Vicious Traditions: Alpha & Omega Page 2

  Vanessa hadn’t been a very good omega in her time. She never had been able to shake that anger and tune it out.

  “One day, Slade might kill you,” she said.

  “He’s not going to kill me,” Sam said.

  “You sound so sure.”

  “I am. I’m not any fun to him if I’m dead.”

  Vanessa swiped a hand through her hair and stared down at the floor while Sam got in the shower and turned on the water. “God,” she muttered. “We should just leave.”

  Sam shook his head. She didn’t see him do it, but she didn’t have to. This was a conversation they’d had before, too. Sam would have been a liar if he said it had never occurred to him or that leaving didn’t have its appeal, but there was Owen. He loved Owen, always had, and it really was that simple—and that complicated. But even if there hadn’t been Owen, his whole family was with the Hellgate pack. His grandparents and great-grandparents for generations had been pack wolves. His mother and father were here. His brothers and sisters. To leave the pack would be to leave them all, and Sam didn’t know any other life.

  He might have done it though if not for Owen.

  Vanessa looked up at him and studied him. Sam wasn’t embarrassed by it, he wasn’t shy or modest. In their culture nudity wasn’t shameful, but if he had been modest before his sharp decline in status, Sam wouldn’t have been modest anymore anyway. He let her look, and when she whistled softly through her teeth, he only glanced at her through the glass.

  “It’s not that bad,” Vanessa said, flinching.

  “Right,” Sam said sarcastically. “My ass gets more traffic than the Daytona 500, but you know, even I can’t take getting pounded with a hammer gracefully. But thanks.”

  “I hate that guy. And I get why I hate him and why you would hate him, but why does Slade hate you so much?” Vanessa asked. “That I don’t get. Because he’s sadistic and it seems personal. What’d you ever do to him?”

  Sam shook his head back and turned off the water. “I didn’t do anything to him,” he said.

  Vanessa frowned, but she let it go. She handed Sam a towel and he dried off and got dressed. When he was done, Sam asked her to go upstairs and find a pair of hair clippers. She did and then she helped him cut all his hair off. She hesitated when he said he wanted it all gone, but in the end, she helped him shave it away. When they were finished, Sam’s shaggy golden brown hair was gone, only a half inch or so of it left. Vanessa rubbed it and smiled.

  “It’s fuzzy. I like it,” she said. “It actually looks really good, too.”

  Sam didn’t care about whether it looked good or not. It was one less thing for Slade, or anyone else, but mostly Slade, to grab onto. It was a very minor bit of defiance, a tiny triumph that in the broad scheme of things was unlikely to make a difference, but he was glad it was gone.

  Vanessa swept up the clippings then helped him to bed. “I’ll take care of the laundry. You just stay here, okay?” she said.

  “There’s dinner. I have to make dinner,” Sam said. “There’s chicken in the fridge by the utility room. I was going to make chicken cordon bleu. Owen likes it and he’s supposed to be back.”

  “I’ll make it then,” Vanessa said.

  Sam snorted a laugh as Vanessa threw the bed sheet over him. “You’re a terrible cook.”

  “Cordon bleu, that’s the chicken with the cheese and ham in it, right?”

  “There’s more to it than that, but yeah.”

  “Then how hard could it be?”

  Sam laughed then, a real laugh. It hurt low down in his belly and he had to stop, but he felt a little better for it.

  “Just take a nap. Maybe push the dresser up against the door so no one bothers you for a little while,” Vanessa said.

  “Thank you,” Sam said.

  She left and Sam lay there thinking about getting up to push the dresser in front of the door. He wasn’t supposed to do that, but he had done it before. Most of the time if someone came looking and found the door blocked, they would yell for him and then go away if he didn’t answer. Instead of getting up to do that, he fell asleep.

  2

  He woke up when someone knocked hard on his door then opened it and turned on the light. It was a man named Carl, a few years younger than Sam. He was friends with Slade, though not much like him. He was a lot more quiet and not nearly as aggressive. Slade and Carl clicked because they balanced one another. It was how a lot of friendships in the pack happened.

