Chapter Text
You didn’t think dying would be this hard. In fact, after years of serving Master, you had started to think dying might even be a better alternative. How wrong you were.
Cold metal bites into your skin through your thin slip, leeching warmth from your body. You shiver so violently you think it’s going to break your bones, rubbing your thighs together and curling tighter into yourself, cradling your frozen fingers against your chest. You back aches, still bleeding sluggishly. Your eyes water, but you’re not sure if it’s from the icy wind that finds its way into the metal dumpster or from the reeking garbage beneath you.
Master always threatened to get rid of you, calling you a worthless, useless Omega bitch. Once he lost his job, he couldn’t afford to feed you anymore. Doing household chores like cooking and cleaning didn’t really save him any money. The closest slave auction is three towns away, and you wouldn’t bring enough to even cover the petrol getting there and back. At least, that’s what Master told you, offhandedly and half-apologetically as he chained you to the bottom of a dumpster to freeze to death.
It’s been a cold, hard winter, and tonight is no exception. If you hold still and quiet, you can hear the gentle fall of snow against the metal lid of the dumpster. You shuffle your bare feet beneath you, leaning forward in an effort to get close enough to push the lid open. But the chain attached to your collar yanks you short, choking you. You cough, rubbing your throat and backing away to curl up in the corner to try and preserve body heat. Even if you could get out of this dumpster, where would you go? You don’t know how to get back “home.”
You tuck your hands under your armpits, idly wondering how long it will take to get frostbite. You’re already starting to lose most of the feeling in your fingers and toes. It’s too dark to see anything, but you’re certain that your breath makes a fog in the air. All you are wearing is a long sleeve slip that belongs in the bedroom. It offers you almost no protection from the cold, your legs bare.
It hurts, being thrown away like trash. Master always said you were disposable, and now he’s left you to die in a dumpster. He didn’t even bother giving you a clean, merciful death. You’re going to freeze to death, chained to the bottom of a rancid dumpster and nestling amongst the trash in a pathetic attempt to stay warm. It hurts to be so insignificant that you didn’t even deserve a quick death or a proper burial. You're scared. You don't want to die.
You find yourself unable to keep from leaning against the sharp and slippery bags of trash, slumping over when your muscles finally give out. Your head dips to your chest, too heavy to hold up anymore. Even breathing in and out takes effort, your heart beat slow and sluggish in your chest. You’ve stopped shivering, and you know that’s not a good sign. It won’t be too long, you think in dread. You’ll drift off to sleep and never wake up.
Your start to nod off despite trying to stay awake, startling back awake in an unsettling, jerky rhythm. You’re starting to succumb again when a loud crash startles you back awake. You hear footsteps crunching on gravel, getting closer and closer to your dumpster.
Maybe it’s Master, you think, blinking blearily. Maybe he’s come back. The dumpster lid is suddenly lifting up, and icy wind stings your skin. Something heavy thuds to the ground and an unfamiliar voice lets out surprised string of curses in Russian. Not Master then.
You weakly glance up, trying to focus on the figure in front of you but in the dark all you can make out is the outline of the shape towering over you. You can’t make out the man’s face in the shadows but a tentative sniff is enough to tell you it's an Alpha. That alone is enough to make your stomach flip.
A hand reaches out, pressing against your cheek. His scent is overwhelming, strong and smoky and unexplainably warm. If you had any strength left you would flinch away, but your muscles are too weak. You whimper instead, a broken, wounded sound coming from your throat.
The man curses again in his gravelly voice, more forcefully this time. He begins to unzip his coat, shrugging out of it. Your stomach knots with dread as he disrobes, but he lays the heavy fabric over your form, tucking it around it around you. The coat carries his warmth and an even stronger wave of his scent. You press closer to the warmth.
His hands reach towards you, sliding along your collar until he finds the chain. There’s a sharp pull against your collar, and you’re dully aware this Alpha has just snapped the chain with his bare hands. He reaches into the dumpster again, and this time his hands slide under your legs and shoulders, lifting you up and cradling you to his chest.
There’s a rocking motion as he carries you, shielding you from the wind with his body. He’s murmuring something in Russian, and you can feel the vibrations from his chest. You close your eyes and nuzzle closer into his warmth, letting your senses slowly fade.
— - —
You wake up with a shiver, and then another one. Full-bodied, teeth chattering shivers wrack your body. Feeling is coming back to your fingers and toes with painful pin pricks, like thousands of needles stabbing you. You flex them, hoping desperately that you won’t lose them to frostbite. Your hands are draped across your stomach under fabric, and you’re almost afraid to try and see what color they are.
