Zeke's Reluctant Omega

by A. J. Stone

  Also by A.J. Stone

  Bear's Cove

  Dak's Omega

  Tanzil's Second Chance

  Perfect Blend: Kofi's Omega

  Swept Away (Coming Soon)

  Draco International

  Amaricio's Omega

  Koren's Omega Neighbor

  Zeke's Reluctant Omega

  Zeke’s Reluctant Omega

  Draco International #3

  An MM/MPreg Shifter Romance

  by

  A.J. Stone

  Zeke’s Reluctant Omega (Draco International 3)

  Copyright © November 2018 by A.J. Stone

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-942414-42-1

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission from the copyright owner and Lost Goddess Publishing LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Editor: Nicoline Tiernan

  Cover Artist: Nic T.

  Published by Lost Goddess Publishing LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. It is not meant for underage readers.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  About Zeke’s Reluctant Omega

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  About A. J. Stone

  About Zeke’s Reluctant Omega

  AS HEAD OF SECURITY for Draco International, Ezekiel Lowry is the unofficial fixer for the company. When a fellow dragon shifter unintentionally almost kills someone, Zeke is in charge of damage control. The moment he sets eyes on the victim, he knows he’s looking at the man who will become his omega.

  Marcel Yardan moved to Verdance to pursue a career as a dancer. When an accident ruins his big stage debut, Marcel finds himself bitter and blaming the man sent to make sure he doesn’t sue Draco International—even though his canine whimpers and whines for the handsome alpha shifter. Nothing about Zeke fits with Marcel’s life plan.

  Pushing away the alpha who makes his heart pound is a risky move, but when Marcel spies Zeke with another omega, his world comes crashing down—again.

  Welcome to Draco International, home of high-powered dragon shifters who live by their own rules. This 41,000-word MPreg novel includes passionate and explicit sexual content, as well as some violence. Suitable for adult audiences.

  Chapter 1

  Marcel

  EXCITEMENT FLUTTERED through Marcel, a butterfly weaving drunkenly from his stomach to his throat and back down. Each brush of wing against his heart made it beat erratically. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth in a vain attempt to control his rocketing emotions.

  He’d arrived.

  Not figuratively, the way he planned, but literally, which was the first rung on his ladder to success.

  Being in Verdance meant he’d taken the most difficult and drastic step in kickstarting his career as a leading man of the theater. He’d walked away from law school and his parents’ lifelong dream that he become an attorney. Marcel had stars in his eyes, and every one of them had his name emblazoned on it.

  The bus stopped, and most of the riders disembarked, their legs slowly stretching as people worked out kinks and cramps from sitting for so many hours. Moans, of the pained and pleasured variety, accompanied the raising of arms and arching of torsos as people waited for the driver to open the storage compartment so they could retrieve their bags.

  Marcel bypassed the crowd. He’d brought a single backpack full of everything he needed to sustain himself until he landed that coveted leading man role. He checked the time on his phone, and then he tucked it into his pocket. There was just enough time to make it to his scheduled audition for a part in Dance of the Dragons, a promising new musical being launched in this fine city. Marcel planned to be part of the original cast.

  This was his ticket to Broadway—and beyond. London. Paris. Sydney.

  The theater scene in Verdance was top-notch, the largest and most prestigious community of players in a thousand miles. Perhaps it was miniscule when compared to what was happening on the East or West Coasts—Verdance was a small town when compared with Los Angeles or New York—but it was a noteworthy place to start.

  Jason Sharp had started out in Verdance. Seeing the star perform had changed Marcel’s life, and when Sharp had taught a summer theater program in Marcel’s small town for two summers in a row, Marcel had signed up both times. He’d studied Sharp’s techniques while absorbing everything about his life. Sharp had started out starring in an original stage production in Verdance, and he’d been discovered by a big name producer. He’d even been an understudy for one of the main characters in Hideout, a production that was still sold out all over the world. Marcel couldn’t remember the particular part Sharp had played, but he didn’t care. He didn’t plan to follow in Sharp’s exact footsteps.

  The idol’s path provided a blueprint for Marcel to modify to fit his goals. Sharp had peaked too soon. Marcel’s star was going to soar even higher than his mentor’s.

  Stopping off in a public restroom at a park next to the theater, Marcel checked his reflection and grimaced. He did not travel well. The motion of the coach made his stomach queasy, and he hadn’t eaten since dinner the day before. He combed his hair and used styling gel to help define and prop up his tight curls. The height brought out his eyes and took some of the emphasis away from his nose, which was a little too large and angular for his almost angelic features.

  He kind of looked like he’d broken his nose when he’d fallen to Earth from Heaven. Of course, he’d broken it when he’d fought Vinnie Brown for hurling homophobic slurs in Marcel’s direction. Yes, Marcel could double as a faerie prince, but he was a scrappy one. Marcel had come out of the fight with a hook to his nose, the result of the one punch Vinnie had landed, and the prejudiced bad guy had ended up needing twelve stitches on his face and casts on his arm and foot.

