Free Omega's Unexpected: MM Werewolf MPREG Romance (Lucky Book 1) by Fox Hawkins, Britannia Bloom
Authors: Fox Hawkins, Britannia Bloom
CHAPTER 1
Noah's resigned himself to never having a mate.
It's good, he thinks. Freeing, even. He's not a pitiful charity case. He may be packless, he may be childless, but that's not the be-all-end-all of an omega. He works, keeps his head down, and is content to spend his days indoors practicing the violin and translating books as a side job for a human friend. He makes more than enough to get by, in fact, and he should be happy with that.
He shouldn't need to feel compelled to live up to unreasonable standards brought about by his werewolf nature. He shouldn't have to be ashamed of the fact that he surrounds himself with human company—said friends having no idea what, or who, he is. He shouldn't feel constant and erratic paranoia that his family will find him and drag him back to the manor, tutting and scolding him for running away and thrusting him into an arranged, political mateship.
If they only knew he spent his heats with strangers …
Noah hugs his peacoat jacket closer to his body, rubbing at his forearms and cursing his body's natural inclination towards coolness. His heat is starting and even that's not enough to combat the late winter chill, despite the fact that underneath the fabric he's sweating enough that his shirt is sticking to his skin.
Just a couple more blocks, is all. Just a couple more blocks and he'll arrive at the only omega sanctuary in the city, run by werewolves alone—betas and older omegas mostly—and protected from the roaming alpha packs via a treaty over a hundred years old. He'll go there, be set up to nest in his own room, and be tended to by a vetted alpha who's been confirmed unable to fertilize his eggs.
The main tool with which alphas control omegas and civilized society has defeated it. An omega who cannot slake a heat is an omega that will not live very long on its own, mateless.
The service is, admittedly, expensive . Supply and demand, after all.
Noah sees the familiar building and instinctively relaxes, his muscles uncoiling as he recognizes the place that will ease his mounting pain. Right now his heat is only a strengthening sweet scent and tension knotting his lower stomach, but soon it will drown him with the mindless pressure of an ocean and by then he'll be fed, hydrated, and writhing naked and needy in a nest of blankets.
He's looking forward to it, actually.
Stepping up to the door, Noah presses the buzzer.
"Hello? This is the OHC, do you have an appointment?" Comes a woman's voice.
"Noah Young," he replies, a little breathless.
A pause. Then, "Please enter." And the door whirrs with the sound of the lock being deactivated as he grips the handle and lets himself inside.
The waiting room is empty save for one other—an omega—who glances up at him and then away, their face going red. Or perhaps it was already red. Either way, they look far younger than himself and Noah can sympathize with their embarrassment.
This building is practically a reverse brothel.
The cold from outside slides off of him as he grows accustomed to the temperature of the building. It's perfectly heated, just right for the omegas who usually occupy it, and even as Noah steps into the elevator and selects one of the underground floors—at this stage, having visited the OHC with such frequency that there's a specific room reserved for him—he doesn't grow any cooler while the elevator carries him.
He likes it here, he feels safe. Which, Noah supposes, is the intention as the OHC caters to omegas when they're at their most vulnerable. A panicked omega in heat is an utter nightmare and no one wants to have to deal with that. But there's a tranquility that settles over him, even with his heat imminent and anxiously unfurling under his skin.
The knowledge that he won't have to battle through the torment of a heat without an alpha is deliciously comforting.
When he arrives he finds that his room has
Noah's resigned himself to never having a mate.
It's good, he thinks. Freeing, even. He's not a pitiful charity case. He may be packless, he may be childless, but that's not the be-all-end-all of an omega. He works, keeps his head down, and is content to spend his days indoors practicing the violin and translating books as a side job for a human friend. He makes more than enough to get by, in fact, and he should be happy with that.
He shouldn't need to feel compelled to live up to unreasonable standards brought about by his werewolf nature. He shouldn't have to be ashamed of the fact that he surrounds himself with human company—said friends having no idea what, or who, he is. He shouldn't feel constant and erratic paranoia that his family will find him and drag him back to the manor, tutting and scolding him for running away and thrusting him into an arranged, political mateship.
If they only knew he spent his heats with strangers …
Noah hugs his peacoat jacket closer to his body, rubbing at his forearms and cursing his body's natural inclination towards coolness. His heat is starting and even that's not enough to combat the late winter chill, despite the fact that underneath the fabric he's sweating enough that his shirt is sticking to his skin.
Just a couple more blocks, is all. Just a couple more blocks and he'll arrive at the only omega sanctuary in the city, run by werewolves alone—betas and older omegas mostly—and protected from the roaming alpha packs via a treaty over a hundred years old. He'll go there, be set up to nest in his own room, and be tended to by a vetted alpha who's been confirmed unable to fertilize his eggs.
The main tool with which alphas control omegas and civilized society has defeated it. An omega who cannot slake a heat is an omega that will not live very long on its own, mateless.
The service is, admittedly, expensive . Supply and demand, after all.
Noah sees the familiar building and instinctively relaxes, his muscles uncoiling as he recognizes the place that will ease his mounting pain. Right now his heat is only a strengthening sweet scent and tension knotting his lower stomach, but soon it will drown him with the mindless pressure of an ocean and by then he'll be fed, hydrated, and writhing naked and needy in a nest of blankets.
He's looking forward to it, actually.
Stepping up to the door, Noah presses the buzzer.
"Hello? This is the OHC, do you have an appointment?" Comes a woman's voice.
"Noah Young," he replies, a little breathless.
A pause. Then, "Please enter." And the door whirrs with the sound of the lock being deactivated as he grips the handle and lets himself inside.
The waiting room is empty save for one other—an omega—who glances up at him and then away, their face going red. Or perhaps it was already red. Either way, they look far younger than himself and Noah can sympathize with their embarrassment.
This building is practically a reverse brothel.
The cold from outside slides off of him as he grows accustomed to the temperature of the building. It's perfectly heated, just right for the omegas who usually occupy it, and even as Noah steps into the elevator and selects one of the underground floors—at this stage, having visited the OHC with such frequency that there's a specific room reserved for him—he doesn't grow any cooler while the elevator carries him.
He likes it here, he feels safe. Which, Noah supposes, is the intention as the OHC caters to omegas when they're at their most vulnerable. A panicked omega in heat is an utter nightmare and no one wants to have to deal with that. But there's a tranquility that settles over him, even with his heat imminent and anxiously unfurling under his skin.
The knowledge that he won't have to battle through the torment of a heat without an alpha is deliciously comforting.
When he arrives he finds that his room has
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