by S. M. Reine
CONTENTS
Omega
Copyright
About
Dedication
Title Page
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
OMEGA
Book One of
War of the Alphas
SM REINE
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This book is sold DRM-free so that it can be enjoyed in any way the reader sees fit. Please keep all links and attributions intact when sharing. All rights reserved.
Cover model photos sourced from Taria Reed at The Reed Files.
Copyright © SM Reine 2015
Published by Red Iris Books
1180 Selmi Drive, Suite 102
Reno, NV 89512
SERIES BY SM REINE
The Descent Series
The Ascension Series
Seasons of the Moon
The Cain Chronicles
Preternatural Affairs
Tarot Witches
War of the Alphas
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ABOUT OMEGA
Ten years ago, Deirdre Tombs died. When she was reborn the next day, Deirdre had become a shapeshifter who can’t shift shapes. Nobody knows what animal she’s supposed to be. She’s definitely not a werewolf. The Alpha, Rylie Gresham, can’t force her to transform like other members of her pack.
Now Deirdre is considered an Omega, the weakest shapeshifter in the pack—a vulnerable position when Everton Stark demands tribute from Rylie. He wants to be the dominant Alpha. The only Alpha. And he plans to make her pack submit whether they want to or not. Stark can make every shapeshifter obey him by force of will alone.
Every shapeshifter except Deirdre.
The shifter who can’t shift is the only hope for Rylie to win the war against Stark. It will take everything Deirdre has to survive undercover in his den. But can an Omega’s will be stronger than that of a charismatic, deadly Alpha like Everton Stark?
For Garion,
My Alpha and Omega and everything in between.
—I—
Montreal, Quebec—May 2025
It was a gray, drizzly day, and Deirdre wasn’t looking where she was going. Her gaze was focused on the ripples her boots created as she strode through inch-deep puddles slicking the sidewalk.
When she bumped into a man heading the opposite direction, she muttered an apology and kept going. She didn’t look at him until he grabbed her by the arms so tightly that she thought she would bruise through her jacket.
Deirdre lifted her head and found herself staring into a pair of golden eyes.
“Kill them,” the man said. “Kill them all.”
And he continued walking as though he expected her to obey.
She turned to watch him go. The sheer mass of his body forced the crowd to part around him like a river surging around a boulder. His hair was tawny brown, his arms tree trunks, his stride purposeful. He could have been any of the city’s indigent shifters, driven to insanity by life on the streets without a pack.
Deirdre pulled her hood over her eyes, slid her hand into her pocket, and stroked the comforting firmness of the Ruger LCP .380. It was the tiniest handgun she had ever owned. It didn’t even leave a visible bump when she carried it in her jacket.
What could the stranger have meant? Kill “them?” Kill whom?
She couldn’t stop to puzzle his instructions for long. She needed to move. After all, she was still being trailed by a man named Colin Burgh, and he had almost caught up.
Deirdre wanted to reach the privacy of home before Burgh tried to kill her.
He’d been on her heels since she left the office. For the moment, her would-be assassin was pretending to window shop at a shoe store. His eyes were shifty, lips tight—nervous about his upcoming kill.
It was impossible to know who had turned Burgh on her. It could have been the Redshank family, though. She’d repossessed their car the other day—stolen it, if she was being honest with herself—and they’d caught her in the act. The Redshanks weren’t rich, but even they could afford a clumsy thug like Burgh.
But instinct told her that Burgh had been hired by her boss, Gutterman. Their business relationship had been strained lately, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d used Burgh’s services. Gutterman didn’t hate Deirdre or anything. He just didn’t want to have to fire her and pay into unemployment.
Once Deirdre took care of Burgh, she’d go back for Gutterman.
Deirdre resumed walking, eager to get out of the rain even if it meant having to defend herself against a murder attempt.
She really hated the rain.
As she continued, Deirdre watched the reflections in the windows she passed for Burgh. He was easy to spot in that blue jacket and orange scarf. Practicing the art of being subtle by not being subtle at all, she imagined. Who would imagine an assassin could be so obvious?
But Deirdre didn’t see his ugly jacket in the reflection. When she stopped at the intersection, she watched that window for a good thirty seconds, and Burgh never showed up behind her.
Deirdre risked a glance over her shoulder.
The broad-shouldered man with the tawny brown hair held Colin Burgh’s arms now, just like he’d held Deirdre’s. Burgh seemed transfixed by whatever the hulking man had to say. It figured that the creep on the street would have something to do with Colin Burgh.
She pressed the button for the crosswalk again, knowing that it was a placebo and wouldn’t hurry the signals. The rain was growing heavier. Cars blew past, sluicing through the shallow stream of Rue Metcalfe and splashing mud over the sidewalk. She didn’t step back in time. The water soaked through her shoes and froze her toes.
Finally, the light for the crosswalk changed. Deirdre was two steps into the intersection when the screaming started.
