Omega's Forbidden Heat

  Hannah Haze

  Omega’s Forbidden Heat

  Copyright © 2021 by Hannah Haze

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cover designed by EVE Graphic Design LLC

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Acknowledgement

  Thank you to all the wonderful beta readers — Hannah, Melissa, Sue and Martha — who have helped me so much with this story. You are amazing!

  And thank you to my wonderful Mr D for his ongoing support, and to Stephy for not freaking out when I introduced her to the freaky but sexy world of the omega and the alpha!

  Want to read another Hannah Haze soft and steamy omegaverse for free?

  Download it here.

  Chapter One

  He can’t take the silence anymore. The silence and the emptiness. Four blank walls staring at him unblinking.

  So he grabs his jacket and his wallet and heads out the door, already halfway down the path when he hears the door click closed behind him. The Autumn’s evening is chilly and he shrugs on the jacket, burying his hands in his jean pockets and hurries down the lane.

  He’d forgotten how dark it is out here. No city glow, no passing headlamps, no streetlights. As he walks down the black lane, the stars appear in the sky, little pins of light shining more brightly as his eyes adjust and the moon illuminates his steps with a silver trail.

  At the end of the lane, he takes a left into the centre of the village, the dark outline of the church’s spire visible in the distance, the flat space of the green to his right and the pub glowing on his left.

  There are a couple of Land Rovers, a truck and a car parked out front and faintly he can hear the hum of voices.

  He wonders if there’ll be anyone in there he knows. Not that it matters; he’d be content to sit and nurse a beer alone as long as there are people and noise around him. But likely there’ll be one of the old boys in there. Someone who’ll want to talk farming and weather with him and he’d happily distract himself from his thoughts with that too.

  He strides along the stone path and pushes against the heavy wooden door of the pub, ducking his head to make his way through the low doorway, built several centuries ago.

  Automatically, he takes a deep inhale as he blinks against the dim yellow glow of inside. The smell of this pub is something homely, smoke and hops and the scents of people he grew up with. It grounds him, makes him feel at home in a way his own house no longer does.

  But the aroma that greets him is not the familiar smell of alcohol and ancient chimneys, and his stomach growls.

  Omega.

  It’s strong and new. A scent he does not know.

  His body reacts to it automatically, even before his mind registers it; an electricity bruising across his skin, the hair rising on his arms and his gland tingling. Drawing himself to his full height, his shoulders hunched forward, his fists clenched, he swings his head from side to side, nostrils twitching, chasing the scent in the air, trying to locate the owner. His eyes follow the arc of his nose, sweeping through the inside of the pub with its dark wood furnishings and worn floorboards.

  Then the scent sucks his senses in one direction. It’s the deep pungent aroma of ripe peach, wet and juicy. Something to sink your teeth into, through the paper-thin skin, soft against your lips, sweet nectar trickling into your mouth and over your tongue, warming your throat and your gullet. It’s the smell of summer and sunshine and sticky fingers.

  His stomach growls again, more violently this time as the scent sinks into his stomach and his bloodstream.

  No doubt about it. It’s the curvy little barmaid, leaning over the counter. She’s all arse and he licks his lips.

  He hasn’t screwed anyone in a long, long time. There’s been too much on his mind, too much to do. But now he considers it might be just what he needs. To be all feeling and no thinking. If he can charm his way into her bed that is.

  Fuck, she smells like something divine and the way the denim stretches over the curve of her behind; the seam riding all the way up into her crotch, has him almost groaning out loud. Removing his hot hands from his pockets, he stalks towards the bar, eyes locked on her.

  He’s a few steps away when she turns and her eyes latch onto his face. Deep brown eyes the colour of walnuts. Her eyebrows rise in surprise and then a smile blossoms over her face, two dimples forming in her plump cheeks and her pretty pink lips curving. There’s recognition in her eyes, that and something else. Something that looks like sympathy.

  He halts.

  Does he know her? She looks familiar, so familiar. The dimples and the eyes, the loose plait cascading over her shoulder. He knows her. He’s sure he knows her.

  She saunters to the near side of the bar, towards him, her face all excitement, ready to talk with him, but still he struggles to place her; his brain racing through faces and memories, frantically trying to find her.

  “Jack,” she says. And it’s her voice that finally slots the piece into place.

  “Amy?” He takes a hesitant step towards the bar.

  She laughs. “Erm, yes. Hello, stranger.”

  He’s still two yards from the bar, but he daren’t move any closer. He ought to turn right around and walk straight out of the pub.

  Amy?

  Since when the fuck has Amy Logan been an Omega. And why the fuck has Finn never told him this?

  A warning. He needed a warning. His best friend should have warned him about his little sister.

  She’s watching him, the smile fading from her lips and he’s sure she must see the thoughts flickering over his face. The sense of panic. He’d just been thinking about … with his best friend’s little sister.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks, a tad hesitant, the faintest of pinkness tinging her cheeks.

