Feral Omega: A Dark Reverse Harem Omegaverse Romance (Ghost Alpha Unit Book 1)

I storm into my father’s office, still in my field gear and not giving a shit about the mud I’m tracking in on his pristine floors. He looks up from his paperwork, his pale eyes flashing with irritation behind his reading glasses.

Looking at my father is always something like looking into a mirror of a possible future, and that experience is usually sobering enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. Or, from his perspective, the crooked path I’ve carved out for myself instead of the one he wishes I’d take.

It’s not his physical state I scorn to inherit. General Maxwell Hargrove may not be a young alpha at the peak of his prime anymore, but even though he’s pushing sixty, he’s still got plenty of youth left in him.

His hair, once the same dark brown shade as mine, is now peppered with gray and shaved close to his scalp in a regulation style, even though he’s well past having to bow to such regulations himself. He’s an inch shy of my six-seven and nearly as broad and muscular. I inherited his sharp jawline, Roman nose and hard features, but I have my mother’s dark eyes, not his frigid blue ones.

He wears the solemn mask of a man at the top of his field who answers to no one but the Council.

And yet, he’s fallen far from the passionate young soldier he used to be. From the alpha who once gave a shit about things like honor and freedom rather than preserving the status quo.

In other words, he’s a bootlicker.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ I ask, my tone just shy of insubordinate.

He sets down his pen and leans back in his chair, studying me for a long moment. ‘I assume you know why you’re here.’

I clench my jaw, meeting his gaze head on. ‘The mission was a success. We neutralized the target and secured the package.’

‘And in the process, Wraith nearly killed two of our own men.’ His voice is cold, unyielding.

I look away, my nails digging into my calloused palms. ‘It was a minor incident. They’ll live.’

‘That’s not the point, Thane!’ He slams his hand down on the desk. ‘The Council is breathing down my neck about the Ghosts. They want me to rein you in, get you under control.’

A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. ‘Under control? We’re the only part of this fucking government that actually gets shit done. And they want to moderate us?’

My father sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks tired, I realize. ‘They want me to disband the Ghosts entirely.’

White hot rage surges through me and for a moment, I can’t even speak. Disband us? After everything we’ve done, all the blood we’ve spilled for them?

‘They can’t do that,’ I manage to grind out through gritted teeth.

‘They’re a bunch of nervous betas who piss themselves at the thought of uncontrolled alphas running around,’ my father says with a hint of disdain. ‘But I agree with you. Disbanding the Ghosts would be a mistake.’

I narrow my eyes at him, sensing a ‘but’ coming.

‘But,’ he continues as expected, holding up a hand to forestall my objections. ‘I’ve managed to reach a compromise with the Council. They’re willing to allow the Ghosts to remain operational—under one condition.’

I raise an eyebrow, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Knowing the Council, it’s bound to be something ridiculous, like mandatory empathy training or some shit.

My father takes a deep breath as if he’s steeling himself for my reaction. ‘They want you to take an omega into the pack.’

For a moment, I’m sure I must have misheard him.

An omega?

It’s so absurd, I can’t help but laugh. ‘Very funny, sir. But seriously, what’s the condition?’

His expression doesn’t change. ‘I am serious, Thane. The Council believes that having an omega in your pack will help stabilize the more volatile elements. Namely Wraith.’

The laughter dies in my throat as the implications sink in. They want to use an omega as some kind of… what, therapy dog? For a pack of fucked-up broken alphas?

‘This is insane,’ I growl, pacing the length of the office. ‘We’re not a normal pack and you know it. Throwing an omega into the mix is just asking for trouble.’

‘I don’t entirely disagree with their reasoning,’ my father says, his tone maddeningly calm. ‘Like it or not, the Ghosts are an alpha pack. And like any alpha pack experiencing discord, having an omega to rally around and protect could be beneficial.’This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

I whirl on him, my fury rising. ‘Beneficial? To who? The omega they’re planning to sacrifice to a bunch of unstable, dangerous alphas? Or to the government, who just wants us to fall in line and stop making waves?’

He meets my gaze unflinchingly. ‘To everyone. The Ghosts are a valuable asset, but you’re right, you’re not normal alphas. You need something to ground you, give you a sense of purpose and unity beyond just the next mission.’

‘And you think an omega is the answer?’ I demand, my voice dripping with scorn. ‘Have you forgotten what we are? What we’ve done? An omega won’t last a week with us before breaking. It’s cruel and you know it.’

My father sighs, some of the steel leaving his spine. ‘I don’t disagree that it’s a risk. But the Council has already made their decision. The only reason I’m telling you this now is so you can prepare your men.’

I clench my fists, fighting the urge to put one through the wall. As much as I hate to admit it, I know he’s right. If the Council has made up their minds, there’s not much I can do about it. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

‘What poor, unlucky omega have they chosen for this suicide mission?’ I ask, my tone bitter.

