Klaus
The Beta was a vixen.
Hands crossed, smile spreading, she was dusted in a strange flattering glow that had his belly flipping and his heart rate escalating. It cradled her — star-lined galaxy and melting skies, had her cheeks flushed warm — the shade of summer peaches and nectarine centres. And his mates were all growing drowsy in that glow, growing sick. They basked in her rays, lovelorn and begging, wide-eyed and soft from poisoned romance.
It frightened him. For her reach was growing, roots taking hold under the skin, hooking hearts, anchoring souls. His mates were peeling, thorny layers revealed and showcasing the dripping, fleshy, vulnerable centre. Zen? In love. Helios? Hot-and-cold infatuation. Rowan? Smitten. And they displayed it openly, the look in their eyes, the carnality of melting sensibilities. They sighed with too warm eyes, and quivering lips, growing slick in their jeans.
His boys were creeping towards the tipping point, dancing over lines, desperately reaching for their hatred, their prejudice. But it was difficult to hate Quinn, to force her into their boxes. She was so different from the Alphas, so fucking righteous from her innocence. And Quinn seemed innocent. There was always rage in her eyes when they lashed out at her, always a disappointed gleam as if they could be better.
She looked at them like an old friend, like an old lover.
And her scent betrayed her emotions, roared at their throats and clawed at their lungs. It wasn't a scent that had them squalling and begging to leave, wanting to pinch their noses and flee like bad gas and rot. No, his mates might call it an unpleasant scent, describe it as fermenting fruit, petroleum, dirt—awful things.
But objectively, it smelt good. Another Omega might say that Quinn's angry scent was amazing, that it was better than the taste of wood and dust on their tongue. It was simply just bitter or sour, flavoured with her feelings like well-aged alcohol. Still, for his pack, it had them rooted to the ground, had them reluctant and incapable of hurting her. It had them wanting to please her, wanting that fruit to transform into its fertile, ripe, juicy peach.
It had them wanting her to feel happier.
It was just simply impossible to think of that awful scent as good when they'd been acquainted with the blossoming sweetness of her happiness. Its traces danced in her flavours when Zen was present. And that had their youngest mate glowing with joy, absolutely fucking lost in the endearment of knowing that she had given him those flavours.
It had them melting, had their brains switching towards more primitive thinking, forgetting their places in life, forgetting their secrets. It was manipulation at its finest. And soon it felt as if everything was their fault, not hers. It felt as if there could be more, more than just their duties. And in Zen's voice, Klaus could hear the what-ifs, the maybes, and the plea.
Klaus's thoughts slurred, listing duties, noting obligations.
But Klaus was King. And the weight of responsibility was heavy on Klaus's shoulders. The tremble of knowledge of what he must do, what he had to do to ensure all would go well, was burnt into his mind. The gun in his hands, his father's face, his father's screams for the Alpha. It cycled through his mind—a constant nightmare.
It didn't matter if his mates adored her, Klaus would do what must be done, would take their hatred, their rage, their tears. And he resisted the urge to exhale, to close his eyes and quiver at the future. He refused to give her a glimpse of his true self, the traces of his weakness that tingled in his throat. The bed he'd made and must lie upon.
But Klaus hated conflict, hated death, he hated killing.
He preferred the gentle cultivation of life, the feeling of dirt crusting in his hands, the scent of green flavouring the air, and the sound of laughter. He cared for the plants, the baby birds, the bunnies with broken limbs, the cats all skeletal and wailing. He cared for them all.
Klaus took in lost souls. Just as he'd plucked each mate from their horrible situations and protected them from the storms with loving kisses and open arms. And with soil-smeared cheeks and brows furrowed in concentration, he'd willed life into the dying plants in his garden. Each branch, each root, each leaf had been cared for meticulously. For during the matriarchy, he'd coaxed those plants to birth fruit that he fed to his starving mates.
The garden was a symbol of his sense of self. And so, he hated that he'd returned home to fresh leaves, to growing green, to a sea of plants teeming with life. He hated that they stood taller than before, prettier than before, fat and flourishing. That he'd seen the watering can in her hands, and the dirt in her nails. She was just a good fucking gardener; it shouldn't feel like something more.
Klaus had responsibilities. He had fucking discipline. He had duties.
And so, when the Beta entered his room with a cheeky smile, he told himself that she was just a tool.
"Didn't you say that I'm only required to service one mate a day?" she teased, tongue in cheek. A snort flavouring her voice. Klaus ignored the rush of concern that flooded his heart, the niggling doubt that perhaps she was right. That this was too much, that it almost seemed as if they were only after her body, that it almost felt as if they were the Alphas.
"You seemed," he paused, allowed his lips to twitch into a sneer as if he didn't fucking care, "confident for more."
She nodded. "I suppose I do have a duty I must fulfil."
"You do."
He noted the rush of gooseflesh over her skin, the gentle tremble of her lips as if she were putting on a brave front. His wolf was catching on the thunder of her racing heart, the quiver of her pupils. All feigned bravado. She wasn't as strong as he believed her to be. And for that, his walls fell, shoulders drooped, expletives whispered. A long, difficult sigh and he turned to his cupboard, and reached for the rich gold amber that sloshed in the tall glass. He tipped it over into two cups—he wasn't a fucking monster.
"A drink?" He offered, trying to ignore the way her eyes trembled—starlight and pearls, lips pursed—rubies and roses.
She nodded slowly, eyes shifting to the glass, the labels. It was peeling from age, sloshed cold from winter. He handed it to her, fingertips kissing hers. His body jolted, electricity zinging, thoughts spiralling. He watched it bob down her throat, a swallow. A droplet dribbled down her throat, meandered over milky skin and settled in the groves of her collarbone.
His thoughts exploded into dust.
"Thank you," she choked out, whinged as if she wasn't used to the taste.
"Old gold," he rasped, suddenly afraid of her, suddenly fucking scared. "It's worth a fortune, a city." He gave himself a moment to swallow, to calm the storm of nerves. Suddenly, he wanted her panicking, wanted her just as anxious as he was. "You said you didn't have experience with Omegas." The accusation came out wrong, all hot and angry like a jealous lover. He downed another careless swig and allowed the sting to burn his throat. Fuck.
Her smile stretched. "Are you questioning me with alcohol?"
"We're getting to know each other."
"This is an interrogation."
"Answer the question."
"I don't."
"But you are skilled." He dropped the glass. "You've touched an Omega."
"None," she answered. "Only myself. And books," she sighed and closed her eyes. "Words, retellings, stories. Knowledge helps."
"The Alphas of the wastelands speak of their experiences?" His sneer grew.
"Of course," she answered. "For them, it was part of life. I was fascinated," she shrugged. "Naturally, I wanted to know about Omegas because they were our clients."
"And you were taught methods?"
"Never," she answered. "Most think a bigger size pleases an Omega."
"Maybe it does," he spat.
"Size doesn't matter when an Alpha doesn't care for her partner." She gave him a pointed look as if he should know and he flushed, cheeks splotchy with red. His head was filled with memories of his fiancée, the stupid braying Alpha that only knew to use him. He'd learnt to patch himself up after, to lube up before he met her, to lick his wounds. "What matters more to me is whether my partner's having a good time. I merely try."
He snorted. "You compensate for your lack."
"You've got enough cocks to go around, Klaus. You don't need mine."
He flushed then, pink and hot and angry. "You draw the fucking line."