Page 14 of Shared Omega

As she goes back to checking her gear, I study her silently from across the aisle. She’s small, even for a female, and that factor is enhanced by the size of the men in this aircraft. But her efficient movements and unshakeable demeanor make it clear that she’s not to be messed with.

Her hair is so blonde it’s nearly white, and it is buzzed close to her head in a military cut. I’ve never seen that kind of hairdo on a woman before, but there’s something fascinating and even enticing about the way it accentuates the delicate shape of her head and her elegant facial features.

While her body is athletic, it is also infinitely feminine.

As I focus my attention on her even more closely, I start to notice her scent, easily picking out her signature amid the mixture of masculine body odors filling the transit hold.

The first thing I notice is the clean simple smell of her soap, but underneath that, my nose quickly uncovers her body’s natural scent. It is raw and alive, a totally feminine smell that stirs my cock and tightens the crotch of my shorts.

I should stop, but I sniff again, taking in more of her odor.

That was a mistake.

Somehow, her scent seems to be growing even stronger, and the big whiff I just took instantly makes my dick as hard as an iron spike. I kind of hope no one notices my raging hard-on, but honestly I don’t really care if they do.

I’m too busy wondering how the hell her scent could be so powerful.

I’ve only ever encountered such an intense scent during my clandestine excursions into the Zone. There’s only one thing that can produce an aroma that speaks to my body that way.

An omega.

Sloane glances up, and a flicker of surprise crosses her face when she notices me looking at her. But she doesn’t look away. For a silent moment our eyes lock.

Her eyes drop to my crotch, where my hard cock is straining at my shorts, and her pupils dilate wide.

Those pretty blue eyes flick back up to mine. Her mouth hangs open in silent surprise.

The moment is broken by a sickening lurch of the aircraft. My stomach leaps into my throat as the hovership takes a severe dip in altitude. At first I think we just hit a particularly bad patch of turbulent air, but when the craft continues to plummet, I know something is truly wrong.

“Shit!” A marine shouts toward the cockpit. “What the fuck is going on up there.”

I lunge out of my seat and stumble toward the front of the craft, leaning against the bulkheads for support.

As I climb into the cockpit, my heart sinks.

Something is wrong. Seriously wrong.

The pilot is slumped against the controls. His face is pale and shot with diseased, black veins. His eyes are blank and his lips are bubbling with drool. I turn toward the copilot, only to find him in the same state.

What the fuck?

Through the windshield, the landscape of dense forests is looming up toward us with frightening speed.

I swing back toward the transit hold, leaning forward to climb the tilted deck.

“Does anyone know how to fly? I bark.

But I get no answer. Half the marines are now in the same state as the pilots, skin pale, eyes dead, lips drooling mutely. Their companions are desperately trying to rouse them, but one by one they are slipping into the same braindead state.

My first impulse is to check Sloane, and I experience a surge of relief that she is still okay.

For now.

“Oh fuck!” Donovitch shouts. “What the fuck’s going on, man? Oh God, we’re all gonna die!”

He’s right, of course. There are only seconds left before we slam into the ground.

Donovitch leaps out of his seat and races toward the rear of the craft, and I see his hand going for the latch that opens the jump door.