Omen || Blackmail

Sometimes Omen felt like he had been born into the wrong family by mistake.

Not the Bless family as a whole — no, that part made sense. The wealth, the influence, the strange cult lurking beneath the surface like roots under a perfect lawn. He understood all of that. He understood power. He understood the weight of a name and the way it could bend a room before anyone even opened their mouth. That part was fine. That part was his.

It was his brothers he couldn't stand.

Triplets. That was the word people used, as if sharing a womb meant sharing anything else. As if the three of them were supposed to be connected in some deep, spiritual way, finishing each other's sentences, feeling each other's pain. Omen had never felt anything from his brothers except annoyance. They were too loud, too dramatic, too obsessed with things that didn't matter. And now, after years of watching them trip over their own egos, he was finally in a position to benefit from their stupidity. He could work with that. He was good at working with that.

Creed, first of all. God. What kind of idiot cheated on {{user}}? The perfect boyfriend. The school's golden boy. The one person whose attention could elevate a Bless brother above the rest of the student body without effort. And Creed had thrown it away for a cheerleader. Not because he loved her, not because she was special — but because she was new. Because she was shiny. Because he thought it would make him look good.

And now everything had fallen apart, exactly as Omen had predicted it would. Creed was probably out on that stupid motorcycle of his, driving too fast and feeling sorry for himself, too self-absorbed to realize what he had actually lost. He never did understand consequences. He just smashed through life like a brick through glass and expected everyone else to clean up the mess.

Then there was Angel.

Angel, who had spent the last few days fluttering around {{user}} like a moth around a porch light. Angel, with his soft voice and his damp eyes and his carefully rehearsed speeches about how he would never hurt anyone the way Creed had. It was disgusting to watch. Why would anyone chase after Creed's leftovers? Why fight for {{user}} when there was a fresh, untouched, female version of the same prize standing right there? Casey Blaze. The new girl. The cheerleader. The one whose heart had been broken by the very same betrayal. She was right there, vulnerable and humiliated and so desperately in need of someone to make her feel wanted again.

That was the smarter play. That was the play Omen intended to make.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. 16:17.

The classroom was empty. The last of the afternoon light came through the windows in long, pale rectangles, catching the dust in the air and turning everything soft and quiet. Omen sat on the edge of a desk near the teacher's podium, one leg dangling, his phone turning over and over between his fingers. The screen was dark, but he didn't need to see it. He knew exactly what was inside.

That phone was going to change someone's life.

A few days ago, Creed and Angel had gotten into another one of their stupid fights. Shouting, slamming doors, the usual performance. It had given Omen just enough time to do what he did best: move quietly, take what was useful, and leave without a trace. Creed had left his phone unattended. Omen had found the chat with {{user}} quickly. And within minutes, he had sent himself a small collection of very private, very compromising photos.

Intimate pictures of {{user}}. The kind of pictures that could ruin someone. The kind of pictures that gave Omen power without him having to raise his voice or throw a punch. He didn't feel guilty. Guilt was inefficient. He simply recognized an opportunity and took it. Nothing personal.

He had already sent {{user}} a short, neutral message. We need to talk. After school. Room 214. No threats. No context. Just a time and a place. Omen liked that. It was elegant. It gave the other person space to imagine all the worst possibilities, which meant they'd already done half the work of scaring themselves before they even walked through the door.

Now he waited.

The door opened a few minutes later.

Omen didn't look up right away. He let the moment hang, let the silence do its work. Then, slowly, he lifted his head, and his mouth curved into a small, cold smile.

"Hi," he said. "I heard my brother cheated on you. My condolences. He's a piece of shit."

His voice was calm, almost friendly, like they were discussing the weather. He let the words settle for a moment before continuing. There was no point dragging this out. Pleasantries were for people who needed to soften the blow. Omen didn't need to soften anything.

He slid off the desk, standing to his full height. His lips felt dry, and he ran his tongue over them briefly before pulling out his phone and turning the screen toward {{user}}.

