his life: those who
were in love with their Alpha-mates compared to those who were not. He had
always associated being mated as being possessed, an act of submission, but
that was all wrong. It wasn't about power, it was about balance. It was about
trust. He finally understood just how deeply mated couples were bonded.
                I want to be with Gil and take care of him and have pups with
him, he longed—not because society had told him to, but because—I love him. I
want to share everything with him. I want to make him happy. I want to keep him
safe. I want to spend the rest of my life with him,because... I'm in love with
him.
                I can't lose him.
                The only thing Matt truly feared now was what would happen to
him—to them—if he lost Gil.
                Just then, the bedchamber door opened without a knock. So
absorbed in his thoughts, Matt hadn't heard the intruder's approach. He
expected Ludwig, but Ludwig always knocked.
                Wolfe stepped inside.
                Matt's posture tensed defensively. "Second-Lieutenant," he said
evenly. "Is there something you needed?" he added as Wolfe began a leisurely
circuit of the chamber. Matt stood. He didn't feel safe confined to the bed. He
asked again: "Can I help you with something? This is the Fort Commander's
private chamber, if you have no business here then please leave."
                Finally, Wolfe's eyes landed on Matt, brazenly roaming his body
from head-to-toe. Only then did Matt realize he had never been alone with the
Second-Lieutenant before.
                "Yes," Wolfe patronized, "it is the Fort Commander's chamber. A
shame we don't have a Fort Commander right now, and it's because of you,
Matthew."
                Matt stiffened. Wolfe had never used his given-name before.
"What do you want?"
                "I bet you're scared," said Wolfe, closing the distance between
them. Matt fought the desire to run. He didn't like the soft inflection in
Wolfe's rough voice, which didn't reflect the look in his eyes. "I bet you'd do
anything to keep your pup safe, wouldn't you, Matthew?" As he spoke Matt's
name, a near-whisper, he reached out and gently caressed the Omega's cheek. "I
can keep you safe—"
                Matt slapped him across the face. "Don't touch me," he said
coldly in German.
                Wolfe's eyes blazed dangerously, but any fear Matt felt was
overrun by anger at the Alpha's adulterous offer. For the first time in his
life, fury inspired bravery. If you touch me again,I swear I'll kill you. Wolfe
hesitated briefly, his hands curled into fists, but the resolve in Matt's eyes
was inarguable. The Second-Lieutenant sneered and stepped back.
                "You remember this, Omega," he said hard-heartedly. "You
remember later when you're alone and scared at the mercy of the Southern Army
that I offered to protect you."
                "Get out of my room!" Matt snapped. "That's an order,Second-
Lieutenant!"
                The Alpha bared his canines at the Omega, then turned on his
heel and left the bedchamber, slamming the door behind him.
                The noise shattered Matt's courage. He sat heavily down on the
bed and reached beneath his pillow for Gil's dagger, holding it tightly in both
hands—shaking.
===============================================================================
Up. Now," said someone in broken English.
                Ivan felt a Southerner kick his side, felt Al jolt awake. Ivan
grunted. He glared up at the curly-haired soldier in disdain. Al hadn't slept
for at least forty-eight hours, too sick to rest; too preoccupied gasping and
gagging to sleep. After five days, the Omega still looked disconcertingly pale.
It worried Ivan, even though Al said he was fine. Liar, he thought, displeased.
But rather than fight Al on it, he focused his anger on the Southerners. He
blamed the soldier for waking Al now; Al, who was so exhausted that he had
fallen asleep amidst the sounds of battle activity.
                "Don't look at me like that,you Eastern mother-fucker," the
Southerner snarled. In English, he said: "I hope you haven't forgotten how to
be a soldier." He cut Ivan's tethers and hauled him roughly to his feet,
dislodging Al, who blinked deliriously.
                "Wha—?" he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "What's going on? What
do you want?" he grumbled at the curly-haired Southerner. "What are you doing?"
he gasped in disbelief as Ivan's tethers were replaced with iron manacles. He
tried to fight the Southerner, battering at the chains, but someone pulled him
back by the shoulders. Ivan growled. "Hasn't he suffered enough?" Al shouted
angrily.
                "Today's your unlucky day, friend," said the Southerner
wickedly. He tugged on the chains and forced Ivan to his side. "See, Captain Le
Roux needs someone to pull the battering-ram to the fort gates. Why should we
endanger ourselves when we have a perfectly good Eastern brute to sacrifice, he
says—and I wholeheartedly agree." He grinned, showing his teeth. "If you get
stuck with a dozen Western arrows, it saves us the trouble of executing you.
Now that's being resourceful."
                "And if I refuse?" Ivan said defiantly. "Why should I fight
your battle if you're just going to execute me?"
                "Because," said the Southerner simply, "you love your Omega-
bitch too much to watch him die, don't you?"
                On cue, Al's captor pressed a knife to his throat. Al merely
looked indignant, too used to being threatened and manhandled at this point to
care.
                "You lot are seriously unimaginative," Ivan deadpanned in
derision (though, he tensed).
                Al, too, ignored the knife, and said: "You can't do this, you
cowards! Ivan's injured, those Westerners will kill him! Captain Le Roux
can't—"
                "He can and will," the Southerner interrupted. "Now come on,
you big brute." He thumped Ivan in the back. "Better you than us. The sooner
you break down that fucking gate, the sooner you'll be reunited with your
diseased little bitch."
                Ivan was prodded to a large contraption with heavy iron wheels
that sunk into the mud, softened by rainfall. There were four protruding limbs,
indicating the necessity of four Alphas to pull it, though Ivan doubted he was
going to receive assistance. The battering-ram hung between two thick posts by
chains, and a couple of Southerners were fixing a wooden board to roof the top.
It was thick and wide enough to stop arrows, but it would be a poor shield if
the Westerners used fire.
                Westerners.
                Despite the Southerners' rude hospitality, the Western Army
still haunted Ivan. He would gladly fight a flock of Southern soldiers
barehanded if it meant not facing the Westerners. The black-and-white flags
flapping at the fort's summit sent an apprehensive shiver down his spine. He
swallowed. His palms were sweaty as they chained his wrists to the wooden
mount; his heart pounded as they prodded him from behind. "Get going!" they
snarled, but Ivan's legs were stiff. He closed his eyes, saw the little Omega-
pup whose throat he had once cut, and snapped them open again. He did not want
to be a soldier again.
                Please don't make me do it again.
                He took a deep breath and slowly stepped forward, throwing all
of his weight into pushing the wagon.
                The mud made a gritty, sucking sound as the wheels turned
laboriously. Ivan's muscles strained as he grit his teeth and pushed with all
of his strength, making slow progress as the Southerners hollered at him from
the safety of the forest. As soon as the battering-ram broke cover, approaching
the fort, Ivan heard a piercing whistle, a signal from the Westerners atop the
battlements. It's not exactly a sneak-attack, Ivan thought bitterly. His foot
slipped and he fell to his knees. The constant rain and back-and-forth marching
of soldiers had pounded the earth into a marshy sludge, yet the desire to stay
down pulled at him. What was the point of going forward? The Westerners would
kill him. What was the point of going back? The Southerners would kill him.
                In the middle of the sodden no-man's-land, chained to a siege-
machine, facing death, Ivan started laughing. He laughed and laughed, long and
loud and hard—so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks. He laughed until he
felt hot and desperate and gasped for breath.
                Why am I doing this?Why am I doing this? Why don't I just end
it now?
                Alfred.
                He howled in anguished outrage.
                A clap of thunder broke overhead, drowning his rage, reminding
him just how insignificant a being he was.
                Reluctantly, he climbed to his feet and continued to push
forward.
                Forward, never back. Go forward,comrade. Easterners do not run
away. We go forward to glory or death.
                Forward.
===============================================================================
Al was furious.
                How dare Le Roux use Ivan like a sacrificial lamb, like his
life didn't matter at all? How dare he!
                A flood of the ripest, filthiest language Al knew spewed from
his mouth as he paced restlessly back-and-forth like an agitated beast. It made
him dizzy, but he couldn't sit still. He did his best thinking on his feet. The
Southerners watched him, partly bemused, partly bored. Eventually, they ignored
his senseless ramblings and settled down for the night. Al couldn't sleep,
despite how fatigued he felt. His overtired brain struggled to formulate a
plan-of-escape. He scanned the Southern encampment in search of tools; he spied
on the soldiers, looking for greedy faces that could be bribed, or
compassionate faces that could be convinced to help, or scared faces that could
be convinced to desert. But it was useless. By midnight, Al felt raw.
                Please, he begged the gods he barely believed in. He felt
desperate. Please help me. Tell me what to do. Send me a sign.
                It was very early-morning when the hollow blast of a bone-horn
cut suddenly through the rainfall. At first, Al thought the Southern Empire had
sent Le Roux re-enforcements and his stomach dropped in despair, but his
opinion changed when his Southern guards bolted upright, startled by the noise.
Quickly they drew their swords, their eyes going wide in alert. That's when Al
realized he had never heard a Southern battle-call; the Southerners favoured
the element of surprise. They were a quiet, creeping force.
                But if it's not the South,could it be the West? Is it Western
re-enforcements—?
                The fetal thought died as the horn blasted again, and this time
Al's sensitive ears recognized the sound. He knew that loud, brutal call. It
had been chasing he and Ivan for weeks.
                The Southerners scrambled into a defensive half-circle at the
encampment's edge, pushing Al roughly back behind them. Their suntanned faces
paled as a chorus of deep-throated howls echoed overhead and the trees began to
shake as a mass of bodies approached.
                A third and final horn blast chilled Al's blood.
                The Eastern Army had finally arrived.
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Thirteen *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
BLACK FOREST FORT
WESTERN EMPIRE
Al threw himself behind the line of Southerners as the Eastern Army broke
through the trees. They're all huge! he thought. It was like witnessing a whole
army of Ivans—a frightening thought—and there were so, so many of them. The
vanguard looked like clones of each other, each Alpha wearing a steel-grey
uniform and brandishing a heavy sword. They didn't sneak like Southerners, and
they didn't stalk like Westerners; they marched with purpose into the
encampment without stopping or slowing. Even as their comrades fell beneath
Southern swords and arrows, the Easterners pushed forward. Al had been captured
by the Southern Army, then taken to face the Western Army, but he had never
truly been afraid of any militant force until now.
                For the first time in his short life, Al cowered like a
stereotypical Omega. For the first time he understood the debilitating fear
that effected Omegas and left them helpless; he understood the need to submit
to preserve himself.
                Please,don't hurt me, he found himself thinking, rooted to the
spot.
                He knew he should run, but he had always been a fighter, not a
fleer, and just then he couldn't move. Move,move,move! He wanted to run, but
his legs were rigid and wouldn't obey. As the Easterners advanced, Al fell to
his knees. They looked like Ivan—big and broad and stark and strong—but Ivan
had never made Al feel like this. Once, he had been afraid of Ivan. Once, he
had been cowed by the Alpha's loud roar and aggression, but this was worse
because it was more, more, more. Facing the Easterners now was like facing a
pack of infuriated Ivans, and that thought alone made Al's nature bow in
surrender.
                I don't like this feeling. It's wrong,it's cruel. I don't like
how frightened I am.
                He thought of the Islander Omegas he knew who were afraid of
their Alpha-mates—a lot more than there should be, he realized—and how they
submitted to and obeyed their Alphas without question. They were all timid,
quiet little things. They were skittish, like Matt. Al had considered them
weak. He hadn't understood why they never argued or fought back when struck. He
had scorned them for their lack of self-respect, and even blamed them for their
Alpha-mate's abuse in some cases. (You're letting him take advantage of you.)
And it was all because he had never understood thisfeeling—this fear; this
horrible, paralyzing, self-preserving fear. Al had never understood the desire
to submit before. But now, as an Eastern Alpha stood over him, sword raised, he
did.
                The soldier cocked his head, curls red as rust and eyes a pale
sea-foam green. His face was freckled with red.
                At first, Al couldn't look away, too frightened to move, but
when the Easterner frowned he quickly bowed his head. He pursed his lips and
stared unblinking at the ground, waiting like a coward for the Alpha's strike.
The nature that made him Al screamed: Run! Fight! Do something! but the nature
that made him an Omega whimpered and flinched when the Easterner knelt in front
of him. He took Al's chin in his hand and lifted his head, eyes searching the
Omega's face for a sign of—
                What? What do you want from me? Al seethed. Take it,whatever it
is,take it! Just don't kill me! the Omega in him yielded.
                The Easterner leant curiously down and sniffed at Al. Because
of the battle—the blood, the sweat, the saliva—and the storm—the rain, the
mud—it was hard to distinguish Al's scent, so the Alpha moved even closer and
pressed his nose directly to Al's skin. Al could feel him inhale deeply as he
pushed his nose up behind Al's ear at his hairline, like a curious newborn
scenting its parents. Al felt his lips, too. He was muttering to himself in
garbled Russian. His touch wasn't gentle, but nor was he being rough with Al.
He wasn't intentionally trying to hurt or frighten the Omega, and that in
itself made Al nervous. When the Alpha finally pulled back he was staring at Al
in blatant confusion.
                "Ivan's alive?" he asked in disbelief.
                Al was too shocked to speak. He merely stared, wide-eyed.
                "Where?" the Easterner asked, shaking Al impatiently. It was
urgent. "Where?"
                Timidly, Al raised his index-finger and pointed. "The fort," he
said.
===============================================================================
The Eastern Alpha's name was Sasha. He had been one of Ivan's bedmates when
they were pups living in the Capital. They had been comrades by proximity and
shared experience; they had shared everything—beds, clothes, food, even
toothbrushes—and because of that, fast friends. Sasha had lived in a rural
village before the Capital took him, just like Ivan, though he couldn't
remember any of it, now. Only that he had had no living brothers. Ivan, Sasha
said (babbled) was the closest thing he had ever had to a real brother.
                "Ivan saved my life," he said, dragging Al along behind him as
he sought shelter from the battle. Quickly, he ducked into a thicket of
evergreens. "He took my punishment for me—lashings; a dozen of them. It would
have killed me, but he took it. He saved my life. Then he disappeared. I
thought..."
                Suddenly, he shoved Al behind him to protect him from an
attack. He wasn't fast, but he was big and strong. He reminded Al of a bear as
he struck, cutting down the Southern attacker with a mighty blow, like batting
away an incessant pest. The Southerner collapsed, his body broken.
                "I thought he was dead," Sasha finished, ignoring the
interruption as he turned to meet Al's horrified gaze. "But he's not. I know
his scent, and I can smell it here. I can smell him on you.
                "You're his Omega-mate." It wasn't a question, so Al didn't
reply.
                "I owe Ivan a life-debt," he said, still staring at Al. His
green eyes weren't blinking and it was really beginning to creep Al out. The
Easterner seemed... unstable. His lips curled on one side, showing his teeth.
"I don't want to owe anyone anything."
                "No," Al agreed. Cautiously, he lifted his hand and touched
Sasha's face—cold as stone. "Protect me, and I'll take you to him."
                "I want to repay my debt," said Sasha fervently. He seemed not
to notice Al's touch. He seemed so... single-minded. Despite the sounds and
scents of battle all around them, or the rain that soaked him, it was like
nothing else existed for Sasha except Al and the memory of Ivan that Al carried
on his skin.
                Is this the result of the Eastern Army's training?Is this half-
mad Alpha the Empire's pride?Is this poor, tortured,depraved creature the price
of strength?
                "Come on," Al said, fighting to keep his voice even. Gently, he
pushed against Sasha's chest and stepped out of his shadow. Sasha growled in
confusion, but quieted when Al took his hand. "Come on," he repeated, leading
the bloodied soldier toward the fort. "I'll take you to Ivan and this time you
can save him, okay? You can repay your debt."
                Sasha relaxed a fraction and squeezed Al's hand too hard.
"Okay."
===============================================================================
Ivan grit his teeth, his face contorted in effort, and gave the wagon one final
shove. The battering-ram swung forward and slammed against the tall gates of
the Black Forest Fort. The force reverberated throughout the structure; Ivan
felt it in his fingers and teeth. He could hear the Westerners shouting
overhead. They peppered the covered structure with arrows—several arrowheads
poked through, the shafts stuck—but Ivan was too exhausted to care. He stumbled
and leant against the wagon, gasping and coughing. He was soaked and muddy; his
body ached. He couldn't tell if his face was slick with rain or sweat, or if
his lips were coated in saliva or blood. He spat the metallic taste of blood
out of his mouth. The Westerners shouted at  him from above and the Southerners
shouted at him from afar, but Ivan ignored them all. He closed his eyes, blood
pounding in his ears. It pounded like footsteps, like marching.
                A howl—a chorus of howls—erupted over the treetops. A horn
blasted.
                No.
                Ivan's heart pounded in time with the marching. It was slow,
steady. It moved forward; forward, never back.
                Go forward,comrade. Easterners do not run away. We go forward
to glory or death.
                Ivan's whole body tensed. No—! Not here. Not now.
                Alfred!
                Ivan pulled forcefully at the chains that shackled him to the
wagon, digging his heels into the slick, swampy ground. He arched his shoulders
and bowed his head and twisted and turned fiercely, trying to break the chains
and yank himself free, but it was futile. The chains held firm and Ivan slipped
in the mud. He fell to his knees and crawled, clawing at the ground. The wagon
shuddered and rolled as Ivan pulled it on his hands-and-knees like a draft-
horse. It retreated a foot, then sunk into a rivet on an angle and one of the
wheels broke. Ivan grunted and thrashed like a wolf, but the wagon refused to
budge.
                Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
                "Fuck!" he growled, swiping angrily at his face. A slick
substance had dripped through a crack in the wooden roof and landed on his
face. It felt warm. He stared at his fingertips as more of it dripped down on
him, confused for a moment before he realized what it was:
                Oil.
                A moment later, several arrows struck the roof and sizzled.
                "FUCK!" Ivan cursed, desperately tugging at his shackles as the
wagon surrounding him burst into flames.
===============================================================================
No, wait!"
                Recklessly, Al grabbed the back of Sasha's tunic and jerked
back. The Alpha barely felt it, but his puzzlement soon became anger as his
eyes flashed in the firelight, looking wild. For a moment, Al thought that
Sasha would attack him. And, indeed, Sasha raised his big gloved hand to strike
Al or batter him back, but he stopped when Al shouted:
                "Archers!" He pointed to the battlements of the fort, where
Acting-Commander Beilschmidt's archers were perched, their bows drawn taut and
prepared to fire on anyone who came within range. Below the wall, in front of
the gate, the Southerner's siege weapon blazed in the falling darkness.
                Al couldn't speak. He looked to Sasha in panic, pleading.
                Sasha wrenched himself free of Al, then yanked off his
breastplate. It fell to the ground with a clank! As far as Al could tell, the
Eastern soldiers were the only Alphas who wore metal armour, iron. The West and
South favoured leather and layered fabric and chainmail for freedom of
movement, but the East's forceful tactic required something a little more
solid. And heavy, Al noticed. He watched as Sasha cut the straps of his armour
away, letting the front and back pieces fall open, then he hefted it overhead
to use as a shield. He glanced back at Al, and Al could have sworn he saw the
fearless redhead smirk. Then Sasha charged onto the muddy field surrounding the
castle, howling a guttural battle-cry in accompaniment. Al squeezed his eyes
shut when the first arrow struck upon Sasha, afraid that his Alpha champion had
been hit, but when he opened them again he was relieved to see that Sasha's
armour was strong, and the Alpha was still running toward the gate, arrows
bouncing and sliding off his makeshift shield.
                Please,please,please, Al silently begged, watching with baited
breath. He flinched at every loosed missile that hit it's mark. The Westerners
were frighteningly accurate bowmen; the Islanders would have approved.
Please,protect him, Al prayed, clasping his white-knuckled hands, feeling
guilty about using Sasha as cannon-fodder, but not guilty enough to abandon
Ivan.
                It was a trick, a manipulation. But not a Southerner's trick—an
Omega's trick. Al knew that he was exploiting Sasha's strength for his own
benefit. He knew he was taking advantage of the abused Alpha's single-minded
desires, placing Sasha in danger to get what he wanted. He knew he was an Omega
using an Alpha to do his bidding, but what choice did he have? He was trapped
in a body too weak to fight the battle himself. This wasn't play-fighting or
hunting games, this was real war. He couldn't compete with armies of fully-
grown soldiers trained to kill. None of his Alpha tricks would help him
now—pretending to be an Alpha wouldn't help him. But for the first time in his
life, being an Omega would.
                Sasha slipped in the mud and fell to his knees, the shield
falling away. An arrow pierced his bicep.
                "Sasha!" Al cried, deliberately making his voice high and
helpless.
                The Alpha tensed, hearing the Omega. He looked back at Al and
Al saw it the moment his Alpha nature took over, responding instinctively to
the Omega's call. He ripped the arrow out of his bicep, straightened his shield
as he pushed himself back to his feet, and continued forward.
                Al was relieved, but guilty as well, because he knew he would
beg and cry and scream himself hoarse if it would encourage Sasha. He felt
frustrated, too, hating that screaming was all he could do while the love of
his life suffered and burned—! NO. Ivan was alive. He had to be alive,
otherwise everything they had suffered together would be for nothing. Al
refused to believe that he had finally found someone to share his life with
only to lose him like this.
                You promised that we would go home together, he thought,
feeling tears on his cheeks. You promised,Ivan. I can't lose you.
                You have to live.
===============================================================================
Ivan bowed his head and coughed. He curled his body into as small a shape as
possible beneath the burning wagon, afraid of the fire that licked the oil-
soaked wood. Shirtless, he covered his nose and mouth with his sweaty palm and
tried to take shallow breaths, but the smoke was thick and choked him. He could
feel the sting of it in his throat and nose and eyes, making them water and
run; he could feel it in his lungs, making him dizzy and sick. He spat onto the
ground and watched his saliva sizzle like the beads of sweat on his body. He
tugged at the chains, but it was useless.
                He was going to die. It was already happening. And there was
nothing he could do about it.
                Alfred, he thought sadly.
                Then suddenly the wagon jerked, as if a weight had collided
with it. At first, Ivan thought that another wheel had broken, or that the
heavy battering ram had fallen from its suspension ropes. But instead of
sinking deeper into the mud, the base of the lopsided wagon began to lift. A
torrent of smoke poured in, impeding Ivan's vision, making him flinch back,
then a gloved hand emerged. It groped for a moment, then landed on Ivan's
shoulder and pulled him carelessly hard. He fell into a brace of sullied,
sweaty fabric and felt the solid flesh and bone of an Alpha's warm chest
underneath. The Alpha gasped, his breathing laboured as he tried and failed to
drag Ivan from the wreck.
                "Stop—" cough cough "Stop it, let go!" Ivan could feel the
chains cutting grooves into his chafed skin, afraid that his forceful rescuer
would pull his limbs from their sockets. "The chains!" he growled, mustering
his strength to shove the Alpha back.
                "Ivan," said the Alpha, making Ivan stop.
                He couldn't determine the Alpha's scent because of the smoke,
and he didn't recognize the growling voice, but the soldier was built like an
Easterner, not unlike himself. Ivan wondered if he was one of the scouts
pursuing he and Al, or a soldier of the greater Eastern Army. As the Alpha's
face appeared through the smoke, Ivan wondered why a member of his deserted
company was trying to rescue him.
                "Ivan," he repeated, like Ivan's name was a word of good-luck.
He forced himself closer beneath the wagon, his skin greasy with smoke residue,
but it wasn't the Alpha's squared face that struck a chord in Ivan's memory; it
was his mane of rust-coloured hair. He had never seen such a shade before or
since. He remembered the unruly sight and feel of it. He remembered ruffling it
in play, and sleeping with his nose buried in it a long time ago.
                "S-Sasha?" he gasped in disbelief.
                The Alpha paid him a rueful grin, then raised his sword without
warning and struck Ivan's chains a powerful blow. One snapped, then the other,
the iron falling away until Ivan stood wearing the manacles like bracelets.
Hastily, he crawled out into the open, following his former-comrade, and not a
moment too soon. The wagon collapsed.
                 "Sasha!" he repeated, then buckled under a coughing fit. He
gulped mouthfuls of fresh air to clear his lungs, purging the smoke, then tried
again. "Sasha, I can't believe it!" he cried, clutching the redhead. He felt
the weight of Sasha's hands on his back, clapping him in reunion. It felt
good—familiar.
                "I thought you were dead," Sasha said, releasing him.
                "I thought I was, too," he replied, and he didn't just mean
tonight. Fervently, his eyes scanned the tree-line. Sasha was wearing the
uniform of the Eastern Army—sans armour—and carrying a state-issued sword,
which meant the Eastern Army had finally reached the Southern encampment, which
meant that Al was in serious danger. The fear must have shown on his face,
because Sasha pointed, and said:
                "Your Omega is there."
                The moment Ivan locked eyes with Al, he started forward. Just
stay there! he gestured, limping as fast as he could. I'll come to you!
                Al smiled in relief, looking hopeful. But his expression
quickly changed. His blue eyes went wide as he began gesturing wildly and
shouting, though Ivan couldn't hear him; the roar of the fire had left him
momentarily half-deaf. Ivan shook his head and non-verbally repeated his prior
message:
                Stay there!
                That's when Sasha grabbed his arm, and only then did Ivan
realize that the Western archers had gone.
===============================================================================
A host of Southerners approached from the west; a host of Easterners took
position from the east, both forces coming together to do battle at the foot of
the Western fort, nothing but a muddy field and two lone Alphas standing
between them.
                Al screamed for Ivan as the two armies charged at each other.
"RUN!" he hollered, gesturing wildly.
                Ivan and Sasha began to run, but their pace was slow and
clumsy. Al's heart beat madly as he watched their toddling progress, knowing
that they wouldn't reach safety before the two armies collided. He watched,
petrified, as a sea of bodies—steel-grey and royal blue—swallowed Ivan.
                "NO!"
