TWs:

Blackmailing

MMC Self Harm

Knife play

Blood Play

BDSM Elements

Dark Romance Elements

(tbc as book is written)

When the seven deadly sins might just save your life…

My job as an omega escort isn’t a calling. It pays my blackmailer. As the pressure mounts to give him more, with the end nowhere in sight, an omega has to do what she can.

The ultimate job lands on my doorstep with an offer I can’t refuse. England’s most eligible alpha hires me for a week of exclusivity, but his desires run deeper than that. He not only wants me to be with him, but he wants to watch while his pack mates take me as well. One week turns into more. Ensconced in the luxurious sprawling estate with these three alphas, the exits are wide open, but I’m trapped here by my own greed. My own need.

Sir Tarquin is wrathful and cold with me. He tries but fails to hide the deep passion and vulnerability I see simmering under his icy exterior.

Declan can be cruel and he uses me in ways I didn’t even know existed until now. I’m a glutton for his punishment, but the cracks show, and I know I can break him.

Tristan whispers forbidden promises to me in the height of lust, but I’m used to broken promises. He doesn’t know the lengths I will go to make sure he keeps them.

Time is running out as my heat approaches. The law says I cannot be here when it hits.

They say that pride comes before the fall, and I'm about to hit rock bottom. Can I trust these alphas with my secret, or will it all end in tears?

This is a non-shifting dark and very steamy reverse harem omegaverse standalone. Find the TWs inside. Please note this is set in England in a completely fictional world.

Copyright © 2025 by Eve Newton

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Syn

As I leave Lord Ranier’s imposing estate, I slide into the back of his sleek, midnight blue Rolls Royce. The leather seat whispers against my skin, still warm from my client’s touch. He insists on having his driver pick me up and deliver me back home, a luxury that only adds to the allure of my visits. But the real draw? The money.

My hand dips into my oversized tote bag, fingers closing around the thick envelope stuffed with cash. The paper is cool and crisp against my fingertips, a tangible reward for services rendered. It’s one of the perks I enjoy most about this business—payment in crisp, untraceable bills. The agency takes their cut upfront, masked as a deposit, but what’s left is all mine. I reluctantly release my grip on the envelope, a cool five grand nestled inside, and sink back into the plush leather seat. The scent of Ranier’s expensive cologne still clings to my skin, mingling with the car’s polished interior. It’s the easiest money I’ll make this week.

Ranier is a solitary alpha, craving my company once a week. His estate sits isolated on the hillside, a fortress of wealth and privilege that opens only for the select few. He’s a great fuck with a knot that never fails to get me off, even outside of his intense rut. During those ruts, he transforms into a beast in bed, eyes glazed with primal hunger, and I relish the challenge, keeping him satisfied. The raw power of containing such an alpha’s desire sends a thrill through me that I’d never admit aloud. It’s a small price to pay for the privilege of spending just one hour with him each week, walking away with my pockets lined and a sense of power that only comes from such a lucrative arrangement.

The vibration of my phone makes my blood run cold. The pleasant afterglow of satisfaction evaporates instantly, replaced by a sickening dread that settles in my gut. I know who it is before I’ve even checked the screen.

No Caller ID.

I take a deep breath, my chest tightening as though bands of steel are constricting around my lungs, and answer. “Jeremy.”

“Syn, Syn, Syn. What have you got for me?” His voice slides through the phone like oil, slick and toxic.

A fist down your throat if I ever find you.

“Five grand.” My voice sounds hollow.

“That’ll do. You know where to send it.”

I clutch the phone, my palm going sweaty, the device nearly slipping from my grasp. The envelope in my bag now feels like it’s burning through the leather. “No.”

Silence. The kind that roars in your ears and makes your skin prickle with cold sweat.

I gulp back the sudden mouthful of saliva that flooded my mouth. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat a reminder of what’s at stake.

“No?” The single syllable contains a threat more potent than any shouted warning.

“I can’t keep doing this,” I whisper, hating the tremor in my voice. “Please, Jeremy. Please.” The words taste bitter, a reminder of how far I’ve fallen.