  “People were looking for you,” Carl said.

  Sam sat up on the side of the bed. “Who?”

  “Don’t matter now, Mr. Burgh wants you,” Carl said. He made a face and added, “Probably ‘cause of dinner.”

  Sam groaned. Vanessa screwed up dinner. Of course, she did. “What did she do?”

  “Well, Vanessa made chicken and put these slices of ham on it like we make sandwiches with and there was some kinda cheese on it. I think maybe also like we use for sandwiches. Then she cut up a lot of lettuce, which wasn’t so bad, but it was all pretty…”

  “Bad,” Sam finished for him.

  Carl shrugged. “I guess everybody knows she’s a bad cook. Don’t think anyone was happy about it.”

  Sam laughed a little, shook his head and stood up. He walked over to where Carl stood in front of the door to get his sweater off the doorknob. Carl backed away when he drew close then stood there looking confused with himself.

  “You want something else?” Sam asked.

  “What? Oh, no. No, I just come to get you.”

  “All right. I’ll be up in a minute then.”

  Carl left and Sam listened to him go up the stairs before he shut off the light and followed.

  It had gotten late while Sam slept. It was dark outside and many of the people who lived in the large main house had gone off to their private quarters. There were some younger ones, teenagers and a few young men and women in their twenties, lounging around in the living room in front of the big television. There was a movie on, though some of them weren’t even paying attention to it. They had curled up with their friends and mates. Some were kissing. Some had fallen asleep.

  Vanessa sat in a chair by herself to one side watching the movie, sharing a bowl of popcorn with a teenage girl named Bella.

  Sam found Owen in the kitchen drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette while he made a ham sandwich. He was alone and he looked tired.

  “Dinner was that bad, huh?” Sam asked.

  Owen smiled and looked over at him. The overhead light caught in his amber eyes and they sparked. “Dinner was… interesting,” he said.

  Sam took a deep breath and felt it shake as he let it out and with it so much of the tension and pain, the great weight he carried around on his back day in and day out, eased away. Owen always looked wicked when he smiled, like he was up to something, even when he wasn’t up to anything, just making a sandwich, just drinking a beer, just waiting for him. He had almond shaped eyes that were so dark they could have been black but for the way they caught fire when the light was just right. His nose was straight and long, slightly hooked; it almost always got in the way when they first kissed. Everything in the world, no matter how awful, was better when Sam was near him. He couldn’t always be as near as he wanted to be. He couldn’t touch or even talk to him like he wanted to, but it was always the same. Just being near him gave him peace and made him happy.

  It had always been like that. There had never been anyone else for Sam. Owen had always been the one.

  “I’m sorry about dinner,” Sam said.

  Owen studied him with lifted brows and picked up half his sandwich to take a bite. “We’ll all survive, I’m sure,” he said. He nodded his head to the right, indicating Sam should go ahead of him down the hallway to Owen’s room.

  Sam went without another word and Owen soon followed, carrying his sandwich on a plate and a small bag of potato chips in his mouth. He held his cigarette pinched between his fingers and the cold beer bottle and it
had gone out.

  Owen kicked the door closed behind him with the back of his heel then set everything down before he locked it. When the door was closed and everyone and everything was locked outside, he turned to Sam and crooked a finger, beckoning him. “Come here,” he said.

  Sam went to him and Owen pulled him close and kissed him. He held the back of Sam’s neck and let his fingers stroke over the shape of his skull. Sam sank into him and kissed him back and a little more weight slid off his back. Owen had only been gone a few days, but it always felt longer. It always felt like he might never return, though Sam knew that was ridiculous.

  “You cut off all your hair,” Owen said when they broke apart. He touched Sam’s head and petted it. “I like it, but why?”

  “I just… didn’t want it anymore,” Sam said.

  He didn’t outright lie to Owen, but he didn’t tell him the whole truth sometimes. Owen knew it and he frowned at Sam’s answer, but he didn’t push him for a better explanation.