                He could see Sasha's rust-red hair and kept his eyes locked on
it, knowing that Ivan would be nearby. Sasha swung and slashed with his sword,
blocking and serving blows. He fought recklessly in the melee, his teeth bared
and snarling. Once, Al even saw those big Alpha canines bite someone. He looked
possessed. He fought with no regard for whom his attacks felled, enemies or
allies, focused solely on escape. As the bodies surged and shifted, Al caught
sight of Ivan at Sasha's side. Weaponless, he fought with his fists, looking no
less desperate than his former-comrade. He threw his whole weight into his
fists, but relied on Sasha's sword to cover him, as if remembering a routine
from long ago. Together, they struggled through the onslaught, clawing like
drowning pups for the surface. But they weren't going to make it. Ivan wasn't
going to make it.
                "Gods damned Alphas!" Al snarled.
                Quickly, he doubled back into the abandoned encampment, now a
cemetery of corpses, and knelt at the first body he saw that was still armed.
He unclenched the dead Easterner's fingers from the handle of his sword, not
unlike the one Ivan owned, and hefted the heavy weapon up. He remembered its
weight and the way it pulled him forward as he ran back to the field and
charged into the fray before fear could take hold of him again.
                "Get—out—of—my—way!" he yelled, swinging the sword with all of
his Omega strength to cut a path through the crush of bodies. He was shoved
back-and-forth, the weight of the sword and slippery ground throwing him off-
balance, but Al was an Islander. He was no novice when it came to hunting in
poor weather conditions. As the soldiers fell, blinded by rain, too heavy to
mind their balance, Al dodged around them, under them. He was faster and
lighter and much smaller than they. He wasn't a soldier, but he was one of the
best hunters in Scott Kirkland's pack. As if he was hunting, Al concentrated on
Ivan's deep voice and let his sensitive ears guide him in the right direction.
Finally, he saw the Alpha grappling with an enemy. He saw Ivan's teeth clenched
and his violet eyes blazing, his naked chest bloodied and covered in scars—old
scars; new scars—as his muscles strained to fend off an attack.
                "Ivan!" Al screamed, his high-pitched voice rising above the
sounds of battle. Ivan's head snapped up and his eyes glared at Al, but the
Omega ignored it. "Here! Catch!" he said, and threw the sword overhand like a
javelin, like a hunting spear shaft-first. It sailed in an arc over the
soldiers' heads and landed a foot from Ivan's person, skinning the back of his
attacker before cleaving into the ground. Al saw Ivan grip the handle, but
nothing else. He ducked beneath a sword thrust and was forced to retreat.
                I hate Alphas. I hate Alphas. I hate Alphas, he thought
repeatedly as he picked his way along, keeping low. If I live through this,I'm
never going to wish I was an Alpha again.
                "Ah!"
                Al cried-out as a bloody corpse slammed into him, falling into
the mud. It pushed him into a living soldier—a Southerner—who moved in reflex
to stab. Al flinched and automatically closed his eyes. Then he heard Ivan's
voice:
                "No," he growled.               
                Al opened his eyes to find the Southerner run through with the
sword in Ivan's hand. His other hand wound around Al's middle and pulled the
Omega snug against his chest, using his body to shield Al.
                One, two, three. Every step Ivan took, every swing of his sword
pushed the soldiers back. He moved forward, never back. He moved forward with a
strength and determination Al had never seen; forward toward the forest and
safety. Forward toward freedom. Al hadn't realized how suffocating the
battlefield was until he and Ivan finally burst free of it.
                "Go! Keep going!" Sasha snapped, shoving Ivan forward. "Don't
look back,go forward!"
                Forward.
                Ivan didn't look back, but Al did. He lifted his head only for
an instant, but it was enough to see the arrow—Western, Southern, Eastern; he
didn't know whose—whirling toward Ivan. His heart stopped. He didn't have time
to scream, or move. He didn't have time to bow his head. He saw the arrow
flying through the sky. He heard the whistle of its fletching. He felt its
impact as it hit its mark and he suddenly fell beneath Ivan's weight; Ivan, who
had fallen beneath Sasha's weight.
                "Sasha!" Al cried, crawling out from under Ivan.
                Sasha lay sprawled upon Ivan, the arrow piercing the base of
his neck. He had leapt in its path to save Ivan. And now he was dying.
                Al grabbed the redhead's arms and began dragging him toward the
forest to safety. "No,no,no," he chanted, feeling guilt and grief press down on
him. "You saved us,you can't die. You saved Ivan."
                Ivan wrapped Sasha's arm around his shoulders and half-carried
the redhead into the forest. There, he laid him down.
                Sasha's bloodied lips smiled at Ivan. He was shaking. "I-I-
I—I'm not going back," he gasped, as if Ivan would reprimand him for dying. "I-
I-I—I'm not going to do this anymore."
                "Sasha—"
                "I-I-I—I'm going to die here, so you can live," Sasha
continued, as if Ivan hadn't spoken.
                Ivan shook his head. "No, we can save you," he said, cupping
the back of Sasha's head. "Al." Ivan looked back at the stunned Omega. His
violet eyes were no longer fierce, but soft and pleading. "We can save him,
right?"
                Al pursed his lips. No, he thought, I don't think we can. Maybe
Dad could,or Matt,or Thierry,but we can't.
                Fortunately, Sasha spoke before Al had to. He looked up at
Ivan, and very seriously said:
                "Now my debt is paid."
                "No," Ivan growled. "Sasha, you can't—"
                Sasha raised a shaking hand and grabbed Ivan's forearm. He
squeezed weakly. "You escaped it, Ivan. Now I will, too. Go with your Omega,"
he said laboriously. "Go somewhere far. Have pups. Have a life free of fear.
Live," he emphasized. "We will meet again someday, comrade, in the world beyond
this one; in the great hall of warriors we will feast together. I will save you
a seat beside me. Until then," he gasped, his voice fading with each word, "do
something for me." He lifted his head a fraction and Ivan leant down to hear
his dying friend's last words. So close, Sasha's lips brushed Ivan's ear. So
close, even Al barely heard it. "When this is over," he whispered, gasping;
choking, "when you've found a new home, have a drink for me, brother... and
go... forward..."
                Sasha's shaking ceased and his pale eyes stared sightlessly up
at Ivan. He was gone.
===============================================================================
Matt stood at the window, staring out into a storm of swords and blood and
fire. The vicious sounds of battle hurt his ears; the sounds of Alpha's howls
and screams, thunder not loud enough to drown the sounds of the dying. How many
of them would fall tonight? How many Alphas would die fighting their Kaiser's,
Emperor's, Tsar's battle? Matt's heart felt heavy as he touched the handle of
Gil's dagger, which he had stuck into his sash, taking comfort in its
protection, even if he didn't know how to wield it; even if he wasn't strong
enough to. But as he touched it, his thoughts went to his Alpha-mate—again—and
that was more comforting than any weapon could be. Even though Gil was
imprisoned, Matt believed that the Alpha would still protect him. Somehow.
Somehow he had to believe it, because what else did Matt have to hope for? He
had relied on Gil for everything since coming to the fort; and he had relied on
his family before that.
                I can't do this alone, he thought, absently touching his
abdomen. Omegas aren't meant to be alone.
                He stepped back, suddenly frightened of the battlefield, and
bumped into the bedside table. Grey's sketch of Finn fluttered to the floor and
landed face-down.
                A fresh wave of anxiety flooded Matt as he knelt to retrieve
it, intending to smooth its creased edges, but he stopped when he saw a note
hastily scribbled on the back. He hadn't seen it before. It was small and
sloppy, and the corner was stained with dry blood, Grey's blood, but the note
itself was legible. It was a single word in French: Loup.
                Wolf.
               And, suddenly, the last piece of a puzzle fell into place.
                Matt stared down at the word in—no, not disbelief. Disbelief
implied shock, as if he hadn't already suspected Wolfe of treason.
                One of Gil's Alphas had been plotting against the fort from the
beginning. One of them had reported the Fort Commander's pair-bonding to the
Great House, ensuring Gil's imprisonment. One of them had deliberately
neglected his scouting missions and lied in his reports to hide the Southerners
presence. One of them had been plotting with Le Roux to depose Gil and usurp
the fort for a long time. One of them had murdered Grey when the unfortunate
squire had seen something that he was not meant to see. And now Matt knew who
it was. Grey's last word confirmed it.
                I should've said something sooner, he knew. So, why didn't I?
                Why didn't he reveal the evidence that pointed to Wolfe? Why
didn't he say anything about his suspicions—his Omega's intuition—sooner? Why
did he keep quiet and pretend he didn't know?
                 Because Gil trusted Wolfe. And I trusted Gil.
               But even Fort Commanders made mistakes.
                Matt knew that he had to tell Ludwig as soon as possible—he had
to tell anyone, everyone. They had to know that their present second-in-command
was a traitor. But before he could reach the bedchamber's door, it swung open.
                Second-Lieutenant Wolfe.
                Quickly, Matt hid the sketch behind his back.
                "Omega," said Wolfe, stepping inside. Matt felt urgency pulling
at him, but he forced himself not to flinch. He had to look natural. He
couldn't risk revealing what he knew, but Wolfe's eyes were not kind as he
studied Matt's figure, his face. "You're white as milk," he sneered, taking
pleasure in the Omega's fear. "I told you, didn't I? That the Southerners would
come for you. If this fort gets taken, it'll be your fault. If all the Alphas
die, it'll be because of you."
                No, Matt thought, swallowing the denial. It'll be you.
                Wolfe's eyes narrowed. "What's that behind your back?"
                Matt tensed. He had begun folding the sketch into a flying
projectile—a paper-aircraft, like he and Al used to do with Arthur's recipes as
pups. His fingers worked deftly, but the paper crackled.
                Wolfe said: "What are you hiding? Show me," he ordered,
stalking forward.
                Matt hurried backwards, retreating to the open window. "It's
nothing. It's just a letter... to Gil," he lied. "Just a silly love letter from
a silly Omega. It's nothing to you."
                "Give it to me," Wolfe demanded, showing his teeth. "Now!"
                Before Wolfe could reach him, Matt spun and fired the paper-
aircraft out the window. A fierce wind caught it and it soared rapidly to the
ground below, hitting a passing Alpha, but Matt didn't see whom. Wolfe shoved
him aside and flailed for the sketch, but his reach was too short and too slow.
He growled in frustration, then turned his eyes on Matt, glaring coldly in
hatred.
                "You know," he said. It wasn't a question.
                "That you're a traitor?" Matt challenged. There was no point in
denying it, now. "That you sold the fort to the South? Yes, I know."
                Wolfe's hand shot out and seized Matt's shirt-front, pulling
him forward. "Do you also know that Captain Le Roux wants you dead, you little
bitch? That your death is a condition of the contract he and I have?
               "Let's you and I take a little walk, Matthew," he growled, his
lips curling back in a cruel grin. His eyes glared dangerously—hungrily at the
young Omega. "It's time you saw the view from the top of the keep."
                Wolfe manhandled Matt roughly into the corridor, then dragged
him up the stairs. Matt had never ascended the stairs to the third-level
before; there was no need. It opened onto a wide flat landing—the roof of the
keep. It was windy and wet as rain lashed the stone; thunder crashing;
lightning crackling in the sky above. The storm threatened to knock Matt back,
but Wolfe's grasp on his arm was tight. To the south, the sounds of struggle
rose in a cacophony of shrieks and screams and howls and growls and the
constant sharp sound of metal-on-metal. To the west, the Rhine was swollen. It
frothed and crashed as the wind stirred it, water sloshing and spilling over
the dam like an infuriated beast trying to break through. To the north the sky
was dark despite dawn's approach, and thunder rumbled overhead like the
hammering beat of war drums. It was to the north that Wolfe dragged Matt,
lightning flashing in the Alpha's reflective eyes, making him look like
something cold and cruel from the depths of the underworld. Lightning struck
again and Matt habitually began to count.
                One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Eleven. Twelve.
                Matt tried to resist Wolfe's pull. He tried to find traction on
the wet stone, but the rain slicked it and his feet slid clumsily forward. "Let
go of me!" he shouted, slashing at Wolfe with Gil's dagger. The blade sliced
into the Alpha's hand and he flinched, surprised, but he recovered fast.
                "Bitch!" Wolfe grabbed Matt's wrist and jerked it back, tearing
the dagger from his grasp. Snarling, he threw it aside. At the edge of the
rooftop, he grabbed Matt by both shoulders, and said: "Go ahead, little Omega.
Scream," he threatened, tightening his hold. Matt felt his feet slip on the
edge; the wind pushed fervently. Far below him, a wicked battle raged.
Lightning struck again, closer this time.
                One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Eleven.
                Wolfe leant down over Matt and pressed his curled lips to the
Omega's ear from behind. Maliciously, he said: "Where is your knight-in-
shining-armour now?"
===============================================================================
Ludwig felt something brush his shoulder. He looked up, then down. A paper
projectile was lying on the stone, rapidly losing its shape to the rain. He
rescued it and unfolded it carefully, trying not to tear the sodden paper. It
was a sketch of an Omega-pup, a cute, smiling little thing; a rather talented
study. Someone's Omega-mate? he wondered. (He was too old to be anyone's Omega-
pup; Gil's Alphas were relatively young.) He turned it over in his hands,
searching for a signature so that he might return the sketch to its owner.
That's when he saw the scribbled note: Loup. Ludwig didn't know French, but
seeing it made him feel suddenly anxious. There was blood on the paper.
                "Soldier," he said, halting a passing Alpha. "Can you read
French?"
                "No, Commander, but Fischer can," said the Alpha, pointing to
his companion.
                Fischer looked at the sketch Ludwig presented, and read: "Wolf,
sir. It's the French word for wolf."
                Ludwig looked from the sketch to the paper-aircraft's high
trajectory, following it backwards to Gil's window. Matt's window.
                Wolfe.
               "Fuck!" he cursed.
                He took off running, leaving the two stunned Alphas behind.
Oh,no. Oh,shit. Oh,fuck. If anything happened to Matt, Gil would be
heartbroken. He would be inconsolable. He would be livid. He might actually
murder someone,probably me. Because whether Gil wanted to admit it or not, Matt
had become the most important thing in his life. Matt, who was Ludwig's
pregnant brother-by-mating-law; the Omega he had promised to look after; the
Omega-mate his brother loved more than anything; the Omega whom Wolfe wanted
dead—
                An accident, that's all it would take. The fort was under
siege, a battle raging outside. How likely it would be for a fifteen-year-old
Omega to get hurt. No one would question it. No one would call it anything but
a tragic accident.
                Ludwig reached the keep's door and pushed, but it didn't open.
He tried his key, but it wasn't locked. It was barricaded.
                CRASH! Bang! Crumble—!
                "Commander!" someone shouted. "The outer wall has been
breached!Enemies are flooding in!"
                "Commander! The west bank has been taken,it's overrun!"
                "Commander! We're nearly out of oil and arrows,we can't hold
them back anymore! They'll take the fort!"
                "Commander, what should we do?" they begged, looking to Ludwig
for guidance.
                "Uh, well..." Ludwig whipped his head from side-to-side, from
face-to-terrified-face. Then he looked back at the keep, and felt stuck. What
do I do? How do I fix it?Is this how Gil feels all the time? The weight of
responsibility was crushing. The soldiers' blind trust and pleading made Ludwig
feel slightly nauseous; guilty; stressed. What do we do,Commander? Tell us what
to do! It was no wonder that after two years Gil was starting to break.
                "Take the catapults to the south wall and scatter the enemy's
forces. Scare them senseless," he said, mouth working faster than his brain.
"All archers back to your posts, but fire sparingly; make them think you're
fully-armed. Use what oil is left to set the field ablaze"—he thought of the
barricaded keep, and added—"and barricade the doors. Use anything we've got,"
he ordered. "Use everything we've got. No one gets passed the outer walls. I
want all infantry combat-ready and assembled in the ward five minutes ago. If
that gate doesn't hold them back, we will."
                "Yes,sir!"
                As the officers dispersed, Ludwig rushed to the locked armoury.
Matt was his brother-by-mating-law, but he, at least, was not Ludwig's
priority. He was Gil's.
                "Open the door!" he demanded.
                The sentry looked shocked. "But Commander, the Black Guards
said—"
                "I said open this fucking door!" Ludwig roared. "That's an
order!"
                The sentry hurried to obey. But in his haste he fumbled the
keys, which provoked a growl from the impatient Acting-Commander, and then got
shoved heedlessly aside.
                "Gil!" Ludwig grabbed Gil's shirt-front and dragged him toward
the door. "It's Wolfe," he explained, "he's the one who betrayed us. Matt
knows—Wolfe has him barricaded in the keep."
                If Gil was shocked by Wolfe's betrayal, he didn't show it. He
didn't pause or ask questions, he just moved. In one swift motion, he unbuckled
Ludwig's sword-belt and strapped it over his shoulder, then wrenched himself
free of his brother's grasp and bolted out of the armoury faster than Ludwig
had ever seen. He dodged the amassing infantry and ran to the keep. He ignored
the battle, the storm. He didn't slow when he reached the high stonewalls that
rose above him. He didn't stop to strategize the best point of entry, or worry
about the danger to himself. He just leapt onto the adjacent wall and started
to climb up, up, up. He didn't even look scared as the wind howled and the rain
lashed and thunder and lightning filled the sky, just determined. Just an Alpha
on a mission to rescue his Omega-mate. Just angry as all fucking hell.
===============================================================================
Poor little Matthew," Wolfe taunted, leaning down farther; holding Matt's
upper-body suspended above the fall. "Such a helpless, frightened little thing.
So distraught over his Alpha-mate's fate. So very young and foolishly in love.
So very tragic that he slipped and fell off the top of the tower."
                Matt was frozen, too afraid to fight lest he lose his balance.
If Wolfe let go of him, he would fall to his death.
                "Don't worry, schatz," he mocked, kissing Matt's neck, "you'll
soon be reunited with your captain in death. If the Black Guard doesn't do
it"—he released Matt's shoulder to hold his neck, miming a hanging; now
supporting the Omega's weight one-handed—"then I will. One way or another,
Gilbert Beilschmidt will soon die... and it'll be entirely your fault, Matthew.
It'll be all because of you."
                Matt felt hot tears mix with the icy raindrops on his face. No,
he thought sadly, heartbrokenly. Please no,I'll do anything. I'll suffer
anything—anything!Just don't hurt Gil. Please. He doesn't deserve it. He's a
good captain,and a good Alpha. He'smyAlpha.
                Please.
                "Farewell, Matthew Beilschmidt."
                Wolfe let go.
===============================================================================
AAH—!"
                Matt's arms wind-milled as he plummeted forward, catching the
edge of the stone wall in his hands. He hung there suspended above a deathly
fall, fingers digging painfully into the crevices, and only then did he realize
that he wasn't the one who had screamed. Wolfe had. Wolfe had been yanked
suddenly back, that's why he had let go of Matt. That's why Matt had lost his
balance, not because Wolfe had pushed him but because Wolfe had been attacked
by—
                Gil!
                Matt couldn't believe his eyes as he pulled himself up, back to
safety. Gil's canines were sunk deep in Wolfe's neck, coating his lips with
blood. The ex-captain was holding the second-lieutenant by the throat with one
hand, while the other held a sword he tried to plunge into Wolfe's chest as
Wolfe tried desperately to defend himself. His sword was crossed with Gil's in
a battle of physical strength; Gil trying to stab Wolfe and Wolfe trying to
stop him. Finally, he succeeded in shaking Gil off. He stumbled sideways, then
braced himself as Gil attack again. It was vicious, all swords and fists and
teeth, like two wild animals fighting a battle of dominance. No, a battle of
life-and-death. Matt had never seen Gil move so fast or furiously before, even
in practice. He had never seen his Alpha-mate look so beastly, so—dangerous. It
was fierce. If Wolfe looked like something cold and cruel from the underworld,
then Gil looked like fire. He snarled and snapped as his body twisted, so agile
it would have been graceful if not for his violent purpose. Violent was a good
word to describe Gil right then. He had lost all of his softness and kindness
and compassion as he fought, reduced to his basest instincts. It was enough
that Wolfe actually looked scared.
                "You can't beat me!" Gil snarled, slashing at Wolfe. "I'm the
Alpha here, not you!Matthew is mine!This fort is mine!I'll tear you limb from
fucking limb!"
                Yes, there was naked fear in Wolfe's eyes. He was losing the
fight to his junior, and he knew it. Maybe that's why he suddenly shouted:
"No,Matthew!" at the top of his voice, injecting as much fear and shock as
possible.
                Matt frowned in misunderstanding, but Wolfe's trick worked. Gil
faltered. In reflex, he turned to see if Matt was okay, lowing his guard for
the briefest moment—
                —and Wolfe struck.
                The second-lieutenant slammed into him, forcing the ex-captain
to the ground. Gil hit the stone hard and the sword was battered out of his
hand. He thrust his fists up to defend himself, but Wolfe's heavy body forced
him down, his weight trapping the younger Alpha.
                "I knew it!" Wolfe laughed, pressing down on the blade of his
sword, fighting Gil's defense. "I knew that little bitch would be your death!"
                "Have you no dignity?" Gil seethed. He spat at Wolfe. "Relying
on tricks? You're a coward, Wolfe! A fucking coward!"
                "Maybe," Wolfe smirked, "but at least I'm not a dead—Ah!"
                Matt leapt on Wolfe's back and snaked his forearms around the
Alpha's neck, trying to choke him. I won't let you hurt my Alpha-mate! he
thought as Wolfe reared back, gasping and clawing at the little Omega, trying
to pull him off. Matt bared his teeth and squeezed with all of his strength. I
won't let you hurt Gil!
                "Fucking bitch!"
                Wolfe's fist seized Matt and pulled him roughly overhead. Matt
tumbled down, but rather than hit the stone, he found himself imprisoned in
Wolfe's steely grasp.
                "Don't move," he warned Gil, who stood ready to attack. "If you
care at all about this bitch, don't move."
                Gil stiffened. "Don't..." he said, reaching instinctively out.
"Don't hurt Matt..."
                Wolfe was panting hard; Matt could feel it. "Don't move!" he
repeated, paralyzing Gil mid-step. "Good. Now, drop the sword."
                "Let Matt go—"
                "Drop the sword! Drop it or I'll cut his fucking throat. I'll
kill your Omega-mate, Beilschmidt. Your pregnant Omega-mate," he added cruelly.
                Gil's face paled and his blood-red eyes went wide, losing their
fire. Finally, he looked scared. He stared at Matt in open-mouthed disbelief,
his lips moving but no sound coming out. "I-I-I—" He faltered, then tried
again. "I-I-I— I don't... Matt?"
                Matt could only nod. I'm so sorry,Gil. I'm sorry.
                The sword fell from Gil's hand with a clatter. He took a
bewildered step back, then another. "Please," he said. He raised his hands in
surrender. "Don't hurt him, Wolfe. I yield. Please, let him go. You can kill
me, okay? You can do whatever you want to me, just let Matt go."
                "No!" Matt cried.
                Wolfe grinned. "On your knees," he spat.
                Like a defeated dog, Gil knelt.
                Wolfe threw his head back and laughed. "Not so tough now, are
you, Gilbert Beilschmidt? The Alpha-pup who became the Fort Commander, and then
threw it all away for the sake of an Omega. How pathetic! The Alpha-pup who
broke the law and lost the fort and got everyone killed. That's how history
will remember you. Not as a leader, not as a hero—as a failure! You failed to
protect the Empire. You failed to protect your comrades. You failed to protect
your Omega-mate. You've failed everyone, pup, just like your Alpha-father did
when the East attacked. But that's what you've always wanted, isn't it? To be
just like Vater. Well, congratulations—you did it. You're a failure and a
traitor, Gilbert Beilschmidt—"
                "No!" Matt yelled. "No, he's not! Just shut up! He's not—!
Gil's a good captain, and a good Alpha! And that's something you can never take
away from him, Wolfe! Never! He's more of an Alpha than you'll ever be!"
                "Silence!" Wolfe struck Matt. "You know nothing about it, you
fucking foreigner! You know nothing of the Western Empire!"
                "The Kaiser trusted you!" Matt argued. "He promoted you—"
                "Promotedme?" Wolfe pressed a hand over Matt's mouth to silence
him. "Banished me, you mean. He sent me into the middle of gods-forsaken
nowhere to play second-in-command to a swaddling-pup! It wasn't a promotion, it
was a punishment! I serve the Empire loyally for ten fucking years and what do
I get in return? Nothing! The chance to play second, always second! I should've
been something great, but you took it from me!" he yelled a Gil "I should've
been the Fort Commander, not you! It should've been me!"
                "Is that what Le Roux promised you?" Gil guessed. He spoke to
Wolfe, but his eyes were fixed on Matt. "Once I'm dead and the fort defeated,
you'll take over command? Is that it, Wolfe? You'll become a permanent puppet
of the Southern Empire? Did you really betray the West and sell the Black
Forest Fort—all of your comrades—for a fucking promotion?"
                "It means my own command," Wolfe said shamelessly, "so yes, I
did. But know this, Captain: I would have happily sold you for free."
                A lightning-bolt lit Wolfe's victorious face.
                One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
                Another bolt crackled overhead, closer—closer—momentarily
flooding the rooftop with light. A metallic glint caught Matt's eye. It was
Gil's dagger, lying on the ground just out of reach. And for the briefest
moment time seemed to stop. He looked at the dagger. Then he looked at Gil. And
he knew exactly what he was going to do. He should have been
afraid—terrified—and maybe he was, but he didn't feel it. Not this time.
                I'm sorry,Gil. Please forgive me.
                One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
                Matt sunk his teeth into Wolfe's hand and bit down until he
tasted blood. Wolfe howled in surprised outrage and recoiled, and Matt sprang
forward. He ducked beneath the second-lieutenant's swiping hand and retrieved
Gil's dagger. Then he ran.
                He fought the wind, slipping on stone, and leapt the final few
steps to the peak of the keep. Then he rounded on Wolfe with the dagger
extended, a challenge in his violet eyes.
