by Lizzy Bequin
Primal Needs
Lizzy Bequin
Primal Needs
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events reside solely in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters are eighteen years of age or older.
© 2019, Lizzy Bequin. No portion of this work can be reproduced in any way without prior written consent from the author with the exception for a fair use excerpt for review and editorial purposes.
This title is for adults only. It contains explicit sex acts, adult themes, and material that some folks might find offensive. Please keep out of reach of children.
lizzybequin.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Description
Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter 2: Amrita
Chapter 3: Conway
Chapter 4: Amrita
Chapter 5: Conway
Chapter 6: Amrita
Chapter 7: Conway
Chapter 8: Amrita
Chapter 9: Conway
Chapter 10: Interlude
Chapter 11: Amrita
Chapter 12: Conway
Chapter 13: Amrita
Chapter 14: Conway
Chapter 15: Amrita
Chapter 16: Conway
Chapter 17: Amrita
Chapter 18: Conway
Chapter 19: Amrita
Chapter 20: Conway
Chapter 21: Amrita
Chapter 22: Conway
Chapter 23: Amrita
Chapter 24: Conway
Chapter 25: Amrita
Chapter 26: Conway
Epilogue: Amrita
Also by Lizzy B.
About Lizzy B.
Description
Captured. Dominated. Claimed.
My kidnapper is an agent of the Alpha Initiative. He is aggressive. Feral. Dominant. I know I should fear him. He’s my captor after all. So why does my body tell me that he’s my mate? Why does it beg for him to force me into submission?
Soon my body begins to change as dark secrets from my past come to light. But if I give in to my primal needs, both our fates will be sealed.
This M/F omegaverse romance is the third book in the Primal Alphas series. While the stories in the series are connected, each book can be read as a standalone. There are no cliffhangers, no cheating, and an HEA every time!
CHAPTER 1: PROLOGUE
Damon Driscoll suppressed a cringe of repulsion as he passed an elderly man slumped in a wheelchair with clear breathing tubes up his nose. The old man raised his bloodshot eyes and gave a sleepy smile, which Mr. Driscoll did his best to return. However, as soon as he had passed, Mr. Driscoll quickened his pace, his custom Italian leather dress shoes tapping a staccato beat on the cold, sterile linoleum floor.
Everything about this fucking place made him queasy. The bland, institutional paint job on the walls. The shadowless brightness provided by the incessantly buzzing fluorescent lights overhead. But most of all the patients—all those sick and dying patients.
A shiver of disgust wriggled up his spine
Damon Driscoll hated hospitals, even the ones that he owned.
Hospitals were places of sickness and death. An unwelcome reminder of how fleeting life was and the unfortunate end everyone would eventually have to face. No one could escape death. Not even a multi-billionaire.
However, Mr. Driscoll had learned that hospitals could be used as tools. A means of acquiring leverage over people. Even the most hard-nosed business negotiators became as meek as lambs when they needed a heart transplant, and Mr. Driscoll could ensure them a spot at the very front of the waiting list.
It truly was amazing how willing people became when you held their lives in your hands. And Mr. Driscoll’s hands held many lives. Businessmen. Politicians. Judges. Criminals.
But none of those people were half as interesting as the man Mr. Driscoll was going to meet today.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Driscoll.” The sentry, dressed in his blue security officer uniform, straightened his back and brought the heels of his black combat boots together as the billionaire approached.
Mr. Driscoll gave him a curt, dismissive wave and placed his palm onto the glassy black surface of the electronic scanner. As a blue line of light scrolled over the palm of his hand, checking his identity, Mr. Driscoll took a moment to straighten his tie with his other hand and looked at his ghostly reflection in the glass door in front of him.
For a man approaching his seventies, he appeared much younger. Sure his dark gray hair had mostly fallen out years ago, the victim of a high stress life at the pinnacle of the business world. But his square-jawed, clean-shaven face was relatively wrinkle free, and the trim fit of his English-tailored charcoal-gray three-piece suit clearly displayed that his body remained slim and athletic.
He was the very picture of a man of action. A sound and determined mind encased within a healthy body.
For now anyway.
But it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Yes, a matter of time.
They say that time is money. But the inverse doesn’t hold true. Money, unfortunately, is not time. If it were, Mr. Driscoll would have centuries of time left. Millenia. Aeons. As it stood, he had the same measly handful of years as everyone else. Maybe his fortune could buy him another decade at best. Pathetic.
Life was so unfair. To think that a man such as himself—a man of stature, a true captain of industry—to think that he, the renowned Damon Driscoll, would die just like any ordinary slob on the street.
Well, it was too degrading to bear.
The pristine glass door slid open with a mechanical whisper, and Mr. Driscoll stepped into the corridor beyond. Lost in his thoughts, he barely heard the sentry wish him a good day.
As he strode forward, the billionaire breathed a sigh of relief. At least this part of the hospital was less oppressive. The lights were softer, the furniture and decorations more tasteful and even slightly luxurious. The abstract paintings and sculptures that adorned this section had been personally selected by Mr. Driscoll himself.
