by Aja Foxx
"Until I figure out exactly what is going on here, I can't dismiss anything."
Beck was a shifter king. He hated not being in control. It was part of his genetic makeup. Being a shifter king meant he was supposed to be at the top of the heap, dominant, and always in control.
Right now, he felt very out of control.
"You are mine," he whispered against the side of Fagan's head. "You gave yourself to me and I refuse to let anyone take you away from me."
He'd spent twenty-five years fighting for the right to have Fagan at his side. Now that he'd actually held the man in his arms and felt the comfort of his embrace, Beck would fight till his last breathe to keep Fagan.
Fagan wiggled around on his lap, eliciting a deep groan from Beck as the sexy little man's ass rubbed against his aching cock. Beck grinned as he leaned down to press his lips to Fagan's. He tasted just as good as he smelled, all sweet and tangy.
Beck wanted to devour him.
He leaned down to capture Fagan's lips again as he sat the man down on his desk, scooting between his open thighs. He thought he could die a happy man just kissing his mate, but he wanted more. A lot more.
Without lifting his lips from Fagan's, he began stripping the clothes off of his mate. Anything he couldn't pull off, he ripped off, tossing everything to the floor. Once he was naked, Beck began to explore every inch of naked skin his hands could reach. As small as the man was, that was still a lot of skin… a lot of soft, silky, naked skin.
He groaned as he leaned down to swipe his tongue along Fagan's neck. The man's high pitched moan echoed through the office. Beck's grin was almost feral as he scooted down Fagan's chest, his tongue licking a trail down his golden skin. He found one brown hued nipple with his lips and tugged gently.
Fagan went wild. He started frantically humping his hips against Beck's stomach, his hands clutched in his hair. His head thrashed around on the desk. When Beck used his teeth, biting down a little harder, Fagan screamed. He arched his body into Beck's, filling the space between them with his seed.
Beck watched his mate climax, more turned on than he could ever remember being in his life. Fagan was breathtaking in his pleasure. Beck wanted to see that look on his face at least once every day, if not more.
Beck leaned down to take Fagan's nipple into his mouth again. He was rewarded with a deep groan from his mate as he swirled his tongue across the hard little nub. He ran his hands down Fagan's side, past his hips to his thighs. Grabbing them, he pulled them up and out, even as he scooted down until Fagan's jutting cock was bouncing in front of him.
"Fuck, Fagan…you're perfect." And he was. His cock had a nice mushroomed head, thick, and just long enough. Oh yeah, Beck was going to have fun with this. He leaned down and swiped his tongue over the top.
Beck tasted a small drop of liquid from the small slit in the top. Sweet and tangy, just like Fagan. Beck knew he could quickly become addicted to the way Fagan tasted. He licked his way around the head and down the thick veined sides.
As his tongue moved down to lick at Fagan's balls, they drew up tight against his body. Fagan screamed again, his thighs quivering. Beck lifted his head just in time to see cum shoot out of Fagan's pulsating cock and all over his stomach.
Damn! He had just come again. Wanting to cash in on the euphoric feeling Fagan was experiencing, Beck lowered his head and licked at his small puckered hole. He swiped his tongue over it several times, all to the delight of his mate.
Before his cries of release could even quiet down, Fagan was moaning again. Beck scooped up some of Fagan's cum then pushed a finger into his tight hole, then another, scissoring the two together. A third finger had Fagan pushing his hips back at Beck.
Beck stood up between Fagan's thighs. He withdrew his fingers then unbuckled his pants and pushed them down past his knees. His breath caught in his throat as he grabbed his cock and pushed it against Fagan's eager entrance.
Beck looked down at Fagan's flushed face. "Are you ready for me, mate?"
Fagan nodded his rapidly.
"Say it, Fagan, say you want me to claim you as my mate," Beck demanded. They'd already done this, but Beck wanted to make sure their bond was unbreakable.
"Yes, please, claim me!" Fagan cried out.