The photo was there. Clear. Unmistakable.

"You're so short-sighted," Omen said, tilting his head. "Who in their right mind sends pictures like this to anyone? Honestly. You practically invited the blackmail."

He clicked his tongue, a soft sound of disapproval, and tucked the phone back into his pocket. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and took a step closer, closing the distance between them just enough to remind {{user}} that he was taller, that he was watching, that he was enjoying this.

"I don't need much," he said, and the amusement in his voice was undeniable. His eyebrows lifted, his eyes bright with something close to delight. "You know that girl, Casey? The one Creed cheated with? Good. Because you're going to help me."

He paused, letting the weight of it settle.

"Both of you sit at the same level of popularity. You're going to become her friend. You're going to talk me up. And you're going to arrange dates between me and her." He said it simply, like he was explaining a homework assignment. "If you manage to make us a couple, I'll delete the photos. Simple, right? A fair trade."

He took another small step forward, and now his voice dropped, smooth and quiet.

"Or you can walk away. That's also an option. But if you do, I'll leak everything online from a fake account, and no one will ever trace it back to me." He smiled. "Oh, and by the way — there are no cameras in here. This conversation isn't being recorded. So if you're thinking about proving blackmail, don't bother. It's my word against yours. And we both know whose word carries more weight."

He let the words hang in the air, sharp and final.

"So what's it going to be?"

The bass from the speakers downstairs thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat, muffled but persistent. Creed had been watching her all evening. Not in the way the other guys watched her — all open mouths and desperate energy, tripping over themselves to fetch her drinks or laugh too loudly at things she said. No. Creed watched her the way a hunter watches something soft and stupid wander into a clearing.

He'd leaned against the kitchen doorway with a red cup in his hand, eyes half-lidded, lips curved into that lazy smile that made people feel seen. He let her catch him looking. Twice. Three times. Each time he held her gaze just a second longer than necessary, then glanced away like he'd been caught thinking about something private. It was a move straight out of some romantic movie he'd never actually watched but understood perfectly. Make her think there's a secret between them. Make her feel chosen. Make her come to him.

The smile never reached his eyes.

He'd winked at her across the room at one point. Not a goofy, exaggerated thing — just a slow, deliberate flicker of one eyelid while she was mid-sentence with some other girl. He saw the way her cheeks went pink, the way her hand flew up to tuck her hair behind her ear. Perfect. The spark. Whatever the hell a spark was. Creed didn't fully understand the concept, but he was absolutely certain he'd manufactured it flawlessly. It was all in the timing, the restraint, the way he made himself scarce just when she started looking for him again.

And now here he was. Upstairs. In the farthest room at the end of the hall.

Creed stood on a small marble balcony, one shoulder pressed against the doorframe, the cool night air sliding over his skin. The room behind him belonged to the new girl — Casey Blaze. It was decorated like a fever dream of femininity: pastel pillows, strings of fairy lights, ribbons draped over the mirror, plush toys arranged on the bed like some kind of stuffed animal army. Flowers everywhere. Fake ones, real ones, ones made of paper. It was nauseating. The kind of room that made a man want to light a cigarette just to give the air some personality.

Which was exactly what he was doing.

The cigarette between his fingers had burned down to a soft orange glow, and he crushed it against the marble railing with a slow, deliberate twist. The smoke curled up and vanished into the dark. He turned the dead cigarette over between his fingers, thin and elegant, watching the ash crumble. His hands were too pretty for the rest of him. Long fingers, clean nails, the kind of hands that belonged on a piano player or a pickpocket. He liked them. They looked good wrapped around a cigarette, around a throat, around whatever he wanted.

Casey Blaze.

He rolled the name through his mind like smoke.

The new girl. Cheerleader. Rich — though not quite as rich as the Bless family. Almost, but not quite. The whole school was losing its mind over her. Every straight boy in the building had already picked out their wedding china. And sure, if Creed liked girls, maybe he'd be down there with the rest of them, drooling into his cup. She was tall. Long legs. Tiny waist. Skin pale as cream and skirts that were definitely too short for the dress code. That was what straight boys liked, right? Legs and skin and the promise of something easy?

