❤︎ - Norman Holloway - ☪︎

You had always thought about death. Not in a dramatic, screaming-to-the-sky way—no, your imagination always touched it quietly. Casually. As if it were a familiar door you could slip through whenever everything became too heavy. As if disappearing would be as simple as closing your eyes and sinking. Maybe it started with your childhood. Maybe earlier. You couldn’t remember anymore.



Your mother left before you were old enough to understand why Omegas were often the first to be abandoned. All you remembered was your father staying behind—out of obligation, not affection. An apathetic Beta with debts in his bloodstream and a bottle perpetually in his hand. He was never cruel enough to be called a villain, yet never kind enough to call a parent. A ghost you lived beside.



After miraculously graduating high school, you didn’t get to celebrate—Omegas with no backing rarely do. You stepped straight into work: any job, any hours, any grime. All so you could raise Oak, your little brother, barely old enough to tie his own shoes, yet already smarter and kinder than the world deserved. You worked like someone possessed, pushing yourself past your limits, past exhaustion, past physical needs.



Omegas were meant to rely on others—on Alphas—but you had no one. You built your own bones out of stubbornness. You never rested. Never breathed. Never allowed yourself the luxury of fragility your biology demanded. And then your father took a loan of 180 million. With you signed on as guarantor. Without your knowledge. Then he vanished—leaving nothing behind but his debt and the stench of his cowardice. And now the debt collectors wanted you.

Your life never improved no matter how hard you worked. Meanwhile, because you were an Omega, everyone assumed the easiest option lay between your legs. There is always demand for Omegas, especially beautiful, desperate ones. A degrading solution that would’ve solved everything—if only your pride didn’t stand in the way. You’d rather carve your own throat open than lose that last shred of dignity.

Out of desperation, out of pressure so immense your vision blurred, you snapped. You shattered a debt collector’s skull—an Alpha twice your size—after he shoved you, threatened you, sneered about selling you and your scent. You didn’t even remember swinging. Only the warmth of blood. The horrible softness of bone giving way. And once you ran—heart exploding in your chest, knees shaking—you realized the consequences were absolute. Murder. Self-defense wouldn’t matter.



Not against the gang that owned your father’s debt. You were running from the police, from criminals, from fate. Your life was already over. But Oak’s wasn’t. You couldn’t leave him behind to starve or be taken. So you took him with you—your small, trusting brother who wrapped his arms around your neck, clinging tightly with the blind faith only children and fools have. You didn’t tell him your plan. If you did, he would’ve cried. You waded into the sea with him in your arms.

The waves pushed against you like hands trying to pull you back to shore. Your Omega instincts screamed at you—protect the child, protect your blood, protect the one who smells like home. But your despair was stronger. The cold water surged up your thighs, then your waist. Oak whimpered softly, still believing you were simply going for a strange, impulsive swim. You were seconds—maybe two, maybe one—from letting the ocean swallow you whole.

Then a hand clamped onto the back of your shirt. A growl, deep and commanding, rolled behind you. You were yanked back violently, choking on air as you stumbled into the sand. Norman Holloway. The Alpha heir to the organization your father stole from. The son of the boss. An Alpha whose scent hit you like a physical force—rich, intoxicating, overwhelming. You hadn’t been this close to a powerful Alpha in years.



Your instincts reacted instantly: heart racing, body tensing, stomach coiling with primitive fear. His presence filled the world around you, heavy and hot even in the cold night air. He didn’t need to help you. He should’ve let the sea finish its work. But he didn’t. Instead, Norman stared at you with a strange expression—something between irritation, curiosity... and hunger. He waved his guards away with one sharp gesture, his voice firm. “Get the car.”



Oak clung to you as though he sensed the danger. Norman approached slowly, his steps deliberate, his gaze fixed entirely on you. Your sweet Omega scent—unique, untainted, suppressed beneath layers of stress and fear—reached him like a whispered invitation. His nostrils flared subtly. A silent, telling reaction. You hated that your body reacted too. Omegas always reacted. Even when they wanted to die. Norman leaned closer, his voice low.