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. But when I meet his gaze, he averts his eyes, pretending he hasn’t witnessed my quiet desperation.

“Five grand, Syn. Not a penny less.” The finality in his tone is a door slamming shut.

He hangs up, and I choke back the sob that rises like a tide. I can’t break down here. Not now. Tears threaten to spill. I blink them back, refusing to surrender even this small dignity.

On impulse, with a shaking hand, I dial a number that I know will only give me more anxiety. My fingertips leave smudges on the screen, betraying my unsteady nerves.

It rings once, twice. Each ring stretches like an eternity.

On the third ring, he picks up. “Ms Fuller.” His voice is detached, professional. No comfort there.

“Please tell me you have something.” Hope flickers, fragile and desperate.

He sighs, the sound of a man who’s delivered bad news too many times. “If I did, I would’ve told you.”

I lick my lips and look at my fist clenched in my lap, knuckles white with strain. “You must have something,” I beg, hating how pathetic I sound.

“Look,” he says in that calm way I’ve come to loathe, the voice of reason when reason is the last thing I want to hear. “I’m a Private Investigator. My hands are tied in a situation like this. He has left the country. You should contact the police—“

“No,” I spit out and then force myself not to cry as panic hits me hard. My lungs constrict, heart racing. “I can’t do that. He said I can’t do that.”

“Then you are either going to have to give me more time or cut your losses.” He hangs up, and I lower my phone, staring out of the window until the rolling hills of the countryside change to the urban sprawl as we pass through the city. Buildings rise and fall in my vision, people moving through their lives, oblivious to the prison I carry with me everywhere.

Ranier’s driver, Stan, pulls up outside my modest townhouse on the edge of the city. The engine idles, a low rumble that matches the churning in my stomach, but he doesn’t say a word. His silence is another reminder of my isolation.

“Thanks, Stan,” I whisper and climb out. The evening air hits me with a slight chill, the opposite of the heated interior of the car.

As soon as I close the door, he pulls away from the kerb, the taillights receding like dying embers, leaving me distraught and alone on the pavement.

I slip the key into the lock with trembling fingers, the metal scraping against metal, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet street. The weight of the envelope in my bag feels like a stone rather than the blessing it should be. Five grand. Gone in an instant. Every pound I earned tonight will be consumed by this monster who feeds on my fear and desperation.

Dusk is drawing in, and the townhouse is growing dark when I enter. I don’t bother with the lights immediately, preferring the shadows that match my mood. My heels click against the hardwood floors like a metronome counting down to some inevitable end as I make my way to the kitchen, where I finally flick on a small under-cabinet light. The weak glow creates more shadows than it dispels.

The bottle of Macallan 18 calls to me from the counter, amber liquid promising temporary oblivion. I pour two fingers into a crystal tumbler and down it in one burning swallow, the heat trailing down my throat and blooming in my chest, before pouring another. The glass feels cool against my feverish palm.

My omega biology means I shouldn’t be able to hold my liquor well, but like everything else in my life, I’ve trained myself to defy expectations. The burn of whiskey is nothing compared to the fire of survival. Just another way I’ve had to be strong when all I want is to collapse under the weight crushing me from all sides.

I kick off my Louboutins, the relief immediate as my bare feet touch the cool floor. I pad barefoot to my home office, each step taking me deeper into my private hell. The room is small but immaculate—everything in its place. Books lined perfectly, desk clear of clutter. Control is a commodity I crave almost as much as freedom from Jeremy’s grip. When everything else spins beyond my reach, at least I can dictate the order of my space.

The laptop powers on with a soft hum, the blue light harsh in the darkness. I navigate to the banking app, fingers moving on autopilot through a ritual I’ve performed countless times. Another moment in a sea of moments, another transfer to the offshore account he provided. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I consider, just for a moment, what would happen if I didn’t send it. If I just... stopped.

But the crushing fear makes me follow through, memories of his threats vivid and visceral. This is something that I cannot ignore, cannot falter from. Cannot change the rules. The game is rigged, and I know the consequences of defiance.