                One. Two. Three.
                Wolfe was right behind him, sword in hand. He laughed in
genuine glee as he squared his broad shoulders, preparing to attack.
                "Oh, this is too perfect," he grinned, relishing the sight. "Do
you really think you can fight me, little Omega?"
                Four. Five. Six.
                Matt's posture was low, bowed in defense. Come on, he thought,
counting—counting. Come and get me.
                Seven. Eight. Nine.
                "I'm going to enjoy this," said Wolfe, raising his long,
straight sword high overhead to cut Matt down.
                Ten.
                Matt dropped the dagger and ducked as a lightning-bolt struck
Wolfe, attracted by the metal sword. His body jolted and sizzled and he
screamed, stumbling backwards over the edge of the tower, and plummeting down,
down, down to his death.
===============================================================================
MATT!"
                Matt had barely lifted his head before he was pulled roughly
into Gil's embrace. The Alpha's arms wrapped tightly around him, crushing his
Omega-mate to his chest. Matt responded by pressing his face to Gil's neck,
nestling in the muscular divot of his collarbone, and hugging him equally
tight. Gil. Oh,gods—Gil. On his knees at the peak of the tower, soaked and
shivering, Matt clutched his Alpha-mate as fear and regret and anger receded
into unbelievable relief.
                "Ah, schatz."
                Gil's voice was quiet and close. Matt felt his lips.
                "I've never been so scared in my entire life. I thought I'd
lost you," he said, pulling back. "Matt, I—"
                Matt didn't let Gil finish. He cupped the back of Gil's head
and pulled him into a deep, desperate kiss. It was wet and cold, raindrops
sliding over both of their faces, but Matt didn't care. His hands slid to Gil's
neck as he covered the Alpha's mouth with his, pressing their lips chastely
together. Gil's firm lips tasted a little like blood; so did Matt's, but he
didn't care about that either. All he cared about was his Alpha-mate, who was
safe. Alive. His Alpha-mate, whom he loved more than anything. His Alpha-mate,
who kissed him back just as enthusiastically, opening his mouth and making a
chaste kiss less chaste. When they finally parted—both gasping—Gil said:
                "Wha—?
                "Matt, schatz, I thought..." He blinked. "I thought you didn't
want to kiss someone you weren't in love with?"
                His red eyes were so big and bright and luminous in the
breaking light of dawn. No longer bloodthirsty, they looked—soft.
                Matt smiled and took Gil's hands, and he simply said: "I
didn't."
                Gil stared at him, soaked and wide-eyed and slack-jawed, and
Matt felt a bubble of laughter swell inside of him. He's perfect, he thought. I
never could've hoped for better.
                "I'm in love with you, Gilbert," he confessed, smiling; he
couldn't seem to stop. "I love you."
                Gil squeezed his hands. "I love you, too, Matthew."
                Gil kissed him again—once, twice. A bit clumsy, and very wet.
They smiled and they laughed, both suddenly a little shaky and shy; both a
little overwhelmed. Gil's nose brushed Matt's and Matt closed his eyes for a
brief moment, wanting to forget everything except for Gil's touch. Until the
Alpha said:
                "Is it really... true?"
                Matt looked up at him and saw fear and apprehension and hope on
Gil's flushed face, and he knew exactly what the Alpha was asking.
                "Yes," he admitted, "it's true."
                "You're... pregnant?"
                Matt nodded.
                "With my—?"
                Again, Matt nodded. "Is that... okay?" he asked timidly.
                He hadn't realized how scared he was to tell Gil, how afraid of
the life-changing confession, until Gil's face broke into a big, baffled smile.
                "Is it—?" He laughed and scooped Matt into his arms as he stood
and spun in celebratory circles. "Yes, that's okay! Since the moment I met you,
schatz, you've made me the happiest Alpha in the whole fucking world! And it
just keeps getting better! A pup! Ourpup!" Giddily, he kissed Matt's cheek and
neck; he nuzzled Matt's neck, hugging him.
                Matt laughed, too. So,so happy."Careful, Captain," he teased.
Gently, he pushed back the Alpha's drenched hair. It gleamed when lightning
struck. "They'll all think you've gone soft."
                Gil smiled at his Omega-mate, and his voice was tender but
serious when he said: "Too, late."
                Matt blushed.
                "Gil," he said when Gil set him on his feet. He looked
adoringly upon the handsome face of his Alpha-mate, his white knight, and
reached up and kissed him again. And again, he said: "I love you."
Chapter End Notes
     I intended this chapter to encompass the entire climax, but
     eventually decided to cut it in half. Otherwise it would have been
     tediously long. Besides, I thought that Gil and Matt's totally cliché
     kiss-in-the-rain confession was a rather nice place to press pause,
     no? As always, thank-you so much for your patience and support! I
     hope you continue to enjoy! :)
     Cheers,
     Shadowcatxx
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Fourteen *****
BLACK FOREST FORT
WESTERN EMPIRE
Gil took Matt's hand and together they dashed back into the keep, down, down,
down the stairs. The courtyard was flooded with Alphas in black-and-white
tunics, carrying long, straight swords of the lightning-rod variety, and all
wearing identical expressions of fear. Gil saw wide eyes and upturned lips and
tightly clenched fists. He saw his Alphas standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a
defensive formation that he had taught them—so, so few of them. If the Eastern
Army or Southern Army broke through the gate and inner-wall, the fort was as
good as lost; his comrades, his brothers as good as dead.
                I did this. I should've abandoned the fort months ago, he
finally admitted, pulling Matt close. He hugged his Omega-mate one-handed with
his right, clutching Ludwig's sword in his left. We're all going to die because
of me.
                He spotted Ludwig's cape as he disappeared into the war-room
and hurried to follow, dragging Matt along with him. Several of the officers
were shocked by the ex-captain's arrival, and a few stared in hesitant
disapproval of Matt's presence, but Gil ignored them. Omegas were forbidden
from entering the war-room, just as Omegas were forbidden from entering the
fort, but there was no way Gil was letting Matt out of sight—out of his
reach—again. Like a gale, he burst into the crowded chamber with purpose and
pierced the occupants with his fierce red gaze.
                "Gil!" Ludwig called. He was the only Alpha present who looked
relieved to see Matt. He pushed forward and clapped his brother's shoulder.
                "Gilbert Beilschmidt," said Lutz. The Black Guard's tone was
reproachful, though his look was not. Reinbeck stood beside him, eyes plastered
bashfully to Matt's body. (Gil noticed this with a frown.) The Omega's soaked
clothes clung to the swell of his curves. "Where is Second-Lieutenant Wolfe?"
Lutz enquired.
                Gil's face was stony. "Haven't seen him."
                Lutz pursed his lips, but didn't pry.
                Ludwig gestured to a map on the table and resumed the
discussion: "If we deploy the garrison to the east—"
                "We can't deploy to the east, it's crawling with Southerners!"
someone argued.
                "We could charge the gate, force the enemy into a narrower
space to attack, have the archers cover from—"
                "The archers don't have any arrows!"
                "The west bank then! Deploy to the west—"
                "The west bank is too close to the Rhine!"
                "Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do then? We're
trapped!"
                Gil closed his eyes and pictured the map in his mind, trying to
concentrate as the officers argued fervently back-and-forth.
                Focus,Gil. How do you solve this?Think of how you can solve
this. We can't attack from the east,because the Southerners have erected a
temporary stronghold. We can't overtake their encampment. We can't attack from
the south,because it's a battlefield of Southerners and Easterners. We're too
few to fight in hand-to-hand battle. We can't attack from the west, because—
                "—the river," said Matt.
                We can't charge ahead. We may have the initial advantage,but
eventually we'd be overrun. There's just too many of them,and we'd be fighting
battles on two fronts.
               "—the river," Matt repeated.
                We can't rely on re-enforcements, Gil thought in defeat. We
have to abandon the fort. It's our only option—
                "THE RIVER!" Matt yelled. His outburst cut through the loud,
aggressive Alpha voices, silencing them all in shock.
                Gil's eyes snapped open. He looked down at his Omega-mate, who
pulled away from him and regarded the war-room of Alphas in very maternal, very
Omega-like disdain.
                "I'm sorry," he began, "but you're all acting like selfish
pups. You're not listening to each other," he chastised to the bewilderment of
everyone. "Stop competing. Stop talking over each other and work together.
You're acting like rivals, but you're not, you're brothers and this is your
house. Unity is your ally. Hope is your ally. You're all officers of the
Western Empire, your units are depending on you, looking to you for guidance.
You need to stop howling at each other and start working together," he
emphasized, eyeing the crowd. " You're soldiers of the Western Empire. You're
the first line of defense against the enemy. Westerners are not afraid, they're
strong."
                "Yes!" chorused the Alphas in reflex.
                "They're brave," Matt added. (He had seen Gil do this a dozen
times.)
                "Yes!"
                "They're proud!"
                "Yes!"
                "Westerners do not back down!" Gil yelled, thrusting his fist
passionately into the air. His comrades followed with a chorus of : "Yes, sir!"
in perfect union.
                Gil felt the atmosphere change as the Alphas swelled with pride
and duty. They stood straighter, taller for the benefit of the Omega present;
ashamed that they had showed weakness in front of him. Gil knew this because he
felt it, too. He lifted his head high and stepped into the middle of the war-
room, where a circle had formed around Matt, the Alphas rallying to him as if
he was their symbol of hope. It felt good to have his Alphas' trust and
attention back. It felt familiar, and he felt inspired by Matt as he wrapped an
arm around his Omega-mate. But before he could speak, Matt battered him
impatiently away.
                "Now, listen to me," he ordered.
                "If you re-position the catapults at the western wall, will the
range reach the river? Will it reach the dam? It's been raining for four days.
The Rhine is swollen, that dam is ready to burst. I saw it from the top of the
keep."
                "The dam that brings water to the fort?"
                "Yes, exactly," Matt said. "Move the catapults to the western
ramparts and break the dam, release the Rhine, and flood the battlefield."
                Gil's eyes widened; his mouth fell open. The river?
                "Matthew, that's... brilliant!" he howled in excitement. In
front of everyone, he took Matt's face in his hands and kissed him. "Oh, you
beautiful little genius! The fucking river!"
                "But will it work?" Ludwig doubted. "The Southern and Eastern
Armies are strong. Will the river be enough to defeat them?"
                "Yes," Matt replied, blushing now. "Trust me, it'll work. You
can all try fight each other until the end of days, but none of you can fight
Mother Nature. When that dam breaks, those Alphas won't know what hit them."
                Matt look up at Gil. Gil grinned a wicked grin.
                "Do it," he said.
===============================================================================
Gil."
                As the officers dispersed, hurrying to put Matt's plan into
action, Ludwig hung back. His posture was straight and tense, but, for once,
his expression was not. The lines in his face softened as he regarded his
brother, looking from Gil to Matt and back, and he smiled. Matt thought he
looked rather young and handsome when he smiled; finally, he looked his
age—only eighteen-years-old.
                "Brothers," he said simply, "you need to go."
                Matt thought Gil would argue, but he didn't.
                "I know," he nodded. "I know that being an Alpha-mate shouldn't
be my priority, but it is." He shrugged. "I don't think I'm fit to be Fort
Commander anymore, Lud. But you'll make a great one. You'll be better than I
ever was. Stay strong, little brother," he said, opening his arms to Ludwig.
Matt stepped back to let them embrace. He watched Ludwig's brow crease and his
mouth tense as he clutched Gil, burying his smaller older brother in his
muscular bulk. They held each other for a moment, then simultaneously slapped
each other's backs, Alpha-like. "We'll meet again, Lud," Gil said as Matt
stepped forward to give Ludwig a kiss on the cheek. "When this is all over, I
expect you to come find us. I expect you to come meet your nephew, Uncle
Luddy."
                Ludwig snorted, and it dislodged a tear that rolled down his
cheek. He swallowed and nodded. "Vater would have been proud of you, Gil. I'm
proud of you."
                Gil paused, taken aback. Then he smiled and inclined his head
in gratitude as he returned Ludwig's sword.
                "Scott Kirkland's pack," Matt said gently. "That's where you'll
find us. In the north-east territory on the Isles. We're going somewhere the
Continent's laws mean nothing." He looked up at Gil and smiled. "Kirkland," he
repeated, "that's my surname."
                Ludwig frowned. So did Gil. "Not Bonnefoi—?"
                "No." He thought of his home, his family. He thought of his
Papa's last words to him: You've got too much of that wild Kirkland fire in you
not to be. "I've always been a Kirkland.
                "Can you remember that?" he teased Ludwig. "Repeat it back to
me."
                Ludwig regarded his brother-by-mating-law with a bemused smile.
"Scott Kirkland's pack, in the north-east territory on the Isles."
                Matt nodded.
                "Protect the Empire," Gil said, punching Ludwig's chest.
                Ludwig parroted the act. "Protect your family."
                Then Gil took Matt's hand—squeezed Matt's ringed hand—and they
left.
                Gil led Matt to a storeroom and ducked inside. He reappeared a
moment later carrying two satchels, one a lot larger than the other. Matt had
seen the scouting parties often enough to know that the satchels were full of
travel supplies. He accepted the smaller one from Gil—soft and lumpy, full of
clothes—and slung it over his shoulder, then followed Gil next-door to the
armoury, where he grabbed several knives and an axe. Matt watched him pack the
tools into his satchel like an expert, so focused on his task that his
expression suggested distraction. Just before they left the armoury, Matt
placed a hand on Gil's shoulder to stop him.
                "This isn't running away, Gil," he said, in case there was
doubt in the ex-captain. In truth, he was concerned for his Alpha-mate's
conscience. Gil had been single-mindedly devoted to protecting the Western
Empire his entire life. Duty and loyalty had been bred into him. Matt worried
that he would feel cowardly for leaving the fort and all of his Alphas to face
the enemy alone; for forsaking his Alpha-father's legacy.
                But he didn't.
                To Matt's surprise, Gil leant down and pressed a kiss to his
temple. He pressed his hand to his Omega-mate's belly. And he said: "I know.
                "I just hope my Alphas don't hate me," he added regretfully.
                Matt smiled. "They won't," he said confidently. And he pointed.
                By then, Gil and Matt had reached the wooden platform that
overlooked the courtyard, the place Gil had first introduced the fort to Matt.
Back then, the Alphas had been cold and stony and had made the young Omega
nervous. Now, he looked upon their tired faces and saw renewed hope. He saw
Gil's brothers-in-arms stop whatever they were doing, stand straight and tall,
heels together, and chins held high as they awaited their captain's orders. Gil
stopped in blatant shock. From left-to-right, from the courtyard to the
ramparts, to the towers and back, the entirety of the Black Forest Fort moved
as one and saluted ex-Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt.
                Matt heard Gil's deep intake of breathe and saw a small smile
of disbelief curl his lips. It was gone fast, but it remained in the sound of
his voice:
                "Brothers!" he called, loud and strong. "It's a great honour to
have served beside such exemplary Alphas. You are the blood and bone of the
Western Empire,and I am proud to have been your Commander. This is my final
order," he announced. The soldiers stiffened, standing at-attention. "Your
loyalty means a great deal to me,but I ask you now to give it to Commander
Ludwig Beilschmidt. Serve him as you've always served me. Serve him better.
Protect the Black Forest Fort!" he yelled. "Protect your brothers and sisters!
Protect the Empire!"
                Matt had never heard such a deafening:
                "YES, SIR!"
                Matt dipped a curtsey to the Alphas, who bowed their heads to
him as Gil pulled him down the steps. Quickly they crossed the courtyard and
descended the narrow walkway toward the kitchen's underground entrance. Before
they reached it, however, they were stopped by the Black Guards, who blocked
their path. Neither Lutz or Reinbeck looked receptive, dressed from head-to-toe
in coal-black, looking like Reapers. Gil's body tensed, readying for a fight.
He stepped in front of Matt and growled low in warning, but just as he opened
his mouth to speak, Lutz beat him to it.
                "It's such a shame about Captain Beilschmidt." He spoke to
Reinbeck but he was looking directly at Gil. They both were. "A shame he
drowned in the flood."
                "Oh, yes," Reinbeck played along, unable to hide an impish
grin. "He and his Omega-mate, both. A tragedy, especially after they saved the
fort. Captain Beilschmidt sacrificed himself to protect the Empire, just like
his Alpha-father before him. And Matthew Bonnefoi—Omega-pup of Francis
Bonnefoi—died fighting the tyranny of the South. I wonder if his story will
rekindle the hope of French separatists. I've never met such a brave Omega."
                "Nor I," Lutz agreed. "The West will not forget this day.
Gilbert Beilschmidt and Matthew Bonnefoi will be remembered for always as
heroes of the Western Empire."
                Finally, Lutz smiled. He cast back his long black cloak to
reveal Gil's sword, which he wordlessly presented to the ex-captain, like a
sovereign to a knight. Then, in union, the two Great House representatives
stepped aside.
                Gil looked incredulous for a moment, then he smiled. "Thank-
you," he said sincerely.
                As they passed between the Black Guards, Matt heard Lutz
whisper: "Good luck, Captain." Then he and his younger partner sauntered off in
the opposite direction, teasing the turn-of-events:
                "Oh, however will we tell the Kaiser?"
===============================================================================
Gil yanked back the large potato crate in the kitchen's cellar. It was dusty.
Matt sneezed. A low, pitch-black dirt tunnel stretched out in front of them.
The darkness gobbled up what little light filtered in and a coolness clung to
the earthen walls. Matt clutched the leather strap of his satchel and looked up
at Gil—
                —and was surprised to find the Alpha looking pale.
                "Don't be scared, schatz," he said to Matt.
                Matt frowned. "I'm an Omega, Gil. I'm not afraid of small, dark
spaces," he said, taking Gil's hand.
                Gil nodded and squeezed Matt's hand—hard. "Good," he said,
forcing a rueful smile. "That makes one of us, then."
                Matt crawled into the tunnel first. It felt no different to him
than the burrows he and Al used to root through as young pups. Yes, it was
longer—much longer—but it was a soft and yielding darkness that comforted him.
Unlike the open spaces above, the secret quietness of the underground protected
them. It held a promise. It was the first step on their journey home, and that
fact more than anything fuelled Matt's courage. On his hands-and-knees he
crawled forward, eager to reach the next step, and then the next; eager to
reach his family and his home.
                Gil, however, was not as eager to let the darkness swallow him,
and it wasn't long before the Alpha stopped.
                "Matt," he gasped.
                Matt turned back, twisting his body around in the narrow space.
He couldn't see Gil, it was too dark, but he could smell him and he could hear
him. He could hear the deep, shaking breaths of someone breathing in through
his mouth.
                "It's alright, darling, I'm here," he said, closing the gap
between them. He groped for Gil's body and placed both hands on the Alpha's
arched shoulders. His head was bowed. "It's okay," Matt's soft voice soothed.
"Just breathe, Gil. I'm right here in front of you."
                "Yeah, good." Gil's voice was breathless.
                "Come on, darling. I know Alphas don't like to feel confined or
trapped, but we're not. This is our escape, Gil. Do you know what lies at the
end of this tunnel? Freedom. We've got to keep going forward. One step at a
time, love," he coaxed, taking Gil's hand.
                Slowly, Gil followed.
                "You know what?" Matt talked to calm Gil's nerves. "My Alpha-
father is claustrophobic, too."
                "Really? Francis Bonnefoi—?"
                "Yes. He doesn't like small spaces either.
                "Papa is the second-in-command of our pack," he continued,
urging Gil onward, "and he has to visit the Clan Leader every season. There's a
mountain-range that lies between our pack and the high-road. The fastest way
across the mountain is through it. It's a long and narrow passage below the
mountain, and very dark. Papa hates it and won't go through it alone. He takes
the long way around, adding hours to his journey because he's afraid of the
mountain tunnel. But when my Omega-father is with him, he holds Papa's hand and
they walk through it together, and Papa's not afraid because he knows he's not
alone. He knows his Omega-mate is there with him, just like I'm here with you,
Gil. I'm not going anywhere, darling, I promise. We're going to get through
this together," he said, and he didn't just mean the tunnel. "When we reach the
other side"—the other side of the Channel—"we'll be free to be together with no
laws standing in the way. It'll just be you and I and our pup. I'll be there
with you," he promised. "I'll take care of you. I'll always be there to hold
your hand. Don't think about what's behind us, Gil. Think about what's ahead."
                In the dark, three small, quiet words reached Matt's ears. Gil
said:
                "I love you."
===============================================================================
Ludwig stood atop the ramparts of the Black Forest Fort—Gil's fort—his fort,
now. His fists were clenched at his sides and his expression was reticent as he
thought of his brother and brother-by-mating-law, and admitted—reluctantly,
privately—that he had been wrong about Matt. Matt hadn't broken Gil; he had
saved him. He had given Gil a reason to live, not for the job, or the Empire,
but for himself. He had given Gil something to love that would—and did—love him
back. Finally. Ludwig smiled (on the inside) and looked to the endless Black
Forest and the long journey ahead of his brother, hoping that he and his
pregnant Omega-mate would make it; knowing that they would. Ludwig had spent
years playing secret caretaker to Gil, always keeping one eye on his proud,
impulsive, self-destructive older brother. ("Gil,you need to eat." "Gil,you
need to sleep." "Gil,you need to bathe." "Gil,you need stitches." "Gil,you're
in the infirmary. I told you,you needed stitches." "Gil,you need to slow down."
"Gil,you can't do it all alone.") Ludwig had always worried about Gil's
future—or, lack thereof—so sure that he was going to sacrifice himself for
something that meant more to him than he did to it; so sure that Gil was going
to be nothing but a name on a memorial roster by the time he was twenty-five,
sometimes wondering if that's what Gil really wanted. He had always been afraid
of losing Gil. But not anymore.
                Take my brother far away from here, he thought to Matt. Take
good care of him. Protect him. Love him. He needs you,Matthew. Make him happy.
He deserves to be happy.
                Ludwig was not a romantic, but seeing Gil and Matt together
quieted his skepticism and made him believe in the old proverb: Beside every
successful Alpha,there's a devoted Omega.
                As he turned his attention westward, he briefly wondered if he
would ever have an Omega-mate who loved him as much as Matt loved Gil. It was a
nice thought.
                "Commander!" saluted his lieutenant. "The catapults are in
position. On your order, sir."
                Ludwig looked from the battlefield to the river and grinned as
he raised his arm. Thank-you,Gil,Matt. Good luck. In a slicing motion, he
thrust his hand forward, giving the order:
                "Break it down!"
===============================================================================
Al heard a crash, then a rumble. He lifted his head and his pupils shrank in
fear and disbelief as an unutterable horror seized him.
                He said: "Ivan—"
                And then they were running.
                Even though Al knew it was hopeless; even though he knew they
couldn't outrun the frothing torrent that crashed toward them, swallowing
everything in its merciless path, he ran. He took Ivan's hand and he ran as
fast as he could, pulling the lumbering Alpha into the forest. Faster!Faster!
But he knew it wasn't fast enough. Behind him, he could hear the surprised
cries and frightened howls of Alphas as the Rhine swept them all away. In front
of him, the forest fled. Animals, soldiers—everyone ran from the fury of Mother
Nature.
                Not again! Oh gods,not again!
                "Ivan!"  
                "Alfred, brace yourself!"
                Al's feet were violently swept out from under him and he nose-
dived forward, the water carrying him off. He felt Ivan's hand slipping through
his fingers and instantly thought of Matt. Two months ago Al let go of Matt's
hand in the flood and lost him, maybe for good. Two months ago he had been
afraid to die alone. No, no,no. I'm not going to die. I'm not going to lose
Ivan. Ivan—! Al wouldn't let it happen again. He clawed at the Alpha's hand as
they were dragged and thrown from side-to-side, determined not to let go, but
his grasp was slipping, slipping, slipping...
                Ivan's hand was yanked free of Al's and Al felt panic seize
him. No,please—! Not again!
                Then Ivan's hand landed on his lower-back and Al felt the
Alpha's strong arm wrap around his waist, pulling the Omega against his body.
Instinctively, Al looped his arms around Ivan's neck and clung on tightly. He
could feel the Alpha's powerful body fighting the current, his limbs
pumping—digging—sideways. Al was barely aware of which direction was up as he
let Ivan pull him, then push him up onto a floating wooden platform. The Omega
gasped and coughed as he crawled up onto it, feeling heavy and drenched. "I-I-
I—Ivan," he stuttered, swiping for the Alpha.
                "It's alright, I'm here," Ivan gasped. He started to climb up
behind Al, but the platform—what was left of the battering-ram—teetered and
nearly flipped, so he let go. Instead, he held onto the side and let himself be
carried along in the current. Al held tight to his chained wrists to steady
him. As they sailed helplessly along on their makeshift raft, Al saw less
fortunate Alphas flailing and drowning and a whimper escaped him. "It's going
to be okay," Ivan said to Al, "just hold on. Just look at me, Alfred. It's
okay. Soon the river is going to—Oh, fuck!"
                Al saw what Ivan saw and shrieked. Alphas were being battered,
their tough bodies broken on jagged rocks and trees. One had been skewered by a
shattered tree branch, his corpse rocking in the current; another hit a rock
and a spray of red coated the surface before washing away. The Rhine had turned
the Black Forest into a field of rapids.
                Oh my God,we're going to die!We're going to die!
                "AH!"
                The raft jolted suddenly when someone grabbed it. Unbalanced,
Al tumbled forward, head-first into groping hands. Strong, desperate hands that
tugged him forcefully downward. An Alpha was flailing madly, trying to use Al
as leverage to pull himself to safety. Al fought his assailant, whining and
panicking as he struggled to stay afloat.
                "No,no, please!" cried the Alpha. He swallowed a mouthful of
water and coughed, briefly submerging before he popped back up. It was then
that Al recognized him: Captain Le Roux.
                "Get off! Get off of me!" Al cried as his body pitched forward.
