I've been kidnapped.There's a sharp ringing in my ears and something wet trickling down my neck. Blood, maybe. Or sweat.Hard to tell when your head's pounding like a war drum and your body folded like an underfed gymnast at the Olympics.
I think I'm in a trunk.
A moving one.
The hum of tires, the bass of some awful music, and the occasional grunt from up front confirm that much.
My mouth tastes like metal and dirt.
My wrists are bound. Cheap rope, maybe zip ties. My fingers? Dead. Like overstuffed hotdogs.
They feel like cheap overstuffed hotdogs.And somehow, through the fog in my head, all I can think is:Dad's going to be pissed.
Not because I've been kidnapped. No. Because I ignored him—again.
Since I was young, my father has told me I should never go anywhere without security. And I've listened… at least for a while. Bodyguards. Bulletproof cars. Hourly check-ins.All the paranoia a Prime Minister can afford when his son's considered political leverage.
But when I hit eighteen, I asked myself " Who actually cares about the son of the Prime Minister?"
Sure, we were rich. Respected. The kind of family with polished shoes and polished lies.
But no one actually gave a damn about me.
At most, they'd ask my father how his "boy" was doing. What I was studying. If I was "keeping out of trouble."
All hollow small talk.
So, gradually, I convinced my father to ease up the security around me.
Not easy—he clung to control like a drowning man to driftwood.
But I made it happen.He called it "reckless." I called it "breathing."Sometimes , when he looked at me with that tight, bitter smile, I wondered if he was hiding something darker. Something personal,more than politics.
But I've never really gotten into my father's life.
I just followed whatever career path he chose for me and we stayed out of each other's lives. Maybe he would have taken an interest in me if I was an alpha.
He was always so ashamed his son was not only an omega but a toxic one at that. Because of that, he couldn't even marry me off for political gains.
Who would want a poisonous omega in their bloodline? Not the alphas. Not the betas either.
Society was still clutching its pearls over secondary genders.
The elites preferred their alliances old-fashioned: man, woman, heirs. If they did need an omega for a deal, they picked a "weed"—docile, obedient, fertile.Not someone who could accidentally put a man in a coma just by getting turned on.No one wanted me. And I didn't have anyone.
I tried dating once.Tom. Sweet. Beta. Thought he could handle me.We kissed.He collapsed in my arms, foaming at the mouth.An alpha professor had to drag me off him.Tom spent a week in intensive care.I spent a week getting beaten in the soundproof basement of our mansion.
But I survived.And I got smarter.
I took the Minister of People's Affairs job in the Parliament at only 21 and I've never spoken a word about my second gender.
I did my job, I kept myself away from any romantic possibilities. My father actually started to treat me more like a human being and less as an embarrassment to the family and a waste of his jizz.
Of course, I tried a few clubs around to keep me entertained. After all, I wasn't a monk.
Sure, I couldn't have an alpha as a partner and betas would be in danger of switching secondary gender if they caught a whiff of me. But I always had omegas.
No laws against it.
Tonight was supposed to be one of those nights. Just a "date," if you could call it that.
No strings. No risk.
I didn't bring my guards. Never did.
If some alpha got handsy, I could always let out a little pheromone and watch them back off like whipped dogs.
Turns out you can't really release pheromones when hit with a brick in back of your head.
Good to know.
Filing that under 'street smarts, too late edition.
The car jolts.
I roll. My wrist might be broken.
I don't know.
What I do know is: he knew what I was. That means this isn't random.
Either he knows who my father is or-
He knows about my flower.
No idea which is worse.
A sudden stop made me roll and hit my head yet again.
I'd be lucky if I remembered my own name tomorrow.
Then—
Door slam.
Footsteps.
Barking orders.
The trunk pops open.
A flashlight burns through the dark.
I flinch. Squint. Kick. Hard.
A fist meets my jaw. Lights out.
If only I hadn't skipped leg day so often.
I feel my feet dragging in the mud as I am carried by two men, my boots scraping through cold mud.
We were outside- somewhere remote.
I could smell wet dirt and rotting wood.
They yanked me into a building—old, empty, maybe a warehouse.
The air stank of rust and mildew.
"Strip him!"
"At least take me out to dinner first!", I mutter.
If I gotta have my jaw dislocated, the least I can do is tire them out.
My father always said I had two neurons bouncing around like loose change—no reason not to weaponize them.
They ignored me. Maybe they didn't hear me, maybe they were just frigid humourless jerks like my father.
I analysed my situation-
two men,a surgical table.
the stench of disinfecting chemicals.
Me.
No security.
Unable to use my pheromones.
"Fuck!", I mutter.
Then the world tilted sideways—and went black.