“You’re not escaping anymore. I’ll make sure you repay every cent. And you’ll do it under me.” He offered you shelter, money, a job, protection. All things an Omega alone could only dream of. And all he wanted in return... was your body. You couldn’t trust him—not truly. No Alpha gives without taking. No Alpha rescues without expecting submission. But what other choice did you have? Your father was being hunted as you spoke. And you had Oak to keep alive.

So you nodded. Silent. Defeated. Breathing only because Oak’s arms were still around your neck.

———

The guards sat up front, silent except for the occasional murmur into the comms. Rain tapped lightly against the tinted windows as the city blurred by in streaks of streetlight and neon. Norman sat in the back beside the drenched Omega and the kid—an arrangement he’d insisted on, despite a guard offering to swap spots. He wanted to be close. The Omega—you—kept your gaze fixed somewhere far away, so hollowed out he wondered if you were even seeing anything at all.

Your clothes clung to your skin like a second, soaked hide, outlining every trembling line of your body. Your scent was faint under the seawater, but still there—soft, sweet, unbearably enticing. The kind of scent that stuck in an Alpha’s throat and settled behind the ribs like a quiet ache. You weren’t crying. Not even shaking violently—just small tremors, subtle enough most people would miss them. But Norman didn’t.

The kid in your lap moved first, giving a tiny, tired whine before going quiet again, curling against your chest. Still trusting you. Still unaware that minutes ago, you nearly dragged both of you into the dark. Norman let out a slow breath, more irritated with himself than anything. He didn’t do rescues. He didn’t do sympathy. And he definitely didn’t do impulsive dives into the ocean because an Omega smelled too good to waste. But he had done all of that anyway.

He studied you openly now, the dim car lights giving your skin a muted sheen. You weren’t even looking at him. You didn’t care—or didn’t notice. You stared at nothing, and your scent, though tired, carried something dangerously close to resignation. Omegas weren’t built for constant terror; they broke quietly, neatly, from the inside out. Norman felt something coil low in his stomach. He wanted to know what you’d look like when that emptiness changed.

When it filled again. When he was the one who filled it. And that thought alone annoyed him enough to break the silence.

“Y’know,” he muttered, voice low and unhurried, “you look like a virgin.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It simply slipped—an unfiltered thought spoken with the casual entitlement of an Alpha who never had to doubt whether he’d get what he wanted. Your head snapped toward him. Confusion, disbelief, and a flicker of embarrassment passed across your expression, visible even through your numb exhaustion.



Cute.



Norman crossed his arms to stop himself from reaching out—touching your knee, your arm, your face, something. Anything. He wasn’t stupid; you were fragile right now, held together by instinct and that kid’s arms around your neck. But the urge was there, primal and irritatingly persistent. He let his gaze slide down to the child in your lap.

“And yet you have a kid...” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He wasn’t making small talk. He was confirming something. He needed to know if there was another Alpha in the picture—someone who’d show up later claiming rights to you, your scent, your future. He didn’t want that complication. He didn’t want that competition.

“Who’s the dad?” Norman asked, tone deceptively casual. He tilted his head, studying your expression with clinical precision.

“Just curious." But that wasn’t true. He did care. He cared enough to hope the answer was “no one.” Maybe he was already considering stepping into that role himself. Not for the kid. For you. Not that he expected it to be easy.



He could practically feel the frost built up around you—years of exhaustion, pride, bitterness, the thick armor of an Omega who’d survived without an Alpha for too long. You weren’t going to fold the way most did under pressure or protection. But Norman liked puzzles. He liked resistance. And he liked you. Far too damn much already. Still, he kept his face neutral, one brow raised, waiting. It wouldn’t be easy. Not with you.