  Dog shifters had a wickedly strong set of jaws, and Marcel knew how to fight. Years of playing around with his littermates meant he could both take and throw a punch. He kept his wits about him in life-threatening situations, and he wasn’t afraid to use his hard head or his sharp elbows. Brown had missed six days of school, and when he’d returned, he’d avoided Marcel, even going so far as to change two of his classes.

  Nobody messed with Marcel after that. He might have an effeminate beauty, but he wasn’t at all wimpy.

  With his hair looking perfect, Marcel changed into his leotard. Bright colors cut through the mostly black fabric to emphasize his muscular legs and butt. The shirt was looser, with flowing arms that enhanced his gracefulness.

  Then he made up his face, disappearing all signs of travel fatigue.

  Adrenaline rushed through his veins. Today was the first day of the rest of his life.

  The theatre was much smaller than Marcel h
ad anticipated. It occupied half of the building, with the other half being a coffee shop, a leather goods store, an appliance store, and a pet supply store. The unlit marquee advertised a weekend run for All the Wrong Reasons. A smaller sign posted on the door indicated that auditions for Dance of the Dragons was going on at that moment.

  Marcel went inside. The lobby was chic and modern, the chrome and marble theme not aspiring even a little bit to imitate classic architecture. The city of Verdance was quite old, but this part of town seemed shiny and new. His community college auditorium, mired in the 1960’s décor, seemed far more theatrical by comparison.

  “Are you here to audition?” A middle-aged man with a polite, plastic smile came out from the box office.

  Summoning his brightest smile, Marcel said, “I am. I have an appointment.”

  The man waved his hand toward the rear of the lobby. “Through those doors. You’ll see Scylla inside. Tell him who you are, and then have a seat. They’ll call you when they’re ready.”

  A pair of men came in behind Marcel, and as he headed into the theater, he heard them tell the man they were walk-ins, and they were directed to the same place as Marcel.

  Marcel forced his brief frown away, and he summoned hope from his natural well of internal sunshine. This was his day. He was going to walk out of there with the lead—or, at least, having wowed them enough for a juicy role.

  Scylla was a barrel of a man squeezed into tight sweats and a coffee-stained shirt that could not contain the entirety of his bulk. He smelled slightly of the sea, which was odd because the ocean was even farther away in Verdance than Marcel’s hometown. Marcel’s nose twitched as it analyzed the mustiness and brine. Sometimes being a canine shifter had drawbacks. He was sure the humans here didn’t notice Scylla’s fishy odor.

  Folders and papers were strewn over the table where Scylla sat, though his attention was divided between the man singing onstage and whatever was on the screen of his laptop. The guy onstage was pretty good, and with his deep baritone, he was going for a different part than Marcel.

  Scylla stood when Marcel approached. “What’s your name, son?”

  Marcel smiled. “Marcel.”

  Scylla waited, and when Marcel didn’t continue, he prompted, “Last name?”

  “No last name. I’m simply Marcel.” Another component to Marcel’s quest for fame and theatrical success was the adherence to the idea of a single name. All of the greats could be recognized using one name—Liza, Madonna, Picasso.

  Scylla seemed unfazed. “I have a Marcel Yardan.”

  With a sigh, Marcel claimed the name. While he loved his family, Yardan was not a sexy name, and so it had to go.

  The barrel-man handed over a sheet of paper. “Lines, part of a song. On the back is the audition timeline. Today are initial looks. Callbacks will be posted tonight at eight.” He pointed to a group of men sitting in the middle of the center rows of seats. “Sit there. The director will call you when she’s ready.”

  The gaggle of hopefuls sat silently. Marcel had always pictured his pre-audition time as being one where he stretched and practiced vocal exercises. He didn’t think he’d be sitting quietly, waiting for his group to be called. And so he used his ability to make subsonic sounds to practice his lines in a way the others couldn’t hear.

  It didn’t take long for him to be called to the stage. He delivered his lines and sang along with the pianist, and then he performed a short version of the dance he’d done in the recital for his hip-hop class six years ago.

  An hour after arriving, he found himself on the street with five hours to wait until the callback sheet was posted.

  Eight o’clock found him waiting impatiently outside the theater in a crowd of hopefuls. Eight-oh-seven featured him pirouetting on the sidewalk. Listed under dancer and chorus was his full name, not the single-word title he preferred. No matter—a callback was a callback. He was one step closer to achieving his dream.

  Now he needed to find a place to sleep for the night.

  It didn’t take long for him to establish that Verdance featured expensive hotels. If he stayed in one for even a few days, his cash stores would be depleted—and there was no way he was going to ask his parents for help. They didn’t approve of his pursuit of a career in theater. Though they spoke to him, they still hadn’t forgiven him for dropping out of college and refusing to attend law school.