You blink in confusion, sitting up a little. You’re lying on a couch, your arms unchained, covered with a thick blanket. You glance around the room in confusion. It’s dimly lit, with little furniture and sheetrock lined with holes. Someone clearly lives here, doing their best to get by. But it’s warm, and that’s more than enough.
A man walks into the room with a washcloth in his hands, stopping abruptly at the sight of you sitting up. You freeze as you look up as at the absolute mountain of an Alpha towering over the couch.
He’s massive, broad shoulders and bulging muscles. His head nearly touches the ceiling and his biceps are bigger than your head. You can make out his face now, noticing how his earns are still tipped red from the cold and his cheeks are ruddy where they disappear under a dark, cropped beard. His hair is shaved almost to his scalp, emphasizing a harsh look about him. He’s easily the largest Alpha you’ve ever seen in your life. And he’s got you cornered.
He watches you intently with his dark eyes. Your breath stutters in your lungs at the power in his gaze. Slowly, you tilt your head to one side, offering him your bare neck in submission.
“Ты чувствуешь себя лучше?” he says, the tone questioning. His voice is gruff but quieter than what you expected, no trace of an Alpha command.
You swallow, feeling the collar around your neck tighten painfully with the movement. Your insides are knotted with dread. “‘M sorry, Alpha. I can’t — I only speak English.” Your voice breaks over the words from disuse, throat still raw from screaming for help.
His eyebrows raise briefly in surprise. “English. Okay.” He takes a step forward to sink down on his haunches in front of the couch, placing one hand on his chest. “My name is Viktor.”
You blink in surprise as he moves down on your level. Not towering over you but practically kneeling at your feet and looking up right into your eyes. His brow in drawn in thought but his gaze is curious. His eyes are a striking shade of light brown and —what the hell are you doing looking an Alpha in the eye?
You can feel your face flush but he isn’t looking away and he doesn’t slap you either. You press your lips together. Are you supposed to give your name, or remain silent until you are asked a direct question? Is this a test? Maybe he plans to rename you.
He scrubs one hand over his face wearily and sighs at your lack of answer. Your heart sinks. It was a test and you failed.
“Did — did your Alpha leave you?” he asks at last.
He must still smell Master on you. You press your lips together, stubbornly resisting a drop. It’s all you can do to nod shortly. The Alpha makes a quiet, contemplative noise at that, pressing his lips together in suppressed anger even though he was clearly expecting that answer. He opens his mouth to speak.
“Please.” You can’t believe you’ve cut him off, stomach twisting in knots at the repercussions for doing so. But you’re desperate and the words come blurting out of their own volition. “I —please don’t take me back,” you beg.
It’s unlikely he’ll keep you. Alphas want to break in their own Omegas, train them themselves. They don’t want another’s leftovers that are conditioned to behave in a specific way, mind inflexible after years of serving the same Alpha. You want so desperately to convince him you are good, you can be pleasing, won’t be difficult or hard to retrain.
A muscle ticks in the Alpha’s jaw. “No,” he says at last. “I will not take you back. But I will not keep you either.”
Your heart sinks. You knew better, you knew he wouldn’t want you. But it still hurts to be rejected by a brand new Alpha, especially after being thrown away by your Master. You know you’re not exactly young anymore, but you’re not old yet, even by Omega standards. Of course, you’re not as pretty as you once were either, the softness all but stripped from your body. Still, the rejection stings. Stupid Omega, you never learn.
The Alpha doesn’t expand on his statement but asks another question. “Are you hurt?”
He doesn’t know, you realize. Your long sleeve slip covers your bloody shoulders and the thick reek of garbage must be masking the smell of old blood. He doesn’t realize you’re injured, defective. He won’t keep you if you tell him, you think suddenly. He’ll put you right back on the street. You have to be of able body for him, a good Omega who never needed to be punished in the first place.
You shake your head, unable to give voice to your lie. You regret it as soon of you’ve done it, your stomach souring at your deception. But you know in your heart this Alpha won’t keep you if he knows the true extent of your damage.
He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re not telling him the truth. Instead he nods and stands to his feet. “You are hungry?” he asks, looking down at you.
You open your mouth before closing it again. You’re starving, but you can’t tell him that. More likely than not if you do say yes you’ll end up with something besides food in your mouth. Besides, you can’t appear needy. Your shake your head shortly.
The Alpha frowns and turns to face you more fully. “When was last time you ate?”