Ivan seized the back of his shirt to prevent him falling, but Le Roux didn't
let go. He growled and grabbed, and Al felt the fabric of his weathered shirt
begin to tear. He was going to fall, and the rapids were getting closer,
closer—
                SMASH!
                The raft hit a tree trunk and Le Roux screamed in pain. Al took
advantage of it and pulled himself free.
                "Omega!" snarled the Southerner. His eyes and teeth gleamed
angrily—scared. "Help! Please help me!"
                Al's heart pounded, but he didn't move. He saw Le Roux
slipping, ready to fall, but he didn't move. Maybe he should have tried to save
the Alpha; maybe that was the right thing to do; maybe that's what Matt would
have done in the same situation, but Al was not Matt. Al would never be Matt.
Al didn't want to be Matt. So instead of reaching out to help the army captain
who had tormented him and tortured his future Alpha-mate, who had taken
pleasure in their suffering, he simply watched as Le Roux's body slammed into
the rocks and shattered. Nothing but a strangled howl escaped him as he slipped
helplessly off the raft and sunk beneath the frothing water.
                "Alfred!"
                Only then did Al realize the raft was no longer moving; rather,
it seemed to be tethered in place as the river swept by. Ivan's teeth were
clenched and his arms were strained, one holding onto the raft, the other wound
around a thick tree branch. "Up!" the Alpha gasped, indicating the treetops.
                Al obeyed without hesitance. Carefully—clumsily—he angled his
body toward the tree and leapt, grabbing for the branch hanging low over Ivan's
pale head. He scrambled quickly onto it and hooked his legs expertly around the
branch's girth, then reached down to assist the half-submerged Alpha. "Give me
your hand!" he demanded, fighting a tug-o-war with the river in which Ivan was
the prize. Oh Gods,he's heavy! Al heaved and Ivan hauled himself up and
eventually they made it into the higher branches, safe from the danger. Side-
by-side, they sat and surveyed the wreck of what had been forest turned
battlefield turned flood.
                I'm never going swimming again as long as I live! Al thought
resentfully—fearfully. He didn't realize he was shaking until Ivan's arms drew
him closer.
                "It's okay, little one, you're safe."
                Al didn't realize he was crying either, until the Alpha wiped
his cheeks.
                "It's okay," he repeated in his deep, soothing voice. "I'm
here."
                Yes,Ivan's here. Just like before. Just like the first time the
river tried me kill me,he's here. He's still here.
                Al snuggled close to Ivan and buried his face. He didn't want
to see the damage. He wished he couldn't hear the screams of Alphas who cried
like pups. When the river stilled, the field would stain it red. It would drink
the fluids of the fallen and pool in the low-ground like a moat of blood around
the Black Forest Fort, the rotting dead left to sustain the forest while
spreading disease to those lucky to be alive. Somewhere beneath the surface,
Sasha's corpse would lay forgotten until there wasn't enough left to be
anything but fish food.
                Al closed his eyes, and said: "Tell me when it's over."
                Ivan's arms tightened protectively around him. "Yes."
===============================================================================
It was nearly sunrise when Ivan shifted. "Come," he said simply, and lumbered
down into the watery wreckage of the Southerner's encampment. Al followed,
letting himself carefully down into the Alpha's outstretched arms. The water
was running slower now. It was opaque, which made Al squirm nervously,
disgusted by what his feet might step on beneath the surface. It was unevenly
distributed throughout the forest. In some places Al could walk, wading through
at waist-height; in other places he had to swim, submerged to the neck as he
paddled to higher-ground and flinching every time his body came into contact
with anything... squishy.
                What happened? he wondered, treading lightly. Where did all of
this water come from?
                "The Westerners," Ivan said when asked. He pointed over-the-
shoulder toward the fort. "I told you they were dangerous. I told you they were
ruthless," he spat.
                Dangerous,maybe, Al thought. Ingenious,definitely. He had
experienced the cunning tricks of the Southern Army and the fearless power of
the Eastern Army, but though the fort looked strong, he had not expected the
Western Alphas to survive the seize. If any of the three armies were going to
succumb to the enemy, he expected it to be the under-populated, under-equipped
soldiers of the Black Forest Fort. In fact, he had been so certain of the South
or East's victory that a part of him had given up hope of ever seeing Matt
again. The fort would fall and Matt would fall with it. Except, it hadn't. As
Al hiked through the mess of the forest, he could see the towers of the Black
Forest Fort in the distance, still standing strong—the only thing still
standing.
                "Mattie," he whispered.
                Ivan's face was kind, but his voice was stern. "No, Alfred. I'm
sorry, but no."
                "But Ivan," said Al weakly, "Mattie might still be alive."
                "He might be," Ivan acknowledged, "but even if he is, there's
nothing we can do for him. Not as long as he's behind those walls. I know you
don't want to hear this, Al, but you've done all you can. You've tried, little
one. You've proven your worth time and again. You've won many battles on this
journey, but you must accept defeat this time. I will not let you go back
there. I said I would search for your brother as long as it didn't put you at
risk and I haven't changed my mind. Going back to that fort," he interrupted
Al's protest, "is not only impossible, it's suicide. I'm sorry," he repeated
sincerely, "but I'm your Alpha-mate, Al, and I'm telling you no. If your
brother is alive, he's going to have to save himself."
                "But Mattie's not—"
                "Like you? No. I doubt there's anyone in the world quite like
you, Alfred Kirkland. But Matt is your brother, and if he has half the courage
and fighting spirit you do, he'll survive. You have to trust him, Al.
                "Trust me."
                Reluctantly, Al nodded. He took Ivan's hand and let himself be
led away.
===============================================================================
It was only by chance that they met Thierry in the aftermath of the flood. Al
was glad to find him alive and unhurt, too far from the fort and battlefield to
have encountered all but the last dregs of excitement. He smiled brightly at
Thierry, showing his relief, but the Alpha merely stared wanly in reply. He was
sitting on a fallen log with his hands clasped in his lap, his tender grey eyes
looking down at the ankle-deep mud, and that's when Al realized his mistake.
Thierry was a soldier of the Southern Empire. Of course he didn't revel in the
defeat and death of his comrades. He was so kind, so non-confrontation that Al
doubted he would have rejoiced no matter what the battlefield result had been.
In apology, the Omega softened his approach.
                "Captain Le Roux—" Thierry began, then shook his head. "My
Alpha-father," he corrected, "is dead. A scout found his body. He drowned."
                Al pinched his lips together and glanced guiltily up at Ivan,
but the Alpha silently shook his head. It wouldn't benefit anyone to tell the
sensitive Southerner exactly how his Alpha-father had died. Let Thierry believe
Le Roux had drowned; it was kinder than the truth. In comradeship, Al sat down
on the log beside Thierry and tentatively touched his slight shoulder.
                "I'm not sorry he's dead," he said honestly, "but I am sorry
you're sad."
                Thierry turned to look at Al, his grey eyes sad and confused,
but soft in understanding. "Thank-you," he said.
                After an awkward moment, in which Al didn't know what more to
say, thinking, perhaps, that he could have phrased his condolences a little
better—Papa would be mortified—Thierry stood. He shrugged off his satchel and
gave it to Ivan, who accepted it with a nod. "It's not much," he admitted, "but
it's more than either of you have now. There's spare clothes... but I'm afraid
they won't fit you, Ivan. They'll probably fit you, Alfred. You and I are the
same height," he said, a hint of kinship in his tone. A small Alpha and a tall
Omega. For the first time, Al didn't feel insulted by the comment; he felt
proud to share something with Thierry. "There's soap and a couple of tools and
medical supplies," he continued. "There's a little food, but not nearly enough.
You'll have to hunt for yourselves. I'm sorry. It's all I can give you." Pause.
"You should go now," he said, avoiding eye-contact with either fugitive.
"Before someone sees you."
                "Come with us," Al blurted impulsively. He hated to leave his
new friend behind, especially since Ivan's old friend was gone. If this
adventure had taught Al anything, it was not to harbour prejudices, but instead
to cherish the friends he did have, no matter who they were. "Come to the Isles
with us," he invited. "What's left for you in the South anyway?"
                "My Omega-father and siblings," Thierry replied. He said it
quietly, affectionately. "I guess, with my Alpha-father gone, I'm the head of
the family now. I have to take care of them."
                Al smiled. "You're a good Alpha, Thierry. A strong Alpha. Don't
let anyone ever tell you differently."
                Finally, Thierry lifted his head and slowly, shyly, returned
Al's smile. "I'm glad I met you, Alfred Bonnefoi. I hope you find the happiness
you're searching for."
                "Thank-you for everything," Al said formerly, submitting. It
wasn't an Omega's curtsy, nor an Alpha's bow. It was an ambiguous gesture that
only Al Kirkland could have pulled off, but it showed his respect. Ivan, too,
inclined his head a fraction in gratitude. "Maybe someday we'll meet again."
                Thierry nodded and bowed deep. "Gods bless you both."
***** Lost Boys – Chapter Fifteen *****
WESTERN EMPIRE
THE BLACK FOREST
"Wait." Matt stopped beneath a large fir tree, his lips pursed.
                "Schatz?" Gil asked in concern. "Are you okay?"
                Matt didn't reply. His eyes were unblinking and his face was
glossy white. He pressed a hand firmly to his mouth, fighting the urge to—
                Suddenly, he bent forward and vomited.
                Gil flinched, then moved to assist his Omega-mate. It's just a
symptom of pregnancy, he knew, because Matt had told him; because he may have
overreacted the first time he had witnessed it, thinking that something was
wrong. It'll pass in a minute, it always does. But he still hovered anxiously.
He pulled Matt's satchel off and dropped it aside, then held back the Omega's
long hair as he gagged and gasped. He could feel Matt's body shudder with each
purge, as if sucked of strength. Gil held the Omega's shoulders in support, and
then drew him back against his chest when the gagging stopped. "Done?" he asked
as Matt's body sagged in exhaustion.
                "Yes," Matt croaked, leaning against him. He wiped his face.
"Sorry."
                Gil rolled his eyes. "Apologize one more time for carrying my
pup and I'll gag you, I swear," he said in mock-threat. Matt smiled coyly up at
him, his head pillowed on the Alpha's pectoral. It softened Gil's jest. "It's
okay, schatz," he said, kissing Matt's forehead. "This is my fault, right?"
                Matt laughed softly. "Yes, love." He rested a hand on his
abdomen. "All your fault.
                "But I'm the one slowing us down," he added.
                "It's okay, we're not in any hurry."
                Matt cupped Gil's cheek and stroked it affectionately. "Liar,"
he whispered.
                Gil merely grinned.
                The truth was, the sooner they reached the Low Countries, the
safer they would be. Gil was a wanted fugitive, and though the Black Guards
would report him dead to the Kaiser, word of his heroism would take time to
spread. Every day that he remained in the Western Empire he risked being
recognized and arrested. He wore his hood to hide his memorable looks, and he
tried to steer away from settlements along their route, but their slow pace
still made him anxious. Matt—bless him—was not accustomed to long, spartan
journeys. On the Isles, they only travelled once a year to the Standing Stones,
and even that was a trek considerate of Omegas, pups, and elders. It was not
the swift, tireless march of a honed soldier. "I'm sorry, love," Matt had said
often enough to annoy Gil, even though they both knew the Omega was the one
slowing them down.
                Gil hefted Matt to his feet, then took the weight of both
satchels. "It is what it is," he shrugged. Then, noting Matt's dismay, added:
"I'm hardly going to leave you behind, schatz."
                By sunset, they had made little progress. Matt was now seven
weeks pregnant and his body was struggling to acclimatize to the change. Or,
that was Gil's understanding of it. (He hadn't really understood the technical
terms the Omega had used.) It was messy and inconvenient and it made the Alpha
pity his poor, exhausted Omega-mate. They had had to stop often, because Matt
couldn't keep any food down and walking on an empty stomach made him slow and
lightheaded. Gil tried to set a considerate pace, but every time he thought
they were making good time, he would look sideways and find Matt pale and
panting and quietly suffering as he tried to keep up. He had to keep reminding
himself to slow down, otherwise he increased speed without thinking and Matt,
of course, didn't complain. He simply followed Gil's lead, begging a halt only
when he felt sick enough to vomit. Finally, Gil decided to stop for the
evening, because even though he had hours left of walking in him, Matt
certainly did not.
                "I'm so sorry, love," Matt said, wobbling on his feet. Gil took
his arm and helped him sit on a pelt. "I'm really not feeling well today."
                Gil crouched in front of him. "You sure you're not actually
sick?"
                "No, I'm fine. It'll pass," Matt dismissed, looking worn.
                "You should eat something," Gil advised, and began rummaging in
a satchel pocket. He produced a parcel of dry, salted venison, which he
unwrapped. "Here."
                Matt squeezed his eyes shut, his forehead creased. "No,
thanks."
                "Come on, schatz, you need to eat," Gil urged, worried for his
weakened Omega-mate.
                "Gil, darling," Matt replied in the same patronizing tone, "if
you don't get that away from my face, I'm going to vomit on you."
                Gil lowered the parcel.
                "You're sure you're okay?"
                Matt nodded. "I'm just tired," he said. "I haven't slept much
since your arrest."
                "Me, neither," Gil admitted. He stuffed the food parcel back
into the satchel, then hunkered down beside the Omega, his back braced against
rough-hewn tree bark. "Come here," he said. Matt obeyed and shifted into the
circle of Gil's arms. "Cold?" he asked, even as he wrapped his cloak around
Matt. Matt didn't reply, already half-asleep. In fact, Gil thought he was
asleep until Matt's soft, breathy voice said:
                "Wake me in a couple hours."
                "Just rest, schatz. I can—"
                "Wake me," Matt insisted. "You need sleep, too, love." A longer
pause than the first was interrupted by a coy inquiry. "Gil—?" His voice was
soft and sleepy. "Are you ever going to tell me what schatz means?"
                Gil chuckled and nuzzled the top of Matt's head. "No,
sweetheart, I'm not."
===============================================================================
The next morning, Matt attempted the Herculean task of eating dry, salted meat,
but failed as nausea licked the back of his throat.
                "I'm sorry, I—I can't eat this," he said, shoving it aside.
"It'll just be a waste."
                Gil dug deeper into the satchel. "Biscuits, then? Think you
could stomach a—Okay, okay," he retreated when Matt vehemently shook his head,
the back of his hand pressed to his mouth. "Well, damn, Matt," he said in
apology, raking a hand through his hair, "that's all we've got. Come on, can't
you just try to eat some? It can't be that bad—"
                Matt glared at him.
                Gil sighed.
                "I think I could stomach fish," Matt offered. "It's not as...
fragrant."
                "We don't have any salted fish."
                "Not salted fish, fresh fish. You could, maybe, go fishing—?"
he asked, turning the suggestion into a question, a hopeful plea in his voice.
                "Fish? That's really what you want? I don't know..." Gil
hesitated. "I'd have to go back to the river, and I don't want to leave you
alone," he worried.
                "I'll be okay," Matt promised. "It's not far. You'll hear me
scream if anything happens," he joked. Gil didn't laugh. He looked uneasily at
the Omega, genuinely afraid to let him out of sight (or reach). In appeasement,
Matt took the Alpha's hand and kissed it. "I'll stay right here, okay? I won't
move from this spot, I promise. It won't be for long, right? I'm sure you're an
amazing fisherman, darling," he flattered, his soft lips still pressed to Gil's
skin, long lashes fluttering artfully over violet eyes. Gil's smile revealed
lazy amusement rather than enchantment. Matt laughed at the failed attempt and
bowed his head in surrender. When he lifted it again his expression was
sincere. "Please, Gil—?" he asked, throwing himself upon the mercy of his
Alpha-mate. "I'm so hungry."
                "Fine," Gil agreed. He leant forward and pecked Matt's lips.
"I'll be right back. Stay here."
                "I love you!" Matt chorused guiltily after him.
                Gil grunted, waving a hand over-the-shoulder in reluctant
retreat.
===============================================================================
Ivan crept through the forest with purpose. He wasn't quiet or light-footed,
but he was an affable hunter nonetheless. "I'll get the food," he had said to
Al, having won a game-of-chance for the honour, "you get the firewood." Al had
been irked at the result, but had yielded to his less glorified task with
nothing louder than a deep, resigned sigh and a sulky "cheater" as he shuffled
off. Ivan had laughed. The truth was, he didn't mind doing menial housekeeping
tasks, which were no less important. (No firewood equaled no fire equaled no
hot food.) But every now and then, he had to admit, it felt good to play a more
dominant Alpha-role. It felt good to be needed, and he took pride in hunting to
provide for his Omega like a real Alpha-mate.
                Soon, he thought as he dodged a tall fir, winding through a
labyrinth of trees. Soon we'll be mated for real.
                A fortnight, Al calculated. As long as his body was healthy by
then, in a fortnight's time he would once again succumb to a Heat—one Ivan
fully intended to be present for this time. He already felt cheated for having
missed the last two, each one a fleeting chance to legally claim the Omega he
was desperately in love with. If Fate kept them apart again, Ivan truly thought
he might die of yearning. Just picturing Al's Heat was enough to excite him:
his long, golden body spread languidly, naked skin stretched taut over subtle
slopes of muscle; his whole figure flushed from cheeks to navel, and wet with
slick from navel to knees; his blue eyes sparkling, hazy with lust; his lips
swollen and parted, and whining softly for Ivan's touch. And the scent of him.
Oh, gods! Ivan vividly recalled the tangy-sweet scent of Al's body in Heat, so
naturally alluring and—
                Ivan's nose twitched. He tipped his head up and breathed in
deeply, trying to read a scent that was intimately familiar and yet not. It was
an Omega's scent. It was Al's scent—almost.
                Alfred—? he pondered, because who else could it be? The young
scent was more alike Al's than anyone else's. Though, as he drew closer, guided
by his nose, he realized that it was saturated in a much riper Alpha scent. A
strong, healthy Alpha. A Westerner. The evidence of it slapped Ivan rudely in
the face and pulled a low, menacing growl from his throat. Why does my
Alfred—but not my Alfred—smell like another Alpha? Why does he smell mated? It
didn't make sense. Ivan knewit didn't make sense, and yet he couldn't help the
way his body reacted. He felt defensive of the Omega, confused by the subtle
difference, but possessive of him nonetheless. The scent was too familiar to
ignore, and soon Ivan was tearing through the forest to reach the Omega who was
Al but not Al. He leapt a ditch and landed with his teeth bared, expecting the
Westerner to be nearby. There were flecks of spittle on his chin, and lines
creasing his forehead, and anger in his pale eyes, and the entire image of the
huge Eastern ex-soldier with his teeth bared scared a young Omega who was not
Al, but rather—
                "Matthew!" Ivan gasped.
                He had to be. He couldn't be anyone else. He looked too much
like a smaller, softer, paler version of Al not to be the Omega's twin-brother.
He smelled like Al (sans the Alpha scent), and he looked exactly as described.
He even sounded like Al's description: quiet and timid, though his anxiety
might be blamed on the savage Alpha gaping at him.
                Matt's lips were parted, ready to scream, but the sound of his
given-name stopped him.
                "Who are y-you?" he asked, trying and failing to sound brave.
He clutched a dagger emblazoned with a black cross, which he brandished shakily
in one hand, shoulders arched and legs pulled to his chest. His other arm
wrapped around his middle, like an Omega protecting an unborn pup—
                Oh,no, Ivan thought, suddenly recognizing the faint scent of
pregnancy. He shouldn't be surprised: Matt had been imprisoned in the fort for
as long as Al had been safe with Ivan. Of course he hadn't been left untouched.
He only hoped that the scared little thing had been claimed as one Alpha's
property, and one Alpha only. If Le Roux's gossip proved true and Matt had
become the fort's whore... Al's going to be devastated when he finds out, he
thought, eyes going regretfully to the Omega's flat middle.
                "How do you know my name?" Matt suddenly demanded.
                "Matthew," he repeated, struck dumb in disbelief. He had been
so sure of the Omega's fate that he had never actually expected to meet him.
But here he was, not entirely unharmed but at least he was alive.
                Al's going to be so relieved.
                He started forward, intending to collect Matt and deliver him
to Al, but a growl made him pause.
                "Get away from me!" Matt warned, leaping hurriedly to his feet.
His growl—more of an aggressive purr, Ivan thought—did little to intimidate the
Alpha, but he paused nonetheless.
                "Oh, I've scared you," he acknowledged. "I didn't mean to scare
you. I'm not going to hurt you, Matthew," he said, reaching out. "My name is
Ivan. Your brother is my—"
                Ivan didn't get to finish. He was struck from behind so
violently that he stumbled and fell, blinking red spots from his vision. He
shook his head and pushed himself to his knees, but was forced down again by
the blow of a boot-heel. Ivan growled and, before the third attack landed—a
strike to the head—he grabbed the Alpha's leg and yanked his feet out from
under him. The Westerner flailed, but caught his balance fast. Ivan rounded on
him, ready to defend Matt from the danger—for this was the Alpha whose scent
Matt carried, not just on him but in him—until he saw the Alpha's eyes, which
were as red as his reputation foretold. The blood left the Easterner's face and
his eyes narrowed, and, suddenly, all he could think of was protecting Matt
from the wicked Western captain who had abducted him. He bared his teeth and
roared at the Westerner, rising to his full towering height and drawing his
sword.
                I will not let you lay another hand on this Omega! he thought
self-righteously. You will not hurt Alfred or his family every again!
                "Get away from my Omega-mate," growled the Westerner, drawing a
long sword, "before I fucking gut you."
                "He's not yours," Ivan denied. He swung his sword in threat.
The Westerner's red eyes—it's true,blood red—lit like fire when he recognized
an Eastern blade. Ivan advanced. "You will not touch him again!"
                Metal clashed shrilly as the two ex-soldiers came together in a
vicious battle. Ivan was much broader, but the Westerner was faster. He dodged
Ivan's attacks and then peppered him with ceaseless blows intended to push him
backwards, away from the cowering Omega. Vaguely, Ivan could hear the Omega's
voice—screaming? begging?—but his brain was foggy with battle-lust and his
focus remained on the villain in front of him. He leapt forward and served
blows that chased the Westerner back-and-forth until they hit, then knocked him
momentarily senseless. Both Alphas snapped their teeth, both trying to sink his
canines into the other when their grappling drew them together. They spit and
snarled at each other, each yelling insults in a language the other didn't
speak; insults that needed no translation. Both were seething in hot anger,
steeped in a bred hatred that went a lot deeper than a single Omega's honour.
                Ivan fought as if his life depended on it, because it very
likely did. In all of his years as a soldier, he had never faced such a skilled
opponent. Unlike Ivan, who had been forced into the army as a reluctant foot-
soldier, the Western captain actually liked fighting. Ivan could feel the
practice and precision and skill—the wolfish ferocity of him in every blow. For
the first time since Ivan was a helpless pup training in the Capital, he was
clutched by a blinding fear: Could I actually—lose?
                No. I must protect Matthew. I must protect Alfred—
                "MATTIE?"
                Ivan tore his gaze from the Westerner and turned in the
direction of the baffled shout.
                And there, of course, was Al.
===============================================================================
MATTIE!" Al repeated in reckless abandon.
                He charged through the forest, his feet tripping as he ran, and
flung himself full-bodily upon his lost brother.
                "Oh,thank the gods!" he gasped, winding his arms around Matt's
neck. "You're alive! I can't fucking believe it!You're actually alive!"
                "A-A-Al—?" Matt said in disbelief. Al's weight forced Matt to
his knees and he sat frozen for a moment, then seemed to thaw in a rush of
emotion.
                "Oh,gods! Al!"
                Al felt Matt's hands on him as his brother returned the hug. He
felt Matt's lips on his face, kissing his cheeks, and then Matt's forehead
pressed against his. "I can't believe it," he whispered, sharing Al's giddy
excitement. When Al pulled back to examine Matt's face, there were tears in his
violet eyes. Matt, too, searched Al's face for distress and pawed at his body
like a concerned parent checking a pup for injury. It felt so familiar to Al
that he had to blink happy tears from his eyes, too.
                "I-I-I—I thought you were d-d-dead," Matt confessed, and then
he was crying, tears of relief and happiness rolling down his cheeks.
                Al chortled and wiped Matt's face. "I thought you were dead,
too," he admitted. "I thought"—he yanked Matt into another crushing hug—"I
would never see you again. I've missed you so much, Mattie."
                Matt clutched Al. "I missed you, too. I've felt so lost without
you, Al."
                CLANG!
                "It's okay now, Mattie," Al said, listening to the metal-on-
metal clang of swords, confident of Ivan's victory. He held Matt protectively.
"I won't let him hurt you anymore."
                To his utter shock, Matt pushed him off.
                "Who? Gil—?" he said suddenly, eyes going to the fight. "Oh,
no! Al, you're mistaken, he's my Alpha-mate!"
                Al scrambled to his feet to follow Matt, who was running
recklessly toward the battling Alphas.
                "Gil!" he shouted. "Gil, stop! It's okay, they're—Ah!"
                "Stay back,Matt!" the red-eyed Alpha ordered, shoving Matt with
his body. He took up a defensive position in front of the Omega, who tugged
urgently on his tunic.
                "Gil!" he tried, but the Westerner wasn't listening.
                Nor was Ivan, whose muscular body curled itself into an
attacking posture. He leapt forward, only to stumble clumsily when Al's
piercing voice yelled:
                "STOP,YOU STUPID ALPHAS!"
                Only then did Gil take notice of Al, the scent of Matt's blood-
relative freezing him in place. "Matt?" he asked in confusion.
                Matt's fingers were clenched in Gil's black tunic, ready to
yank him back if he tried to attack. "Gil, darling," he said, making eye-
contact with the volatile Alpha. He waited, then, clearing his voice of
emotion, he waved a hand between Gil and Al as if he was making polite
introductions in a dining-hall. "This is my brother, Alfred Kirkland. Al, this
is my Alpha-mate, Gilbert Beilschmidt."
                His voice seemed to have a soothing effect on both Alphas,
because Ivan lowered his sword. "Alpha-mate?" he questioned suspiciously.
