Unlikely Omega: a Fated Mates Omegaverse Reverse Harem Epic Fantasy Romance: Hunted Fae, #1

By Mona Black

The prophesy speaks of Fae-blooded omegas, destined to bring back the lost Fae race.

I just never thought the prophecy was about me.

I am just an acolyte in the Temple, sworn to purity of mind and body.

An average young woman with doubts and hopes and dreams.

I'm certainly not a prophesied Fae omega who will help bring back the lost Fae race.

Not me.

And I'm definitely not the woman who will gather a clan of alphas and maybe betas and deltas around her and start popping out their babies.

No way.

I'm human, as human as they come. Just a girl, with all the imperfections and traumas to show for it.

Abandoned at the Temple by my mother.

Not sure I have a single real friend in the world.

Lost.

But when I awaken—as Fae-blood and yeah, as omega to boot—one thing is for sure: the Temple doesn't want me. The Empire abhors me.

Bringing back the Fae doesn't seem to be an option the Anchar Empire is willing to consider.

Every Fae-blooded man or woman is to be eliminated to avoid any chance of the Lost Race returning.

And I'm apparently the Empire's worst fear.

 

The series is now complete!

 

*UNLIKELY OMEGA is a full-length epic fantasy reverse harem omegaverse romance, meaning the main character has more than one love interest. This is book one of four, and it ends on a cliffhanger. There is a happily ever after at the end of the series. All four books have already been written.

In this series, the heroine will assemble her harem throughout the first three books. It contains some love-hate adult themes, foul language and explicit content with darker elements, as well as MM relationships. For 18+ only.

This book uses alternating points of view.*

Check inside the book for more content guidance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Wing Press
• Release date: Sep 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223122654

Book preview

1

ARIADNE

Time for the evening ritual.

My bare feet whispering on the stone floor, I walk over to the niche, where the sacred candelabra are set. There I light three slender candles and whisper an incantation and a prayer, touching my forefinger to my chin over my black veil and then my bare brow.

Trying to ignore the people filling the council room just like they are ignoring me.

Everyone ignores us Temple acolytes and disciples. We’re tools used when needed and otherwise forgotten. We eat and breathe, perform our rituals and carry out our chores, but we’re not important, just a part of the Temple.

I grew up forgotten in this place, in Artare, in a Temple in the province of Tauri, far from the Central Capital and the Central Temple, far from the commercial bustle and politics and the energy that visitors from the capital carry with them like a sparkling, hot aura.

An acolyte of Goddess Artume shouldn’t mind being forgotten, being ignored as I move around the room, chanting the incantations of keeping and protecting the four cardinal points.

Artume is, after all, a lonely goddess—or rather a goddess who likes solitude—living in the wilderness, hunting animals when she’s not befriending them.

I’ve always wondered why I was dedicated to her. Doesn’t sound like me.

Though I do like the martial-like dances of her rituals, with the bow and arrow, as well as with the sickle blades twirling in my hands. I perform at every dawn and dusk, and I like the strength it harnesses in my limbs and the calmness it lends to my mind, even if briefly.

What more could I ask for, right? A child given to the Temple. An unremarkable human, a woman who won’t ever taste the joy and tears of a family, of motherhood or the sacred bonds of mating.

What do I exist for?

My goddess. I exist for my goddess.

And yet… Look, I know it’s blasphemy, but the question is… is that enough? Should it be? And is the mere doubt an act of sacrilege?

Words from the discussion around the oval table filter through my thoughts and it does occur to me that the talk is more heated today than on most days when the council convenes. In fact, didn’t they just convene two days ago? What’s going on?

An acolyte of Artume should be quiet and detached, her mind like a star over a forest, cold and relentless, spinning in its own light.

But the Fae were exterminated! Councilor Saran Kaidan exclaims, slapping his hand on the marble table top.

I flinch.

Yeah, I’m not much of a star. My blood thrums in my veins as curiosity grips me, digging like talons inside my head, and not only because of his uncharacteristic outburst.

Nobody speaks outright of the Lost Race.

