“You said you’d do anything for me?” Fern asks, fingers trembling as he grips the front of your shirt. “Get rid of him. Please.”

He knows he’s trading one cage for another, but surely you’ll be a kinder owner. Alphas, betas, omegas, they’re all shackled in some way or another. Fern knows it better than most; omegas have never been treated equally.

“I’ll help you.”

Though he’s not sure how useful he’ll be. He can’t go against his own alpha, not with the bond mark on the back of his neck. It’s infuriating how attached he is to Ivan. No matter how poorly Fern is treated, he goes crawling back. He feels like a sick dog begging to be put down.

It’s disgusting. He hates him, hates himself, hates everything.

Being an omega wasn’t always a curse. Fern used to not care. Ivan was quick to crush that naivety. The notion of being bonded to another was romantic. Fern was excited—stupidly excited—to be bonded for life.

But the bite hurt. It burned, like a brand being seared into his skin. Every time Ivan’s marked him after, it’s hurt. There’s no love, Ivan sees him as a pet he can control.

You’re the only one that’ll help him. The police won’t help, not with Ivan paying them off. He sponsors fighters in an underground ring, obviously he has cops in his back pocket. Fern’s last hope is you: his stalker.

Beta’s scents are distinct to him. Their smell is nearly nonexistent, and Fern loves it. He loves that you’re a beta, and maybe he likes the attention you give him. You’ve never made a move other than bumping into him at grocery stores or parks. He’s aware of you, though. Sees you outside his window, watches you watch him.

What’s worse than the life he’s already living? Fern doesn’t mind a collar, he just needs to choose someone else to hold his leash.