Zen
Encased in glass, the Beta had been a mess of blood and gory flesh, of scabbing wounds that crawled up her skin. She had been dirty, with sweat staining the valley of her breast; her body doused in a slimy, brine-soaked scent. But with his purchase, she'd been cleaned by his people, scrubbed pink and left on his wooden bed, covered in old sheets, and patched, knitted blankets.
It was unlike the divan of his home, which held the last of the silks and the satins; had the warmth of animal skin with thick, heavy furs. A bed of duck down and goose feathers, and advanced gel-like technology that would never exist again in their post-apocalyptic time. A bed fit for a King.
But it didn't matter, for this room was merely temporary. And in these lands, Zen was no King. He was simply an assassin who served under the kingdom of seven. A legendary killer that saved lives, and killed thousands of monsters.
Zen's secret dwelling sat on the outskirts of the city, groaning and deceptive with its neglect. It appeared uninhabited in the lonely knit of broken structures. Too far from the massive column of heat and ice that controlled the temperature and prevented death. And too far from the safety of the soldiers who patrolled the borders of their kingdom.
No ordinary Omega would dare step so close to the doors that led to the graveyard of their worst criminals. For just a couple of miles East, prowled hundreds and thousands of lost souls—hordes of the Lonely.
And so, these homes were merely temporary lodging for the soldiers of the House of Hemlock—the Omegas tasked with culling the Lonely. They were the strongest of their people—an army of killing machines that enjoyed the rush of the battle. And they had a good captain, an Omega named Hyeon who spent every waking moment of his life studying the behaviour of these monsters.
And Hyeon just happened to be Zen's best friend in the whole world. And so sometimes, when his doting lovers didn't mind if their youngest left the safety of their home, Zen would join him in his hunts under an alias—Z.
He had to do it secretly because Zen couldn't have his mates finding out that he was endangering himself in the wastelands. They would surely throw a fit and lock him up at home; wrap him up in a mountain of blankets and declare that he was too young to fight; and far too precious to court with death and dance with the devil.
But for fuck's sake, Zen had been the harbinger of death, the most powerful weapon of the matriarchy. He had the abilities of all three species. He was magic at its purest and he was no baby. He might be the youngest of the seven, but he could take care of himself, and he could have his fun. And he wanted to be useful, didn't want to spend his days coddled and lovingly teased.
And so, he had created a secret name for himself and covered his face with a mask that revealed only his eyes. Then lied to his lovers that he was just having an occasional sleepover with his friends. Hyeon knew, of course, he did. But to the other soldiers of Hemlock, Zen was merely Z—a high-ranking assassin who would occasionally visit to help lower the number of casualties.
They adored him for it because Zen was no ordinary soldier. He was godly. He could kill Lonely with the ease of squashing ants and crushing bugs. And he would stretch after the bloodbath, lightly drenched in sweat as if it were just a simple workout. He'd act as if murdering thousands of monsters had just been a little bench pressing in the gym.
Because it was just that easy for Zen.
It led to a strange reverence amongst the soldiers, a rush in devotion and awe. He'd built a name for himself there and was seen as a pillar of strength and support. All would experience a boost in morale the moment his feet touched the battlefield, and his presence graced their halls. They adored him.
And so, they asked no questions when he requested that the Beta was to be brought to his home, to Z's home. To the secret little spot that his lovers did not know of. The room where he dwelled at, drinking with Hyeon. And the soldiers had simply bowed and left with quiet smiles. Their assumption was clear.
In their eyes, the Beta would be his meal.
The legendary killer, Z's meal.
Her blood would spill on cloth that they could throw out. The tiny dwelling burned into ashes if need be. It was a place for murder and death. And yet, Zen did not think of any of that when he found her, asleep from the trauma and drugged for health. Her body curled; her lips pursed.
He found her utterly precious.
The gentle exhale of warm breath, the pink of apple cheeks, red lips, and the generous swell of heavy breasts. His heart was soaring and fluttering into the wildest of beats. And his hands had pressed to his chest, horrified by the rush. An ache clawed from within; his throat swelled.
And his magic seemed to sing in her presence, and it roared, and quaked as if begging to be closer. It pleaded for him to wrap his arms around her and hold her so close until their bodies became one. He would do anything to join himself to her, part his legs and sink down onto that tiny little clit— He blinked, horrified. A startled gasp, ripped from his throat.
A gush and his slick had drenched his white slacks. The liquid ran down his thighs in thick gloppy rivulets from his rim. It was as if he'd been fucked to closure, and was ready for that final heavy orgasm that would send him squirting all over his thighs. And all he'd done was think about fucking her.
Zen was sure that it didn't matter if her clit was tiny as fuck and couldn't punch his prostate the way Elysian's and Klaus's could. He'd cum the moment it traced his rim, he'd cum the moment he pressed his lips to hers. He would mewl like an Omega in heat and squirt all over her face.
He was panting at the thought, flooding the room with his creamy scent.
It should take more for him to get there, hours of edging spread-eagled with two mates between his thighs. Helios who'd wrap his pouty mouth around him and suck so hard his cock would spit out a heavy webbing of pre-cum down his throat.
And Icarus who would hold him there at the tip of his orgasm with a tongue on his throbbing slit. He would wait until Zen wasn't shaking anymore before he started it all again, kitten-licking sensitive uncovered flesh, tongue-fucking the head of his cock, nasty and lewd.
It should take so much more.
Yet all it took for her to get him there, was one little breath. And there he was, looking like a fucking pervert in drenched cotton pants that was so wet it was almost see-through. His skin, so hot he was sweating, radiating heat like a furnace. He was gulping warming air, almost sobbing through each convulsing quake.
And God, his cock, it swelled heavy with blood, so ready for ropey expulsion into a gummy, gaping asshole of one of his lovers. But this time his eyes swayed down, to a thatch of curls and the lip of a fleshy bare pussy. He stilled, felt flushed and hot, sweat shimmering on his body. He was so fucking embarrassed because he wanted to, he wanted to savour her there.
Because her scent was everywhere.
And it filled his mouth with saliva, his gums itchy with the need to bite down. Not to kill but to pleasure. And his tongue flopped, heavy and thick with the want to lick and taste straight from the source. She was peach-like and fruity, like God and life, like an angel and then a devil.
She was an aphrodisiac to his wolf, his fey and his vampire.
She smelled divine.