                Al picked-up on Ivan's thread. "But, Mattie, isn't he the one
who—who took you? Isn't he the Westerner who, uh..." Al bit his lip.
                "Oh, good," said Gil glibly. "My reputation proceeds me."
                Matt gave the Alpha's arm a consoling pat. "Gil rescued me, Al.
He's the only reason I'm alive."
                "But you're pregnant," Ivan blurted.
                Al's eyes went wide. "Pregnant?" he gaped, looking from Matt to
Gil. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he spat at the latter.
                Gil growled and clenched the handle of his sword. Matt placed
his hand on Gil's wrist, trying to lower it, but the Alpha fought the
restraint.
                "I think," said Matt benevolently, "we should all sit down and
have a longer conversation about this. A lot has happened since last we saw
each other, Al. I'm mated and pregnant, now—happily mated and pregnant." He
smiled in reassurance. "And perhaps you would like to tell us who this is?" he
implied Ivan.
                "He's an Eastern deserter," Gil spat—literally.
                Ivan growled.
                Al said: "Oh, right. This is Ivan. He's going to be my Alpha-
mate soon."
                He looked from Ivan to Matt to Gil, then sighed.
                "Uh, maybe we should sit down and talk about this."
Exuberantly, he clapped his hands. "Who's hungry?"
===============================================================================
Ivan handed Matt a steaming bowl of plain potato porridge. The Omega sniffed at
it, then took a small, tentative bite.
                "Oh," he smiled in pleasant surprise, "this is wonderful.
Thank-you, this is exactly what I need. Thank-you so much," he repeated,
spooning a larger mouthful.
                Ivan nodded in silent you're welcome, then retreated. Beside
Matt, his arm wrapped protectively around the Omega, Gil glared
suspiciously—and sulkily—at the Easterner. His red eyes followed Ivan's
movements as he tidied the cooking, jealous that the Easterner seemed to do a
better job taking care of his Omega-mate than he did. He knew Matt could hear
him growl, could probably feel it, too, but he was too preoccupied sating
hunger to sooth the Alpha's pride. Besides, Matt was too polite to speak with
food in his mouth—not that his twin-brother abided by that courtesy.
                "This is surreal!" Al said, chewing enthusiastically. "Mattie,
I can't believe we've been so close to each other this whole time!"
                Alfred Kirkland was alike Matt and yet as unalike Matt as any
Omega could possibly be, Gil thought. He was bigger, bolder, and brighter than
Matt—quite pretty, really—but there was an arrogance in him that Gil didn't
trust. The more he observed the flamboyant Omega, the more he recognized the
self-satisfied armour of someone who wasn't entirely happy with himself.
Someone who hid behind smiles and jokes to counteract how uncomfortable he
felt. How displaced. Someone who was always on the outside, even when he was
the centre-of attention. Gil knew this about Al without asking, because it was
how he had always felt, too.
                He hadn't lied to Matt about his childhood: it had been happy,
it just hadn't always been inclusive. Being the General's Alpha-pup had been
hard enough, carrying the weight of everyone's expectations—be this, be that,
you're an example, Gilbert—and Gil's abnormal appearance hadn't helped. Like
Al, he had learnt to wear his insecurities like armour to protect himself, but
the uncensored opinions of pups were always harsher than the dodged stares of
adults, and Gil's childhood had been riddled with bullying flavoured
friendship. In retrospect, it was why he had tried so hard to distinguish
himself, to be better at everything than everyone. But the harder he worked,
the more he succeeded, the more he distanced himself from everyone else, and
soon young Gilbert Beilschmidt had become an outlier of his own invention. He
kept working and training and studying, learning how to be the best, pushing
himself tirelessly through each promotion until he had become the youngest Fort
Commander in history. He had done it for his Alpha-father (if he could see me
now,would he be proud of me?), and for the Empire (protect the Empire!). But
pride and admiration was not the same as a feeling of belonging, and despite
his comrades' respect and devotion, Gil knew they were not his equals. They
would never be his equals. And he would never be theirs. The distance he had
felt in childhood merely transformed into the loneliness of leadership—until he
had met Matt. Matt had bridged the gap Gil felt but couldn't understand,
because he was the only person allowed to see Gil without the titles and
honours and responsibilities. The only one allowed to see Gil rage and cry and
lust and fear. The only one allowed to see an ordinary Alpha, glories and
mistakes aside. Not Captain Beilschmidt, not the Fort Commander, not traitor or
hero—just Gil. Matt's mere presence had healed Gil of a loneliness he hadn't
been consciously aware of and replaced it with a love he hadn't known was
possible.
                Gil wondered if Al felt the same way about the Easterner. The
Omega was so dreamy-eyed over the Alpha, it didn't take a scholar to read the
love and admiration in his eyes. Or the hunger. Gil saw in Al the same reckless
thirst to prove himself that he, himself, had felt until recently. Matt had
told Gil lots about Al in the past couple of months—he loved his brother very
much—enough for Gil to know that Al had never really belonged either. Matt
hadn't said it, of course. But then, Matt probably didn't understand the depth
of Al's loneliness, especially if Al always faked a smile for Matt's benefit,
like Gil always had for Ludwig. Even before meeting Al, Gil had a picture of
the Omega in his mind; one not so very different from the truth. Or rather, the
lie. Al's was an untrustworthy act, and looking across the small cook-fire to
where he sat now, Gil didn't trust his friendly smile and casual conversation.
What he didtrust was the nervous relief in Al's voice, the weary tension in his
muscles, the constant, self-conscious shifting of his posture, and the
determination in his blue eyes.
                Alfred Kirkland, he thought in approval, feeling a kinship with
the Omega like he had never felt with anyone before. My new little brother.
                Al swallowed the last of his meal, then shuffled over to sit
beside Matt. Matt shifted his weight beneath Gil's arm, moving closer to his
brother until their sides touched, their body's angled toward each other. Al's
hand rested on Matt's back—ignorantly brushing Gil's—and Matt bowed his head to
Al's as they talked, the soft, glad sounds of their voices pleasing to the
Alpha's ear. Though Matt's body was pressed between Al's and his, Gil felt
rather invisible as the two Omegas regaled each other with stories, recalling
each of their individual adventures. They gasped and sighed and smiled and
laughed, and Gil found himself feeling uncharacteristically indulgent,
unbothered by the proximity as the brothers sat curled together like kittens.
Omegas, it seemed, liked to cuddle with each other. A comfort and safety
precaution, he guessed. (An Omega's sphere was domestic and most spent more
time with each other than with their Alpha-mates. Though, domestic wasn't a
word Gil would have used to describe Alfred Kirkland.) The old un-mated Captain
Beilschmidt would have found the Omegas' chatter and whimpers and giggles
annoying, but Matt's softened Alpha-mate found himself feeling relaxed as night
descended. He felt the pleasant calm of domesticity settle over him like a big
heavy blanket, and he realized that he liked having the Omegas by his side. He
had been living with Alphas for so long that he was surprised by how much he
liked the peace and quiet of the softer sex.
                He did not, however, like Ivan.
                "I don't trust him," he told Matt later, as they settled down
to sleep. He had lost a game of chance for the first watch shift. (He was
certain Ivan had cheated, and Al was quick to agree.) "He's a deserter," he
scoffed.
                "Gil," Matt said as gently as possible, "so are you. And just
like you, I'm sure he had a good reason. It doesn't make him a villain."
                Gil scoffed.
                "Al trusts him," Matt said, matter-of-fact, "so I do, too. And
you trust me, don't you?"
                "Of course I do, schatz. It's him I don't trust."
                "Let go of the prejudice," Matt advised, rubbing Gil's
shoulders. "Ivan's a good Alpha. Al wouldn't love him if he wasn't."
                "I think you put too much faith in your brother."
                "Wouldn't you put faith in yours?"
                Gil opened his mouth to argue, then closed it into tight-lipped
surrender. "Touché," he grinned ruefully. "But I think you're a lot more like
Ludwig than Al is."
                "And you're a lot more like Al than I am," Matt parried,
settling down beneath the weight of Gil's arm.
                Gil rolled his eyes. "I expect I'm just jealous of him then,
the Easterner," he said, squeezing Matt in example.
                "Oh, I don't mind," Matt admitted, smiling coyly. "Papa used to
say that envy is like salt: A little bit enhances the flavour, but too much
spoils the meal."
                Gil snorted. "Francis Bonnefoi sounds like a cad. And, you
know, the more you tell me about him, the more I want to meet him. Do you think
he'll hate me very much?"
                "Oh, yes," Matt teased. "You're the mean old Alpha who
deflowered his pup."
                Gil scowled. "Old?"
                "Well," Matt shrugged in mock-innocence; he patted Gil's chest,
"you are twenty-years-old."
                "Twenty-one."
                That took Matt off-guard. He had been slumped comfortably
against Gil, but now he sat up to better see the Alpha's face. "You were twenty
when we met."
                "Mm hmm," Gil nodded. "And now I'm twenty-one. My birthday was
last month."
                "What? Why didn't you tell me?" Matt worried. "I would've done
something nice for you."
                "Oh, you did." Gil grinned. He couldn't help it, Matt's
innocent confusion was adorable. "You were in Heat."
                The Omega's violet eyes widened, then his brow furrowed.
"Not... the first day..."
                "No," Gil hurried, putting that unhappy incident out-of-mind.
"It was the day after."
                "The day after," Matt repeated, remembering it. Gil watched his
expression melt into disbelief. "So, we spent your entire twenty-first birthday
mating and you didn't even tell me?"
                Gil laughed. "For the record, best birthday ever."
                Matt lightly punched his chest, laughing as well. "I think
you're the cad, Gil. You should've told me."
                "Why? I already had everything I wanted," he said, pulling Matt
down and wrapping both arms around him.
                After a moment of silent pondering, he asked: "Do you think our
pup was conceived on my birthday?"
                "I don't know, maybe. It had to be one of those five days.
Though," Matt heaved a dramatic sigh, "I suppose it would be terribly poetic if
it was."
                Again, Gil snorted. "Maybe it'll be born on your birthday."
                Matt shrugged, and repeated: "Maybe."
                Curiously, Gil spread his fingers over Matt's abdomen. "What do
you think it is? An Alpha or an Omega?"
                He felt Matt shiver in silent laughter.
                "It's only been seven weeks, love."
                "Oh, come on," Gil teased, nuzzling Matt's curls, "Omega's
intuition, right?"
                "Mm, yes, that's right." Sighing sleepily, Matt rested his head
on Gil's chest. "What do you want it to be?" he asked after a pause. "An Alpha
or an Omega?"
                Gil heard quiet apprehension in Matt's voice, the unjustified
worry that he might deliver the opposite of what his Alpha-mate desired.
Reassuringly, he kissed the Omega's head. "Both."
                "Oh? Well, twins do run in my family."
                Before Gil could reply, Al reappeared. "What are you two
talking about?" he asked, sitting down unabashedly close to Gil.
                "Nothing," Matt said, yawning.
                Uninvited, Al propped a blanket against Gil's elbow as a pillow
and then curled-up beside Matt, like two pups in a nursery. Gil shifted, and
only then noticed how warm Al felt—warmer than he should have been, yet he
shivered. Matt noticed it, too.
                "Al?" he said, lifting his head. Gently, he pressed a hand to
Al's face. "You're feverish," he worried. "How long have you been feverish
for?"
                "I'm fine, Mattie. It comes and goes—Matt," he called as Matt
pushed himself up, leaving Gil and Al cuddling together.
                "How long has my brother been ill?" Matt asked Ivan, who was
sitting opposite, deftly carving a piece of oak. He disliked being idle, Gil
noticed. He was always quietly doing something.
                Ivan sighed deeply, straining the fabric of his shirt.
                (He looked stupid in Gil's shirt, Gil thought. Since the Alpha
had been bare-chested when they had met, Matt had donated one of Gil's spare
shirts to the Easterner. It was long enough in the sleeves but not wide enough
across the chest and the dark fabric was now stretched taut over Ivan's
muscular torso, making him look bigger than he was. He's even bigger than
Ludwig, he thought in disdain. Nobody has any business being that big.)
                "He's been sick for too long," said the Easterner regrettably,
"but I don't know how to cure it."
                "Al," Matt faced his brother. With his arms crossed and a
warning in his tone, he sounded uncannily like an unhappy parent. "What did you
do?"
                Al muttered and buried his face, using Gil as a shield.
                "Alfred Kirkland, tell me right now."
                "Gods, okay Dad!" Al sulked. "I just... took a Heat-inhibiting
potion."
                Matt cursed. Gil had never heard his Omega-mate curse before
and found it funny—even when Matt turned that reprimanding glare on him.
                "It's not funny, Gil! My brother poisoned himself!"
                "Mattie, I'm fine!" Al insisted, even as he shivered and sweat.
Matt ignored him and set to work brewing an antidote.
                Gil pulled a blanket up over Al's golden head, like a cloak.
"Better not to argue, little brother," he said.
===============================================================================
Little brother. Only that accepting term-of-endearment reassured Ivan that his
intended mate was not in danger from the other Alpha. That, and the devoted way
the Westerner behaved with his own Omega-mate. Ivan didn't like Gil—not at all,
actually; self-entitled prick—and he really didn't like how close Al was
sitting beside his brother-by-mating-law, but, begrudgingly, he trusted the
situation for two reasons:
                First, because Gil's look was not that of an adulterer or
polygamist. Anyone could see that he was hopelessly in love with Matt.
                And second, because Ivan trusted Al more than anyone in his
life. After everything they had been through together, how could he not? Ivan
had known love and friendship before: the proof was in his sister and Sasha's
self-sacrifices for him. But no one had ever stood by him like Al did. Al's
love was not a default of blood-relation or debt. What made Al different was
that he had always had a choice, and he chose Ivan. He trusted Ivan, which
meant a lot to the self-invented hermit. The least Ivan could do was trust him
in return. Trust that he had desperately missed his brother and now wanted to
stay as close to him as possible, be there an Alpha in the middle or not.
Besides, Al was no stranger to Alphas. He was not afraid of them. And he had
always been a liberal hugger. He liked to cuddle more than anyone Ivan knew,
and Ivan was hardly going to deny him of it now that he and Matt had finally
been reunited.
                (That, and Gil's body-language was not aggressive just then;
though Ivan kept a subtle eye on him in case it changed.)
                Matt, on the other hand, was quieter and a lot more cautious in
his affections than Al. He was shy—like me, Ivan realized.
                In the Capital, Ivan's silent intensity, deep voice, and
formidable stature had been misleading. When such a large, strong Alpha—always
big for his age—refused to make eye-contact, the officers called it
rebelliousness and had done their utmost to correct it, never guessing that the
real reason Ivan froze was nervousness. More than anything he had hated being
called-out. He had hated being the centre-of-attention—he still did—and his
face flushed with shame and anxiety, rarely anger. But who would believe that
of such a promising warrior? The first pup of his year to kill an enemy? What
Ivan hadn't told Al was that he had cried that night. After the soldiers had
rewarded him with hot food and a place by the fire and an affectionate pat on
the head, Ivan had crawled into his sleeping-roll and silently cried himself to
sleep, a fist stuffed into his mouth so that no one would hear him. He had
missed his family that night more than he had in two whole years and
desperately wanted to go home. He had never wanted to be a soldier, even though
he was good at it. He had never wanted to be what was expected of him.
                Like Matthew, he thought, watching the Omega pound herbs into a
paste. Al's stories of Matt usually alluded to the Omega's domestic talents,
and—to Ivan's ears—how often Matt was taken for granted. It seemed that, like
Ivan, Matt had always played the role provided for him. He never sulked or
complained, he just did what was asked of him over-and-over again until the
thank-yous faded into monotonous expectation. Ivan doubted that Al understood
it. If Mattie really hated it,then he wouldn't do it, Al would argue, because
he couldn't understand why anyone would do anything they disliked. I wouldn't!
said Al's voice in Ivan's head, prompting an indulgent smile. But not everyone
was as headstrong as Al. Not everyone felt they had a choice, but did that make
them less deserving of admiration?
                "No,Ivan," his sister had told him once. She had been digging
potatoes, her face filthy and fingernails clotted with crescents of dirt;
digging quietly all day to ensure he and his younger sister had enough to eat.
She had looked up at him from a crouch, straw-yellow hair golden in the sun,
and said: "Courage doesn't always roar. Most of the time,courage is simply
getting on and moving forward."
                Forward, forward never back.
                You've got the resilience of an Easterner,Matthew Kirkland.
                As Ivan watched Matt brew a restorative tea for Al, he noticed
the subtle imperfections on the pretty Omega, whom Al described as flawless.
But he wasn't. Matt's hands were gentle and fine-boned, but his knuckles were
chaffed and his fingertips were red, like Ivan's sister's had been—years of
cooking and laundry taking its toll. Matt didn't have the scars of adventure,
but he did have small marks that betrayed a working life: a pin-prick here, a
burn there. Matt's fair skin camouflaged the imperfections, but it couldn't
erase the evidence of someone who worked hard to take care of his family.
                That's the kind of Alpha-mate I want to be, he thought
contentedly. Again, he took up his hunting-knife and the oak branch and
continued the delicate work. I don't care about glory or riches. I don't care
if no one remembers my name once I'm gone. I just want to enjoy life with my
Omega-mate and take care of my new family. All of them, he decided, including
Matt and (grudgingly) Gil.
                The breeze tugged Matt's curls and carried the faint scent of
pregnancy to the Alpha, who subtly smiled. He rather liked the thought of being
Uncle Ivan.
===============================================================================
You're staring at my brother," said Al softly, plopping down on Ivan's lap with
his tea. Exhausted, Matt had returned to Gil's side and fallen asleep. Al
guessed that Gil was only pretending to be asleep, because he twitched at every
noise. Or perhaps he was just a light-sleeper, like Ivan. "I told you Matt was
pretty."
                "He is pretty," Ivan acknowledged, off-handed, "but he's not
like you described."
                Al cocked his head. "No?" He, too, glanced at his sleeping
brother. Matt did look rather wan at the moment. "He's pregnant, maybe that's
why."
                "No," Ivan said, but didn't explain. After a moment, he slipped
a misshapen piece of oak into his pocket, too quick for Al to see what it was,
and then sat back with his hands resting comfortably on Al's hips. "I'm
disappointed in your story-telling, Alfred. I was expecting an Omega of
incomparable beauty—an angel," he exaggerated. "He would've had to be an angel
to be more beautiful than you."
                "Isn't he?"
                "No."
                "Are you just saying that to make me feel better?"
                "No.
                "Stop pouting," Ivan said. "Your lips are enticing enough
without puckering them."
                "Oh?" Al leant forward, playfully brushing his lips against
Ivan's. "Want a taste?"
                "Desperately," Ivan smiled, "but it's unwise to tempt me,
little one. It's hard enough to resist your scent on the rainiest of days, and
now we have a mated couple beside us—a pregnant Omega."
                "Is Matt's scent that enticing?" Al asked.
                Al had never wanted to be pregnant—and he didn't now,
either—but the way Ivan regarded Matt's state made him jealous of the
attention. Alphas tended to be gentler and quieter with pregnant Omegas,
especially young ones, as if pregnancy suddenly made the Omega more vulnerable.
More precious. Most Alphas were indulgent, yet cautious of pregnant Omegas:
indulgent of the Omega's needs, but cautious of his Alpha-mate. Maybe it was
the change in Omega hormones that caused it, or maybe it was just Alpha
instinct, but Al had seen a lot of Alpha-mates become possessive of his Omega
and refuse to let other Alphas near him while pregnant. Arthur teasingly called
it post-Heat paranoia, because the scent of pregnancy was not unlike Heat. It's
all of the same pheromones—all of the same scents—but to different degrees,
Arthur had explained. That's why so many Alphas become possessive and
suspicious when their Omega is pregnant,because he's afraid that others might
try to hurt his unborn pup or claim his Omega like when he's in Heat. It's
usually unfounded... but itdoessometimes happen, he admitted uneasily. Al
wondered if Gil would become that kind of Alpha-mate, paranoid for Matt's
safety. He seemed the type. He was already very protective of Matt and disliked
when the Omega was out of reach, but Al supposed it was caution more than
possessiveness in his case; the result of their current situation.
                Mattie's only seven weeks pregnant, Al knew, only because Ivan
had told him. He, himself, couldn't smell a change. I wonder how enticing his
scent really is?
                "It's not enticing," Ivan corrected, thinking of how best to
describe it. "It's not even that strong—not yet. He smells too much like his
Alpha-mate right now. It's more that they're mated and we're not," Ivan
admitted, squeezing Al gently. "He's claimed Matt as his Omega-mate," he said,
jutting his chin gruffly at Gil. "They're pair-bonded, unlike you and I. I
guess I'm just jealous of him."
                "Don't be, sweetheart," Al said, kissing Ivan's cheek. He
smiled. "We'll be pair-bonded soon, I promise. Just because they're mated and
we're not doesn't mean we don't love each other just as much, right?"
                Ivan smiled, too. "That's right."
                "Besides," Al shrugged, smile becoming a smirk, "you're much
more handsome than he is. Though"—he drew a finger across the cheek he had just
kissed—"you could use a shave."
                Ivan rolled his eyes. "Drink your tea, little one," he said.
===============================================================================
Matt woke long after sunrise, long after everyone else. No one had woken him
earlier, and for that he was grateful. He had slept fitfully despite his
fatigue, unable to get comfortable, and roused by every little sound. He missed
the safety and softness of Gil's bed in the fort—the bed that had become his
nest. It's what he tried not to want now.
                Yawning, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. His head
had been pillowed on Gil's lap; Gil, who was glaring vehemently at Ivan. Matt
looked between his Alpha-mate and the Easterner, who was quietly minding his
own business as he used a hunting-knife to shave his face.
                "Look at him," Gil grumbled, crossing his arms. "Smug bastard."
                Matt stifled a giggle. Crawling to his knees, he whispered to
Gil: "Is this because you can't grow a beard?"
                "Shut up!" Gil barked in German. Matt laughed and kissed his
fair cheek.
                Ivan looked over. "Oh, did you want to get cleaned-up?" he
asked, ironically offering Gil the hunting-knife.
                "Fuck off," Gil deadpanned.
                Ivan feigned shock, then sympathy. "Don't worry. I'm sure once
puberty hits that peach-fuzz will thicken into a very handsome silver beard."
                Al choked on his breakfast and had to spit it back out.
                Gil growled at the younger Alpha.
                Matt said: "Oh, don't listen to them. You're just fair-skinned,
love. And your hair is very fine. It's beautiful, so much softer than Alphas
with scratchy beards. It's a good thing, really. It's low-maintenance—"
                "Matt," Gil interrupted, "stop helping."
                "Sorry," Matt said as Ivan chuckled and Al erupted into
sputtering giggles.
                As the Alphas proceeded to pack-up the campsite—Gil in sulky
silence; Ivan in good-spirits—Matt brewed Al a cuppa tea.
                "You know, you and Ivan could both do with haircuts, Al."
                "Why? You don't like my long flowing locks?" Al teased, coiling
a tangle of gold hair around his index-finger.
                "Your rat's nest? No, I'm afraid it doesn't suit you. Come
here," Matt said, handing Al the tea while ordering him to sit. He took a
straight-razor—which Ivan could have shaved with instead of the hunting-knife
(perhaps he was being smug)—and began cutting the tangles out of Al's sunny
hair. It took longer than he anticipated, and Ivan's took even longer. He
looked like a brooding pup as he sat on a fallen log, arms crossed as the Omega
washed and combed and cut, trying to be as delicate as possible, but Ivan's
thick mane was even more knotted than Al's. Gil leant against a tree—his fine
silvery hair blowing in the breeze—grinning smugly.
                After their hair was cleaned and cut, Al and Ivan were told to
go to the river to bathe.
                "I'm surprised you're not infested with lice," Matt complained,
shoving soap at them. "You look like you've been living in a cave for the past
two months."
                "Shocking," Al stage-whispered, much to his brother's chagrin.
                Matt began tidying the toiletries, but paused with the
straight-razor in-hand. "Gil?" he asked, fingering a curl self-consciously.
                "Hmm?"
                "Do you like the way I look? Because I can change it if you
don't," he offered. He thought of Al and how much effort he had always secretly
put into his appearance, trying to look his best for Alphas who never seemed to
notice. In contrast, Matt had never worried about his looks before, confident
that they must be adequate to receive so much attention. In fact, Gil was the
only Alpha Matt knew who hadn't paid his looks any attention—not verbally, at
least. Gil had never given Matt a reason to suspect that he disliked his looks,
but he had never confirmed that he liked them either. Matt supposed it didn't
matter; their relationship was not so shallow. But knowing that his twin-
brother would come back from the river cleaned into a stunning figure of
vibrant beauty, and knowing that he, himself, would only grow weary and fat as
the months pressed on made Matt feel suddenly self-conscious.
                "When we get home," he said helpfully, "I can have Papa cut my
hair, or I can start using cosmetics, or I can dress however you'd like me to—"
                "What?" Gil's shock was blunt.
                Matt bowed his head as he replaced the straight-razor. "Well,
it's just that you've never even mentioned my looks before, so I thought that
maybe you didn't like them? Maybe I'm not to your preference? But I can change
that, I don't mind—"
                "Matt, stop," Gil waved his hands. "I—I'm such a fucking
idiot," he said, covering his eyes. "I can't believe I've never paid you a
compliment."
                "Oh, no—you have, Gil, of course you have," Matt assured him.
"You said that my hearing ability is amazing, remember? And you praised my idea
to use the catapults to break the dam—you even kissed me," he said brightly.
                Gil peaked at Matt over his hands. "Oh, Gods," he groaned. "Is
that really all? I'm so sorry, schatz."