  “Sit down. Eat. I made the sandwich for you,” Owen said.

  He sat down on the bed and watched as Sam unzipped his sweater and shrugged it off, picked up the sandwich plate and took a bite. Sam hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and that had been nothing but cold oatmeal and toast. As soon as he started to eat, he realized how ravenous he was. He ate the sandwich quickly, still standing beside the nightstand, Owen looking on as he tried to relight his cigarette.

  He finally gave up, crushed it in the ashtray on the nightstand and took a new one from the pack beside the lamp. It lit with no problem. “So, someone was rough on you today, huh?” he asked.

  Sam paused with the last bite of ham and bread to his mouth. Then he calmly ate it before he said, “Vanessa wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

  “Well, she didn’t say much. Little bitch still doesn’t know her place. But I didn’t believe her when she tried to tell me you were sick either,” Owen said. “You don’t get sick. You going to tell me what actually happened?”

  Sam shook his head. He picked up the beer Owen had been drinking and took a swallow. “It’s nothing. I can handle it,” he said.

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Owen said. “Who was it?”

  Sam smiled ruefully and shook his head again. “You know I’m not going to tell you that.”

  Owen reached over and took one of Sam’s hands. He held it and gently tugged him closer. “Tell me who hurt you,” he said.

  Sam squeezed his hand. “No, Owen.”

  “Sam, you know if someone’s hurting you real bad, abusing you, you can tell me. I’ll make it stop,” Owen said.

  “And how would that look?” Sam asked. “Everyone knows about us. About before. But you’re in charge now and I’m… You can’t. This is just… It’s the way it is. You should know that by now. I do.”

  “There is a fucking limit though,” Owen said. “So, if it’s bad, you should tell me.” He smiled faintly and put his cigarette aside in the ashtray. “I’m in charge, right? So, I set the limits. I enforce the rules. I can make it stop.”

  “No, you can’t,” Sam said. “You might just make it worse.”

  Owen was the pack’s alpha, but being the alpha didn’t just mean he ruled them; he was ruled by them, too. It wasn’t a democracy, not even close, but those who led had the loyalty and trust of the pack, the pack looked to them for guidance and their leaders were expected to be stronger, wiser, follow their traditions and lead by example. The alphas and betas of a pack were the very best of them. If the pack ever doubted this, there would be chaos and the pack would look to someone else to lead them out of it.

  Owen sighed and tugged Sam’s hand. Sam followed the gesture to climb up on the bed with him. Lying on their sides facing each other, Owen lifted a hand to brush his fingers through Sam’s hair only to find it gone, his fingers brushing skin and soft stubble. They both smiled and Sam mirrored him, lifted his hand to Owen’s hair. It was longer than his had been, wavy and dark as a mink’s pelt. It curled around the collar of Owen’s shirt and Sam tucked a stray lock behind his ear.

  “Maybe I’ll shave mine, too,” Owen said. “You know, a show of solidarity.”

  Sam huffed out a laugh at the idea. “What, like an alphas for omega rights support group?”

  “Maybe,” Owen said.

  “I don’t think you’d look very good with a shaved head,” Sam said.

  “I think I could pull it off.”

  “I think you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Owen laughed. “You could just tell me you don’t want me to do it,” he said.

  “All right. I don’t want you to do it,” Sam said. “Because it would look stupid.”

  “Then I’ll never cut my hair again,” Owen said, placing his hand over his heart.

  Sam twisted a lock of his hair around his fingers and gave it a pull as he let it go. It bounced and stuck to Owen’s lip.

  “How did the meeting go?” Sam asked.

  Owen brushed the hair away from his face and propped himself up on his elbows. “Same old thing. Don’t know why I have to go all the way to Helena for it when we could just talk it over on the phone. Or send email. We all know how it’s going to go, we do it twice a year.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes things change,” Sam said. “There was talk last year about a new alpha taking over the Silverside pack. It didn’t happen, but it could have. It could still happen.”