You swallow, trying to remember. A muscle in the Alpha’s jaw spasms at your silence and he turns towards the kitchen, only a few strides from the couch. It’s a small area, a stovetop, mini fridge, and sink with hardly any counter space and only a few cabinets. He pulls a container out of the mini fridge, opening the lid and beginning to scoop portions of it into a pan over the stove.
“I — I can cook,” you offer desperately. You know that it’s not much but you were taught how to cook and serve as a child and were always stupidly proud of it. You can be useful to this Alpha. Your fingers are still stiff and inflexible with the cold but if you could warm them up over a hot stove you’re sure you could make them work.
Watching him work in the kitchen is making you anxious. You’re the one who does the cooking and serving, not the other way around. You hesitantly get to your feet, leaving the blanket behind on the couch and drifting towards the kitchen. “Alpha, I can—”
“Nyet,” he cuts you off harshly.
Your teeth clack closed and you sink to the linoleum, folding your arms behind your back and bowing your head in penance. Master would have crossed the kitchen in a single stride and grabbed you by the throat. But this Alpha stays at the stove instead, his back to you. He pulls a plate from the sink and sets it down, his gaze never wavering from the pan in front of him.
What did you do wrong? You wrack your mind trying to figure out what you’ve done and how you can fix it. You have to figure it out, you have to because—because your mouth fills with saliva while he stirs the contents within the pan and you’re so desperately hungry. It smells heavenly, like cheese and meat. It’s probably some kind of savory zapekanka. You wonder what it would taste like.
You won’t find out. There’s only one plate. Perhaps the Alpha will feed you on the ground. It wouldn’t be the most demeaning thing that ever happened to you. But you’ve upset him already somehow and if you want to eat tomorrow you’ll have to figure out how to avoid doing it again. While your mind whirls uselessly, the Alpha dishes the now hot food out of the pan and onto the plate, setting it to one side of the stove.
After a beat the Alpha glances at the plate and looks for you. It takes him a moment to find you on the ground. He frowns. You’re not allowed to ask for things, you know that. Still, you can’t help but glance at the plate longingly before tearing your gaze away to make a jittery ascent to the Alpha’s chest, pleading wordlessly.
The Alpha’s frown deepens, somehow free of violence, but nonetheless far from pleased.
The Alpha inhales as though he’s going to speak and then stops, reconsidering his words. At last he picks up the plate and moves to tower in front of you. “Stand up,” he order. You wobble a little but push yourself to your feet, keeping your eyes lowered. It’s not hard considered you only come to the middle of his chest when standing at your full height. He gently pushes the plate into your hands.
You can barely look up from the food long enough to glance at the table he steers you to across from the couch. It’s small, only big enough for two. He pushes you down into a seat and you let yourself slip into it pliantly, still clinging to the plate with both hands. It does look like some sort of zapekanka. Smells even better up close. There’s a fork on the plate.
The Alpha turns away, his back to you as he busies himself with placing the container back in the small fridge. You watch him, noticing the way his sweater rides up to show cut back muscles that taper into his waist. He straightens and his eyes meet yours.
In the split moment of eye contact, you get to take in his facial expression. The drawn brow you see there instantly sours your stomach. Maybe he regrets bringing you in from the cold. Maybe he resents sharing his food. You flinch away from his displeasure, dropping your gaze.
“Eat,” he says, more confused than angry. His voice has a bewildered lilt. You look down at the plate in front of you. Oh.
You set the plate down on the table with the precision of handling a bomb and reach for the fork. You glance up at Viktor hesitantly and he nods in encouragement. It could be a trick. That’s happened to you before. He could be setting you up for failure, ordering you to something forbidden. But then if you refuse to do so, you’re being disobedient. It’s a lose-lose situation. The best you can do is to obey the Alpha’s orders.
Your hand shakes as you pile a bite onto the fork and bring it to your lips. You quickly stuff it in your mouth, half-expecting Viktor to launch himself at you from across the kitchen. It’s hot, hot enough to scald, but it’s flavorful and amazing and thousands of times better than the gruel you’ve been eating for years. You glance up at Viktor and find his expression relaxes as you chew. He nods once to himself and turns back to the kitchen.
The second his back is turned you begin to shovel the rest into your mouth, barely pausing to chew. It’s hot enough you have to exhale while chewing to keep from burning your mouth. It’s delicious, kubasa and and potato and cheese. More flavor than you’ve tasted in years. There’s only a few bites total but you can feel it warming your stomach already, settling heavily as you scrape your plate.
