He didn’t like the way he was looking at all, all dressed up in sheer gold silks and silver chains. The omega—if that was even what he actually was—oozed opulence, as though he knew his worth.
Which couldn’t be the case, because if he did, he wouldn’t be lowering his standards for someone like Note.
Arguably, there was nothing wrong with Oberon’s fellow White Frost member. In fact, in any other situation, he might have even called the guy a friend. But he was miles beneath O’s stature, and that was as plain as the fact that there was a full moon out tonight.
“That one.” O motioned to his secretary, shrouded in the shadows behind the curtain of the private booth he’d been given. “I want to know more about him. Before his turn arrives.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a light swishing of fabric as Claudio went to carry out the order.
The first bidding ended, and they quickly moved onto the next, but O barely paid any of the other omegas any mind. He hadn’t come here with the intention to find a bedpartner, having merely intercepted the invitation to tonight's festivities out of sheer boredom. The original guest had meant to be Espen Silvius, but he was too busy doing something for the underboss, Baal, to attend something like this.
Really, O was doing the guy a favor by coming in his stead.
Heat auctions were bland affairs. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d willingly participated in one of the archaic practices. If he wanted to buy sex, all he had to do was walk into any establishment and snap his fingers. The “purchase” would be made through fine dining and expensive hotels with panoramic views of the city.
As the richest man on the planet—aside from the Imperial family—there was nothing and no one Oberon King couldn’t acquire. So of course, in line with the universe’s greatest cliché, that meant O was now bored.
Bored of how easy life was.
Bored of constantly having people throw themselves at him, be it for sex, wealth, or business.
Bored of Levi’s sudden interest in humanitarianism, and Baal’s obsession with his new omega. Hell, even Koah was distracted as of late. All of them had left O to his own devices, meaning hours spent twiddling his thumbs, wishing for something interesting to fall into his lap.
Last year he’d spent Heated Hearts Day in the midst of an omega orgy, all four of them in the throes of their heat. It hadn’t been unenjoyable, but a repeat performance left loads to be desired.
Claudio returned, and a paper file was presented through the gap in the black velvet separating them. “There isn’t much, I’m afraid.”
Oberon took it and peeled his eyes off the extravagant omega on stage, turning his attention to the file instead. There really wasn’t a lot of information, a single sheet tucked between the manila covers.
“You can’t see his face clearly,” he mumbled.
The photo used was of the omega walking, his side profile the only part of him visible. Another photo was attached and showed his neck as proof that he didn’t bear any mating mark. Whoever was in charge of the photoshoot had dressed the man in a beige suit.
“It’s like fate.” O smiled at himself and undid the top button of his dress shirt. The one beneath the beige vest and suit jacket he wore.
The file was brief but held volumes of information tucked between lines of coded text. His eyes scanned over typed statements like, “synthetic omega” and “successful alteration”. The reason the omega on stage didn’t appear to be one was because he hadn’t been born to be.
Oberon had never fucked another alpha before…
The file said his name was Fenrir but left out the last name for obvious reasons. His form beneath the silks was toned, powerful thighs on display as he knelt on stage, spine straight and chin raised pridefully. He had a pretty face despite having been born an alpha, sharp edges, high cheekbones, and full, cherry red lips.
His eyes were a particular shade of orange that made O think of flames flickering in the fireplace on a cold winter evening.
Perhaps that was where he’d take him. Sprawled out on all fours, with nothing but the sound of crackling wood and the omega’s moans to fill the room as Oberon filled him. There was a serious appeal to that image.
To getting another alpha—even one who could no longer be considered alpha—to submit to him.
It helped that the man was already Oberon’s type. Dark hair, golden complexion, and a clear attitude he was obviously trying to mask. Fenrir probably fooled the rest of the crowd, but not him. He may be an omega now, but there were obvious alpha traits left behind, and O wasn’t referring to the broad set of his shoulders or impressive height.
“Brought into the Wardrobe at fourteen,” he read quietly out loud. It listed Fenrir’s current age as twenty-five. That was a long time to be confined. Though his age made sense, since Rebirth experimentation hadn’t truly begun until around five years ago.
There was no listing of what round of the illegal drug he’d been given, but the success of his change from alpha to omega meant it had to have been Rebirth .5 at least. The information the White Frost had gathered about the Wardrobe’s underground criminal machinations held no mention of participants surviving earlier formulas.
It didn’t really matter. The real question was whether or not Fenrir had agreed to becoming a guinea pig or if the choice had been taken from him.
Was he loyal to the Wardrobe?
Did it make any difference what the omega’s stance was if Oberon merely planned to fuck him a single time?