That's all he needed to hear. Guiding himself in, Beck pushed with his hips, past the first ring, then more, until he was seated all the way inside of his mate. Oh fuck! The feeling was unbelievable.
Pulling out until just the head remained inside, he grabbed both of Fagan's legs, pushing them up against his chest. Then he pushed back in, slowly, inch by wonderful inch. He pulled out again repeating the slow process until Fagan was nearly crazed with need.
"Please… please…" he begged.
Wrapping Fagan's legs around his waist, Beck leaned over until the chests were pressed together, his face in the soft skin between Fagan's neck and shoulder. His thrusting became more frantic as the deep scent of his mate's arousal filled his nostrils.
He knew he was nearing completion, just as Fagan was. He wanted them to come together as he claimed him. Feeling himself beginning to peak he growled into Fagan's ear. "Now, little one, come for me."
He heard Fagan scream out as he sank his long canines into the soft flesh in front of him. Thrusting deep one more time, Beck groaned between his teeth as he filled Fagan with his release, the sweet taste of his mate increasing his pleasure tenfold.
Beck thrust a few more times then carefully withdrew his canines from Fagan's neck, smoothing over the rough bite with his tongue. Lifting his head he looked down into his mate's face, a wide grin on his lips.
"You are perfect, mate."
Fagan's grin was a little loopy, his face flushed. "You're not so bad yourself."
Chapter Eight
Fagan carefully transferred the meatballs from the cookie sheet to the pan of white sauce he was cooking. Once they were all in the pan, he turned down the heat to simmer then used a large ladle to spoon the sauce over the meatballs.
It was a simple recipe, one of his favorites. Chicken meatballs with gruyere cheese and an array of spices cooked in the oven then added to a white sauce. All of it would be poured of spinach and gruyere stuffed tortellini pasta.
He'd made his meatballs from imitation chicken and separated out some white sauce before adding the real chicken meatballs into the pan. Add in some homemade bread sticks and a nice side salad and he had a pretty good meal prepared.
At least, he hoped so. He wasn't real sure what Beck and the others liked to eat. Food had appeared in the kitchen as if by magic. Fagan had no idea who had cooked it, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. It had been simple foods, but not a lot of flavor or imagination to it.
He was kind of hoping if the others tried his food, they'd let him start cooking full time. He was going out of his mind with boredom. It had been three days since the phone call with Elder Ramsey and Beck had been making a ton of phone calls, leaving Fagan on his own a lot of the time. Since he didn't really have a lot of phone calls to make—mostly because he didn't have anyone to call—he was left to his own devices.
His devices were bored out of their mind.
Once everything was cooked to his satisfaction, Fagan made sure the oven and stove top were turned off then carried the food into the dining room. He'd placed a stack of dishes and utensils on the table earlier.
Next he grabbed the breadsticks, which had been placed in a warming basket and covered with a hand towel, then the salad, and carried them both into the dining room. For an added touch, he carried some fresh shredded parmesan cheese into the dining room.
Now, to find people to eat what he'd cooked.
Fagan debated about going to find everyone, but figured that would be harder than just calling them all to food. He walked to the dining room entrance and cupped his hand around his mouth. "Foods on," he shouted. "Come get it while it's hot."
For a moment, Fagan didn't hear anything, and then a rumbling sound started. He quickly
backed up out of the way as a horde of hungry shifters came running in from every direction in the house. Silence suddenly filled the air except for the heavy breathing Fagan could hear just inside the archway.
Fagan chuckled as he made his way to the chair he'd set his special bowl of food in front of and sat down. "Well, don't just stand there. I didn't cook all this up to decorate the table."
"You cooked this, Fagan?" Beck asked.
"I did."
"By yourself?"
Fagan made sure he was looking in Beck's direction when he rolled his eyes. Blind or not, the gesture could still be seen. "No, I have a mouse in my pocket."
Someone snorted. Fagan didn't think it was Beck.
Fagan sighed. "I told you, cooking was part of my education."