Viktor appears in your peripheral as you finish. You blink slowly and glance up at him, stomach almost painfully full and suddenly exhausted. He rumbles in satisfaction, pleased somehow. You can feel yourself mellowing in response, a biological reaction to the Alpha. You’ve pleased him.
He huffs softly, a quiet, deep sound. “Come with me now, up up.” He herds you to your feet.
You’re dumb with exhaustion and biology but you know a command when you hear one. You struggle to your feet, slightly unsteady as you follow the Alpha into the next room, big enough for a single bed. There’s no smell other than the Alpha and cleaning products. He doesn’t have another Omega then.
You’re not sure whether that’s a good thing or not. On one hand, it means there won’t be competition for limited resources where only the best Omega gets fed. But on on the other, another Omega would be more patient explaining the Alpha’s rules. You could help each other and have someone to talk to.
The Alpha beckons you into the bedroom after him. Your full stomach suddenly feels queasy. He’s fed you. He fed you and you did nothing to deserve it. He’ll ask for it now. Of course he will, it is his right. You hope you can hang on to the food instead of bringing it back up. He’ll lead you to the bed and yank at your clothes and —
You avert your thoughts quickly. You can’t afford to get lost in your mind, not right now. Not with a new Alpha.
But the Alpha doesn’t go to the bed. Instead he leads you through the bedroom and into a small bathroom. He reaches into the tiny room and flips on the light, illuminating a cracked sink, a toilet, and a shower all in one cramped space.
The Alpha gestures vaguely to the shower. “You can get clean,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I will leave clothes for you.”
You blink dumbly for a moment and then flush with embarrassment as the realization hits you. You’re filthy, you reek like a dumpster. Of course he wants to clean. And he’s asking you to clean yourself instead of making you hold still while he scrubs you.
“There is towel,” Viktor adds when you don’t move.
You duck your head at his voice and slip into the bathroom. Viktor leans forward and you turn in sudden panic but he’s closing the door between you with a gentle click. You freeze, staring at the handle.
You can hear his heavy footsteps receding, so you step forward and gingerly try the handle. It turns easily under your grip. Not locked then. But why would he close it? To give you privacy? It doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t matter, you remind yourself harshly, he gave you a task to do.
You jerk yourself out of your stupor and begin to strip out of your slip, pushing the hated thing away. It reeks, you do too, but it’s embedded with smells of pain and fear and Master’s lust and you wish you could burn it. As you take it off, you’re careful not to turn it inside out in order to hide the bloodstains across the back. You ball the hated thing up and shove it into the corner.
You step into the shower, drawing the curtain closed behind you and eying the controls nervously. Warm water is a special treat, but you haven’t done anything to earn it yet. But the Alpha didn’t specify not to, and the temperature lever is already set to what must be his favorite setting.
It’s probably safest to leave it where it is, right? So the Alpha doesn’t have to find the right temperature for himself later? That probably makes up for not taking a cold shower. Not to mention you’re dying for warmth after your close call.
The Alpha’s temperature, while not hot, is warm enough you can feel the tense muscles in your shoulders and back loosen. You tilt your head back, trying to let the water trickle under your stiff leather collar. It’s too tight to slip a finger under, but maybe the water can get through. The spray stings against your tattered back. You grit your teeth against the sting and do your best to avoid tearing any scabs as you scrub.
You wash your hair with quick efficiency. There’s only soap, no shampoo, but you’re grateful to feel the oil and grit wash away. You scrub at yourself with the suds. After making sure you’re clean and have rinsed all of the soap out of your long hair, you switch off the shower.
The warmth from the water quickly begins to disappear and you hurry to dry yourself off with the towel slung over the shower curtain rod. It’s thick and soft and you have to resist the urge to hug it to your chest. Maybe if you are very good Viktor will let you keep it as a blanket.
As you step out of the shower you see a stack of clothes on the toilet lid. Viktor must have come in while you were showering; you didn’t hear him. The clothes are so tempting you find yourself reaching for them before you force yourself to stop and question if he would have ordered you to wear them. Most Alphas don’t want their Omegas wearing clothes at all. You hate being naked, vulnerable and cold and displayed. It’s your own selfish preference that wins out in the end as you finally unfold the fabric.
It’s a hoodie. His hoodie, oversized and soaked with his scent. You pull it over your head, stuffing your arms into the sleeves and pushing the hood back so it’s not falling in front of your eyes. It’s absurdly oversized on you, the shoulder seams reaching halfway down to your elbows.