I send the five grand and sit back, knowing that I will have to deposit the cash in the bank in the morning, or my rent payment will bounce. The irony isn’t lost on me—flush with cash one moment, broke the next until I get back out there, spread my legs and get the money I need to keep this charade going. I’m not poor, not anymore. I dredged myself up out of poverty two years ago when I had no choice. Two long years of this misery, watching my hard-earned money vanish into Jeremy’s bottomless pockets.

There has to be a way I can earn more. Earn more quickly. If I can offer Jeremy a vast lump sum, maybe he will take it, and this will be the end of it. The hope is thin but sharp, cutting through my despair with desperation as it has countless times in the past.

Maybe.

The trouble is the law surrounding what I do. Omegas are allowed to be escorts, to sell sex to alphas for money, but there are hard and fast laws in place. Only alphas are allowed to pay for sex legally, of course, in this world of male dominance and privilege, but never during an omega’s heat. It is illegal. It is meant to protect us. But that doesn’t mean omegas don’t offer their services outside of the agency. I never have. I’m too scared of the law coming down on me and locking me up so I can’t pay Jeremy, but also, I’m scared of being in such a vulnerable position. An omega’s heat is a haze of craving a knot with fever, pain and a lack of awareness. The thought of surrendering that control makes my skin crawl, but desperation has a way of reshaping boundaries.

Staring at my phone, I snatch it up and make a snap decision. I can’t keep doing this. I just can’t. Something has to give, and my fear is about to become the sacrificial lamb.

Before I can change my mind, I send a text to Ranier.

Do you still want me during my heat?

I wait for his reply.

His response comes sooner than I anticipated, direct and unambiguous.

Yes. When?

Simple. Predatory. Eager. I can almost sense his alpha instincts awakening through the digital barrier.

Six weeks. Terms?

Fifty grand for the full three days.

I gulp back my trepidation and hesitation, the figure making my head spin. Fifty thousand pounds. For three days of heat-induced vulnerability. This excludes my pre-heat, which is fine. The fewer days I have to be with him, the better.

I know omegas who have done this, and they have been fine. Never caught, never killed or abducted. I’m sure it happens, but this is Lord Robert Ranier. Not that it means much, really. I don’t know him, not truly. The man I service once a week is a carefully constructed façade, just as the woman I present to him is. Maybe he does have abduction or murderous tendencies, but fifty grand?

“Fuck,” I mutter as I close my eyes, the weight of the decision pressing on me. Fifty grand could change everything. It could be the beginning of my freedom or the end of my life as I know it.

Opening my eyes, before I can chicken out, before the rational part of my brain can take control again, I reply.

Deal.

Good girl.

The words send an involuntary shiver down my spine—part revulsion, part something else I refuse to examine too closely. The die is cast. There’s no going back now.

With trembling hands, I stand up and walk slowly, steadily, to my bathroom, where I run a bath. Steam rises in billowing clouds that fog the mirror until I can no longer see my reflection. Good. I don’t want to see the woman who’s being bled dry, the woman who just agreed to sell her most vulnerable state for a chance at freedom from this noose around my neck and abject misery.

I strip off my clothes, each garment carefully folded despite my trembling hands. The silk of my blouse, the fine wool of my skirt—fabrics chosen to please wealthy alphas now lying in neat piles, as if order can somehow bring meaning to chaos. Appearances matter in my world. Even alone, I maintain the façade of control.

As I sink into the scalding water, my skin pinkening instantly, I close my eyes and try to forget for tonight, but the ache in my chest is too deep, too painful to ignore. The water embraces me, a momentary comfort that can’t reach the chill settled in my bones.

Sliding deeper into the water until it laps at my chin, droplets clinging to my eyelashes, I try to breathe as the tears fall freely now, dissolving into the bath. The knot inside me—the one that forms whenever I think about Jeremy—tightens, a physical manifestation of my trapped existence. Two years of this blackmail, and I’m no closer to being out from under his cruelty.