Omega's Hope: An MPREG Shifter Romance

by Noah Harris

  When they reach the large double doors, closed and locked, Christopher moves to the door frame, pressing his back up against it. He nods to Perkins, who once again reaches for the tools at his belt. He's an expert lock pick, and gets to it immediately, working quickly but quietly, so as to not alert those inside.

  Meanwhile Christopher closes his eyes, listening. From inside the room, he can hear the shuffling of footsteps and muffled voices. There are still the nine scents they picked out earlier as wolves, sticking with him and distinctive despite being in his human form. He listens for the subtle shift of metal.

  "Five guns," he whispers, low enough that only his team can hear. "Which means four hostages."

  "Ready," Perkins says, slipping his tools back into his belt and stepping away from the door.

  At Christopher's nod, another man steps forward, unclipping several smoke grenades from the belt strapped across his chest. Two more men step up to the doors, ready to push them both open.

  Christopher holds his gun up at the ready, waiting for the others to follow his lead before he counts down on his fingers. Five, four, three, two, one…

  The doors are shoved open, and the grenades are thrown in. There are several shouts of surprise, but they're drowned out by the loud bang. Twin flashes of light, and then the room begins to fill with smoke. He hears guns being cocked, but his team is already on the move.

  They dart into the room, keeping low, guns at the ready as they disperse into the smoke. It obscures their vision, but their eyes are sharper than humans' anyway. And they have their sense of smell and sharp hearing to help them pinpoint their prey. They move out like a coherent pack, well aware of where each other are at all times and able to circle the room efficiently.

  Shots are fired into the smoke. Rapid fire. Loud and heavy artillery. Definitely not his own team. They came armed with little more than their standard pistols, deciding they didn't need any more than that. The assailants, then. Farmers? They're firing blind in an attempt to hit them, though he's certain they don't know where they're aiming. He can hear the bullets sink into walls and furniture, shattering pictures on the walls and ricocheting after clipping the floor tiles.

  Christopher waits until their shots calm down, knowing his team is, too. They're waiting for his lead, and he knows they've learned to be patient on the hunt. They're no longer young pups eager for the kill and the shot at glory. They've matured since then.

  Christopher presses his back to a desk, leaning out to squint through the smoke. He can see a human stalking forward, shadowed in the obscurity of the smoke. He can hear their footsteps. The rattle of the gun as they lift it to their shoulder.

  He takes aim, waits for the shot, and then fires.

  One shot.

  A shout of pain.

  The man collapses, gun clattering to the ground as he presses his hands to the bullet wound in his thigh.

  Gunfire lights up the room. Christopher ducks back around the desk. He can hear the rapid fire of the assailants, bullets digging into walls. Between it all is the far more controlled single shots of his own team, waiting for their chances and lining up their shots, careful not to hit the hostages.

  He smirks, confident, trusting his team to deal with this quickly and efficiently.

  He darts out from his shelter, keeping low and sliding toward the man he shot. He comes through the thinning fog in time to see the man's eyes widen before he lunges for his fallen gun. Christopher snatches it out of his hands, whirling it back on him and cracking him across the side of the head with the butt. The man's eyes roll back and he collapses to the ground.

  Christopher scoffs. This mission is far too below his pay grade. Still, as that deliciously rich honey scent tickles the back of his throat, he can't complain too much.

  As the smoke clears, dispersing around the room and thinning into the air vents, Christopher stands. The assault rifle is clutched in his hands, but unneeded. The other four assailants are either knocked out or being held at gun point by the rest of his team. He can't help the satisfied smirk that curls his lips. No matter how well armed these men were, they're no match for his wolves.

  "Oh thank god," comes a voice, loud and exasperated. There's a self-importance about it, haughty and pompous. Christopher's eyes snap to the center of the room where three people are tied to chairs. A man dressed in a rich suit, glaring at him and lips screwed up into a scowl, a woman in a court dress looking frightened, and…Timothy. "You buffoons could have shot us! The decorum of the military these days is disgraceful."