Instinct took over. She drew the Ruger and dived behind a parked Mercedes.
The screams spread like an infection, sweeping along the street.
Peering over the car’s hood, she watched as a delivery van launched into the air and flipped end over end. It crashed into the wall of a DKNY. Bricks showered onto the pavement, pulverized on contact.
“It’s just a random moon-sick wolf,” she whispered, trying to convince herself. “It’s nothing personal.”
The moon sickness had been getting worse lately. It was spreading throughout werewolf communities worldwide, turning ordinary people savage for brief minutes—long enough to slaughter those close to them and deliver a huge shock when they regained sanity. A horrible tragedy, but a brief one.
Another car flipped, its hood punched in half. Deirdre couldn’t see where it ended up. She knew that the car-flipper was drawing nearer, though. The third car to go flying was on the opposite side of the street from where she hid.
This was starting to look personal.
She’d loaded her gun before leaving work, but she checked the magazine again. It had a six-bullet capacity—seven if she kept one in the chamber, which she didn’t. Getting her hands on three silver bullets had practically required a jumbo loan. She’d gotten the three iron bullets by swearing her firstborn to Gutterman. There was no seventh bullet to load.
Another scream shattered the air, and a body splashed to the pavement be
side Deirdre. Blood misted over the sidewalk.
The Mercedes groaned as it was lifted behind her. Colin Burgh jerked it over his head, fists clenched in the aluminum.
She stared up at the man in the flapping orange scarf, which was now stained with blood. There was no nervousness in his eyes anymore.
He also wasn’t furry, so it couldn’t be moon sickness.
Three silver bullets won’t be enough.
Deirdre threw herself away from the car, rolling behind the corner of the bistro.
Burgh whipped the car in a wide arc like a shot put. The Mercedes cartwheeled through the window of an Ethan Allen. Veins bulged on his forehead and neck as he roared, spittle flying from his lips.
He hadn’t aimed the car at Deirdre.
This wasn’t an assassination.
Burgh pounded down the street, moving almost at werewolf speed. People fled in front of him—everyone who hadn’t been smart enough to disappear when he’d thrown the first two cars.
He caught a woman at the tail of the escaping crowd, wrapped both of his hands around her jaw, and tugged hard. Her head separated from her shoulders with the wet sound of tearing flesh, spraying her fluids onto the brick wall beside her.
Burgh hurled her severed head into the wall. It erupted.
This time, Deirdre screamed along with everyone else.
Once that woman dropped, he reached into a shattered window and yanked someone else onto the street—a girl no older than ten, his bloodied fist tangled in her hair.
The girl kicked at him. She might as well have been kicking at an avalanche.
Deirdre stood and lifted the Ruger.
“Hey!” she shouted, loud enough that her voice carried across the street.
Burgh didn’t seem to hear her. He closed a hand around the girl’s throat.
Deirdre squeezed the trigger.
The crack of the gunshot was like a spike in Deirdre’s unprotected eardrums, instantly muting the pattering of rain and pounding of feet.
The bullet entered Burgh’s neck on one side and exited through the throat, just below the jaw. He bellowed as blood gushed down the breast of his jacket.
The Ruger was a tiny thing without much stopping power. But it was enough to force him to drop the girl. When she landed on the sidewalk, she was squirming and alive, unlike the headless body beside her.
One silver bullet down, two to go.
Now she had Burgh’s attention.
Too bad she hadn’t given any thought to what she would do once she had it.
“Great idea, Tombs,” she whispered to herself.
Burgh broke into a run. The pounding of his feet dented the asphalt on impact. Blood streamed from the holes in his throat. Silver ensured that he couldn’t heal quickly, and it might poison him eventually, but for now he wasn’t dropping.
Deirdre bolted, cramming the Ruger back into her pocket holster to free her hands.
Burgh’s fist closed on the hood of her jacket and yanked.
She struck the asphalt on her back. Her head ricocheted, the street whirled, and moisture soaked through her jacket.
Meaty hands descended on her. She threw herself to the right, rolling away from Burgh, and she allowed the momentum to carry her to her feet. His fist slammed into the street where she had been lying.
I need an escape.
A block away, rain streamed from a drainage pipe attached to the side of a bank. It was bolted to the cement. Looked sturdy enough to support her weight. Didn’t matter if it wasn’t—Burgh swung at her again, and she had to run.
Deirdre leaped the bank wall, wrapping both hands around the pipe.
“Just like practice,” she whispered.
And she hauled all one hundred twenty-seven pounds of her body up the pipe, one hand over the other, feet seeking traction on the brick. Her boots scrabbled for purchase. Got traction. Her shoulders protested at the sudden weight.
Parkour had been a hobby at first—a way to get exercise outside the boring confines of the gym. Deirdre had scaled a hundred drainpipes like that one.
But never with a bloodthirsty shifter on her heels, and never when everything was so wet.