Hell, If you ignored the cheerful, white-clad nurse waiting behind the reception desk—which Mr. Driscoll naturally did—you might not realize you were in a hospital at all. The place looked more like the top floor of a corporate headquarters.
This was the special wing. Mr. Driscoll liked to think of it as the leverage wing, although he would never say that out loud, of course.
The people staying in this part of the hospital were the ones from whom Mr. Driscoll wanted something. Important people. Valuable people. Men and women who held positions of power and could grant powerful favors in exchange for the absolute cutting edge of medical technology.
Most of these people sought Mr. Driscoll out when they fell ill, knowing that he could provide them with the best chance of survival. However, the most recent arrival in this wing was different.
Mr. Driscoll had actually sought this patient out. And he’d had his eye on the man in question for a long time.
Midway down the gently curving corridor, Mr. Driscoll stopped in front of one of the rooms. He double checked the number that was elegantly hand painted on the pebbled glass window inset into the mahogany door. Yes, this was the one he wanted. He took a moment to straighten his bespoke suit and run a smoothing palm over the few strands of pewter-gray hair swept over his tan scalp.
Then he gave two soft wraps on the door and entered, not even waiting to be invited in. It was, after all, his hospital.
/> Inside, heavy curtains were drawn across the windows. As he shut the door behind him, Mr. Driscoll’s vision glimmered as his eyes adjusted to the stygian darkness of the room. The only light was the dim glow that diffused through the small window in the door behind him, and he could just barely make out the shape of cabinets and furniture off to the sides and a large hospital bed directly in front of him.
Despite the darkness, Mr. Driscoll resisted the urge to turn on the lights. He had been well informed about the extent of this patient’s injuries, and Mr. Driscoll preferred not to look at them, even if they would be mostly covered with bandages.
Mr. Driscoll hated reminders of death. And the ragged, revolting remnants that were lying in the hospital bed at the far end of the room, plugged full of tubes and enshrouded in bandages—that man, if he could even be called a man anymore, had been plucked from death’s very doorstep. He was lucky to be alive. Some people might even call it miraculous.
But not Mr. Driscoll. He hadn’t become one of the wealthiest men in the world by believing in horseshit like miracles.
For a few moments he just stood there in the darkened room. The only sound was the faint rhythmic wheezing of a respirator, and the low, electronic thrum of life-support machines. Then a voice whispered from the shadows, raspy and noxious as smoke.
“Who is there?”
The voice sounded barely human. Mr. Driscoll did his best to ignore the slither of loathing in his veins and the faint nausea that cramped in the pit of his stomach. Keeping his voice low, he replied.
“Damon Driscoll. Do you know who I am?”
He was grateful that the darkness hid the way he shivered at the next sound that came from the bed. It took him a moment to realize that the gurgling was in fact chuckling.
“Of course, Mr. Driscoll. And thank you for the accommodations. I’ve been expecting—“
The voice broke off into a fit of wet coughing. Mr. Driscoll winced and tried not to breathe in until it had subsided.
“—I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Driscoll. Please, won’t you have a seat?”
“I prefer to stand, Professor.”
Mr. Driscoll didn’t like the idea of being invited to sit in his own hospital. He wasn’t the guest in this situation. Plus, he was none too eager to bump around in the dark looking for a chair.
“Look, Professor, I’ll cut right to the chase. I don’t need to tell you that your situation is beyond dire. Your injuries are severe. But with the help that I can provide you here at this hospital, you will be able to pull through. You won’t be pretty, but you’ll be alive.”
“How generous of you,” the professor hissed. “However, despite your philanthropic reputation, am I correct in assuming that your services are not to be provided pro bono?”
“I don’t want your money, if that’s what you’re thinking, Professor.”
“But you want something else.”
Mr. Driscoll nodded, even though it was basically pointless to do so in that darkness.
“In exchange for the treatment you will receive here, Professor, I want your expertise.”
“But what ever could you need from a humble scientist like me?” the Professor asked without a trace of humility in his voice. “You have wealth beyond most people’s wildest dreams, Mr. Driscoll. Mansions all over the world. Even a few personal islands, I believe? A fleet of the most luxurious cars. The finest clothes money can buy. I’m sure you have no shortage of willing women.”
“True on all counts,” Mr. Driscoll admitted. “But as they say, I can’t take any of it with me.”
The intervening pause was filled by the hushed sighs of the respirator and humming life support equipment. Footsteps tapped by in the hallway outside and faded away.
“Oh, I see,” the Professor muttered at last. “So you want to live forever, Mr. Driscoll.”
Yes, of course Mr. Driscoll wanted to live forever. Isn’t that what everyone wants? The very thought, even just hearing the words whispered from the professor’s ravaged throat was enough to quicken his pulse. But as the silent seconds stretched out, his patience was stretched thin along with them.
Was the professor going to help him or not?