                "No, no, it's okay," Matt said, closing the distance between
them. He took Gil's hands and pulled them off the Alpha's face. "I'm not
fishing for compliments. I just want to know, genuinely, if there's anything
about my looks you don't like? I don't mind. I've never really cared how I
look, so if you want me to change something, I will—"
                "No," Gil interrupted, as if Matt had spoken blasphemy. "No, I
don't want you to change. Not at all. I—Okay," he re-started cautiously, "see,
I'm not very good at giving praise, especially to pretty Omegas. I get fidgety
and nervous and my tongue stops working and my face gets red—like this," he
indicated in embarrassment, "and it's very, very un-awesome. But just because
I'm too thick to say it doesn't mean I don't think it, schatz.
                "The truth is," he said, holding Matt's hands, "you're the most
beautiful thing I've ever seen. Inside and out.
                "I-I—I mean, inside like inside. Like, you've got a good heart.
Not like inside like when we're mating—though that's pretty nice, too. But
that's not what I meant—"
                "Hush," Matt laughed, covering Gil's mouth with a hand. "Gods,
you are bad at this."
                Gil nodded, cheeks flushed like strawberry syrup.
                "It's okay," Matt reassured him, "you don't have to say
anything."
                Gil pulled Matt's hand away and squeezed it. "No, I want to,"
he said, determined now. "Because it's my fault you don't know how much you
mean to me. I don't deserve you, schatz—"
                "Gil—"
                "—but I sure as hell am never letting you go. You're the
sweetest, kindest, cleverest, most selfless person I know, and what amazes me
is that you don't use any of your gifts for yourself. I mean it," he said,
lifting Matt's head. The Omega was blushing now, too. "Everything you do is for
someone else. You're so generous. And you're so much fun. You know what my
favourite part of living at the fort together was? Lying in bed with you,
talking and laughing. Seeing you smile was—is—my favourite part of the day. I
don't think I can really express how grateful I am to have you in my life,
schatz. You're the bravest person I know. I'm so lucky to have you as my Omega-
mate. I'm sorry I waited so long to tell you that," he said apologetically.
"But I wouldn't dare change a thing about you. I love you, Matt, and that's
never going to change.
                "So, you see," he smiled cheekily, "the fact that you're the
most beautiful Omega in thewhole fucking world is really just a bonus."
                It took Matt a moment to find his voice. "Apology accepted," he
joked, smiling coyly. Thoughtfully, he added: "Do you really think I'm brave?"
                "Yes."
                The Omega shook his head. "I've been afraid my whole life."
                "But it's never crippled you," Gil praised. "You don't run and
hide, you find your courage and do what needs doing. I mean, look at us!"
Without warning he spun Matt around, holding him back-to-chest to show him the
forest. "We're only here, free, because of you. You're a lot stronger than you
think you are, schatz."
                "No one's ever used the words brave and strong to describe me
before."
                "Then no one's ever really known you."
                Matt smiled and hugged Gil's arms around himself. "Thank-you,
Gil. But I think you're wrong."
                "Hmm?"
                Matt nodded, turning his head to look back at the bemused
Alpha. "It's me who's lucky to have you. If I could choose anyone in the whole
world to spend my life with, I would still choose you, Gil. No contest."
                "Sure you wouldn't want someone better-looking? I mean, I don't
know about you, but I'm seriously worried about our poor pup," he teased,
patting Matt's abdomen.
                "Why?" Matt asked, twisting his body to face Gil. He looped his
arms around the Alpha's neck. "Afraid he'll have skin as white as snow, and red
eyes like summer strawberries, and cheekbones that could cut glass? Afraid
he'll be tall and strong with a figure that looks chiselled from stone? Afraid
he'll be just as charming as you? Just as clever and mischievous? Afraid he'll
be a brave and loyal leader? Someone who loves his family more than anything in
the world? Someone who would sacrifice everything he has to protect those he
loves? Afraid he'll be even more incredible than you, my handsome Alpha-mate?"
                Gil rolled his eyes.
                Matt pressed himself closer, emitting a seductive moan
disguised as an exasperated sigh. "Don't tell me you really don't know how
unbearably sexy you are?" he said, mimicking Gil's earlier tone. The Alpha
swallowed, a flush betraying his excitement. Matt felt Gil's hands tighten as
they pulled him closer—close enough for the Omega to grind his hips
suggestively against the Alpha's stiff groin. "You don't believe me?" he
whispered, leaning up. He kissed Gil, then lingered, sucking on his lower lip.
An aggressive growl rumbled in the Alpha's throat. Matt's heart quickened in
anticipation. He grabbed Gil's belt. "You really don't know how crazy you make
me? How much I want you, Gilbert Beilschmidt?
                "Then let me show you."
===============================================================================
Ivan and Al were drying off on the riverbank when the former caught a scent on
the breeze and the latter caught a sound—a desperate, mewling sound that gasped
in breathless affirmation. Is that my brother? Al thought, mortified. Quickly,
he glanced at Ivan, whose nostrils flared.
                "I think, maybe, we shouldn't go back just yet," Al suggested.
                Ivan nodded. His whole body was rigid, his movements jerky as
he retreated into the water and swam to the opposite bank. After a moment Al
followed, wanting to put as much distance between himself and his brother's
poorly muffled moans as possible.
                "Bastard Westerner," Ivan was muttering as Al sat down beside
him. His violet eyes were fixed on the murky riverbed; he didn't even look
sideways when Al shivered in the cold breeze. He only smiled ruefully and
conspicuously implied his inadvertent arousal. "It's probably better if I don't
touch you just yet," he said.
                Blushing, Al nodded. He wanted to argue—he wanted Ivan to make
him feel what Gil was making Matt feel—but he and Ivan had discussed mating
often enough to know the Alpha wouldn't mate him until he went into Heat. It
was very frustrating. He felt jealous of Matt's cries, odd as it seemed. He
felt—competitive. Instinctively, he wanted to feel just as desirable an Omega
as Matt, and he had to remind himself that soon he too would know the pleasure
of an Alpha. He had to combat arousal with logic, because he didn't want to
cause Ivan—or himself—any more anguish than necessary. So instead of throwing
himself on Ivan like he wanted to, he pulled his knees up to his chest and
shivered, letting the cold numb the heat of desire, while wishing that his
clothes weren't stranded on the opposite riverbank. He searched his brain for a
sobering topic, and finally said:
                "Those lashings were meant for Sasha, weren't they?"
                In the pale sunlight, Al could see the jagged scars scoring
Ivan's back.
                "Yes."
                Ivan's voice was reticent, but Al waited. He wouldn't prod
further. If Ivan wanted to tell the story, he would.
                And, after a moment, he did.
                "I don't even remember what he did to deserve them," Ivan
narrated. "It feels like so long ago. I was twelve. I didn't know how much it
would hurt—no one does. But somehow I knew that Sasha wouldn't survive it. You
wouldn't have known it," he said, glancing sideways at Al, "but Sasha was a
runt in the Capital. I don't think his family had had much to eat because he
was all skin-and-bones—gangly and freckled. The soldiers liked to bully him,
but he was never timid. He had a big mouth. That's probably what had earned him
the lashings. But the day they dragged him into the courtyard he was quiet, too
scared to even make a sound. He was crying, naked fear on his face. He knew he
wouldn't survive it. Everyone did—but nobody moved. Nobody tried to stop it."
                "You did," Al said, taking Ivan's hand.
                "I did," he repeated solemnly, not looking at Al.
                "That's why he thought he owed you, because you took the
lashings for him," Al guessed. "You saved his life."
                "I prolonged it," Ivan corrected. "I didn't save anyone. It
happened again to others. Nothing changed. If I'd been braver, I would've
fought it. I should've fought it. If enough of us did, we might've succeeded. I
might have saved everyone then, not just one Alpha-pup. But I didn't, because I
was scared. I kept quiet, and I took Sasha's punishment for him, and when I
awoke in the barracks two days later I got up and I went back to work and I
never said a fucking word."
                "Do you regret it, taking the lashings?" Al asked after a
minute.
                Ivan's reply was fast:
                "No."
                And that was that. There was no complaining or groaning or
feeling sorry for himself. There never was with Ivan, even when Al encouraged
it. Even when Al told him it was okay to whine and cry sometimes, Ivan merely
cocked an eyebrow, smiled, and said: "You don't need to worry about me. I'm
okay now, little one." Now. Al always wondered what Ivan meant by now, as if
his well-being was a recent change, but the Alpha would ignore the question or
change the topic-of-conversation if asked, so Al had decided to simply be happy
for him. (And secretly watch him for signs of stress. Al knew what it was like
to feel so helplessly lost and alone, and he never wanted Ivan to feel that way
again.) If Ivan wanted to talk, he would. And he did, little by little. In the
meantime, Al would talk enough for the both of them. He's still a big,silent
lump, he thought affectionately. But that was Ivan. Just Ivan. An Alpha who no
longer regretted the past; just had hope for the future. That was Al's Alpha-
mate—the strongest, bravest, kindest Alpha he knew.
                I'm so lucky to know him, he thought, feeling privileged. I
can't believe he chose me. He could've had anyone if he stayed in the east,but
instead he chose me.
                A flood of pride flushed Al, and he shimmied sideways, wanting
to be closer to the Alpha. He laid his head on Ivan's shoulder and kissed the
top of a jagged white scar, then traced it over his shoulder-blade and down his
back. In a content tone, he simply said:
                "I love you."
                Ivan looked down at him, the sadness in his violet eyes melting
into reluctant happiness. His eyes sparkled when he was happy. So beautiful, Al
thought. He felt the Alpha wrap an arm around him, and then heard Ivan's deep,
rumbling voice:
                "I know, little one. I love you, too."
===============================================================================
Later, after Al had thoroughly scolded Matt's indiscretion—
                "Oh, gods!" Matt clapped a hand to his mouth, going scarlet.
"You saw us?"
                "Heard you," Al corrected. "Gods, Matt, the whole forest heard
you! Who knew you could be that loud?"
                —he was still thinking about what Ivan had told him, and
wondered if Gil had any deep, dark secrets that he was keeping from Matt.
                Al was determined to like Gil, his brother-by-mating-law, but
he had to admit that the red-eyed ex-captain of the great Western Army was not
at all what he had expected of Matt's Alpha-mate.
                "Do you love him?" he asked bluntly. He nodded subtly at Gil,
who was walking a few paces ahead of he and Matt. (Ivan was walking a few paces
behind, because Gil and Ivan did not want to walk side-by-side.)
                "Yes," Matt replied earnestly, "I love him very much."
                "He's not what I expected to you end up with," Al confessed.
                Matt chuckled. "Me neither, if I'm being honest. But it's a
good thing," he added. "I was never excited about my prospects on the Isles. I
never felt safe with anyone there."
                "You feel safe with him?" Again, Al jut his chin at Gil's back.
(The Alpha had a proud strut in his posture that made Al want to mimic him in
jest.)
                Matt nodded. "Yes, he makes me feel very safe. Despite
everything that's happened, I haven't had a proper panic-attack since I met
him."
                "Really?" Al asked, impressed.
                Matt was such a timid Omega, it wasn't uncommon for him to need
frequent comfort from an Alpha. Arthur said that Matt would grow out of it,
like he had done, but Al worried that his brother was not as tough-fibred as
their scrappy Omega-father. He suspected that Matt would need a patient,
considerate Alpha-mate to always take care of him. An Alpha much like Francis,
who's kind indulgence had always soothed the Omega-pup's shaky nerves. A soft,
unintimidating Alpha—not an Alpha like Gil. The softest thing about Gil was his
leather tunic, Al thought. Everything else about him was hard and sharp and
unpolished, and his blood-red eyes screamed intimidation.
                Not like my Ivan. My Ivan's so sweet, he thought in
superiority.
                Therefore, he was very surprised when Matt suddenly said:
                "Ivan is a little... distant."
                "Distant?" Al repeated, taking offense. "What do you mean by
that?"
                "Well, he's not very approachable, is he? He doesn't smile
much. But I'm sure he's lovely," Matt amended. "He has a very kind heart. And
it's obvious he loves you, Al. He's very protective of you. Maybe that's why he
seems so reproachful."
                "I don't t think he likes Gilbert," Al admitted.
                Matt snorted. "I know Gil doesn't like him. But they'll get
used to each other. They're not that different, you know."
                "Dear gods, don't tell them that," Al whispered, feigning
fright. Matt giggled.
                Al smiled at his brother. "I'm glad you're happy, Mattie. You
deserve to be happy."
                Companionably, Matt looped his arm through Al's. "So do you,
Al. I'm glad you found someone who makes you happy."
                "Thanks, Mattie."
                "What are you two giggling about?" Gil asked, turning to walk
backwards.
                "Nothing, love!" Matt smiled innocently.
                "Mattie's just telling me how you are in bed!" Al called. "Why
else would we be laughing?"
                "Al!No,I'm not!"
                Gil rolled his eyes and turned back around.
                "Jerk," Matt hissed, pushing Al.
                Al snickered and pushed back.
                "Careful," Ivan said, catching Matt under the arms and righting
him. "Your family might be a bit miffed if we deliver you home covered in
bruises."
                "I think we're risking a bit miffed either way," Al pointed
out. "They probably think we're dead. I can't even imagine how they're going to
react, especially when they see these two," he gestured between Ivan and Gil.
"They're not going to be happy."
                "You don't know that, Al. I'm sure they'll just be relieved
we're not dead," Matt prophesied, albeit weakly.
                "Relieved that we're mated and you're pregnant?"
                Matt pursed his lips. "Well... Dad will understand. He's an
Omega. And I'm sure Uncle Scott will accept them into the pack once we've
explained. And Papa, uh..."
                "Papa's going to have a fucking heart-attack," Al finished,
matter-of-fact. He looked pointedly at his brother's abdomen, daring Matt to
argue.
                Which he didn't.
***** Lost Boys — Chapter Sixteen *****
THE ISLES
Arthur slept fitfully. He knew he was in his bed, in his bedchamber, in his
house, and he could feel the satisfying weight of his Alpha-mate's body lying
next to him, but something was wrong. His mind felt heavy as it worried at the
edges of consciousness, eyelids quivering and pulse increasing as he fought the
heavy pull of sleep. A cold feeling poured into him, like water. Dad, said a
small voice in the distance. Arthur swam through the darkness, trying to reach
the surface where, beyond the ripples, a blurry figure was taking shape,
staring at him. Dad.
                That's me, he thought slowly. His mind felt like cotton. I'm
Dad.
                "Dad,wake up.
                "Dad—" poke, poke "—wake up!"
                Arthur peeled his eyes open a sliver and saw two big blue orbs
staring eagerly at him. "Alfred?" he mumbled as sleep receded.
                Alfred stood at the edge of the bed, his wheat-blonde head no
higher than Arthur's. The sleeves of his woolen nightshirt were bunched at the
elbows and the cuffs were frayed from the pup's ceaseless picking. Arthur would
have to mend it before the entire garment unravelled. It didn't matter how
often he was told not to pull at loose strings or unbutton buttons or slip out
of his boots; Alfred was an experimenter of the most exhausting kind. Sometimes
it took the whole family to keep him out of trouble. Rules and reprimands
didn't seem to faze him. He just stared back with a determined set to his soft,
round jaw and defiance in his stubborn blue eyes. But Alfred's eyes were not
stubborn now. They were as big as saucers and fearful. One of his pudgy hands
had balled the bed-sheets into a fist, the other was clasping his brother.
                Matthew stood just behind Alfred, as usual. The dark chamber
hid most of his tiny figure, but where starlight touched him, chasing off the
shadows, his skin glowed white. Sometimes, Arthur thought, in certain slants of
sun and moonlight, Matthew didn't look like a pup at all, but instead like one
of the fey. If he hadn't remembered giving birth to him—and if he didn't look
so much like Francis—Arthur would have called Matthew changeling. Not only
because of his looks, but because of how he moved. Or didn't move, rather.
Matthew stood silently behind Alfred, not moving a muscle until Alfred said in
a quivering voice:
                "Mattie's scared."
                In that moment, Matthew's violet eyes widened and he pinched
his red lips, as if he had only been waiting for Alfred to tell him how to
feel.
                Arthur sighed and lifted the blanket, inviting the pups into
the bed. Matthew crawled over Arthur's belly and landed between he and Francis,
claiming the warmest place for himself. Francis barely woke; he didn't even
open his eyes. He murmured incoherently and buried his nose in Matthew's curls,
a peaceful smile on his face. Arthur wrapped one arm around Matthew and pulled
Alfred close with the other. Alfred had burrowed beneath the blanket on the
opposite side, near the edge of the bed. Arthur looped his arm under and around
him like a safety rope, afraid that the pup might otherwise roll off in the
night. The bed wasn't very big. Alfred squirmed for a moment, then relaxed and
pillowed his head on Arthur's chest, and, just like that, he was asleep. Arthur
lay on his back, sandwiched between his pups' small bodies, and listened to
their soft breathing as the tension eased out of him.
                Slowly—contentedly—he closed his eyes.
===============================================================================
He opened his eyes.
                Something was wrong.
                A loud, unforgiving torrent pounded in his eardrums and he
awoke with a violent jolt.
                "Alfred. Matthew."
                He blinked in the dark, seeing the same ceiling he had fallen
asleep staring at, but something was wrong. The weight and warmth was gone.
Disoriented, he clutched at where Alfred and Matthew should have been, but they
were gone. Panic squeezed his chest as he rolled onto his side and swiped at
the bed-sheets, reaching out, but there was nothing there. His heart-rate
increased and his breathing came quick and ragged as he pushed himself onto his
knees and began digging, tossing pillows aside and tearing at the bed until the
mattress lay bare. "No, no, no—" he pleaded as tears filled his eyes. He could
hear their screams, even though he hadn't heard them at the time. He knew their
voices, the looks of identical terror they wore when afraid. He saw the water
drag them under, but he couldn't reach them. He yelled and begged and prayed,
but the water swallowed them both.
                "No—please,no.
                "Francis," he said, his head whipping frantically from left-to-
right. The bedchamber was quiet and cold and empty.
                "Francis!" he screamed.
                The Alpha quickly appeared in the doorframe, a lithe figure
bathed in moonlight. He looked much older than he had two months ago. He wore a
defensive expression, ready to face a threat, but it melted into sympathy when
he saw his Omega-mate clutching himself, sobbing and shaking.
                Francis hurried to the bed and gathered Arthur into his arms.
"It's okay, chéri. Just breathe, you're okay."
                "I-I-I—I thought you were gone."
                "I'm not, I'm right here. I'm here," he repeated, kissing
Arthur's head. "I just stepped out for a moment."
                Arthur pressed his forehead to the warm skin of Francis' bare
shoulder, hiding the sight of the chamber. In a whisper, he said: "I saw them."
                "I know," Francis soothed. He rubbed one hand up-and-down the
length of Arthur's spine, the other held his Omega-mate tight.
                "They're gone, Fran—they're gone."
                The Alpha's body stiffened and, for a moment, he stopped
breathing. Arthur pressed himself closer, listening to the beating of Francis'
heart and the eventual release of breath. Softly, he repeated:
                "I know."
===============================================================================
THE LOW COUNTRIES
Halt!" ordered the border guard. "If you do not have a diplomatic passport, you
are not welcome here, Westerner. Take your..." he paused, considering the
ragtag company, "...uh, your family... and turn back. These lands are home to
the free clans and we do not want any of your militant sentiments here."
                Gil felt a growl claw up his throat, but he swallowed it when
he felt Matt's beseeching touch. "We're traveling to the Isles," he said in
Dutch. "My Omega-mate has family there. We just need to reach the coast. We
don't want any trouble."
                "No trouble, and yet you carry weapons with you," said the
guard. "Military weapons."
                Gil itched to draw his sword and be done with this wasteful
conversation. The border guards were many, but none were trained soldiers. He
and Ivan could cut through them if needed. But, again, he felt Matt's hand on
his arm, and heard the Omega whisper:
                "They're not our enemies."
                "We're not your enemies," Gil rephrased stiffly. He eyed the
Low-Lander wearily. "We're just travellers trying to get home."
                "Home?" said the guards' leader. He surveyed the foursome
doubtfully.
                "Yes, home," Al snapped, losing his patience. "You know, the
place where your Omega-parent wiped your ass as a pup."
                Gil grit his teeth, angry that Al couldn't follow the simplest
order. He had told the others to stay quiet and let him do the talking, the
negotiating. "It's better if they don't hear your foreign accents, especially
you," he had warned Ivan. The Low-Landers often did trade with their western
neighbours, but an Easterner and two Islanders who both smelled like
Southerners would invite unwanted suspicion.
                At least they don't know who we are—
                "My name is Alfred Kirkland," Al proclaimed loudly in English.
"And that's my brother, Matthew Kirkland. The Omega who's technicallypair-
bonded to your Clan Leader's heir. We demand to be taken to the Great House!"
                Well,fuck, Gil sighed, at the same time the leader said:
                "Seize them!"
                Gil shot Al a nasty look when a pair of Low-Landers roughly
grabbed his arms and a third relieved him of his weapons. His body tensed and
he started to struggle, but, again, he stilled when he saw the plea in Matt's
eyes.
                Don't fight them. They're not our enemies,Gil.
                It would be easier if they were, he thought darkly, growling at
the guard who approached Matt.
                "Touch him and you'll wish you hadn't," he warned.
                The Low-Lander hesitated, then turned to his superior, who
nodded. "Turn out your pockets," said the young guard in a wobbly voice; trying
to be stern, but utterly enchanted by the pretty, docile Omega. (He couldn't
have been older than eighteen-years-old.) For once, Gil was glad for Matt's
appeal. He looks so—elegant, he thought in surprise, proud of his Omega-mate's
self-confidence. Matt kept his head raised as he obligingly handed over his
satchel, a cool expression on his face. He did it all one-handed, his left hand
resting low on his abdomen in silent warning, which the guards seemed to
understand. No one jostled him or hurried him, and the young guard blushed and
muttered an apology when he accidentally brushed Matt's hand. None of them
wanted to be responsible for upsetting a pregnant Omega and Matt was taking
advantage of it.
                "Please don't lose this," he said, handing over the dagger. "It
belonged to my Alpha-mate's father. I'll want it back."
                The guard nodded.
                Despite Gil's position—his wrists bound at his back like a
prisoner—he was relieved the Low-Landers showed such respect to his Omega-mate.
Unlike the shameless Southerners, he thought, remembering Le Roux, the Alphas
of the Low Countries abided by the same codes of conduct as their Western
cousins. They discouraged needless violence against Omegas, which was
considered to be nothing but bullying, since Alphas were so much bigger and
stronger—though, the guards trying to disarm Al may have disagreed.
                "What the fuck?" he spat, his blue eyes full of spitfire. "Get
away from us! Don't touch us!" he yelled at the guards who approached he and
Ivan. "I just told you I'm Alfred Kirkland! Don't you know who I am? Take me to
the Great House, I demand it!"
                "Weare taking you to the Great House!" barked a nearby guard as
he tried—unsuccessfully—to bind Ivan's hands.
                Ivan biffed him heedlessly aside and growled at the guard
stalking toward Al.
                "We're not prisoners!" Al argued, retreating to Ivan's side.
"Don't treat us like prisoners!"
                Gil suspected the Omega's volatile reaction and distrust
stemmed from trauma he had suffered at the hands of the Southerners, but if he,
himself, had to go bound like a thief—gods damn it—then Ivan sure as hell had
to, too.
                "Al," Matt said before Gil could. It was good; Matt's words
were kinder than Gil's would have been. "It's just a precaution. They're not
going to hurt us. Are you?" he asked the Low-Lander, more of a statement than a
question.
                "No, of course not," he replied. "It's mere protocol, I assure
you."
                Al looked from Matt to Ivan, ignoring the Low-Landers in
between. He's not going to relent until he has the Easterner's approval, Gil
thought.
                But wait, that wasn't right. When had Al ever needed an Alpha's
permission to act? Gil studied them closer and realized he had read the
situation wrong: Al wasn't fighting the Low-Landers for himself, but for Ivan's
benefit. It's not yourself you're afraid to see in ropes again, is it, Al?It's
him. He looked at Ivan, and, now that he knew what to look for, he saw the fear
in the Easterner's violet eyes. But he also saw the silent exchange that passed
between the Alpha and Omega, and the promise on Ivan's face. It said:
                I'll trust you,Alfred. If you think these people can be
trusted, then I'll let them bind me. I can withstand it if you ask me to.
                For a brief moment, Gil admired Ivan's courage. And he wondered
if he, himself, could willingly accept the ropes again so soon after living so
long as a prisoner.
                "Fine," said Al unhappily.
                Without prompting, Ivan presented his wrists to be bound. The
Low-Landers looked relieved.
                "This way—please," said the leader, starting off.
                Matt looped his arm through Gil's and stayed close as they
walked. "It's just an escort," he whispered, gently squeezing Gil's bicep.
                Gil looked down at Matt and smiled wearily. "So, this fiancé of
yours... Just how angry is he going to be?"
===============================================================================
Matthew Kirkland?" the Clan Leader gasped in shock.
                "And Alfred," Al muttered at Matt's side.
                The Clan Leader stood on the dais, his face agape as he looked
from Matt to Al and back. "Someone fetch my Alpha-pup," he ordered, never
taking his eyes off the Islanders. "Hurry!"
                The hall was quiet and everyone was looking at them,
whispering, but Matt ignored it. He had been through too much to let a bit of
indiscrete staring frighten him.
                "We thought you were dead!" said the Clan Leader. "We thought
you had drowned in the flood. How is it you survived?"
                "It's a long story," said Al dismissively. "Where are our
parents?"
                "Your parents? Well, they—they thought you dead. They left a
month ago."
                "They—left?"
                Matt heard the disappointment in Al's voice, so he quickly
changed the topic. "Sir? It's been a long journey. If it's not too much
trouble, might my companions and I beg a bed and maybe a bath?"
                "Oh, yes, of course! A celebration!" the Clan Leader clapped
his hands. "Prepare a celebration to honour the safe return of my pup's Omega-
mate!"
                "Uh, no—thank-you," Matt said. "It's very kind, sir, but..." He
glanced awkwardly at the crowd. "Perhaps we could talk in private?"