  But Christopher isn't listening to the man's tirade. The CEO, if he has to guess. His eyes are glued to Timothy. His mate.

  He hears Perkins and Lopez gasp from nearby. Followed by a couple other noises of surprise. Most of his pack, after all, were there for the whole thing four years ago. And despite how much he's changed, he still looks the same. He's older. His face has matured some, losing some of the softness of youth. He's filled out a little more in the body. His hair is a bird's nest of unruly brown curls instead of the military standard buzzcut, and large glasses are perched on his nose, currently askew.

  And his eyes.

  They're the same large, gentle brown Christopher remembers.

  Their eyes lock, and Christopher can't look away. Timothy stares at him, eyes wide and soft mouth parted. He looks just as surprised as Christopher feels. Warmth wraps around his heart, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He's missed this man so much. He's dreamed of this day. He's dreamed of him.

  And here he is, just a few feet away. His long lost, poor, lovely mate.

  Over the years, Timothy has become a sort of martyr in his mind. He's a kind person who deserved more, and who had been brutally trampled over in Christopher's own quest for dominance and control. He hadn't meant to, but he’d ended up treating Timothy, his mate, just as his parents had been treated. In his lust for dominance to keep his loved ones safe, he had ended up doing the exact opposite.

  In the days after his departure, Christopher hadn't been brave enough to face the pain. Instead he’d riled himself up with misplaced, indignant rage. A wolf never abandons their mate. Ever. And that was just what Timothy had done. Abandoned him. Right at the moment when he was rising to power.

  The rage still simmered in the back of his mind in a pocket of hurt and anger he never could fully be rid of. He lost himself to it sometimes, being forced to step away from the pack and work out his frustration through physical exhaustion.

  But the spouts of rage never lasted long because he always ended up coming to the same horrible conclusion. While a wolf should never abandon their mate, a wolf should also never deliberately hurt their mate. And that was a sin Christopher had committed first. He’d been the first to fail as a mate, and as the spark of his anger defused and soured into guilt, he couldn't help but blame himself.

  A week after Timothy had left, his rage had petered out to a simmering frustration with only the occasional spike that would rise throughout the next four years. Mostly, he was just riddled with guilt and haunted by longing. His nights were spent dwelling on the what-if's, and his days were spent putting on a strong face for the pack. He refused to let them see he was rattled by the departure of their Prime Omega and his mate.

  The loneliness and guilt tore him up inside, and his wolf howled night after night, sorrow tearing apart what self-control he had left. He had nearly been ready to go after Timothy, abandoning their newly formed pack, no matter how disgraceful it was for an alpha to do so. He had nearly convinced himself that the ridicule would be worth it to be with Timothy.

  But then he’d been suddenly drafted into a war halfway across the globe, and his pack had been shipped out not long after. The call of duty was one he couldn't ignore. Not when he’d been in the military for as long as he had, and not when he had a pack who looked to him for leadership.

  This had been everything he'd ever wanted, and with part of him still convinced he didn't deserve a mate after failing him so quickly, he will
ingly shipped off to war. it seemed like a more appropriate place for him to be, especially with his power hungry and destructive wolf. At least there, he could do some good.

  And he’d done well for himself. He had risen through the ranks and become one of the best. He’d formed a close knit and superior pack which he led to victory after victory, earning them ranks as an elite special wolf forces squadron.

  Timothy still haunted him. There was a hole in his heart that he’d never been able to fill. It was hollow, empty and numb, but he’d worked through it. He’d learned to deal with it. At night, he allowed himself to indulge in memories and in fantasies, imagining what it would be like to be with his mate.

  When he came back from the war, still leading his pack, he’d toyed with the idea of finding Timothy. The only thing that kept him from doing so was his own doubt. And, while he was loath to admit it, his own fear. He wasn't sure if Timothy would take him back, and he wasn't sure what he'd have to do to convince him. Not to mention, what if Timothy did come back to him and they were put in the same situation again? What if Christopher had to once again choose between his mate and his pack?