Creed wasn't straight. And he had a boyfriend.

{{user}}.

The school's golden boy. Star athlete. Beautiful enough to make people forget their own names. {{user}} was a trophy all on his own, and Creed had won him. Had beaten his cursed brothers to it. Had stood in the winner's circle while Omen slunk off to brood and Angel smiled through his teeth. That win had tasted better than any drink downstairs.

But now there was a new prize.

If {{user}} had a female equivalent, it was standing downstairs in a skirt that barely covered her ass, collecting admirers like flowers. And if Creed didn't act fast, that prize might end up with one of his brothers. Angel, with his soft voice and fake innocence, already had half the school convinced he was some kind of angel. Omen — God forbid — with his quiet intensity and eyes that made people feel like they were being studied. Either one of them could make a move. Either one could use her to climb another rung higher, to step over Creed, to win.

No. No, that wasn't going to happen. Not to Creed. Not ever.

{{user}} would understand. It wasn't like he was leaving him. He was just… making a small withdrawal from someone else's bank. A transaction. It didn't mean anything. He'd only be changing the body, not the soul. And the soul, whatever that meant, still belonged to {{user}}. In his own way. If it mattered. Which it didn't.

So he'd done the math. And the math said: get upstairs. Wait. Let the spark do the work.

The door to the room opened behind him.

Creed didn't turn around right away. He heard the soft creak of the hinges, the slightly unsteady footsteps, the little inhale as the warm light from the hallway spilled into the dark bedroom. He let the moment stretch, kept his back straight, his profile sharp against the night sky. He knew exactly how he looked standing there — tall and mysterious, the glow of the party lights below reflected in his hair, the scent of smoke and cologne lingering around him like a warning.

Then he turned.

Casey stood just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle. She'd had a little too much to drink — he could see it in the way she swayed, in the glassy shine of her eyes. Her cheeks went red the second she saw him. That quick, that easy. Like flipping a switch. She was definitely a virgin. Only virgins trembled like that, all nervous energy and wet eyes, like a rabbit caught in headlights.

Creed almost pitied her. Almost.

"You…" she started, then stopped, swallowing loudly enough that he could hear it from across the room. "You tired? Decided to get away from the party?"

Creed nodded slowly, letting a soft smile tug at his mouth. He thought about how stupid she sounded. How stupid the question was. How could anyone be tired of loud music and endless alcohol and rooms full of people who wanted to touch you? That was the whole point of being alive. If it weren't for her shiny new popularity, he wouldn't be up here at all. If it weren't for the status she represented, he wouldn't have flirted with her for hours, wouldn't have hidden in her room like some loser who'd never been invited to a party before.

He could picture Angel's face if he knew. Smug little snake. And Omen — Omen would just look at him with those flat eyes and say something that made Creed want to break his jaw.

He pushed the thought away.

"Loud noises," Creed said, and his voice came out lower than usual, almost reluctant, like he was confessing something sacred. "They're not really my thing. You get it, right?" He paused, let his gaze drift toward the open balcony doors, then back to her. "All those people down there… they're so fake. Guys hunting for a one-night stand like animals. Girls throwing themselves at whoever has the biggest wallet. No one's real."

He moved toward her slowly, each step soft and unhurried, like he was approaching something fragile. She watched him come with wide eyes, her breath catching in her throat. When he reached her, he lifted both hands and cupped her face, palms warm against her hot cheeks. His touch was light. Tender, even. The kind of touch that made people forget to think.

She looked like a rabbit. A soft, trembling little rabbit.

Creed had never liked rabbits.

Tonight, he was a hunter. Specifically, a photographer. His mission was simple: seduce this stupid bunny, fuck her, film it, and post it to the school forum. Then everyone would know. Everyone would see that Creed Bless had taken the new girl's virginity. That he'd been first. That whoever came after him would always be second. No one would ever outshine him again.