To my surprise, my father actually looks uncomfortable for a moment. ‘That’s the thing,’ he says slowly. ‘They’ve chosen a rather… unique individual for this assignment.’

I narrow my eyes, not liking the sound of that at all. ‘Unique how?’

He slides a file across the desk to me. ‘She’s a prospect at the Refinement Center.’

‘The Refinement Center?’ I scoff. The name itself is a joke, considering everyone knows that place is where the Council stuffs all the omegas it doesn’t deem fit for society. Most of them end up in breeding centers. The ones who end up being successfully ‘refined’ go to packs that are desperate for omegas, but not privileged enough to secure one through a proper arrangement with good breeding.

Definitely the Council’s way of giving us the middle finger while also trying to ensure we don’t turn on them like junkyard dogs. An interesting little tightrope those fuckers are walking.

Whiskey calls them all shish kabobs since they’ve got sticks shoved firmly up their asses. I have to admit, that’s probably my favorite of his little nicknames.

‘You’re not in any position to be choosy,’ my father says in a dry tone. ‘Even if you do bear the name Hargrave, no decent family in their right mind would consign their omega daughter over to you and that group of rabid wolves you call a pack.’

I snort. He’s not wrong. ‘I’m still not sure a delinquent omega stands a much better chance at surviving us than a regular one does.’

‘She’s a unique case, even for the Refinement Center,’ he says, a hint of something in his tone that I’d think was admiration if I didn’t know him better than that. ‘She has been marked Irreparable.’

‘Irreparable?’ I echo dryly. ‘I thought that was an urban legend they use to scare wayward omegas into compliance.’

‘No, it’s quite a legitimate designation, albeit a rare one,’ he muses.

‘Why haven’t they sent her to a breeding facility already?’ I ask, unable to help being a bit curious about this omega the Council seems to have hand-picked for us.

‘She’s been deemed too great of a security risk,’ he answers, his mouth quirking slightly to one side beneath his thick gray mustache.

‘A security risk?’ Now he’s got my attention. ‘She’s an omega.’

‘An omega who’s caused roughly half a dozen guards to quit their post, and the last one to lose a digit, if my contact at the Refinement Center is to be believed,’ he clarifies.

I snort. ‘So she’s feral.’

‘Quite literally,’ he says, flipping open a file sitting on his desk. ‘She was found as a young girl, wandering alone in the woods not far from a rebel encampment.’

‘How old is she?’ I ask warily. It’s against Council law for any omega under the age of eighteen to be given to a pack, but I wouldn’t put it past those twisted fuckers to make an exception for an omega they want to be rid of. And that’s the last damn thing I need or want, for a myriad of reasons.

‘She’s twenty-three,’ he says, and I feel a surge of relief, even if it’s not by much.

‘Don’t they usually marry them off as soon as they turn eighteen?’

‘Like I said, these are special circumstances,’ he answers. ‘After six months of solitary confinement with no progress, this is her last chance.’

‘Six months of solitary?’ I echo. ‘What the fuck? Is this Refinement place a glorified finishing school or a fucking torture chamber?’

My father’s expression remains a stony mask. ‘I don’t ask questions outside my purview, Thane, and I suggest you do the same.’

Anger burns in my gut at the thought of an omega being subjected to such conditions, feral or not. I may be more brutal than most, but I’m still an alpha. There are some lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

The only thing worse than solitary might be condemning her to a life with the Ghosts.

‘And if I refuse on moral grounds?’ I ask.

‘You don’t have a choice,’ he says in a pointed tone. ‘But like I said, it’s her last chance.’

My brow furrows. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?”

He doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes.

‘For fuck’s sake, she’s an omega!’ I cry, throwing my hands up. Even my father shifts slightly, unnerved by my outburst. If even he’s on edge around me, no wonder the Council is shitting their pants.

‘A feral omega who has burned through even the vast resources of the Refinement Center,’ he says in the tone of a man who doesn’t actually believe what he’s saying and is just following orders.

That’s the difference between me and him. Always has been. We were both born and bred to fight and kill, but unlike him, there are some lines I’m unwilling to cross even when the chain of command demands it.

Which is why I’ve been relegated to the Council’s suicide squad. A dog on an iron chain rather than a sellout sitting behind a big mahogany desk like he was by the time he reached my age.

‘That’s bullshit and you know it,’ I accuse.

‘The choice has been made regardless,’ he says, leaning back in his chair. ‘I suggest you prepare your men and accept it. You’ll be taking her home tomorrow.’

Without another word, I turn and stalk out of his office. A few soldiers carting papers to and from their offices freeze like a tiger just got turned loose in their workplace.

Actually, I think some of them would prefer that.