Your Omegas Are Mine 1| Euodia's Sun | Omegaverse Apocalyptic Reverse Harem

2-Beginning of Chapter 1

A bus killed Quinn.

She was rolled over—her neck crushed into a patty of mashed bone and caked meat. She died at the feet of a group of men like a wild dog on the road—useless and forgotten, a nobody.

No one cried when her body was wheeled into the mortuary; not one soul was there at her funeral. And her money was absorbed by the government, later used to fix a pothole in a red-light district meant for drug dealers and underpaid prostitutes. More specifically, it was a street where old men would take blow jobs, and that hole in the road had been as much of a nuisance as pubic hair in teeth could be.

It was pathetic; the fact that she'd slaved to improve the safety of a road meant for bastards that cheated on their wives and exploited women.

Morbidly, the only form of love shown to her dead body was from her colleagues. They had jerked off to her things: pens, documents with her handwriting, combs that had her hair still in its teeth, clips— they said it was a memorial for her tits.

In their words, she wasn't an aeroplane runway with a flat landscape for a chest and two little nipples like pimples on skin. She was voluptuous the way men liked them to be, and had breasts that were fat, full, and perky like a porn star.

Idiots.

She was boring but had a good figure, they'd said, ugly, but with a body meant for fucking. They used to whisper those words to each other behind their desks, loud enough for her to hear. Over lunch, they would snicker and laugh about the state of her hair, and the look of her clothes.

Not pretty enough, was what they used to say, she needs makeup, heels, and a little more sex appeal. Not enough for the office.

Quinn had dull skin from the overwork, a squared jaw from grinding her teeth too much, and small thin eyes—they'd dragged their fingers to the corners of their own eyes, insulting what could not be changed. Her biology. Her goddamn ethnicity.

With class so desperately lacking, the absence of humanity or education was blatant in their very existence.

Motherfuckers.

Quinn was always alone in the big bad world of assholes. And she didn't live long enough to salvage her crappy situation; didn't stay to turn empty homes and quiet nights into laughter and love from people that genuinely enjoyed her presence.

In her defence, there was simply no time in a world that begged for money. She'd sworn over birthday candles that she would retire when her bank account was healthy; that she would leave the toxicity when she was settled for life. At the very least, all her pain had to amount to something. She had to see the project through, and then quit at the very end.

Her plan had been perfect, her life? Not so much.

Her death had been her fault not the bus driver's. She'd escaped the curb, body squeezed through a bush that concealed her skin. She had appeared at a blind spot, morphed before a driver's eyes—a drunk idiot on the street cosplaying as a ghost.

It was stupid of her to drink when she couldn't. And drinking anything remotely alcoholic was strange for her because she'd always hated liquor and its thin, sharp scent. But Quinn had drank on that fateful night, slurped down goblets of vodka meant for people twice her size and with three times more tolerance.

There were reasons for her alcoholic surrender. Of course, there were. Why else would one so lightweight would consume alcohol: the explanation for thousands of fuck ups and hundreds of accidents?

Her situation?

A product of a life-changing dream that was sculpted into reality.

"Float was my idea the report should have my name. You should have given me the credit." Hissed out those words felt odd on her tongue. She was usually kinder, sarcastic yes, but malice was never her cup of tea despite the coldness of her workplace.