There’s a pair of boxer briefs underneath it that you pull on quickly. When was the last time you wore underwear? As you unfold the matching sweat pants, a pair of socks falls out as well. You marvel at the abundance of warm clothes as you pull them on gratefully. Perhaps he thinks you’re particularly susceptible to cold and doesn’t want his new possession getting sick or dying.
You nervously appraise yourself in the mirror. The hoodie swallows you and you’ve had to roll the pants three times at the waist and the cuffs. You’re drowning in fabric. You look like a child, you don’t look like an object of desire. You’re dressed for comfort, not for someone else’s pleasure. It’s not your place to question why, you remind yourself.
You step out of the bathroom silently, searching for the Alpha. He’s not in the bedroom but the kitchen, elbow deep in dishwater as he scrubs a pan. Your stomach gives a sick flip. You should be doing that.
The Alpha looks up at you and in your peripheral vision you see his lips twitch in a smile before he turns away. “Good,” he says. You watch him, nestling into the warm fabric and dipping your chin beneath the collar to inhale his scent. It smells like a wood fire and something else, slightly musky and earthy that must be pure him. Maybe he wanted you covered in his scent, as a way to repossess you from Master.
Surely he’ll bed you now. He wanted you clean first, wanted to wash the reek of garbage and other Alphas off first. Maybe he even wanted to soothe you a little so you didn’t smell of fear. An Alpha who takes the time to calm you down first is already better than your worst fears. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad. Granted, your standards are practically in the gutter at this point.
The Alpha dries his hands and slips past you into the bedroom. The sinking sense of dread that crept up on you in the bathroom threatens to overwhelm you but you manage to turn and mechanically follow him. You’re about to step across the threshold of his bedroom when you jerk to a stop to avoid running into him as he comes back out.
The Alpha steps forward, a bundle clenched in his fist that he holds out to you. You look at it dumbly. The Alpha presses it gently but insistently against your chest when you don’t take it. “It is cold still. I do not want you to freeze.”
You take the fabric from him, unfolding it to realize it’s a blanket. Your fingers curl into the soft fabric, thrown off balance by the unexpected kindness. You realize he’s waiting expectantly. You can feel his presence looming over you even though you keep your eyes trained down. He’ll ask for it now, for your gratefulness after displaying such generosity.
“You are tired,” he says.
You nod numbly. Yes.
“Get some sleep. You will feel better.”
You blink. Sleep? Surely he doesn’t mean in his bed but then where—You wish he would just tell you where he wants you, even drag you over by the arm. If could choose, you’d pick the corner of his bedroom between his bed and his closet. It’s the most out of the way spot, where he won’t be inconvenienced by tripping over you.
But instead of assuming you get the luxury of sleeping on carpet, you ask. “Ah- where will be out of your way on the floor?” Your voice has gone from scratchy with disuse to hoarse from speaking. You’ve said more tonight that you have in a long time.
“That Alpha made you sleep on floor?” Viktor asks with a frown.
You nod, hunching your shoulder a little. When you were good, yes. When you were bad he kept you in chains all night. The Alpha smells angry. Maybe you assumed too much.
“Well, not here,” the Alpha says calmly, so at odds with his scent. “I want you to sleep on couch.” He tugs you by your wrist gently, so gently, back into the other room. You follow eagerly, painfully hopeful he really does plan to let you sleep on the couch.
You’re not prepared for him to turn and lift you by your armpits, gently depositing you on the couch. The sudden movement pulls at your back but it isn’t meant to hurt you. The Alpha fluffs one of the pillows and hands it to you. You pry one hand off of the blanket to gingerly accept it.
“Not much, but it should make the nest.” The Alpha says, surveying you with a rueful smile. “Get some sleep.” And then he pads back to his bedroom, surprisingly quiet for an Alpha of his size. You watch him go, your mind racing.
A nest? He wants—he would let you make a nest? Master never let — you can’t. And you’re on the couch. For the second time today. You can barely pull your disjointed thoughts together. There’s some rustling from the Alpha’s bedroom, a cough, and then silence. He’s really going to sleep, you realize slowly.
Still, it takes a few minutes for you to uncurl from where you’ve frozen in a sitting position. You wrap the blanket around yourself in a series of quick tucks and cuddle the pillow to your chest as you turn to press your back against the couch back. You’re warm and full and clean and you’re on a couch. An hour ago you were dying and now you’re on a couch.
It makes some sense, he just doesn’t want to trip over you. You almost froze to death, the blanket is to keep it from happening again. It doesn't mean anything. But you’re in a makeshift nest on the couch and just exhausted and relieved enough that you’re falling asleep before you know it.