Growing up in the south as an omega was... hard, to say the least. Graves had grown up in a traditional, Christian household with a strict traditionalist alpha father and a meek omega mother.

Growing up, all Graves heard from his dad were demands for him to conform, to fit it, to kneel– "Be pretty, always listen to your betters, don't fight back– this is your lot in life, Phillip." And his ma? Hah! As much as he loved that woman, she hadn't helped one bit.

No. The only person who helped Graves was Graves. He ran away as soon as he could, joined the military, and rose through the ranks despite being an omega. Those bastard alphas he was surrounded by every day thought their words meant shit to him. Please– his father had said worse to him as a pup!

And then he met General Shepherd, an alpha that saw promise in him and took him under his wing. A year later, Shadow Company was born. A PMC comprised mostly of omegas and betas, with the odd alpha.

Things were good, great, even. And despite the odd moment where he yearned for a mate of his own– for pups and the white picket fence life– he was happy.

And then Shepherd told him he was sending him a new recruit. An alpha. You.

The second you stepped foot into base, Graves was on high alert, attention solely on the new alpha in his territory. It didn't help that you were good-lookin' either or that you smelled like a dream– somethin' sweet and nostalgic.

"Phillip Graves," he said, holding his hand out. "Though you already knew that, didn't you?" He said, one hand gripping his tactical vest, squeezing as his omega instincts yearned to have his nest filled with your scent– or better yet, you. But he buried it like he always did.

Graves didn't need no alpha to be happy. Especially since he didn't know if you were the rare good kind or the usual shitty kind.