                "Nonsense," the Clan Leader denied. "This is your clan,
Matthew. We don't keep secrets from each other."
                Secrets like,oh,I don't know,the floodgates won't hold?
                Matt took a deep breath and proudly lifted his head. This would
not be a meek declaration; he would not risk the Low-Landers misunderstanding
him. "As you wish," he said. "I can't be Lars' Omega-mate, because I'm mated to
him. Gilbert Beilschmidt."
                There was a collective gasp and more than a few scornful
scowls, which told Matt he was no longer the Low-Landers' favourite candidate.
                "No, no," said the Clan Leader in confusion, "you can't be
his... you're pair-bonded to my Lars... you can't—"
                "I'm pregnant with Gilbert's pup," Matt interrupted, knowing
that the confession would effectively end the argument. No self-respecting
Alpha would want to raise someone else's pup.
                And he was right. The Clan Leader's broad frame drooped in
reluctant defeat as a cacophony of disbelief and disagreement flooded the hall.
Matt's keen ears heard a few choice insults used to describe he and his Alpha-
mate, but the voice that caught his attention belonged to his scorned
betrothed:
                "Matthew?" said Lars, pushing through the milling crowd. He
looked just as robust and handsome as Matt remembered, though his fair brow was
furrowed in disbelief. He stopped in front of Matt and looked him up-and-down,
his eyes lingering on the Omega's flat abdomen before returning to his face.
"Is that... true?"
                Matt's eyes were soft. "I'm sorry," he confirmed, "but I can't
be your Omega-mate anymore."
                "But you swore a vow—"
                "A lot has happened since then," Matt interrupted, again. It
felt good to be the one in control. "Gilbert saved my life."
                "So, what?" Lars scoffed. "You owe him?"
                "I love him," Matt corrected. He looked sideways and his eyes
captured Gil, who smiled. "I love him with all my heart. I'm sorry if that
upsets you, but I'm not sorry it happened."
                Lars' look was thoughtful as he ran a hand through his hair,
weighing Matt's confession against the loyalty to his clan; the responsibility
he had to his bloodline. Finally, he nodded. "I would've forgiven you, you
know," he said, bobbing his head at Matt's middle. He lowered his voice so that
only Matt could hear him. "I'm not my Alpha-father, Matthew. I made you a vow.
I would've accepted you no matter what you had suffered."
                "I didn't suffer. I chose this. I chose him."
                Lars' sage-coloured eyes flicked to Gil and stayed there for a
moment, challenging the Westerner's steadfast gaze. Then he sighed and nodded
again.
                Matt pulled the delicate gold band off his left hand. "Thank-
you for choosing me, and for giving me this," he said, holding it out.
                Lars took it, looked at it, and reluctantly smiled. "Thank-you
for giving it back."
===============================================================================
Release them," said Lars, gesturing to the guards.
                About fucking time, Gil thought. His wrists were beginning to
chafe.
                "Lars! What do you think you're doing?" growled the old Clan
Leader. "Those soldiers might be dangerous!"
                "No, they're not enemies, Vader," said Lars. He was still
looking at Matt. "They're friends."
                Gil was relieved by the Low-Lander's practical acceptance of
the turn-of-events, but he disliked the way the other Alpha was staring at his
Omega. Friend was a strong word-choice for one's Omega-mate's ex-fiancé, he
thought.
                Then the Low-Lander did something that the Westerner did not
expect. He strode to where Gil stood and wordlessly stuck out his hand. His
face was reticent as he waited—a rather handsome face, Gil noted in
displeasure—but his gesture was earnest. Gil studied the Alpha, who was three
years his junior and yet three inches taller than him, before hesitantly taking
his hand. He gripped it hard; so did Lars. Neither of them smiled, but both of
them nodded. Then Lars said:
                "You're a lucky Alpha, Gilbert Beilschmidt. I hope you know
that."
                Gil said: "I do."
                Then they disconnected, their duty done, and hoped never to
touch again.
===============================================================================
If it's not Matthew, then it must be Alfred. Lars!" ordered the Clan Leader. He
pointed at Al. "You'll take Alfred to be your Omega-mate—"
                "No."
                Al felt Ivan's shadow swallow him as the Alpha stepped forward,
facing the Clan Leader. He was still tied, but his tone left no room for
misinterpretation.
                "Alfred is my Omega," he growled menacingly. Suddenly, Al was
reminded of the feral warrior he had met in the wilderness; the Alpha who had
fearlessly taken on a bear bare-handed; the Alpha who's glare threatened to rip
his enemies apart.
                Gods,he's attractive, Al smiled.
                "I have a contract with that pup's family," the Clan Leader
argued. "My Alpha-pup was promised a mate—"
                "He cannot have mine."
                Once the Low-Landers had reluctantly untied him, Ivan took Al's
hand in his. Al's smile was big and giddy. He couldn't help it, he felt
jubilant. He squeezed Ivan's hand and stepped up beside him, wanting to be
closer to him, attracted to the Alpha's aggression and unchallenged strength.
He laid his head against Ivan's tense bicep and hugged his arm and looked
admiringly up at him. He didn't care who was watching or what they thought of
him anymore. He wanted them to see he and Ivan together, especially the other
Omegas. He felt possessive of the Alpha in the way of a claimed but unmated
Omega. There was a note of warning in his eyes, but it was dwarfed by his
happiness. He took a deep breath of his Alpha's enticing scent and sighed in
contentment.
                No one is going to take you from me, and no one is going to
take me from you.
                "Vader," said Lars.
                Al felt the warning rumble in Ivan's throat and he purred in
reply.
                "The contract—" said the Clan Leader.
                "—is worthless," Lars finished.
                An apprehensive hush seized the Low-Landers, whose storehouses
were now ruined, emptied, and who were facing a winter of starvation if the
Islanders' contract was nullified. Al felt a sad flutter in his stomach as he
surveyed the crowd. They looked like refugees in their own house. He saw Omega-
parents holding their pups close, and Alphas exchange wearisome looks with
other farmers and hunters.
                "It doesn't have to be worthless," said Matt.
                Al looked at his brother in amazement. When had Matt ever
spoken-out in front of a crowd unbidden before?
                "It can still benefit us both," he said to Lars. "We could
rewrite it."
                "Pah!" the Clan Leader barked. "An Omega—write a trade
contract?" He regarded Matt with a bemused grin. "My dear, I admire your
ambition, but you do not honestly think that you can—"
                "I can," Matt said indignantly, "because I did it before. Who
do you think translated the first one?"
                (Matt didn't mention from which language he had translated it,
Al noted. The Low-Landers still didn't know that Francis was a Southerner, and
it seemed like Matt was trying to preserve that fact. My brother the diplomat,
Al thought proudly. Huh.)
                "You know the contract?" Lars asked in surprise.
                Matt smiled. "Every word," he confirmed. "We can rewrite it
together for the benefit of everyone. It won't be one-sided. My clan will have
finished reaping the harvest by now and know exactly how much food can be
spared for your clan. It might be lean, but it should be enough to last the
winter. You can pay us back with labour in the spring. If the growing season is
plentiful and we pool our land and resources, we'll have doubled our gain and
profit in a couple of years. My clan has land yours can work, and your clan has
skills that mine needs. What do you say? Do you want to be partners, Lars van
den Berg? Business partners?" Matt smiled.
                Lars took a moment to wordlessly consult his hunters, all of
whom nodded curtly. The Low-Landers still had their pride, after all, no matter
how dire the circumstance or how desperately they needed aid. It was something
that everyone in the hall seemed to understand, except for the greedy Clan
Leader, who was sputtering in confusion, trying to regain control. ("Wait now,
just wait a minute! I haven't agreed to anything yet!" he said.) Al almost
pitied him his position—still the leader, but no longer fit to lead. His recent
bad decisions only confirmed how much the clan was in need of new leadership,
and Al had no doubt that Lars would not disappoint.
                He really cares about his family, all of them. He'll make a
good Clan Leader. And an honest trade partner.
                He almost felt bad for the current Clan Leader, who would be
forced to abdicate sooner than he wanted, the future of his bloodline still
unsecured, but if Al had learnt anything political from his adventures, it was
the difference between monarchy and democracy—absolute power versus shared
power—and found himself an avid supporter of the latter.
                Your time is over, he thought of the Clan Leader, who was
gaping at his Alpha-pup in disbelief. It provoked a picture of his own family
and what they would do and say when he and Matt returned to them. He wondered
how they would react to each Omega's new Alpha-mate and what roles Gil and Ivan
would find within the Islanders' clan? He wondered, but he didn't worry. He saw
the proof of the future standing there in the form of Lars, brave enough to
break tradition. He saw it in the form of Matt, the pregnant diplomat, proving
that someone could be more than one thing. He saw it in the form of Gil, who
would—he suspected—never truly let go of his history and forever serve as a
reminder of how important past lessons were. He saw it in the form of Ivan, who
was his future. And he smiled.
                It's time for a new generation to take over, he thought. And he
almost felt bad for the old Clan Leader of the Low Countries, who
didn't—couldn't—understand why it was happening, why it was needed.
                He almost felt bad, but not quite.
                Lars offered his hand to Matt like he had done to Gil, an Alpha
accepting another on equal terms. "Business partners," he agreed, smiling now
as well. "It would be an honour, Matthew Kirkland."
===============================================================================
A celebration was held that evening in the spirit of fortune and friendship.
The food and drink was rationed, but the spirit was hopeful. Not every Low-
Lander was keen to trust an Omega who had betrayed them—or rather, betrayed
their heir for another Alpha—but the promise of rescue outweighed any blatant
animosity, and Lars' hunters were too loyal to their leader's decisions to
challenge the turn-of-events. Not that Al was paying any attention. He was
sitting in front of a roaring fire on Ivan's lap, his arms looped around the
Alpha, his cheek pressed to the top of his head. He felt warm for the first
time in weeks—so warm he was flushed—and, though he hadn't eaten a proper meal
for many days, he wasn't hungry. Not for food.
                "It's settled," said Gil, striding over. "As soon as Matt and
Lars come to an agreement with the trade contract, he and I are leaving."
                Al cocked an eyebrow. "And we're not?" he joked.
                "No," said Matt, joining them, "not just yet."
                Al frowned in confusion. His head felt blurry.
                Matt leant in and whispered: "I think you and Ivan should find
a room, Al. You're in pre-Heat, and you won't want to be in Heat on a
ship—trust me."
                "I—I am?" Al blinked in astonishment. Then his face split into
a relieved smile. "Oh, thank the gods," he said, pressing his forehead to
Ivan's chest. He peeked up at Matt. "How can you tell?"
                Matt merely cocked an eyebrow at his brother, who was rubbing
himself wantonly against Ivan, whose lap he was perched in. "Omega's
intuition," he said sarcastically.
                Gil chuckled, then said: "And you're starting to smell like a
buffet. You won't make it to the ship."
                Ivan growled.
                Gil shrugged. "What? It's true. Take him somewhere safe," he
advised. "The negotiations aren't finished yet, and the last thing Matt needs
is a fight breaking out."
                Ivan opened his mouth to reply, but Al kissed it shut. "We're
going," he said, without looking at his brothers. He couldn't take his eyes off
of Ivan, even as they stood. They left the Great House, but not before Al
called over-the-shoulder: "I'll see you at home, Mattie!" without a shred of
doubt in his tone. He barely registered Matt's reply, which wished them both a
swift, safe journey, or Gil's reply, which wished them something much less
innocent, and then Al's world was only Ivan.
                The Omega felt like he was in a dream as they entered the
guesthouse, giving no thought to the last time he had slept in this room, or
the changes the flood had left. He didn't care that the walls were water-
stained and smelled a bit like wood-rot; he didn't care that it was cold—he
couldn't feel it anyway; he didn't care that the bed was nothing more than a
sleeping-roll, the bottom insulated with a layer of straw, and piled high with
furs and blankets to make it less unbearable. He didn't care because none of it
mattered. A bed, a cave, a sleeping-roll in a refugee camp—Al didn't care where
he was, only whom he was with. Finally, finally.
                "Wait," said Ivan.
                Al paused in undressing, already half-naked. "What is it?" he
asked. "Is something wrong?"
                "Yes."
                He stilled. Had be misread Ivan? Was the guestroom not good
enough for him? Should Al be building a nest?
                Ivan chuckled. "Relax, little one. I only want to give you
this."
                Before Al could speak, Ivan looped a necklace over his head.
                "Let me do at least one part of this claiming right."
                "A gift? For me?" Al asked in disbelief. No one had ever given
him a gift before, let alone a claiming-gift. He ran his fingers slowly over
the fine gold chain, feeling each delicate loop. It must have cost a fortune to
have it crafted. Incredulously, he looked up at Ivan. "How did you—? When did
you—?"
                "When you and Matt were bathing," he said, "I traded my sword
to the goldsmith."
                Al's exploration stopped abruptly. "You—you what? But that
sword was—"
                "Not something I ever wanted. It was my past," Ivan
interrupted, smiling now. He reached for Al's necklace and held the wooden
pendent up for the Omega to see. "You're my future, Al."
                Al saw the pendent and happy tears flooded his eyes. A little
oak bear swung from the chain. He laughed and clutched it and kissed Ivan over-
and-over again in thanks, in wholehearted acceptance.
                And then the time for words was over and it was happening,
without pretense or planning. Planning had not fared well for either of them in
the past. They ignored the setting and dispensed with all talking. There was no
need to ask if either of them was ready. No need to share secrets or make
promises. It was all done—it had all been done for weeks, for months. Fuck
planning, Al thought as the bedding yielded gently beneath their combined
weight. Fuck savouring the moment and making a memory. Fuck foreplay. He and
Ivan already had enough first memories to last a lifetime, and both had been
ready and willing for too long. I'm not waiting, he thought, kissing Ivan,
conveying his feelings and deep, un-sated need. He tasted the Alpha's tongue
and felt his firm lips; he smelled his sharp spearmint scent, like sweetened
ice. He felt his body, muscles hard as rock moving beneath scarred skin soft as
cured leather. He felt his hair, thick and coarse on his head; fine and fair
everywhere else. He felt the Alpha's big hands grope him and his long limbs
wrap around him, engulfing him. And he felt the Alpha's long, wet cock engorged
in want. Al mewled in desire and pressed himself further into Ivan's touch. He
wanted more of it. And he wanted it now.
                I'm done waiting. I'm taking what I want. This time,I'm not
letting go.
                It was a bit clumsy, at first. And despite Ivan's promise not
to hurt Al, he did. Being in pre-Heat was not the same as being in Heat, and,
though Al's body was close—only hours shy of lubricated—the couple was much too
eager to wait any longer. The friction of Ivan's stiff cock sliding into Al's
defensive body pulled a sharp yelp from the Omega, which gave the Alpha pause.
                "Al—?"
                Al shifted his weight and spread his legs a little wider. He
could feel his body slowly yielding to the intrusion, trying to compensate.
"Keep going," he begged, his voice already laboured. He clenched Ivan's
shoulders. "Go slow."
                Ivan kissed his lips and cheek and neck as he moved, pushing
inside the squirming Omega inch-by-inch until his cock was entirely sheathed.
Al let out a small gasp, then begged a halt. He was sweaty and panting with the
effort. His skin was hot and flushed and his insides felt stretched and full.
Very full.
                "Gods, you're big," he moaned, digging his fingers into the
Alpha's taut skin.
                "I'm sorry," said Ivan half-heartedly. His eyes were closed
tight and he pressed his forehead to Al's shoulder, fighting his fickle self-
control.
                "I'm not," Al whispered. He kissed Ivan's temple and let his
lips linger. "I love you and your big Alpha cock."
                Ivan laughed; Al felt the heat of his breath, then the press of
his mouth. "I love you, too, little one."
===============================================================================
Ivan tried to be patient. Oh, gods—he really did try. But with Al's permission,
and he, himself, buried to the hilt in the Omega's hot, wet body, he couldn't
wait any longer. His heart was pounding, his blood was pumping, and his
instincts were screaming at him to take what belonged to him. Take him,he's
yours. Finally yours. Only yours. Mate him. Put your mark on him,inside of him.
Do what you've wanted to do since the first time you saw him.
                The first time I saw him... he thought, feeling dazed.
                He remembered Al then, cold and hungry and naked, but not
scared. Al had never been scared. It's what had drawn him to the Omega since
the beginning. Al's indomitable will. That will is what had saved him. It was
the reason Al was here now, safe and happy and glowing with health. And
arousal, he thought as Al rubbed his gorgeous body suggestively against him.
Let's not forget that. The tension in his weeping cock grew thicker, harder to
bear. It wanted so much more than what Al's teasing was giving it. He could
feel the Omega's insides growing wetter and more pliable as the seconds ticked
by; he could smell it, and the salty-sweet smell of his young, fertile mate
drove him wild with lust.
                "Alfred," he said, his voice a burly growl. His hands were
eagerly engaged in pampering the Omega, stroking him harder and faster until
Al's hips began to rock, thrusting into Ivan's touch. (He made the most
beautiful noises, Ivan thought.) "I can't... I need to... please..."
                Al kissed his lips. "It's okay, sweetheart. I've got you. I'm
going to make you feel good." Then he pushed Ivan onto his back.
                Ivan let himself sink into the bedding as Al switched their
positions so that he sat across the Alpha's lap, his long, golden legs
straddling him, impaled by the Alpha's cock. He braced his hands on Ivan's
shoulders, using him as leverage as he pushed himself up, then down. Up, down.
Up, down. Al gasped and moaned, and at first Ivan thought it might be hurting
his Omega, but he was soon too invested in the moment to care. He grabbed Al's
rhythmic hips and began jerking more forcefully, encouraging the Omega to move
faster and sink deeper into every thrust. Ivan's world became a blur of sound
and scent. It wasn't how he had planned to mate Al for the first time. He had
wanted it to be soft and sweet and slow enough to properly worship the Omega he
treasured above all else, but somewhere between getting captured by Easterners
and getting captured by Southerners that plan had lost its fairytale charm.
                I don't care where we are or how we do it, he thought now, I
only care that I'm with you.
                And then the Alpha thought nothing at all. As blissful climaxed
reached him, he could only feel his love for Al and Al's love for him and the
word together resonated somewhere in the back of his foggy mind, but it was
felt more than thought, and known more than hoped. He held on until the last
drops of his seed ejaculated into Al's body, then exhaled in deep satisfaction
and exhaustion. Slowly he opened his eyes—and was met by the most beautiful
Omega he had ever seen. There was Al—his Al—flushed pink and writhing in
audible pleasure as he fervently rode the last dregs of his own climax, which
seemed to go on forever.
                Al collapsed onto Ivan's chest, panting and trembling. Ivan
could feel the Omega's heart beating against his and it was the most perfect
thing in the world. He looped his arms around the weakened Omega, resting them
on Al's lower-back, and Al nuzzled and kissed his neck.
                "I love you, my Alpha-mate," he murmured happily.
                "I love you, too, my Omega-mate."
                And just like that, they fell asleep.
===============================================================================
THE ISLES
TWO DAYS LATER
Arthur hefted the axe overhead and swung it down forcefully, cleaving a log in
two. He kicked half of it aside, then straightened the other and chopped it
again, again, again until it was too small to be used as anything but kindling.
By the time he lowered the axe he was standing amidst a field of splinters, his
tormented heart racing. It was a grey day, a thick fog hovering low over the
moors. He wiped the sweat from his face, pushed back his hair, then looked up.
                A fist squeezed his heart. The shape he saw emerging from the
fog was an Omega shape. It was Matt's shape.
                It can't be,I'm imagining it, he thought, too afraid to hope.
He clenched the axe. I'm seeing what's not there. I'm seeing what my heart
wants to see. I've finally gone mad.
                Matthew is gone.
               "Matthew is..."
                He watched, paralyzed, as the Omega walked cautiously to the
edge of the garden, then stopped. There was an Alpha with him, but Arthur
didn't acknowledged him; barely even glanced at him. He didn't care about the
Alpha, only the Omega. The young Omega who looked so much like his lost pup.
I'm seeing a ghost. But he didn't want it to disappear, so he didn't move and
he didn't dare breathe, too afraid the beautiful illusion would vanish if he so
much as blinked.
                "Dad?"
                A voice. A real, live voice. Matt's voice.
                The Omega smiled. "I'm home."
                The axe fell to the ground.
                "Francis!" Arthur screamed. Seconds later he collided with
Matt. His hands touched a solid, living body—not a ghost; not a dream—and he
wrapped his arms around the Omega. He smelled Matt's scent and felt his breath
and body-heat and stroked his silky-soft curls—he loved those curls; he missed
those curls—and he gazed lovingly into the gentle violet eyes he thought he
would never see again. Then he broke down and cried. Tears spilled down his
cheeks as sobs racked him and he cried and sniffled like a swaddling-pup, but
he didn't care. "Alive!" he gasped. That's all he cared about. "My precious
pup,you're alive!"
                He didn't ask why or how Matt was alive, because he didn't
care. He cradled Matt's face in his hands and he kissed his Omega-pup's cheeks.
His hands were shaking.
                "Dad," Matt cried as well, "I'm sorry I worried you. I didn't
mean to. I'm so, so sorry."
                "Oh, my darling." Arthur pulled Matt back into his greedy arms.
"I thought I'd lost you forever. I thought you were gone. I thought... Oh,
Matthew, I've been so afraid," he confessed.
                "I'm sorry."
                "No, no," said Arthur sternly. "It's not your fault. It was
never your fault. It was me—"
                "Dad. Don't."
                Arthur hiccupped; his voice shuddered. He shook his head. "It
doesn't matter anymore—nothing does," he agreed. "You're home now, Matthew.
That's what matters. You're here with me. You're safe. You're alive."
===============================================================================
Gil smiled as he watched the Omega-father and pup's heartfelt reunion. Both of
them were crying and making high-pitched noises of happy disbelief and
clutching each other, too afraid to let go. Omegas, he thought, keeping to a
safe distance, yet secretly endeared by the scene. If it were possible for him
to feel his Alpha-father's arms around him again—even just a pat on the head—he
wouldn't be in a hurry to let go either.
                I'm going to hug my pups every fucking day, he decided, then
and there. They're going to know without a doubt that I love them.
                Then a howl erupted.
                "Mathieu!"
                Francis Bonnefoi looked like an older, Alpha version of Matt,
but with Al's bright blue eyes. He was pretty for an Alpha, even if he looked a
little tired. Not that it stopped him from tearing across the garden like a
soldier charging into battle. Gil took a step back to prevent being knocked
over. Unlike Arthur, Francis didn't pause to stare in shock at Matt's
reappearance. His Alpha nose did not need to second-guess his pup's scent. He
opened up his arms and pulled Matt into an embrace, catching Arthur in the
middle.
                "Mathieu—Oh,my Mathieu!" he cried. And then there was more
hugging and kissing and laughing in giddy, happy relief.
                "How?" Francis asked. "How is this possible?"
                Matt smiled. "It's a long story, Papa. But Gil—"
                Then Francis went rigid. He shooed Arthur back a step, much to
Arthur's dismay, and leant in to better smell Matt. He was so thorough, his
nose almost touched the Omega's skin. Then he looked over Matt's shoulder at
Gil, only then noticing him, and his brow furrowed in disbelief, then
displeasure. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared as he registered Gil's
unmistakable Alpha-scent and his gaze fell to Matt's midsection. A growl
escaped him, pulled from the back of his throat like a rumble of thunder; not
loud, but threatening. And he whirled. He turned on Gil so fast, his teeth
bared, his blue eyes blazing fury, that the Westerner took a step back—
                —and hit something solid.
                "Who the fuck are you?" said a deep, angry brogue.
                Francis closed the gap and, suddenly, Gil was surrounded. I
didn't even hear them approach, he thought, too focused on Matt's Alpha-father
to notice his four mean-looking uncles. They all wore identical scowls, but the
family head was not hard to discern. Scott Kirkland was the biggest Islander
Gil had ever seen, tall enough to look Gil in the eye and as solid as a brick.
The wiry Westerner did not relish a blow from one of those blunt fists if it
came to a fight.
                "Stop," said Matt, pushing into the pentagon. "Papa, Uncle
Scott—this is Gilbert. My Alpha-mate."
                It took a lot of explaining—interrupted with more smiles and
hugs ("Mattie, honey, we missed you!")—before Scott's stance reluctantly
relaxed, followed by Owen, Liam, and Patrick. Francis remained worryingly
stiff. Gil thought he might burst a blood-vessel if he continued to glare with
such ire. Tactfully, the Westerner said nothing throughout the exchange,
deciding he had a better chance of not getting punched if Matt did the talking.
He merely listened as the Alphas argued about where to place blame and what to
do now. For a family that values unity, they sure bicker a lot, he noted. The
only person who didn't speak was Arthur. He stood beside Matt, one arm wrapped
securely around his Omega-pup's shoulders. Then, when everything was finally
said and done, he asked one simple, lonely question:
                "Matthew, where is Alfred?"
                The Alphas went abruptly still, awaiting Matt's reply.
                "He's perfectly fine, I promise," said Matt. "He and his Alpha-
mate are safe in the Low Countries. They'll be home soon."
                "His Alpha-mate?"
                Arthur looked shocked. Francis looked sick.
                The Kirkland Alphas exchanged an incredulous look. "We are
talking about Alfred, right?"
                Matt laughed, but his next words were aimed at his parents.
"Yes. Al found himself a wonderful Alpha, truly. He saved Al's life, just like
Gil saved mine—"
                "Yes, about that," said Francis skeptically. His eyes swivelled
to meet Gil's. "I don't like it," he said bluntly. "I don't like what you've
told me, and I don't like you. Just what kind of Alpha are you? How dare you
take advantage of such a young, impressionable Omega! How dare you claim my pup
without my blessing!"
                "Papa, it's not like that, I told you—"
                "How dare you impregnate him!" Francis seethed.
                "Pregnant?" said Arthur, looking at Matt in mild surprise.
                Matt nodded. "I told you it was a long story, Dad. But yes,
pregnant. And very happy to be," he added, in case there was doubt—which there
was.