  “Erm.” He coughs, his body yanking him towards her, towards the intoxicating aroma of her, and his mind tugging him away. Digging his fingernails into the flesh of his palms, he concentrates on breathing through his mouth, of keeping his body locked rigid to the spot. He’s like a starving man offered food who knows he must refuse it, though his body weeps to be fed.

  Amy cocks her head and examines him, her eyes darting over his face. “I didn’t know you were still around. I thought you’d left again already.”

  He forces himself to speak, hoping the uncertainty isn’t clear in his voice. “I need to sort out Mum’s house, get it on the market.”

  “You’re selling it?” Her eyes widen.

  “Yes.” Can he leave now? He should leave now, because the temptation to allow his gaze to leave the safety of her face and trail down her body is growing stronger with every passing second. He knows if he just drops his vision, he’ll land on the softness of her curves. Somewhere he’d like to land. Violently, he shoves the dirty idea from his mind.

  “I would have liked to come to the funeral,” she says.

  He grimaces. “She wanted something small. No fuss.” His mum knew how much he hated fuss. How agonising he would find the condolences and the sympathy.

  “I know.” She nods, sighing, “Finn told me.” Her blonde hair falls backwards over h
er shoulder as she flicks her head, as if she’s shaking away those somber thoughts, and her fluttering smile returns, something that almost reads like flirtation in her eyes. “So can I get you that drink?”

  When and where did she learn to do that? Sweeping her hand under her chin to brush away a stray lock of hair and deliberately leading his eyes to her throat where he can see her pulse thrumming under her creamy flesh, where he knows her gland hums at the base of her skull. When he left five years ago, she was one scrawny, whiny kid, always trailing behind Finn and annoying the hell out of them. And now …

  “Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, I’ll have whatever ale you’ve got on tap.”

  She stands on her tiptoes and reaches for a pint glass from the shelf above her head, and he turns his head away, avoiding the face-full of tit the movement flashes him. “It’s Red Fox, that alright?”

  He nods stiffly, every tendon and fibre in his body taut and on edge.

  Dark liquid pours thinly from the tap as she pulls down on the lever, lifting and pumping it, and white foam swirls with amber ale. When the liquid reaches two-thirds way full, she places the glass down to rest and allow the bubbles to meander to the surface, and turns away to the till. He lets his eyes flick down her body, noting the pinch of her waist, the sweep of her hip and the roundness of her arse and he shakes his head. And how did that happen? She didn’t look like that when he left. She was all jutting bones and sharp angles back then, now she is all softness, all curves. The hunger in the pit of his stomach rumbles more ferociously and his hands begin to shake.

  “Five pounds and sixty-two pence, please,” she calls over her shoulder, in a provocative way that has him wanting to rush at her and pin her over the counter.

  He drops his gaze to the floor and wills away the desire pumping in his veins.

  As he hands over a note and she passes him his now full pint, he decides to stay away from the pub. To stay away from her. Although Finn was around for the funeral, he’s been away working for the last few days and he’ll be there for a few more yet, so there’s no reason to visit the Logan house, no reason they’ll bump into each other.

  He takes a seat in the corner, as far away from the bar as he can be, by the fire where the smoke goes some way to masking her scent. But there’s nobody else in here he knows and sitting on his own over here means nobody comes to talk to him. Instead, his eyes keep flitting over to her involuntarily as if they’re drawn there by some unseen force and the gland on his neck throbs.

  He knows if it wasn’t for who she was, for who she is related to, he’d be over there now, chatting her up, reeling the little thing in with his deep and masculine scent and gruff and domineering voice, getting her all aroused and wet for him with innocent little touches of her waist, of her hip—

  Shit! He swallows his drink, trying to down it as quickly as he can so he can get the hell out of here. But then she’s there, right in front of him, collecting glasses from the tables around him.

  She smiles at him again. “It’s so good to see you, Jack,” she says. “I mean the circumstances are awful and …” She shakes her head and her eyes drop to the floor, hands floating in mid-air, “But you’ve been away too long and Finn’s missed you.”

  “I’ve been home plenty of times since I’ve been out,” he mumbles with irritation. He doesn’t need to be reminded what a crap son he’s been, not now.

  “Hardly!” She laughs. “When was the last time I saw you? What? Three, four years ago?”

  “Five,” he says and his eyes meet hers. “Five years ago,” he repeats. “You were just a little girl.”

  “I was fifteen,” she says, meeting his eye and an electricity skips across the space. A recognition that they know what each other is, and her jet black pupils swim wide and her scent rises in a heady way.

  “A baby.” His gaze slivers down her figure. He can’t help it, he’s barely aware of his own mind right now. She is so Omega, so very Omega. He wonders if she tastes as good as she smells. She remains frozen to the spot while he inspects her, as if she’s waiting to gain his approval, keen to have it.

  He could take her right here if he wanted to. There is no way she’d refuse him — even here in the pub with the other patrons. She would do it. Or he could grab her by the wrist and drag her along the road, back to his house.

