The Defective Omega's Six Perfect Alphas

Ansel's wrist terminal vibrated as the advanced botany seminar ended.

Mandatory Pheromone Compatibility Test

Subject: Ansel Greer

Appointment: Today, 3:00 p.m.

He turned eighteen today. Like every adult Alpha and Omega in the Empire, he was required to undergo an official matching test.

Not that anyone expected his result to change.

Ansel had been classified as a defective Tier-3 male Omega. His pheromones were so faint that no Alpha could detect them, let alone enter rut or form a beast-mark bond with him. In the eyes of his family and the academy, he was a beautiful but useless Omega who would never produce a high-ranking Alpha heir.

Ansel dismissed the notification and brushed his fingertips over one luminous petal of the Moonlight Orchid before him. The plant's gentle energy quieted his mind for a fleeting moment. Then he collected a small paper bag from the worktable and left the greenhouse.

Whispers followed the unwanted last son of the declining Greer family across campus, but Ansel ignored them and headed straight for the Ares Training Center.

The massive doors slid open, releasing a blast of air thick with sweat, heated metal, and concentrated Alpha pheromones. Muscular Alphas filled the combat rings and mech simulators. The moment Ansel stepped inside, the noise dropped to a murmur.

Ansel's entrance was like a drop of cold water in a vat of boiling oil. Every head turned.

An Alpha, polishing a piece of his mech model, stopped his work. His eyes raked over Ansel's slender frame, a slow, insolent appraisal. He nudged his companion.

"Look," he said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "Isn't that the defective Omega from the Greer family?"

His friend snorted. "What's he doing in here? A Beta can at least work, have children, and keep the Empire running. What use is an Omega no Alpha can even smell?"

"Decoration," the first Alpha said. His gaze dragged over Ansel's narrow waist. "A normal Omega can trigger an Alpha's rut, take his beast mark, and give him powerful heirs. This one's only good for looking at."

Another Alpha laughed. "With that face and body, he could still have half the men here fighting over who gets to put him on his knees."

"Maybe that's why he came," his companion added. "If his scent can't make an Alpha hard, he might be planning to use that pretty mouth instead."

Several Alphas laughed openly, staring at Ansel with undisguised lust. They found him beautiful enough to fantasize about, but none of them considered him worthy of a bond. To them, a defective Omega was suitable only for entertainment.

Ansel acted as if he heard nothing. His gaze swept calmly across the hall, his pale eyes searching.

The first Alpha swaggered over, blocking his path with a wall of muscle and condescension. "Hey, little guy. You lost? The Omega lounge is in the other building."

Ansel finally lifted his gaze to meet the Alpha's. There was no fear in his eyes, no shyness. Only a flat, unnerving calm.

"I'm looking for someone." His voice was soft, yet carried a note of cool distance.

"Looking for someone?" the Alpha laughed, a theatrical, booming sound. "Let me guess. Blake Tucker?"

Blake Tucker was a wealthy young male from one of the most influential families in the capital. More importantly, he was one of the academy's rare elite Alphas, praised as a prodigy from the moment his rank was confirmed.

A few of the surrounding Alphas chuckled, their expressions a mixture of mockery and amusement. Ansel's silence was taken as confirmation.

The lead Alpha reached out to clap a patronizing hand on his shoulder. Ansel shifted his weight, a subtle, fluid movement that caused the hand to miss its mark.

The Alpha's hand hung awkwardly in the air. His embarrassment quickly curdled into annoyance. "Don't waste your time. I just heard the Tucker family is in talks with the Fords. They're matching Blake with their Omega."

"A normal Omega," another Alpha added with a leer. "One whose pheromones can actually make him want to mate. Blake might enjoy looking at you, but what use is a pretty Omega who can't even make an Alpha enter rut?"

Someone behind him snickered. "He could still warm Blake's bed. As long as Blake doesn't expect a beast mark or an heir, that face alone should be worth a few nights."

"A few nights?" the first Alpha scoffed. His gaze dragged over Ansel again. "I'd give him one. Then I'd find an Omega whose body actually works."

Cruel laughter spread through the group. They waited eagerly for Ansel's beautiful face to crumple, certain that humiliating the defective Omega would provide the afternoon's entertainment.

Ansel stopped three steps away from Blake Tucker, a carefully measured distance-not too close to be intimate, not too far to be rude.

One of Blake's friends let out a low whistle and nudged him with an elbow, a smirk on his face that said, "You dog."

Blake basked in the attention. He leaned against the cold steel of the mech, crossing his arms over his chest in a display of casual dominance. "Greer," he said, his voice smooth and confident. "I didn't think you'd actually come find me."