Tearing my gaze away from the intricately carved dragons that form the door frame of the council room, the door through which I should be stepping right now to continue my daily ritual cleansing of the fort, I glance at the table.

Councilor Saran Kaidan’s face is flushed with anger. The others look distinctly uneasy, fidgeting with their silver goblets and studying the tapestries hanging on the walls, depictions of battles from the Fae War. Another reminder of the people nobody wants to talk about.

The Fae. Aloof and beautiful, patrons of the arts and sciences. Separated into Courts – the Koryvans, the Silmarans, the Celembrans, the Baccharans, and the royal courts of Day and Night. So alien to us, and so familiar at the same time, they left behind the foundations of what became the human civilization.

Councilor Mazarine Elend has her gaze on Kaidan, like me. Don’t be a fool. No race is ever fully gone, much less one so powerful. Such power cannot be deleted or even checked. Or such beauty.

That’s blasphemy, Kaidan says, still red-faced, and looks at me.

Why is he looking at me, and why am I looking back? I’m invisible, an initiate, a neophyte in the fort and the Temple. Not that I’m new here. I actually grew up here and Goddess Artume has claimed me from the start, or so I am told. I can’t hear her voice in my head like other acolytes say they do. We don’t often hear the voices of the gods nowadays—so that’s not so unusual.

I step back, hastily lower my gaze, busying my hands with another candle. I lit one already but if anyone asks, I feel bad energies in this room and it needs an extra hit of purification.

Nobody would question the will of the goddess, surely. Don’t look at me. I’m only here to light the candles and check the crystals, to pray and purify the rooms.

So much purity and innocence, a veil for the intrigue and plays for power in the Temple ranks, but anyway, for me, it’s all crystals and hymns and the sacred dances for a hunting maiden goddess.

Old customs, these, left over from the Fae, some say. People don’t see the contradiction in hating them and keeping their Temples, cities, customs, even their gods alive.

A whole race, Councilor Mazarine Elend goes on, doesn’t just vanish. They are here, among us. Waiting.

Councilor Kaidan laughs and a few of the others titter along. Spooky.

You forgot, she says, ignoring me as Kaidan should, how cruel they are. How bloodthirsty. What they did to us. That’s why we don’t really hate the Fae anymore; because we humans forgot. Glorified them. Beautified them. They were animals, without ethics, without humanity. They murdered us, cut us into pieces to feed their dogs. Does anyone remember?

I listen to her but all I can think of is how we describe in our history books how we tortured and killed Fae, not how they tormented us. We took pride in what we did to them. So how are we now complaining?

For some reason, my fingers tremble around the candle. With measured steps, I return to the filigree candelabra I lit earlier, approach the wick to the golden flame. Three candles are already burning and adding a fourth feels like an imbalance, so I stick it inside the holding cup and grab another from my bag. Five is another sacred number, after all.

I stare into the dancing flames as the council continues its debate—but about what? What are they so agitated about?

The Fae are among us, she goes on, mixed with the human population. Interbreeding. It happened a lot in the early days, before we screened the omegas and suppressed them. Before we started the program to eliminate the Fae blood. But you can see their traits appearing in the populace, in any unexpected place, in backward hamlets and farms on the fringe.

"Like her," councilor Kaidan says and a hush falls.

A prickle spreads between my shoulder blades. They can’t be talking about me.

But there’s nobody else apart from the council and me inside this room. I scan the doors quickly, in case a maid has stepped in.

Nobody is there.

Turn around, girl, Councilor Mazarine says. Take that veil off.

The prickles spread. A shiver racks me, along with an urge to flee—but go where? This is my home, even if I feel out of place in it. So I turn around and suddenly they are all looking at me.

All of them.

The veil, Councilor Mazarine snaps and though my hands are trembling badly now, I lift one and unhook the veil from my hood, letting it fall.

Artume should be angry about this, about letting them see my face. It’s particular of Goddess Artume to hide the faces of her acolytes. I wish she’d strike them, produce a flash of lightning, set the table on fire so I can run out of here.

She looks like she has the blood, Kaidan accuses and said blood goes cold in my veins.