"You said cooking, Fagan. You didn't say anything about making a five star meal."
"How would you know if it's a five star meal?" Fagan asked. "You haven't tasted it yet."
"No," Beck relied rather quickly, almost as if he knew he was skating close to the edge, "but nothing that has ever come out of that kitchen has ever smelled this good."
Fagan snickered. "Don't you think you better get to it then?"
The noise of five massive men scrambling to sit down and get to the food was nerve racking. Fagan just sat there for a minute, afraid to move. He didn't want to lose a limb in the melee. Only when things grew quiet again did he reached for the small bowl he'd set in front of his plate. He scooped some out onto his plate.
"Salad, please?"
"How much do you want, Fagan?" Beck asked.
"Just a small handful, please. I'll need a breadstick, too."
"Breadstick?" Jaggar asked. "There were breadsticks?"
He sounded like he was on the verge of crying.
"There's a warming basket with fresh homemade breadsticks. It should be near the center of the table."
"I thought that was one of the table decorations."
Fagan jerked back when there was a mad scramble for the bread basket. He sucked in a breathe when he heard a roar loud enough to shake the windows. All sound stopped. A moment later, Fagan felt the air in front of him waver.
"Here you go, mate. Salad and two bread sticks."
Fagan swallowed hard. "Thank you."
"In the future, you will be served first."
"Oh." Fagan felt his cheeks warm as a blush flushed them. "I don't know if that is really necessary."
"It is, believe me."
Fagan smiled weakly.
"I'm sure if these guys want to continue to eat like this, they will understand the necessity of you getting food, too. After all, if you're too weak to cook..."
Fagan was pretty sure Beck was stretching things a bit, but he knew better than to argue. He liked eating.
"This is really good, Fagan," Greyson said. "The whole blind thing aside, how did you end up a gourmet cook?"
"It was part of my training," Fagan said. "We were required to learn how to care for all of our master's needs, including his dietary needs. I know a variety of recipes, some by heart and some...oh." Fagan frowned as a thought hit him. "I had a recipe book written in Braille in my room. Will I be allowed to get my stuff?"
"The headmaster is supposed to be sending it to you," Greyson said. "It'll probably take a few days, but it should be here soon. If it's not here by the end of the week, I'll go pick it up."
Fagan smiled in Greyson's direction. "I'd appreciate it. It wasn't much, but it was mine."
"Whatever you can't retrieve," Beck said, "I'll replace."
"There are some things you can't replace." Fagan didn't want to admit that his most prized possession was the box containing the cards the man had sent him over the years, at least not in a room full of dominant shifters.
It had taken him a bit to put the clues together, but the M'B; who'd been sending the cards could be no other than his very own Montgomery Beck.
"Then we'll get what can't be replaced."
Fagan liked the steel resolve in Beck's voice, but he doubted the man dabbled in magic, and it would take magic to get back into the monastery now that he'd left, especially if things there were hinky.
"If there any special requests for meals or anything, let me know and I'll see what I can do. I have a pretty wide range of cooking abilities."
"I have a question."
Fagan turned his head toward Beck. "What?"
"I thought you didn't eat meat."
"I don't."
"Then how do you know if this tastes good or not?"
"I know the sauce tastes good because I tasted it. Same goes for the tortellini. As for the meatballs, I tested them when I first learned how to make them. Now, I make them with imitation chicken for myself and real chicken for you. Since the ingredients are basically the same except for that, the taste is pretty close."
"And that's what you're eating? Imitation chicken?"
"Yes." Fagan stabbed one of his meatballs, twirled it around in the white sauce, then held it out to Beck. "Want to try?"
He was pretty sure Beck grimaced if the soft chuckles around him were anything to go by, but the man took the bite Fagan held out to him.
"This tastes just like the ones with real chicken," Beck said after a minute. "I can barely taste the difference. It's very subtle."
Fagan grinned. "Yes, I know."