  As staying in a hotel wasn’t feasible, Marcel went looking for other options. He didn’t know anyone, and he soon found out that Verdance didn’t have a YMCA or a homeless shelter where he could take refuge. That was puzzling.

  At least the night wasn’t too cold. He found a place in the park where he could shift into his poodle form—standard, not miniature—which was warmer, and he holed up in a thick stand of bushes. If anyone took a closer look, they wouldn’t see anything. His curly black fur blended in with the darkness and shadows, and he was a large enough dog so most urban predators would steer clear.

  Still, it was too cold to get comfortable, even when he curled up and pulled his backpack on top of him, and the ground was surprisingly rocklike. As exhausted as he was, it still took him a long time to fall asleep.

  In the morning, he shifted back and hurriedly dressed. Even before dawn broke, people were out and about, and he startled a jogger as he emerged from his thicket. Every part of his body ached, and the chill left a lingering lethargy in his bones.

  He bought a yogurt parfait and a coffee from a shop and hurried to the theater. When the doors opened at nine, he was the first one inside. He used the extra time to take an airport bath in the restroom before joining the others for stretching and warm-ups.

  After a half hour to learn a short routine, the group took the stage. Each dancer wore a paper number. From the darkness of the seats, the director of choreography called out dismissals. “Thirteen—thank you. Two—thank you.”

  Never had a pleasantry carried such ominous intent. Marcel threw himself into the dance, channeling the mood of the music. Though he was feeling it, he kept his head in the game, careful to make sure his movements had elegance as well as attitude. He jumped a little higher than the dancers on either side of him, showing off his superior skills.

  He was rewarded when the director of choreography said nothing at all to him until the performance ended. The DC came onstage for a closer look. He was a tall man with thick muscles and strong bone structure—the exact kind of build that made Marcel want to fan himself.

  “My name is Germaine, which you have now earned the right to use. Rest up for a bit. Get some water, maybe an energy bar. You’ll spend the afternoon learning a more complicated dance sequence, and I’ll be making my final determinations from there.”

  The guy next to Marcel, a short man with straight blond hair and blue eyes, lifted a hand. “Germaine, when will we find out what part we got?”

  Germaine responded with a scathing look. He flipped imaginary hair—his tight curls were buzzed short—and exited the stage. “Next group—you’re up.”

  The guy opened his mouth to say more, but Marcel grabbed his arm. “The schedule is on the back of the lines we got yesterday. There’s another callback tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” The guy rolled his eyes. “I should have looked.” They entered the practice room, where the guy draped a towel around his neck and downed a bottle of water.

  Marcel did the same. In the back of his mind, he realized he should economize, but a workout like that wrung him out. He wished he had a power bar, but he didn’t. Glancing around, he wondered whether there might be a vending machine nearby.

  “What are you looking for?” Blond guy asked. He looked like someone who’d been spoiled with endless dance lessons and whose parents had paid for him to tour with elite troupes.

  “Vending machine.”

  The guy threw a power bar to Marcel. “I’m Holden. You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “Thanks.” Marcel ripped open the wrapper and shook his head a
s he tore off a bite. “No. I’m in town for auditions. Are you from around here?”

  Holden laughed. “Pleasance. It’s the nearest major city, but it’s lost even deeper in the mountains. Verdance has a theater, where Pleasance does not.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and motioned to the door. “Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s good to get out. I’ll show you around.”

  They walked for a bit, and Holden showed him sights he’d already discovered, like the park and fountain, and he pointed out the best places to eat. Given the expensive look to the restaurants, they reinforced the image of a spoiled rich Marcel had formulated. Realizing that he was jealous—his parents had paid for one dance class per semester, not the five Marcel had wanted to take—Marcel concentrated on the positives. Holden seemed friendly, and he bought lunch for Marcel.

  “Where are you staying?” Marcel wondered if Holden knew of cheaper accommodations.

  “I have a friend who lives nearby. He’s letting me sleep on his sofa for a couple nights. If I land this gig, I’m going to be part of the working poor.” He laughed joyfully. “Verdance Theater has rooms you can let if you’re in one of their plays. When it’s busy, they stuff five or six people in a room the size of a shoebox, and rent is ten dollars a day.”

  “Wow. That sounds terrible.” Marcel was used to sharing space with his siblings, but that was different. Strangers wouldn’t all shift into canines and snuggle in a pile for warmth. “No privacy at all.”

  “Nope.” Holden laughed again. “This sounds dumb, but I’m looking forward to it. It’s like a rite of passage.”

  Though it didn’t sound like a rite of passage Marcel wanted to experience in the least, a week later, he found himself on a bottom bunk in a room where three sets of narrow bunk beds took up all the available space. If they wanted to stand up, they had to climb out into the hallway. There was no way that setup didn’t violate at least fifteen fire codes, but nobody was going to report it. There was no other housing to be had nearby. Holden was two rooms over, but the pair managed to develop a friendship. Neither had landed a speaking part. Marcel was simultaneously disappointed and elated, which was a curious combination of feelings.