                Francis shook his head and spat at Gil. "You beast!" he
growled. "You filthy cur! You selfish, underhanded Western—"
                Gil braced himself for a strike, but Matt quickly inserted
himself.
                "Papa," he said in a gentle, soothing voice. "Please don't be
angry. This is a good thing. I love Gil. I chose him to be my Alpha-mate. I
wanted him to mate me."
                Francis bristled. "Him? No. I don't like it, Mathieu. I—"
                "Papa, please listen." Matt took Francis' hand and stroked it
as he spoke. His look was soft and coy. "I'm so, so happy because of Gil. I've
never been happy like this before. Please don't take it away from me. Please,"
he begged.
                Gil saw it the moment Francis surrendered. His blue eyes
softened when they met Matt's, revealing the truth. He only wanted what was
best for his Omega-pups. All he had ever wanted was their happiness.
                Helplessly he looked to Arthur, who nodded in support. Then he
heaved a deep, dramatic sigh.
                "Oh, but Mathieu, chéri, he's a Westerner," he sulked. "He's a
soldier. Are you absolutely sure he's what you want? Because if you're not,
your uncles and I will make him disappear," he threatened, glaring at Gil.
"You're home now, bébé, you're safe. You don't have to be afraid anymore—"
                "Papa," Matt interrupted. Deliberately, he pressed the Alpha's
hand to his abdomen. "Grandpups," he said.
                Francis' face froze for a moment, then it transformed.
"Grandpups!" he shouted in glee. "Oh! I didn't even think of—Ah!" he screeched
like an Omega, waving a hand excitedly in front of his face. "Arthur! Arthur,
grandpups!" he gushed, yanking both Omegas in for a joyous group hug.
                Gil caught Matt's laughing eye and nodded in approval. Well
played, schatz.
                Then it was finally his turn to speak.
                "You, Westerner," Scott demanded. His tone—his green eyes—left
no room for discussion. He was the pack-leader, and if there was one thing Gil
understood it was hierarchy. He knew what was expected of him if he wanted to
join the Islander pack. He thought it would be hard, that it would feel wrong,
like a betrayal to the West. But it didn't.
                Obediently, he knelt on the grass and bowed his head. Then he
said:
                "I'm not good with words, but it doesn't matter, because I love
Matt more than words can say. He's my life now. I'll love him and our pups
until the day I die, and if I die trading my life for theirs then I'll go to
the afterlife with no regrets. I'll live by your clan's customs and laws and
yield to your authority if only you'll accept me. I'll protect this family like
it's my own. And I will never stop trying to be the Alpha-mate that Matt
deserves. This I swear," he vowed like a soldier. "This is a promise I will
never break."
                Scott made him wait for a long time, but Gil didn't move. He
didn't raise his head and he didn't glance up. He stayed in a submissive kneel,
only guessing at the silent exchange going on overhead. Then—finally—Francis
said:
                "I believe him."
                The moment Gil felt Scott's hand come to rest on his head, the
fear and doubt went out of him. He thought of the last time someone had touched
him like this, claiming him as theirs, and he bit back a smile. It had been
such a long time ago—eight years—but in that moment of wordless acceptance, Gil
felt like someone's Alpha-pup again. Not the lost soul he had felt like for so
long, but someone who had finally found his way home to where he belonged.
                "Welcome to the Kirkland family, Gilbert Beilschmidt."
===============================================================================
ONE WEEK LATER
The first person Al saw upon arriving home was Matt.
                It was barely dawn and Matt looked a bit pale as he greeted his
brothers at the door, so Al blamed his being awake on something pregnancy
related. They hugged, and Matt congratulated he and Ivan on their pair-bonding,
and Al proudly showed Matt the necklace his Alpha-mate had given him. ("Oh,
it's beautiful!") Ivan smiled, but he stayed silent, distracted by the threat
of pending discovery. His violet eyes scanned the main room, lingering on
windows and the back door, Al noticed; searching for an escape route if needed.
Gently, Al squeezed Ivan's hand in reassurance.
                "They're going to hate me," Ivan had said the night before as
they boarded a boat.
                "No more than Gilbert," Al shrugged.
                "Alfred." Ivan's look was stern with unease. "I don't want your
family to hate me," he confessed.
                "Ivan, sweetheart," Al said, patting the Alpha's arm, "they're
not going to hate you. My family's going to be so relieved that I actually have
an Alpha-mate, they won't care who you are."
                Ivan shook his head as if Al had misunderstood. "You
underestimate how loved you are, little one."
                Maybe I have, Al considered, now. Maybe I've never really
appreciated what I have. Once upon a time, Al had wanted nothing more than to
leave his dull home life and embark on a grand adventure. He had wanted to have
something to tell that no one else in the pack did. He had wanted to become
something that no one else was. But now that adventure had been had and lessons
learnt, he couldn't deny how good it felt to be back. Back to the uninspired
two-level house; back to a foggy landscape of hills and rocks and superstition;
back to a monotonous routine of chores and lectures; back to secluded nights
with only his boisterous family for company. Back to feeling safe and loved and
knowing that, no matter what, he would always be taken care of.  He looked
around the room and recognized all of the comforts he had taken for granted
before—everything from Scott's old tartan to Francis' accounts books to
Arthur's unfinished needlework was exactly where it should be, as if Al had
merely stepped out for an afternoon stroll. He took a deep breath and he
smelled wood and wool and dried fruit baked into shortbread, and he blinked
happy tears from his eyes.
                Home. I'm finally home.
                Then Gil's sharp shadow appeared at the base of the stairs.
Still a light sleeper, Al thought. He took a deep whiff of Al's new scent and
smirked.
                "Shut it, Beilschmidt," said Al pre-emptively.
                Gil opened his mouth to reply, feigning hurt, but was suddenly
whacked from behind.
                "I heard voices," said Arthur unhappily. "It's five o'clock in
the bloody morning, who the hell—"
                Then he saw Al and the words got lost in his throat.
                The Omega's eyes flooded shamelessly with tears as he shoved
Gilbert hastily aside, rapidly descending the last few steps to reach the
ground-level. He flung himself at Al and then Al could feel nothing but his
Omega-father's skinny body—he's lost weight, he thought guiltily—covered in an
ugly nightshirt that was so threadbare it was soft as a cloud. Al had clutched
at and cried onto this nightshirt more times than he could remember. He bowed
his head to Arthur's shoulder and breathed in the sweet, homey scent of him. He
heard Arthur gasp and felt his body shudder, but otherwise he was silent as he
cried. He kissed his Omega-pup and he squeezed him so hard it hurt Al's ribs.
It felt like Arthur was holding on for dear life, but it was not unwanted. It
was very, very wanted.
                "I'm home, Dad," Al said softly, a lump of emotion in his
throat.
                Finally, Arthur pulled back. His eyes were red and his nose was
redder. Al had only ever seen Arthur cry once before—only three months ago, but
it seemed like so much longer. He had cried when Al and Matt had left, and he
was crying now that they had returned. For a long uninterrupted moment he
stared at Al, memorizing him, his gentle hands cupping Al's bright-eyed face.
                Then he smacked Al's cheek. Not hard, but enough to take Al by
surprise. And he said: "You're late, Alfred."
                Al's smile widened, and a single, happy tear fell from his eye.
                "Sorry, Dad. I won't do it again."
===============================================================================
The Omegas' quiet reunion was interrupted when Al's Alpha-father descended into
the scene, causing such a ruckus that soon the ground-level was teeming with
Alphas all trying to hug Al at once. Ivan was afraid they would smother his
poor Omega-mate, but Al's laughter joined the cacophony as rough hugs and
kisses were exchanged. It looked more like a hunting celebration than a
heartfelt reunion. (Ivan saw Gil tug Matt protectively out of the way.) The
only Alpha who wasn't shouting but cooing instead was Francis, who suffered the
pushing and shoving of his brothers-by-mating-law if only so he didn't have to
let his Omega-pup go.
                "Oh,my Alfred!My precious Alfred!" he cried, rubbing his face
to Al's.
                Then Al was scooped into the arms of his redheaded uncle, whose
hug swung him clean off his feet. "Alfred!" Scott boomed. "Glad to have you
back, pup!"
                Ivan watched it all from a safe distance, Al's joy easing his
nerves. That is, until Al struggled free of the mob and thrust a hand out
toward him.
                "This is Ivan," he said, beaming. "My Alpha-mate."
                Ivan froze like a deer in lantern-light as everyone turned to
look at him. He could already hear the refusals and furious growls as they
chased him off, proclaiming him unfit to be Al's Alpha-mate. He was an Eastern
deserter with no family, no wealth, and no way to prove his credentials. They
had no way of knowing he was a good hunter and craftsman; no way to know he
would be a good provider for them. They had no reason to think he was anything
more than the sum of his size and strength, just like the Easterners. To them,
that's all Ivan had ever been. Even now he was significantly the biggest Alpha
in the house, but he also felt like the meekest. If Francis Bonnefoi rejected
him as Al's mate, or if Scott chased him away from the pack, what then? Would
Al follow him back into exile at the risk of being disowned? Would Ivan be
responsible for ruining Al's family reunion, his future? Would Al eventually
resent him for not being the Alpha-mate his family had wanted for him—
                Scott let out his breath. "Well of course you are," he said
sarcastically. "Why wouldn't you be a great Eastern brute? Because none of the
Kirkland Omegas can be satisfied with a nice, well-bred Islander for an Alpha-
mate. Oh,no. That would be way too conventional for them.
                "So welcome, Ivan," he spread out his arms, "to Allistor
Kirkland's home for wayward Mainlanders."
                Ivan merely stared, unsure what to say. Is this a joke?
                Then he saw Al's bedazzling smile.
                When it became apparent that Scott's grudging welcome was at
its end, Arthur elbowed Francis in the ribs.
                "Ivan," he said, stepping forward. His look was formal—or, as
formal as anyone could be dressed in his bed-clothes—but he had Al's striking
sapphire-blue eyes. Ivan focused on them, holding his Alpha-father-by-mating-
law's steady gaze until Francis held out his hand.
                Ivan didn't know what was expected of him, so he took Francis'
hand and firmly shook it.
                The moment Al burst out laughing, he knew that he had done the
wrong thing. Francis yanked his hand free and rubbed it, a look of displeasure
on his disgruntled face.
                "You're supposed to bow for a blessing," Matt whispered
helpfully, although he was hard to hear over Gil's snickering.
                "Oh." Ivan glanced at Al, then Francis. "I didn't know—"
                "Never-mind," Francis dismissed. He eyed Ivan skeptically and
then shook his head in defeat. "Welcome to our family, Ivan," he said. And
patted the Easterner's head.
***** Epilogue *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
FOUR MONTHS LATER
Ivan, this looks wonderful!" Matt praised, leaning down to study the
architectural drawing. He had wedged himself in between Ivan and Scott, who
were sitting at the kitchen table, a cuppa tea in his hand and a six-month's
swollen belly protruding in front of him. Arthur had already dismissed the
possibility of it holding twins—much to Gil and Al's disappointment—but Al
couldn't believe that a single pup took up so much space. ("He's going to hurt
like a bitch coming out," he had tactlessly said to Matt. "Gods, Westerner pups
are big!" Matt had rolled his eyes, then countered: "Yeah, good luck with any
Easterner pups you conceive." Al had shuddered at the very thought and hadn't
mentioned Matt's size again.)
                "Is this a nursery?" asked the Omega-father-to-be, pointing at
the drawing.
                "Yes," Ivan confirmed. "It'll be beside your bedchamber with an
adjoining door. On the other side, just here," he indicated, dragging his
finger across the thick lines, "is another bedchamber for when the pups are old
enough to leave the nursery. This corridor will connect to a side-stairwell,
which leads to the kitchen in the middle. There will be doors here and here,
but none on the second-level, so you needn't worry about the safety of your
pups."
                Matthew smiled, very pleased.
                Scott harrumphed. "I don't know about these renovations. I
still think that we should be building up, not out. And how do you know these
pillars won't collapse beneath the weight of new walls?"
                "They won't," Ivan promised, a pinch exasperated. "I know what
I'm doing. I'm good with my hands."
                "Yes, you are," Al purred teasingly from across the table.
                "Alfred, chéri, please," said Francis, sitting beside him.
"You'll upset my appetite."
                Al rolled his eyes. "It's been four months, Papa. I'm mated,
get over it.
                "And soon Ivan and I will have our very own house," he added
smugly. "Ah, I can't wait! Why Mattie and Gil want to stay and live here in the
pack-leader's house is a mystery."
                Gil swallowed a mouthful of jam biscuit, and shamelessly said:
"Six live-in pupsitters, that's why."
                Al laughed, but he knew the real reason Gil and Matt were
staying in the pack-leader's house was much more secretive. And political. It
had already become apparent to Al that Scott was starting to groom the
Westerner to be the next pack-leader. Al had no doubts that Gil was qualified
for the job, but he had still felt a bit insulted that his Alpha-mate hadn't
been chosen. But a late-night conversation with Ivan had quelled it:
                "Scott should have at least considered you to be the pack-
leader," Al had said, brooding. "I don't see why Gil is a better candidate than
you. It's not fair."
                "It is," Ivan replied, surprising the Omega. "Scott approached
me and asked if I would support Gilbert as the pack-leader, and I said yes."
                "But why? You'd be just as good a pack-leader as he would," Al
praised. "You'd be better!"
                Ivan had chuckled. "I appreciate your loyalty, little one. But
no, I wouldn't be—if for no other reason than I don't want to be. I don't want
to lead. Gilbert does, so let him have it."
                "But—"
                "This will be my project for the next couple of years," he
said, showing Al the architectural drawings for the first time: one for the
pack-leader's house, and one for just he and Al. "I would rather focus on
building us a home without the stress of politics."
                Al fingered his bear pendent as he looked at the drawings, now.
He had been so proud when Ivan had first presented his ideas to the rest of the
family. My Alpha-mate is so talented, he had thought—then and now. My Alpha-
mate is the best Alpha-mate ever!
                Alpha-mate.
               Gods, he loved that he could legitimately call Ivan his Alpha-
mate now. It had taken much too long.
                Alpha-mate. Alpha-mate, he crooned to himself.
                Ivan caught his eye and frowned, wondering at his mate's
blatant giddiness.
                Al smiled smugly back.
===============================================================================
You're smiling," Matt whispered to Al, who joined him at the kitchen window.
                "Yeah," Al acknowledged, "I do that a lot now."
                Together, the Omegas crawled onto the wide window-ledge—Al with
considerably more grace than Matt—and sat with their backs pressed to the
shudders and their legs entangled. Contently, Matt rested his head against Al's
and surveyed the crowded kitchen: Owen tuning a stringed instrument in the
corner; Liam reading a hunting report, Patrick aiming a throwing-knife at a
target on the wall; Arthur yelling at Patrick and then cursing artfully to
himself as he stirred in a deep cauldron; Francis offering cooking advice that
got him kicked; Francis adding unhelpful amateur suggestions as Ivan and Scott
argued over architectural improvements; and Gil leaning against the opposite
window, which was open to let out steam. He was looking out across the rolling
moors like he already owned them—like there was nowhere in the world he would
rather belong.
                I know how you feel, Gil. There's nowhere else I want to be
either.
               It wasn't perfect, and it didn't feel like the happily-ever-
after ending of a fairytale, but Matt was glad. He had never believed in
fairytales anyway, and he certainly didn't want to know the ending of his and
Gil's story so soon. The thing that made him happiest was the simple, wonderful
fact that his home finally felt like home. He didn't feel like a ghost wasting
away his days, alone and ignored and taken advantage of. He didn't feel lost
anymore. There would still be trials and expectations of him, but for the first
time in his life he felt ready to face them. He no longer felt like he was
going to break. Like the floodwaters that had once terrified him, the fear and
anxiety he had lived with for so long was gradually starting to recede. And if
and when he ever did doubt himself again—? Well, he had a whole family who
loved him enough to prove him wrong.
                As if cued by Matt's thoughts, Al reached over and took his
twin's hand. He didn't say a word, but he smiled.
                Matt smiled back.
                "Has Gil talked to you yet?" he asked, keeping his voice low
and his tone conversational.
                "No. Why?" Al asked, his curiosity peaked.
                "Oh, it's nothing—never-mind," Matt teased, diverting his gaze.
                Al bumped his shoulder. "Mattie, tell me. What does Gil want to
talk about?"
                "Well, you know that Uncle Scott wants Gil to be the next pack-
leader, right? Papa thinks he's a good choice, too, even if he won't verbally
admit it. I think he is warming up to Gil, though. Albeit, slowly. I overheard
them talking in French yesterday—well, talking is a generous description for
it; Gil doesn't know much beyond military jargon and curse words—but it's still
good progress. Anyway..." Matt shrugged, "nothing is official yet. The Clan
Leader still needs to approve Scott's choice, but if Gil wins the position then
you might find yourself rather busy, Al."
                His brother's brow furrowed, not following the thread, so Matt
elaborated:
                 "Gil will need a second-in-command," he said. "And guess who
he wants?"
                Al's blue eyes widened. "Me—?" he gasped too loudly.
                Arthur looked up, wondering at his pups' whispering. He eyed
them as if they were plotting something devious before returning to his work.
                Matt pressed a hand to Al's mouth. Al's blue eyes sparkled.
                "Gil wants me?" he asked more quietly.
                "Maybe." Matt winked. "But you didn't hear it from me."
Chapter End Notes
     THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)
     Thank-you to everyone who read, reviewed, and enjoyed Part Two of
     "The Call of the Wild". You all have the patience of saints! :) For
     those interested in reading more, I'll be continuing the series with
     Part Three. Because what's a Medieval AU without a Northern invasion?
     ;)
     In the meantime, I invite you all to read my one-shot: "Once Upon A
     Time In The North", which is the unofficial Prologue of Part Three.
     n_n
***** Second Interlude *****
Chapter Notes
     For anyone interested, the unofficial prologue of this arc is a
     separate one-shot called: "Once Upon A Time In The North". However,
     you do not need to read it to continue reading Part Three of "The
     Call of the Wild". :) Also, because Faroe Islands and Greenland don't
     have official Hetalia human-names, I found these on the Internet. :)
CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
DENMARK           Mikkel Densen
NORWAY             Bjørn Thomassen
FAROE ISLANDS   Andrias Densen
ICELAND             Emil Densen
GREENLAND        Kujâk Densen
SWEDEN              Berwald Oxenstierna
FINLAND             Tino Väinämöinen
SEALAND            Peter Oxenstierna
===============================================================================
NORTHERN CLANS
Mikkel stood over the bed he had just ripped to shreds. It was his bed, in his
private rooms in the longhouse, in the clan that his family ruled, but it was
not his blood soaking the furs. It wasn't even the blood of his kin and for
that he was glad. He would have hated to kill a kinsman, no matter the slight.
Blood-ties and verbal oaths were sacred in the North. But for this he would
have forsaken any vow, be it to gods or mortals or both. This was not just a
slight; it was a crime. It was a monstrosity. The body that lay sprawled on its
face with its chest cavity torn open belonged to an Alpha of good blood but a
bad soul, and Mikkel was not sorry he had killed him. He was only sorry he had
not done it with his bare hands.
                "Mick?" Bjørn whispered.
                Mikkel dropped the knife and knelt in front of his Omega-mate.
                Bjørn was shaking, a hand pressed firmly to his mouth because
he didn't want the sleeping pups to hear his fast, uneven breaths. His violet
eyes were wide, reflecting moonlight in tears that didn't fall.
                Mikkel grabbed an un-bloodied blanket and draped it around the
Omega, whose frock had been ripped open, then gathered him into his arms. "It's
okay," he said, his voice a raw, angry growl. He rubbed Bjørn's back; to
comfort himself or the Omega, he didn't know. He rubbed hard, absently rubbing
the blood off his hands and onto the blanket. "It's okay, Norge—"
                "It's not okay," Bjørn said, clutching the Alpha's shirt. His
eyes flicked to the bed and back in panic. "He was the Clan Leader's heir—"
                "He was a monster!" Mikkel snarled, jerking Bjørn into a hug.
He buried his nose in the Omega's pale-blonde hair, and vehemently said: "He
deserved to die."
                "His clan won't think so." Bjørn's voice was quiet, but sharp.
It cut like a knife. "They'll say you broke the law of guest right. The Clan
Leader will demand your death to compensate, Mick. A life for a life."
                Mikkel shook his head. "I'm allowed to protect my Omega-mate
and pups from danger. The law states—"
                "The law needs proof, Mick, which we don't have. If you take
this grievance to the jarls, you'll only expedite your own execution. They'll
stone you."
                "Norge—"
                "Think of your pups." Bjørn pulled back, his eyes alight with
fire and fear; violet glaring into royal-blue. His hands coiled tightly in
Mikkel's shirt. "They need you," he said. "They need their Alpha-father alive.
Ineed you alive, so please, please don't fight this. It's not worth it."
                Mikkel clenched his jaw and leant forward, pressing his
forehead to Bjørn's. "Yes,you are," he said.
                "Mick, please."
                "They'll find his body, Norge. They'll know I killed him.
There's nothing I can do about that now."
                "I know."
                "Then what?" Mikkel snapped, desperately yielding to the
Omega's judgement. "What the fuck do we do?"
                Bjørn tipped his head up and kissed Mikkel. Then he said:
                "Flee. We take our pups and we fucking flee."
===============================================================================
Bjørn was not afraid of what had happened, but of what wouldhappen if they
didn't leave. He was afraid—terrified—of the consequences Mikkel would face for
what they had done.
                Mikkel packed their belongings, throwing half-a-dozen satchels
over his shoulders and then headed down to the water. Bjørn went for the pups:
                "Andrias, Emil, Kujâk, wake up," he said, shaking them. "Wake
up!"
                "Papa, what—? Why?"
                "Come on," said Bjørn, shoving armfuls of clothes at them. He
began dressing little Kujâk even as the Alpha-pup yawned, blinking sleep from
his eyes. His round arms, still soft with puppy-fat, flopped languidly as the
Omega wrestled him into a shirt and sweater and coat, then wrapped a scarf
around his neck and pulled up his hood. "We're leaving," he said, pulling Kujâk
up and yanking his wool mittens on as he did. To the other two pups—an Alpha
and an Omega, both who dressed themselves—he said: "Quickly, we're leaving,
let's go."
                "But why?" asked Emil as his Omega-father ushered he and his
brothers out the backdoor and into the night.
                A wide-bellied knaar bobbed at the shoreline, its sail
unfurled. Mikkel loaded the satchels, supplies, and then his Alpha-pups inside.
                "Papa," Emil repeated. He grabbed Bjørn's sleeve. "What's going
on? Why is Dad taking the knaar instead of the longship? And where is his crew?
And why are we going along?"
                Bjørn stopped and faced his Omega-pup. He cupped his cheek.
"Later," he promised. "I'll explain everything later, my clever Omega-pup, but
right now you just have to trust us. You have to listen to everything your
Alpha-father says and not ask questions. No arguing, okay? Okay—?" he insisted
when Emil only stared, frightened by the urgency in Bjørn's eyes.
                "O-okay," Emil nodded. He took Bjørn's hand and they hurried to
the boat.
                "Are we going on a voyage?" Kujâk was asking.
                "Yes, my brave little warrior," Mikkel smiled, patting the
Alpha-pup's silky head. "This'll be your first voyage. Are you excited?"
                Kujâk nodded eagerly as Mikkel lowered him onto Andrias' lap.
The oldest of Mikkel and Bjørn's pups—nine-years-old—looked wearily at his
Alpha-father, his grey eyes harbouring a quiet understanding beyond his years.
He was a stoic soul, but a sturdy one. Like a rock he weathered whatever task
he was given. He wrapped his arms around Kujâk like ropes, meeting Mikkel's
eyes and silently promising to guard his younger brothers when Mikkel couldn't.
                "Look, Papa!" Kujâk said gleefully, thrusting out his arms and
waving them up-and-down, pretending to row. "I'm a member of Dad's crew now!"
                "Yes, I see that," Bjørn said absently, lifting Emil into the
boat. Then he turned to Mikkel. Ready?
                Ready to flee? Ready to leave our home and clan and everything
we know behind? Ready for an adventure?
                Mikkel nodded, but no sooner had he un-tethered the boat did
the smile fall from his lips. Suddenly, he had an axe in his hand and had
placed himself defensively in front of the boat, his sensitive nose reading a
scent—a threat. Bjørn vaulted into the boat and grabbed a fishing-spear, then
turned to face the shadows lurking nearby. Now that he knew what to listen for,
he could hear cautious footsteps creeping over the forest floor, drawing
closer; footsteps in the dead of a deep, dark night when footsteps had no
business being heard. Mikkel growled loudly, and called:
                "Who's there? Show yourself!"
                An Omega emerged from the trees. A small Omega clutching a
chubby bundle to his chest, a slumbering pup. He was dressed for travel in a
heavy coat and cloak with the hood pulled overhead. His big, round eyes looked
dark in a face as white as milk.
                Mikkel relaxed his axe-arm, but looked confused. "Who are you?"
                "Please," said the Omega bravely, "don't attack."
                "I'm not going to attack—" Mikkel started, then stiffened. His
reassurance morphed into a livid growl as an Alpha stepped out of the forest to
stand beside the Omega, his mate. "You!" he spat, brandishing the axe; showing
his teeth. "What the fuck do you want?"
                Berwald Oxenstierna was a tall, blonde Alpha with tense blue
eyes that bore into Mikkel. He was a revered voyager in his homeland, with a
good reputation for being fair and merciful; a warrior and a leader of Alphas,
second-in-command of his pack—his crew; and the first-cousin of the Alpha who
had attacked Bjørn.
                "Answer me!" Mikkel yelled, scaring his pups and waking the one
cradled in Berwald's mate's arms. "What the fuck do you want?"
                "Please," said the Omega, bouncing his crying pup. He looked
back at Berwald, then faced Mikkel. He met Bjørn's eyes, and said:
                "We want to come with you."
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