  He’d like to be able to say he'd choose his mate, but deep in his heart, he knows he's not sure. He doesn't want to have to choose, but he knows from experience he might be forced to.

  He doesn't want to make that decision, so he kept away from Timothy to save them both from that fate.

  Still, it hadn't stopped his curiosity.

  With his own notoriety and prestige, his reputation preceded him. After curiosity had whittled down his uncertainty, and longing had fueled his determination, he’d managed to approach General Wolski at a military conference they both attended. He’d done so casually, uncertain whether or not the General he admired so much would know that he’d abandoned his son.

  Thankfully, the General did recognize him and gave him praise that had his inner child soaring. He also didn't seem to realize Christopher knew his son, for which he had mixed feelings. Relief was prominent, but there was some shame and frustration that Timothy hadn't mentioned his mate to his father. Still, Christopher had managed to get some information from the General.

  Apparently Timothy had also done well for himself. He'd studied to become a lawyer. Christopher thinks it suits him. His selfless mate, kind, innocent and caring. Despite running from their pack, he obviously couldn't quite shake his omega instinct to protect and care for others.

  Christopher had thought about it a lot over the years but now, looking in Timothy's eyes for the first time in four years, he's certain of it; his mate is an angel.

  "Sir." One of his wolves pulls him from his awestruck reverie. He blinks, glancing over to a man, Samson, who holds one of the assailants at gunpoint while another wolf ties him up. The man's brows are furrowed, lips pursed into a confused frown. "Where's the ninth person?"

  Christopher blinks, glancing around the room. True enough, there are only five assailants and three hostages. But, their wolves are never wrong. He had smelled nine distinct scents, and he still does. The ninth one is faint and fleeting, hiding beneath the eight stronger scents, but it's certainly there.

  Christopher lifts his nose, inhaling deeply as he sorts through what he can smell. He pins each individual in the room to a scent, filing them away and looking for the ninth.

  His gaze falls to Timothy. One of the wolves has just finished untying him, moving on to the woman. Timothy stands on shaky legs, rubbing his wrists for a moment.

  The ninth scent is coming from him, but that doesn't make sense. There has to be a mistake.

  Timothy sighs, arms lowering to wrap around his mid-section. It's a gesture no human would think twice about. A man wrapping his arms around his belly was innocent enough. It can be written off as being cautious, worried, relief, a plethora of emotions. But if it had been a woman, the gesture would've been clear.

  And Christopher knows better. Timothy is no ordinary man. He's an omega wolf, which means he can carry a child.

  Christopher stiffens, ice flooding his veins. Timothy wraps his arms carefully around his belly, which, upon closer inspection, is just large enough to not be natural, sitting in such a way that definitely looks like he's…

  The ice is melted away as a fire burns through him. With just a spark, the wildfire of fury rages through Christopher's insides. His skin prickles as his wolf bristles, and a low growl escapes his throat as his lips curl back.

  Timothy hears it, eyes snapping up, wide and fearful as they meet Christopher's. His arms tighten, turning his body a fraction away, as if to hide his shame.

  Christopher sees red, and it takes every last ounce of self-control to keep his wolf from ripping through right here in front of these humans.

  Ever since their one, perfect night together, Christopher has never been with anyone else. He’s been loyal and faithful to his mate, even while he acknowledged he didn't deserve him. He's put Timothy on an angelic pedestal, knowing that the sweet and kind omega would never betray him.

  And yet here he is, four years later, pregnant. Carrying a child that isn't Christopher’s and tarnishing the perfect memory of their mate-ship. The one beautiful memory they have together.

  Christopher thought the question of their loyalty, despite being apart, was implicit. It's in their bond and in their blood to stay true to their mates. He thought, despite everything Timothy hated about being a wolf, he'd stay true to that. He'd stay as pure and chaste as Christopher had.

  Apparently not.