Ansel ignored the greeting. He reached into the paper bag and pulled out a small bundle of white Narcissus flowers, their roots still balled in damp earth and carefully wrapped. The delicate blooms looked strikingly out of place amid the metal and sweat, releasing a faint, cool fragrance.

Blake stared, momentarily speechless. He had expected an expensive gift, perhaps even a desperate confession letter. Instead, Ansel had brought him flowers.

"Narcissus," Ansel said gently. "There's an old myth about a beautiful man who fell in love with his own reflection. I thought they suited you."

His tone was so mild that Blake needed a second to recognize the insult beneath it. Ansel stood before him looking calm and almost tender, yet the quiet sharpness in his pale eyes made it clear that the gift was not an offering of affection. It was a beautifully wrapped mockery.

One of Blake's friends choked back a laugh. "He brought you flowers because he thinks you're a self-obsessed ass."

Blake shot him a warning glare, unwilling to let his embarrassment show. His attention quickly returned to Ansel. Up close, the Omega was even more beautiful than Blake remembered. His lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes, his skin looked smooth enough to bruise under a firm grip, and his slender waist seemed made to fit between an Alpha's hands. The contrast between that soft appearance and his hidden claws only made Blake want him more. He found himself imagining what Ansel's composed face would look like flushed and breathless, all that quiet defiance finally broken beneath him.

"I love them," Blake said, recovering his smile. "Very thoughtful of you."

He took the flowers, deliberately dragging his fingers across Ansel's. Ansel recoiled as if struck by static, withdrawing his hand at once.

A smirk touched Blake's lips. He interpreted the reaction as shy submission. "I love them. Very thoughtful of you," he purred, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur.

"I heard you were studying plant energy mutations in high-radiation environments," Ansel said, his voice flat and businesslike, completely cutting through Blake's attempted seduction.

Blake's smile tightened. He had taken that obscure elective to fill a credit requirement. Hardly anyone knew about it. "How did you know that?" His eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine curiosity replacing the predatory gleam.

"Library loan records are public," Ansel replied simply, stating a fact.

The answer made Blake feel exposed, as if Ansel had been studying him like one of his plants. The feeling was irritating, but it also stoked the fire of his desire to conquer. "So, you didn't come for me? You came for my coursework?" he asked, feigning a wounded tone.

"I need to borrow your access," Ansel said, his gaze shifting to a simulation pod designed for high-radiation training. "I want to experience the field's interference on an energy signature firsthand."

Blake's friends gasped. "Is he crazy?" one of them whispered. "A high-rad field can permanently damage an Omega's energy signature, especially a defective one!"

Even Blake frowned. It was dangerous. But then he looked at Ansel's calm, beautiful face, and a cruel fantasy unfurled in his mind.

The radiation would overwhelm the Omega's defective energy field within minutes. Ansel would grow dizzy, his legs weakening until he could barely remain upright. Blake could picture himself entering the sealed pod and catching him around that narrow waist before he fell. Ansel would have no choice but to cling to him, trembling and breathless, his cold pride finally replaced by helpless need.

Perhaps Blake would press him against the pod wall under the pretense of checking his condition. He would pin Ansel there with his body, slide a hand down his shaking thigh, and murmur against his ear that this was what happened when a fragile Omega wandered into an Alpha's territory. If Ansel tried to resist, Blake would only tighten his hold until that beautiful face flushed and those pale eyes lost their composure.

In a sealed, private pod, no one outside would see how thoroughly Blake made him submit.

"Of course," Blake said, his smile returning, now full of false generosity. "For an Omega so dedicated to his studies, I'm happy to make an exception."

He walked to the pod, swiping his ID to grant access. The door hissed open. He leaned in close to Ansel, his warm breath ghosting over the shell of Ansel's ear. "But be careful in there," he whispered. "If you can't handle it, just call out for me. I'll be the first one in to save you."

Ansel's body went rigid for a fraction of a second. He took a half-step back, creating a clean, cool space between them.

"Thank you," he said politely. Then, without a flicker of hesitation, he stepped into the simulation pod.

The door sealed behind him, shutting out the world.

"Blake, are you sure about this?" one of his friends asked, his voice low. "If something happens, the Greer family might be washed up, but they can still make trouble."

"What's to be afraid of?" Blake said, looking down at the Narcissus flowers in his hand with a dismissive smirk. "He's a defective Omega. What's the worst that can happen? This is just a new, stupidly complicated way for him to get my attention." He tossed the flowers to his friend. "Hold these for me. They're a token of affection from my little admirer."

Inside the pod, Ansel closed his eyes, ignoring the system's blaring startup warnings. He hadn't come here to feel radiation. He was here to test something else entirely. The simulation program activated, the screen flashing with the words: HIGH-RADIATION BATTLEFIELD SIMULATION.