“I don’t like secrets, Professor, so let’s just get this all out in the open. I know what kind of freak show you were running up north in the woods. I know all about Project Alpha.”
The billionaire paused for a moment to gloat. But if the Professor was surprised that Mr. Driscoll had managed to spy on his top-secret operations, he didn’t let on. Only slightly chagrined, Mr. Driscoll continued.
“I also know that the government has essentially washed their hands of the matter and pulled all of your funding following that shitstorm at your facility. The, ah, accident that resulted in your recent injuries.”
There was a creak of metal and ruffle of sheets as the professor shifted his position, grunting.
“Yes, the accident,” the professor groaned. “Considering the way things turned out at the Facility, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your offer Mr. Driscoll. My days of dealing with Alpha mutations are over, I’m afraid. Once bitten, twice shy, as the saying goes.”
Mr. Driscoll nonchalantly scratched his clean-shaven chin with his perfectly manicured fingernails. He was prepared for a bit of resistance, but he had the upper hand.
“No problem, Professor. In that case, I assume you’ll be paying for our services out of pocket? I’m afraid your insurance doesn’t cover the spinal reconstruction, lung transplant, prosthetic limbs, not to mention the extensive plastic surgery required to—“
“Point taken,” the professor spat, cutting him off mid-sentence.
Mr. Driscoll grinned and licked his lips in the darkness.
“I know that Project Alpha was meant to be the world’s most deadly weapon. A super-soldier program unlike anything that had been attempted before. But that’s not what I’m after, Professor.”
“No?” The voice was almost mocking.
“No. What interests me is the accelerated regenerative properties that you engineered into your test subjects. Rapid healing. Disease resistance. Virtual immortality.”
The professor laughed until he coughed again. When he finally recovered, there was a jagged edge of bitterness in his voice.
“You’re too late, Mr. Driscoll. All of our research was destroyed with the Facility. Decades of work down the drain.”
Mr. Driscoll’s smile got bigger. It was finally time to play his hand.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Professor. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve got quite a lot of connections in DC. I pulled a few strings, and I managed to get access to the ruins of the Facility before the government demolished what was left. In the process we were able to recover a considerable quantity of Alpha serum.”
“The serum?” the Professor sputtered. Mr. Driscoll had his attention now.
“And that’s not all, Professor. We ran through your inventory lists, and one very special item was missing from the storage basement. If it had been destroyed during the disaster, we surely would have found remnants among the detritus. However, the item in question was missing completely, as if it had been stolen.”
There was another faint creak as the Professor shifted his weight forward in his bed. In his debilitated state, that must have taken an incredible amount of effort.
“Yes?” he hissed. “Go on.”
“An embryo, Professor. An Omega embryo.”
The professor heaved a sigh that could perhaps be described as wistful. It was a strange, discomforting sound coming from a man like him, and Mr. Driscoll shuddered again.
“Ah, my little Omega,” the professor whispered, seeming to forget that he had company. “Where oh where could you be?”
CHAPTER 2: AMRITA
twenty years later, upstate New York
A howl echoes through the forest.
Branches snap and dry leaves rustle as the beast charges through the darkness, plowing through the dense underbr
ush as if it wasn’t even there. Its footfalls shake the ground with heavy thuds.
Gasping frantically for air, I resist the urge to look back over my shoulder, knowing it will only slow me down. I have to keep running as fast as the burning muscles of my legs will carry me. All the while, thorns bite at my naked ankles and tear at the fabric of my tattered gown. Low-hanging twigs slap at my face, stinging my eyes and cheeks.
It’s as if the forest is trying to hold me back.
The beast is right behind me now, grunting and snorting with each stride. I swear I can feel its hot breath tickling at my back. The small hairs lining the nape of my neck stand on end.
Then there is silence as time stands still. I realize too late what the lack of footsteps behind me means. The beast has pounced. Before I can duck, it is on me. The impact of its heavy body tackling me and flinging me roughly to the ground. Brutal hands flip me to my back.
I cry out as savage claws rend my clothing, ripping it to shreds as if it were tissue paper. I flail and beat my hands against a heaving chest that is corded with muscle so hard and smooth it could be made of polished wood. Then my arms are caught in an irresistible grip and pinned to the forest floor.
Strong odors invade my senses as I squirm on the carpet of fallen leaves. There is the warm, earthy smell of the damp soil and the bitter aroma of crushed foliage. But the one scent that overpowers all others is the overwhelming musk of the predator that has me pinned beneath its massive, panting frame.
“Please,” I beg in a trembling voice.
Nostrils flare as the beast breathes me in. I whimper as it dips its snout and snuffles my neck just below my ear. The tickle of its hot breath makes me shiver.
I struggle, but the fierce grip fixes me in place like iron clamps on both my arms. The nose works its way down my naked body, incessantly huffing and snuffling along my collar bones to the hollow of my neck and down my hard breast bone that conceals my hammering heart.
Lips and nose graze my heaving breasts, and I realize that my traitorous nipples are erect and aching with need.