  His hands start to shake again with the effort of holding back. He yanks his eyes away and scrabbles about in his coat pocket, finding the packet of pills and popping one, two through the silver film. The pills melt on his tongue when he throws them into his mouth and almost instantly the suppressant chemical tempers his reaction. His shoulders relax and the tension in his brow and in his forehead fades. When he dares to peer back at her, desire still looms in his blood but it’s not as overwhelming. It’s been a long time since he’s needed to take one of these pills. He’s better at controlling his Alpha urges now he’s older, but it seems he’ll need to ensure he has a packet on him all the time while he is here.

  She’s biting her bottom lip and the pink on her cheeks has darkened and swum right down her neck to her collarbone. She releases her lip and the plump flesh springs back into place, the red of her mouth just visible.

  He’d like to sink his own teeth into that fat lip, he’d like to suck it into his mouth.

  He drops his glass to the table and shrugs on his jacket, striding to the door and not looking back.

  Chapter Two

  “Hey there, baby. It’s good to see you too,” she says, nuzzling her face against Maddock’s, and tickling the soft fur beneath his chin. The horse rubs his face against hers and she chuckles. “Does that feel good, baby?” she says, scratching him more firmly and watching as his ebony eyes drift shut in pleasure, his long spider like lashes flickering

  “He’s a horse, not a baby,” Sara calls out from a couple of stables away.

  “You’re my baby, aren’t you?” she says, ignoring the other woman. “Shall we go for a ride, then?” She unhooks the stable door and walks inside, gliding her hand over the horse’s silky grey body and lifting the saddle onto his back. She mutters nonsense to him as she reaches under his belly and fastens the buckle. Maddock shifts from one foot to another. He might be old these days, but he’s still as eager to get out into the countryside, and she smiles to herself. His excitement is always infectious and she knew he’d make her feel better.

  Last night’s incident at the pub has cast a shadow over her mood this morning and she hasn’t been able to shake it off. It descended last night and she assumed it would be gone by the morning. But it wasn’t.

  She slips the bridle over Maddock’s head, and he grunts as she fits the bit into his mouth. “I know, I know,” she says, leading him out of the stable.

  “Where are you headed this morning, Amy?” Sara asks, striding out of her own stall, brush in hand, the other resting on her hip. She’s a thin, tall woman with perfectly coiffed hair, a set of pearls in her ears and a string tucked over the collar of her camel turtle neck. Amy peers down at her own clothes, her worn breeches, her scuffed boots and her faded jacket.

  “Probably up onto the down and around the dyke.” Amy pats Maddock’s neck, avoiding Sara’s disapproving gaze.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone.”

  Sara huffs in irritation, kicking at a stray piece of hay on the path with the toe of her riding boot, so well polished, Amy can almost see her reflection in the leather. “You know that’s not safe. Especially with that old horse.” Maddock used to be her mother’s horse and then she hurt her back and he’s been Amy’s for the last five years. It was fine at first, but then came the revelation of her designation and Sara’s attitude swiftly changed. She can’t take it out on Amy directly though, she can’t let it be known that she is prejudice like that, although there is the odd little comment she makes now and again, especially when no one else is around. So instead all her viciousness and vile is directed at Maddock. Continually making comments about his age, about how he is soilin
g the reputation of her stables. Amy would like to move him but her mum is paying the bills and everywhere else is more expensive.

  Amy shrugs. Sometimes she rides out with Emily or Jim, but today she wants to be left alone with her thoughts.

  “I have my phone and I’m only going for an hour. Gotta a lunch time shift.” She doesn’t wait for Sara’s response, hoisting herself up into the stirrups and onto the horse’s back, trotting away down the lane as soon as she’s seated.

  It’s a clear day, not a cloud in the sky, but the September sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows over the lanes. Maddock’s gait is light as he trots gleefully downhill, and she bounces in the saddle, her hands tight on the rein, and they trot in and out of mellow light and dark shade and then through the tunnel off trees, the world around them stained green.

  It’s good to be out in the fresh air, where she can gaze out across the freshly ploughed fields and over the low hedgerows, up towards the Down covered in thick forest, the leaves that drunken green that signals they are on the verge of turning to reds and oranges. It helps to clear her head, which is just what she needs after last night.

  Five years.

  Five years it’s been since she’d last laid eyes on Jack Johnson. And yet he still has the ability to make her heart stutter in her chest and her stomach somersault in disarray. She thought she was over all that. That her feelings for him all those years ago had been some silly schoolgirl crush. After all, just about every girl in the village and at school had a crush on Jack Johnson. But now, after seeing him again, she’s not so sure.

  He’d looked strangely the same and yet so different. His pale blue eyes — the colour of early morning skies — had that dreamy quality they’d always had and the one time he smiled, his stubbled cheeks had dimpled just the way they always did. But somehow he’s gotten bigger, broader, taller, more muscular and stronger. She hadn’t been able to help her gaze from skirting all over him, admiring how good he looked. Better even than he did back then.