Outside, Blake watched the blurry silhouette through the one-way glass, a smug, predatory light in his eyes. He was already picturing it: Ansel, pale and weak, his energy field in chaos, begging for his help.

Inside the simulation pod, red lights flashed. A synthesized voice echoed in the small space. "Warning: High-intensity gamma radiation detected. Omegas with unstable energy fields are advised to exit immediately."

Ansel ignored it. He reached forward and switched off the novice safety mode.

His fingers, long and elegant, danced across the control panel. They moved with a speed and precision that bordered on inhuman, a blur of motion that was utterly at odds with the public perception of a "defective" Omega who supposedly couldn't even control his own energy.

Outside, Blake was holding court. "Watch," he boasted to his friends, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Three minutes, tops. He'll be crying for me to let him out."

He could already picture Ansel staggering from the pod, pale and trembling, too weak to stand without support. Blake would catch him around the waist before he fell and pull that slender body tightly against his own. Under the excuse of checking for injuries, he could let his hands linger wherever he pleased while Ansel remained too dazed to push him away.

"Only crying?" one of his friends joked. "With the way you were looking at him, I figured you'd keep him inside until he begged properly."

Another Alpha laughed. "Lock the door behind you. Give the pretty little Omega a private lesson in what happens when he teases an elite Alpha."

Blake's gaze remained fixed on Ansel's shadow behind the one-way glass. His smile turned filthy. "Maybe I will. Once the radiation scrambles his energy field, he'll be desperate for an Alpha's touch to stabilize him. I'd only be helping."

His friends broke into knowing laughter.

"Of course," one of them added. "He's just a Tier-3, and a broken one at that. By the time you're done 'helping,' he might finally learn how to behave around a real Alpha."

Blake's eyes were glued to the data screen displaying the pod occupant's vitals. He waited for the spike in heart rate, the chaotic scribble of a collapsing energy field.

But the lines on the screen remained stubbornly, impossibly flat. They were steadier than a healthy Alpha's at rest.

Blake's smile froze. "... System malfunction?" he muttered to himself.

Just then, on the main simulation screen visible to the entire training center, the simple mech representing Ansel moved. It didn't lurch forward like a beginner's. Instead, it executed a perfect, fluid slide, evading the first volley of laser fire from the AI enemies.

"Holy shit!" one of Blake's friends yelled. "How did he do that?"

On the screen, Ansel's mech became a phantom. It weaved through a dense storm of enemy fire, each movement a masterpiece of micro-adjustments, dodging attacks by literal millimeters.

Blake's mouth hung open. This was impossible. This was not the work of a Tier-3 Omega.

"That's... the 'Ghost Step'!" an Alpha who knew his mech tactics shouted in disbelief. "That's an elite evasion technique only ace pilots can master!"

Every eye in the training center was now fixed on the screen. The previous mockery was forgotten, replaced by stunned awe.

Ansel wasn't just dodging. As his mech moved, a particle blade extended from its arm, carving lethal arcs through the air. Each slash was precise, efficient, and deadly, severing the energy core of an AI enemy with a single, clean strike. No wasted motion.

The red dots representing enemies on the tactical map began to blink out, one after another, in a cascade of destruction so fast it was hard to follow.

This wasn't a simulation. It was a slaughter.

Blake felt a hot flush creep up his neck. His face burned as if he'd been slapped. He had just been sneering about this "delicate prey." Now, that prey was performing a ballet of beautiful, brutal violence on a level he couldn't even comprehend.

Inside the pod, Ansel's expression remained serene. A fine sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead, but his eyes were bright with fierce concentration. This wasn't about showing off. He was using the intense physical and mental strain of the simulation to force the unique, suppressed energy within him to circulate. He could feel it surging through his veins, a sleeping dragon stirring from its slumber.

"Not enough," he whispered, his hands a blur as he pushed the controls harder.

The mech on the screen performed an unbelievable maneuver-a mid-air torso twist, firing in three different directions simultaneously.

"Triple-threading! He's triple-threading!" the crowd roared, their disbelief turning into frantic excitement.

Blake's face had gone from red to a pasty white. He stumbled back a step, his hand fumbling for the railing behind him. His sordid fantasy of comforting a weak, trembling Ansel now seemed like a grotesque joke.

The last AI enemy exploded into a cloud of digital shrapnel.

The results screen flashed:

Time: 2 minutes, 48 seconds. Kill Rate: 100%. Unit Damage: 0%. Rating: SSS+.

The Ares Training Center fell into a dead, profound silence.

The hiss of the pod door opening was unnaturally loud.

Ansel stepped out. He was pale, his breathing slightly ragged. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a delicate Omega who had overexerted himself.

He didn't even look at the dumbstruck Blake Tucker. He simply walked past him, as if the breathtaking performance that had just silenced a hall of Alphas had nothing to do with him at all.