Badass Omega [MxM] - A Reimagining of Carmen

(Bonus Story) Darren's Mate - Call Me

Darren Rivers wasn't usually one to overthink things - but hadn't those college kids at the other end of the shooting range been staring at him for quite some time now?

Instinctively he sniffed the air, but they were downwind, and he couldn't catch their scents.

He pushed another eight rounds into the magazine, shifting the 11mm bolt-action rifle up to his shoulder and taking aim.

Darren rarely left his pack's territory and his hometown - Rivers Crossing - and yet here he was, at an old field turned shooting range south of Colorado Springs, visiting an old friend of his late father's and going to a local auto show.

Well, the show had been yesterday, and today the old man had offered to let Darren try out this rifle at the range before heading back home.

It was a beautiful old Mauser, and he hadn't been able to refuse.

He tried not to let the back of his neck prickle from their stares, scowling. What could be so damn interesting about him, anyway?

Darren fired in quick succession, pulling the bolt back, click, and shoving back again, empty smoking shells popping out and falling into the dry, cracked mud at his feet. The summer heat was scorching, the sky almost piercingly blue. 

After this next shot he would leave. They were creeping him out.

He holstered the weapon and walked up to his target, snatching down the bullseye paper without looking at his score and folding it, sticking it into his back pocket as he walked towards the parking lot.

The only way to his truck was past them. 

Which was fine. A group of frat boys, young, in clean mismatched clothes (mostly neon trainers, grey sweat pants, shorts, pastel hoodies), messing around and laughing.

They nudged each other with their elbows and quieted as he approached, his worn leather boots loud against the hard packed earth, calloused hands swinging by his hips.

Damn this wind - he couldn't smell a thing from them. Darren scowled. 

He was an alpha werewolf and had always relied on his instincts, ever since he first shifted in his teens. 

Now, nearing twenty-six, those instincts were as much a part of him as the grease underneath his nails, scent of ponderosa pine in his clothes, or the 1980s rock music he played in his truck. 

It wasn't until he was almost level with them that it hit him, a sudden gust stirring up the dust around his feet and blowing their mixed scents straight into his nostrils. 

Darren staggered. 

Stunned, numb and stinging as if someone had just slapped him in the face , he stumbled and failed to catch himself, landing flat on his arse in the dirt, staring dumbly. 

Fuck. Scent. Mate.

That was the most coherent thought his addled mind could muster. With every breath his nose and mouth filled again, so strong his eyes watered, head reeling. 

Warm, spicy, tasty - sweat and cologne and cotton and chilli - and wolf.

Werewolf.

Only two of them were wolves, Darren registered dimly from his position on the ground. 

He was sure he hadn't crossed any territory scent markings, so they must be visiting or passing through, like him...

What are the freaking odds?

He heard snickers from the group but was too dizzy to care. That fucking scent.

My fucking mate.