  “I don’t know, I think Jordan’s got a handle on things for now,” Owen said. He eyed Sam thoughtfully for a moment. “Speaking of Jordan—”

  “We weren’t,” Sam said.

  “We sort of were.”

  “Not really.”

  “Tangentially.”

  Sam sighed and made a rolling gesture with one hand. “Whatever. Speaking of Jordan… what?”

  “The gathering’s in a week. You know he’ll be here,” Owen said.

  “Of course, I know he’ll be here,” Sam said. “What’s your point?”

  Except he knew what the point was. Jordan Cross, alpha of the pack out of Silverside, Montana, liked Sam. He liked looking at him and touching him and he especially liked fucking him. Which he did a lot whenever he saw him. Sam supposed he should have hated the guy for that or been uncomfortable with the attention; at the very least he should have been uneasy that the gathering was in a week and he would definitely be seeing him.

  The truth, which Sam would never tell Owen, was that he didn’t mind it very much. Jordan wasn’t mean to him, he wasn’t abusive, he didn’t get off on hurting him, and he didn’t have a hair-trigger temper. Jordan monopolized a lot of Sam’s time at the gatherings, which didn’t mean he got much rest, but it did mean he didn’t get it as bad as some of them did. He was sometimes hit, but rarely beaten. He had a lot of sex he didn’t particularly want, but not as much or with as many people as some of the others. He wasn’t as accessible and readily available as most of them were because Jordan kept him to himself, sometimes for days. It was common for omegas to be treated roughly during the gathering. The packs used them for sport frequently enough anyway, but when they all got together, it could occasionally get out of hand. It was rare, but not unheard of, for an omega to be killed.

  “I don’t know what my point is,” Owen said. “I guess I just… I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re ready for it.”

  “I’m fine,” Sam said. “I’ll be fine. He’s not that bad. It could be a lot worse.”

  An angry expression passed over Owen’s face and he closed his eyes. He let out a breath and when he opened them again, the anger had been put aside. He reached over and pulled at Sam’s shirt. Sam helped him with it and threw it on the floor. Before things could go much further than that, he stopped and put a restraining hand on Owen’s.

  “I can’t yet,” he said.

  Owen didn’t say anything, but he took his hand back and unbuttoned Sam’s pants.

  “Owen, I mean it,” Sam said. He heard the distress in his own voice
and was ashamed. “I’m sorry, but I… I don’t want to.”

  “Shh, calm down. I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to fuck you right now, Sam,” Owen said.

  He shifted on the bed and got up on his knees, pulled Sam’s pants off and dropped them over the side of the bed. Then he looked at him, ran his eyes over him, searching, finding bruises and noting them. He stared for so long that Sam felt himself become a little self-conscious.

  “You don’t really think I’d do something like that?” Owen asked.

  “Of course not, I just… No. No, I know you wouldn’t,” Sam said.

  He might be the only one who wouldn’t. Owen was still the only person Sam knew who hadn’t changed very much toward him in the past ten years. He was more dominant and aggressive than he had been, but that was natural and to be expected. Still, in private he talked to Sam and listened to him like they were friends. Like they were still lovers.

  Owen crawled over to him on his hands and knees and sniffed, drawing in his scent. He licked Sam’s stomach and made a low grumbling sound in his throat. He began sniffing and licking him, searching out the marks and bruises he’d seen on his body with his tongue. He rolled Sam over and paused to lick his shoulder, lightly nip it with his teeth. It made Sam shiver and Owen smiled.

  “You’re bleeding. I can smell it on you,” Owen said, moving his search down Sam’s spine. “Tell me who did it, Sam.”

  “I thought it stopped,” Sam said.

  “Sam.”

  “No.”

  “You are so damn stubborn.” Owen smoothed his hand into the dip of Sam’s back and Sam could feel his breath on his thighs.

  Sam turned his head to see what he was doing. “Owen—”

  “Hush,” Owen said. He pressed a kiss to his bottom and Sam snickered. “I said hush,” Owen said, though the reprimand was teasing.