One day people would understand that imitation meat was not that much different than regular meat, just better for you. At least, in Fagan's opinion. He still didn't understand why omegas couldn't eat meat, but he had long ago learned to live with it.
"I wish I could have an omega to cook for me like this," Greyson said. "This is delicious."
"Thank you." Fagan smiled in the man's direction. He didn't know a cook alive who didn't like when someone appreciated their cooking. "Why can't you have your own omega?"
"Only shifter kings get omega mates," Greyson replied. "Basically, there's not enough of you to go around."
Fagan frowned in confusion. "Then what happens to the other omegas?" He swallowed tightly and carefully set his fork down when dead silence met his question. "Beck?"
"What others, Fagan?" Beck asked. "There are only five omegas born every twenty-five years. There should be no others."
"I don't know anything about that, but there were a lot more than five omegas at the monastery." Fagan shrugged after giving it some thought. "Maybe they weren't omegas."
They had been trained right along with him, and they had all been born blind as far as he knew, so he didn't understand how they couldn't be omegas. They had masters waiting for them when they finished their training on their twenty-fifth birthday.
"No." Fagan shook his head. "I'm pretty sure they are omegas."
They had to be.
"Are you saying there are others back at the monastery like you?" Greyson asked.
Fagan nodded. "Yes."
"How many?"
"I was in the west wing and there were at least ten there. I know the other wings had just as many omegas if not more."
There a rigidness to Becks voice when he asked, "And just how many wings are there?"
"The monastery has four wings that go out from the main complex, which is in the shape of a square with a courtyard in the middle. The north wing is where the main entrance is located along with the headmaster's office."
"That's the only section of the monastery where visitors are allowed," Beck interjected. "Tell me about the rest of the place."
"Well, like I said, I was in the west wing. The east wing also houses omegas and the south wing is where we take all of our classes."
"So, we're looking at maybe ten ore twenty omegas then?" Jaggar queried.
"Per floor, but there are three floors above ground for each wing and one below."
"Bloody hell," Greyson snapped. "That's like fifty omegas."
"At least," Jaggar added. "How could they have fifty omegas there and no one know about it?"
"That number could be larger or
smaller depending on who is still there," Fagan stated. "Omegas come into the school or get sent to their masters all the time."
Fagan could think of several friends who had been there one day then were simply gone the next. He'd never heard from any of them again.
Fagan bent his head, hiding his fear from the others. "Every one of us knew we could simply disappear the day we turned twenty-five. We dreaded each birthday, knowing when our time came, we'd be gone, never to be heard from again."
"Jesus."
Fagan glanced toward Jaggar when the man swore. "Why is this all so surprising to you? You knew omegas were being sent to that school. I received birthday cards from Beck every year."
"We knew, Fagan," Jaggar replied, "but we thought there were just five of you, not fifty."
"Five, fifty. What's the difference?" Fagan asked. "They're still teaching us to serve our masters." That was the part that enraged Fagan, especially now knowing that was not the way it was meant to be. "Even if there was just one of us, they are training a bunch of slaves."
"That's it!" Beck shouted.
Fagan jumped, afraid the man was yelling at him. "I'm sorry."
"No," Beck said. "I think you just discovered what this is all about."
Fagan frowned. "What did I discover?"
He was so confused.
"Like you said, Fagan, they're training slaves."
"Yes." That was how it felt at least. "They aren't training us to go to our mates. They're training us to serve our masters."
"Exactly."
Fagan was still confused.
"Don't you see? They aren't running a school to train omegas to mate them to shifter kings. They're running a school to train submissive omegas, and I suspect they are selling them to the highest bidder. Greyson said the headmaster didn't want to turn you over because you were meant for someone else. My guess would be that he'd sold you to someone. You probably would have been sent to your master on your twenty-fifth birthday if Greyson hadn't come for you a day early."
"Why did you come for me a day early?" Fagan asked as he glanced toward where Greyson sat. "The last card I received from Beck said he'd be there the next day."