Deirdre was level with the third-story window when fingers dug into her ankles. He jerked her leg away from the wall. She gripped the pipe tighter, burying her fingers between the metal and wall, back muscles crying out.
The ground was twenty feet below, but Burgh had easily leaped to grab her without needing to climb. With his face tilted to the sky and the cloud-veiled sun shining on him, she could see that his pupils were dilated until the irises were a thin rim of gold. He wasn’t even looking at her. It was like Burgh was operating on programmed instructions and pure, unfocused hatred.
She stomped her heel on his face, once, twice, a third time.
He slipped. Dropped back to the sidewalk.
Fresh adrenaline flooded Deirdre. She climbed the rest of the way to the roof in seconds.
She hurtled across the rooftops, vaulting over an air vent, sliding underneath a pipe beyond it.
Judging by Burgh’s roar, he reached the roof behind her within seconds—maybe with a single leap.
He was so much faster than she was.
“Whatever I did to deserve this,” Deirdre panted, “I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure whom she was talking to. All the gods were dead, after all.
She still uttered a prayer as she raced toward the edge of the building, roof trembling with the vibrations of Burgh’s pursuit. She prayed that there was another building behind the bank. She also prayed that there would be something soft on its roof to catch her.
Burgh’s fingers scraped her spine.
And then Deirdre flung herself off the roof.
Her arms spread wide, hands grasping for something—anything. Her knees were drawn to her chest. The jacket flapped behind her.
For an instant—one serene, weightless heartbeat—it felt as though Deirdre was flying.
But then she fell.
The roof of the next building approached at shocking speeds. There was no soft landing waiting for her. Only concrete.
Deirdre protected her head with her arms, extended her legs, and screamed all the fear out of her chest.
She hit heels first. Tried to bend her legs to absorb the impact.
Her ankles shattered.
Deirdre slammed into her side and skidded six feet, shredding the arm of her jacket.
“Damn,” she groaned.
That had been her favorite jacket.
She tried to stand, but her broken ankles wouldn’t hold her. She bowed her head, eyes screwed tight as the bones knitted. The healing fever swept over her—the rapid-fire restructuring of muscles, bones, and nerves that all shifters underwent when injured.
Deirdre had timed how long it took for a broken wrist to heal once. It had been five minutes from greenstick fracture to wiggling fingers.
She didn’t have five minutes for her ankles to mend.
Burgh slammed onto the roof behind her. His landing was neater. He didn’t break anything.
“Damn!” she swore again, jerking the Ruger out of her pocket.
He gripped Deirdre’s ponytail and whipped her head against an air conditioning unit. Pain gonged through her skull. Her vision blurred and doubled. The healing fever raced to correct the damage he inflicted, but her energy was already focused on her ankles—she couldn’t heal everything at once.
Deirdre scrabbled away from him on hands and knees. A foot smashed into the center of her back, flattening her to the roof.
She aimed the gun blindly over her shoulder and fired.
Burgh didn’t even twitch.
She’d missed. Thousands of dollars in the hole and an insane werewolf assassin on her back.
Deirdre would have wasted a hundred silver bullets for a way to kill Burgh. She wiggled, seeking leeway to aim at center mass, but couldn’t turn enough to get a clean shot.
He kneeled on top of her, pinning her arms with his knees.
A metallic glint caught her eye.
Colin Burgh was wearing a knife on his belt.
That was how he must have originally planned to kill her. A silver knife worked on most shifters. A sharp blade was enough to prevent important limbs from regenerating, and it would certainly stop her heart if buried in it for a few seconds.
Deirdre bent her arm back and yanked it from his belt.
Burgh didn’t try to stop her. He didn’t need to. His hands closed on her jaw, just as they had with the woman he’d decapitated, and he began to clench.
She drove the knife into his wrist. The blade scraped bone and emerged from the other side. Hot blood dribbled onto the roof beside her head, splattered on her hair.
Burgh released her with a howl.
Deirdre stabbed at his right knee, his thigh, anything—but he had already backed off, getting out of the range of the knife.
One bullet left.
She rolled onto her back. Aimed the Ruger with her right hand.
Deirdre shot straight into his eye.
Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t—she had no idea. Burgh smashed into her. Deirdre’s head bounced. She saw an instant of stars, and then nothing.
There was no healing fever in the darkness.
—II—
Deirdre awakened on a couch with a throbbing headache and ice packs on her ankles.
She groaned and kicked the ice packs to the floor. She was cold—so very cold, deep into her bones, like she might never be warm again.
“Burgh,” she hissed, teeth chattering. Where is Burgh?
“You’re awake!”
Deirdre sat up to look around. She definitely wasn’t in Canada anymore. The sun streaming through the windows was warm and bright, untouched by cloud cover, and the bedroom’s decorations screamed America. The wainscoting was white, the wallpaper gold, the carpet a lush blue. An American flag hung in the corner between two paintings. It was an old flag, too—the kind with fifty stars rather than the crescent moon design they’d instated last year.