  Christopher growls again, not quite able to bite it back, and he watches fear shudder through Timothy.

  Good, he thinks. But beneath his fury, his wolf's sorrow howls.

  Timothy

  Timothy doesn't think the survival blanket is doing much, but the professionals tell him to keep it on to ward off the effects of shock, and he can't really argue. Besides, it works as a flimsy but effective shield to protect him from Christopher's sharp gaze.

  The alpha hasn't stopped staring at him, even when the police came in to arrest the kidnappers and the hostages were shuffled out to be taken care of. He's felt the man's eyes on his back the entire time, and it's starting to grate on his nerves.

  He'd be more irritated and more frustrated if he wasn't still in a state of shock. His body feels strangely numb, and his head is still spinning, like his thoughts and body haven't quite lined up yet. There's a disconnect as he reels from the events of the past few hours, though he's not sure what was more shocking, being held hostage or being rescued by none other than Christopher Watts.

  He hasn't kept up with Christopher’s career at all in the past four years. He's tried to leave the alpha and that entire part of his life behind. Even when curiosity dredged up shifting memories, he refrained. He didn't want to know more about the man, because he didn't think he'd ever be in his life again.

  And now here he is, standing only a few yards away, arms crossed over his chest, watching Timothy like a hawk.

  He shifts, feeling more and more uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze. In his discomfort, his arms move to wrap around his stomach. It's a habit, an instinct, that's becoming so natural it's alarming. It's this strange protective urge that he can't help.

  He doesn't want the child, but that doesn't stop the trickling sense of dread. What if something had harmed it? Like when they knocked him out and he fell to the floor. Did they drug him? What about his panic? Would that effect the baby?

  And just like that morning, he can't feel anything. No sense of presence or heartbeat. As a wolf, he should be able to, but…he's been killing his wolf, so of course he can't feel it. It's strange to feel so blind. Is this how humans always feel? A low growl tears him from his thoughts, and his head whips up to find Christopher. He's still glaring, but his gaze has lowered, fixed on Timothy's belly, exposed by the survival blanket falling from one shoulder. Timothy's eyes widen with realization. He can…of course he can sense it. He’d been hoping his swelling belly wouldn't be noticeable, but C
hristopher is a wolf. He knows.

  Christopher's lip curls, another low growl escaping him before his hands drop to his sides, curled into fists. He stalks forward, and Timothy curls away from him, flinching when a firm hand grabs his arm and yanks him to his feet.

  "I'm taking him home," he bites out to those around them, sharp words cutting off any protests from the paramedics.

  Before he can argue, Timothy finds himself pulled away from the crowd, stumbling to keep his balance and keep up as Christopher drags him toward the main street. He stops only to hail a cab.

  "What are you doing?" Timothy bites out, finally finding his voice. He tries to pull from Christopher, but his grip just tightens.

  When the cab pulls over, Christopher pushes him inside, following after him. "Taking you home." It's eerily calm and leaves no room for argument. He gestures to the cabdriver, who eyes them impatiently.

  After a moment of resistance, Timothy huffs, crossing his arms and slouching down as he mumbles out his address for the driver.

  The entire drive is extremely tense and silent. It stretches between them taut and full of friction. Timothy firmly keeps his gaze fixed out the window, staring at the passing city without really seeing it. He can feel Christopher's eyes on him, sharp and heavy. He can feel his presence like a pressure against his skin, making him itch and prickle. His scent is sharp and spicy. Musky in just the right way, like he remembers, but there's a bitterness to it that sours the whole thing, and Christopher is letting it out in waves. It's practically suffocating, and Timothy can taste the alpha's anger and displeasure on his tongue and sticking to the back of his throat.

  Somewhere, deep down, he feels the innate urge to bend to that anger, to submit to it. But it's as faint as his wolf's whimpering, and Timothy refuses to break. So he continues to stare out the window, firm and resolute, body tense and wary, even as he tries to give off an image of nonchalance. He doesn't want Christopher to know he's still affected by his scent.