I don’t really know what I look like. Acolytes don’t have mirrors. I know the color of my dark straight hair; I know the basic lines of my face because I touch it every morning and evening when I wash it. It never mattered. A priestess of the goddess always has her face covered, as it’s a goddess who used to kill any man or woman who laid eyes on her bared form.

But she’s from an old family, Councilor Elethia says, eyes narrowing. The Vespere family is pure or so it was always thought.

Is it, though? Councilor Mazarine wonders. And it only goes to prove what I have been saying all along. The signs are there.

The signs? If by signs you mean yet another witch hunting for everyone even remotely looking like a Fae, having light or dark eyes, round or pointy ears, big or uptilted eyes, basically any shape and color at all⁠—

You know the prophecy. Councilor Mazarine is still giving me the stink-eye—although I am apparently proof supporting her theory that our population still carries Fae blood.

But there’s more to her words, her intensity. She’s… scared of something.

What, though? In the Anchar Empire, humans control everything, and the Empire sprawls as far as the eye can see. No other kingdom can threaten us, not even the southern kingdoms that control the ports of the Great Sea.

Stop seeing ghosts everywhere, Councilor Elethia says with a flick of her hand that’s meant to be dismissive. She then reaches for her goblet and takes a sip of her blossom wine—Fae recipe, as most luxury products are. You can’t really tell who carries Fae blood in his or her veins. We’ve dissected enough people to know that.

My teeth grit as I pull my veil back up.

As if you can tell by their internal organs, Councilor Mazarine scoffs. There isn’t always a mirroring, you know, a reversal of their organs’ position inside their bodies. Not if the blood is diluted.

And if it’s diluted, then why are you concerned? No Fae omegas will rise, and no alphas with Fae traits have been detected in centuries. In the case that any such omega rises, she will be cut down. Let’s not forget, the prophecy is old and crusty, the words of a mad prophetess, probably high on fumes from the sacred fires.

Blasphemy, Councilor Kaidan cries once more, but he sounds bored now. I catch his gaze on me again as I turn back to finish my prayer.

Time to leave before they decide I am a threat to them in any way.

The way this discussion is going gives me the chills.

I really hope they won’t start rounding up everyone who is considered a Fae descendant, and if I look like one—which I don’t believe—then I’m in trouble.

A Fae omega.

Ha.

Being omega is rare enough as it is. Omegas, betas, alphas. But they are all considered human, even if they must have Fae-blood in their veins, since their Fae traits are too faint to spot. Meanwhile, other denominations are so rare as to be practically nonexistent. Deltas. Epsilons. Zetas.

So yes, occasionally an omega will awaken and an alpha would be matched to him or her and babies would ensue. Faint remnants of Fae in our blood are the cause, according to the Temple savants.

A Fae reproduction system with knots and heats and perfuming. I know about it because a description of the system can be found in the Book of Cities, the title having little to do with cities, its contents seeming to span all topics, a cross between a history of the world, an almanac and a manual for sexual practices.

I squirmed while reading about it, and I squirm now as I finish up and hurry out of the room, fighting the urge to glance over my shoulder, see if Councilor Kaidan is still gazing at me. If anyone of them is. The description of the practice in the book was quite… detailed. About how an omega starts heating up and sweating sweet perfume, specifically concocted to attract and awaken an alpha, who in his turn will perfume and hone in on the omega, then how the copulation occurs, and how the alpha’s knot is needed to trigger the omega’s fertility.

Whew.

No idea why the thought gets me so hot.

That’s not fitting for an acolyte of the Maiden.

Think pure thoughts, Ari. Think of the altar and the burning incense, think of the glaring statue of the goddess, think of how tired your limbs are after the rituals, how heavy the blades in your hands.

Holy and sacred Artume help me.

I hurry down the corridors of the fort, passing outside the grand hall and the dining hall. Note that I’m hurrying, not fleeing. The banging of my heart in my chest means nothing.

The thickening sense of dread crushing me lately either.

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I suppose… for a long while, I believed that this is my place, that I’d find my purpose, my calling, that I’d feel the goddess and everything would fall into place. I’d understand why my mother gave me to the Temple, why she thought I’d be suited to this life, why my half-remembered dreams seem to belong to someone else’s life, outside this fort, outside these walls.