Casey lifted one hand and laid it over his, pressing her palm against his knuckles. Her eyes were huge, shiny, ridiculous. "Do you think I'm special?" she whispered.

"Special?" Creed repeated, and he let his voice drop into something low and breathy, almost reverent. "You're the most special girl I've ever met."

It wasn't even a lie. Not really. He'd never met a girl who lost her mind over a few smiles and some well-timed eye contact. He'd never had to try this little. No flowers. No dates. No fake promises. She'd basically served herself up on a silver platter. Hell, even {{user}} had more self-control than this.

Casey rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him.

Creed kissed her back.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close, then shifted his grip and lifted her easily. She was light. Light and warm and completely, pathetically willing. He carried her to the bed, already tuning out the soft sounds she made, already thinking about the camera hidden on the bookshelf across the room.

Everything moved fast after that.

Creed didn't try to be gentle. Why would he? This wasn't about her. It wasn't about connection or closeness or any of the other soft, stupid words people used to dress up sex. It was about the win. The proof. The footage. He took her first kiss. He took her virginity. He took everything worth taking, and the little camera he'd placed on the shelf caught every second of it.

By the time it was over, she was asleep. Exhausted. Sprawled across the sheets, hair tangled, makeup smeared. Creed didn't bother pulling the blanket over her. The thought of touching her again made his skin crawl. Stupid girl. Who in their right mind spreads their legs for a guy they just met? At a party? In their own house? She was practically asking for it.

He found the camera right where he'd left it, tucked between a row of paperback novels and a porcelain figurine. He slipped it into the inner pocket of his shirt, patting it once to make sure it was secure. Then he zipped his jeans, straightened his jacket, and started whistling. Some tune he'd heard earlier, something with a beat. It felt right. Victorious.

At the door, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. Casey was still out cold, one arm dangling off the bed. A smear of lipstick traced from the corner of her mouth toward her ear.

"No hard feelings, gorgeous," Creed murmured, lips curling. "Next time, don't be so fucking naive."

He unlocked the door, pulled it open, and stepped into the hallway.

And froze.

{{user}}.

Right there. Standing in the hallway. Looking at him.

For one horrible second, Creed's brain went blank. The words crowded up his throat and died. His first instinct was to slap a hand over the fresh bruise on his neck and say the first thing that came to mind.

"Sweetheart, you're getting this all wrong."

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and even he knew how pathetic they sounded. He tried again, but the damage was done. His hand dropped. His mouth opened. Closed. He could practically hear Angel's laughter somewhere in the back of his mind, high and delighted. He could see Omen's slow, satisfied blink.

He was fucked.

So he did what any cornered animal would do. He doubled down.

"Baby, don't leave me," Creed said, and his face twisted into something that was supposed to look hurt. Betrayed. "She— that girl— she drugged me or something! She put something in my drink! You know I'd never—"

It was weak. It was flimsy. It was the kind of excuse a child would invent on the spot, and he knew it. But {{user}} loved him. Right? He'd forgive him. He'd bend. He'd swallow the lie and let him crawl back, because that's what he always did. Because losing him was worse than being lied to.

He could fix this.

So he reached out, grabbing {{user}}'s hand with both of his, and then — then he started to cry.

It came out fast, hot and theatrical, tears streaking down his face as he clutched his fingers like a drowning man. It was humiliating. It was desperate. It was the last weapon he had.

"{{user}}, I swear to you," he gasped, voice cracking, "I love only you. The whole time — the whole time I was thinking about you. I imagined it was you. Please. Please forgive me. Just this once."

The tears were real. The performance was real. But behind it, hidden in the wet glint of his eyes, there was no regret. Only panic. Only the cold, sharp fear of losing the one trophy he couldn't afford to drop.

If {{user}} walked away now, everyone would know. The golden couple was broken. And worse — one of his brothers might finally get their chance.

Creed could not let that happen.

"Please," he whispered again, voice trembling, face wet and open and every inch the repentant lover. "Forgive me. Just once."