Outside the Temple and its strictures.

That’s madness, Ari, and you know it. You just need to work harder on your meditation and the rituals, work the physical needs out of your system. You’ll be a priestess one day. Maybe that’s why Artume isn’t speaking to you. You’re still too grounded in the outside world.

But how do you uproot yourself completely?

And why, a little voice whispers in my head, would you want to?

I should want to uproot myself. Truth is, I don’t have any roots. My mother never visited after dropping me off here at the age of five and I have no idea who my father is. Never met any grandparents, uncles or aunts or cousins.

I’m uprooted by definition. My name was changed when I entered the Temple. I used to be called Zera, I recall, but Ariadne is one of goddess Artume’s names, and it’s common for acolytes to receive one of those.

Can you be any more reborn than this?

And can I be any more of a normal girl as an initiate, destined to serve the gods? What do my dreams matter? As long as no god is speaking through them, what use are they?

What use is any of this?

My hands are clenched into fists as I march through the fort, calm and peace be damned. If I don’t manage that much, what good am I for anything? This is the path chosen for me, and if I fall off it, then I’ll crash and burn.

I itch to dance, go through the motions of the ritual, so familiar and comforting, grip the bone handles of the sacred sickle blades in my hands, and then kneel before my goddess and ask.

For guidance.

For forgiveness.

For answers.

If only she would speak to me and tell me I’m hers.

2

ARIADNE

The entire fort used to belong to the Temple once, or so they say. The structure is maze-like, the balconies, roofs and yards overgrown with trees, grass and thistles, no matter how hard the acolytes work to clean them.

Legend has it that it’s a Fae building at its core, evident by the slender turrets and sharp arches and fine domes. You can easily tell which parts the humans added on later—rough and massive, as delicate as a mammoth’s hairy paw. The Temple is now only a small part of the building—the eastern wing which contains the sacred fountain and altar, and what originally used to be the sanctum now comprises the entire Temple.

The local Council of the Twelve and the local archon who took over the place assure us that it’s more than enough. I wonder what the gods think about this.

Same question over and over.

Other acolytes pass me by as I trudge toward the inner sanctuary, my fear and ill humor fading, leaving me shakier than before. No answers, ever. My fellow initiates all seem confident in their life choices, in their place here. At least outwardly they don’t seem to have any doubts, not even the few I speak to.

Most of them avoid me. All this time I thought it was because I’m quiet and unsure of myself, of my lot in life, but now I wonder…

I wonder how Fae-like I look. How abhorrent to others.

If that’s why my mother gave me away.

Who my father was.

But no, no, it was all inane banter, I decide as I enter the divine circle before the sanctum. Councilor Mazarine was probably made aware of an imminent vacancy in a position of power and that spurred her on to start campaigning. Any campaign that feeds on fear and prejudice is good for getting the public’s vote. And Councilor Kaidan had only played along.

I walk around the circle of statues, my head bowed, hands held out to the sides, paying my respects. All the gods and goddesses of the pantheon are represented here through elegantly sculpted statues.

The thirteen statues are carved from the same rock this place is built of. No human hands sculpted them. But again, humans don’t seem to realize the strangeness of adopting them from the Fae who they helped exterminate and of whom they are still—as I just saw—afraid. They simply slapped metal labels on the bases of the statues, renaming the deities, giving them the names of our gods.

Only one statue remains unlabeled.

Every time I pass in front of the unnamed god, I pause. Something draws me to him. I wonder who he is. What his name was. Why he didn’t fit in our pantheon—like I don’t fit in the Temple.

Really, Ari. The answer is simple: we have twelve gods. The Fae had thirteen. He was extra. So move your feet and stop staring at the handsome god statue.

I walk on until I reach the statue of Artume. Wonder briefly, yet again, what goddess the statue represented before humans took over the Fae temple and the land. Whoever she’s meant to represent, she looks familiar with her bow and arrows, her short skirt and high-laced sandals, the arrogant look on her