Beautifully Broken Omega: A Dark Reverse Harem Omegaverse Romance, page 1
Beautifully Broken Omega
____________________________________________
Shattered Omegas Series Book 1
LILY HINTON
Copyright © 2025 by Lily Hinton
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Contents
Dedication
Foreword
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Dedication
For those who discovered light exists even in the darkest corners.
To every survivor whose invisible wounds tell stories of courage.
May you find your voice in Beautifully Broken Omega, just as I found mine in writing it.
Being broken doesn’t mean being destroyed. Sometimes it means being beautifully transformed.
You are not defined by what was done to you, but by how bravely you reclaim yourself.
Foreword
Dear reader,
Before you begin Beautifully Broken Omega, I want to connect with you about what lies ahead in these pages.
This story explores difficult themes including abuse, trauma, and recovery within an omegaverse setting. While these elements are handled with care and intention, some passages may be challenging for readers with similar experiences. Your well-being matters. Please practice self-care while reading, and know that it’s okay to step away if needed.
I wrote this book not to glorify or romanticize abusive dynamics, but to explore the complex reality of survival, healing, and reclaiming one’s agency. It’s a story about learning to open up again, to trust, and to discover that vulnerability can be a source of strength rather than weakness. As Kit’s journey unfolds with her pack of three alphas, so does an incredibly steamy romance with lots of spicy scenes that celebrate her healing and newfound confidence. This book contains a lot of mature content.
For those unfamiliar with omegaverse fiction, this story takes place in a world with distinct biological hierarchies that influence characters’ social standings and relationships. While I’ve embraced certain conventions of the genre, I’ve approached them critically, particularly where they intersect with themes of consent and power.
Thank you for picking up this book and giving these characters a chance to speak to you. I hope their journey resonates with you.
With gratitude,
Lily
Chapter One
KATHERINE
Ilook down at my hands, notice the callouses that weren’t there six months ago. My fingers—once manicured and smooth from typing legal briefs—now rough from scrubbing countertops and polishing silver.
How did I get here?
Six months ago, I had a job I loved, spent weekends however I wanted, and made choices without asking permission.
Now I have nothing but these hands that don’t feel like mine anymore.
The penthouse is silent except for the steady tick of the grandfather clock Roman insisted on buying. “It’s an heirloom piece, Katherine,” he’d said, voice dripping with the condescension he reserved for educating his omega. “Culture is important in our position.”
Our position. As if I were anything but decorative in his world.
The key turns in the front door lock. My heart lurches against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I know that feeling all too well.
Roman’s home early.
I glance at the dining room—only half-set for tonight’s business dinner with the Morgans. The centerpiece isn’t finished, the wine isn’t breathing, and I’m still in my sweater and leggings instead of the dress he selected for me to wear.
His scent hits me first—antiseptic and iron, clinical coldness layered with metallic undertones. It always reminds me of the hospital room where my grandmother died, that sharp chemical cleanliness trying desperately to mask the underlying scent of sickness lingering in the air. From our first meeting, when my mother called it “commanding” and “powerful,” I’d had to force myself not to wrinkle my nose. Today it’s worse, the iron notes intensifying the way they do when he’s angry, making each breath feel like I’m inhaling metal shavings.
“Katherine?” His voice carries from the entryway, deceptively calm. The voice he uses in courtrooms before going for the kill.
“In the kitchen,” I call back, my fingers fumbling with the oven mitts. Dinner is almost ready, at least. Maybe that will count for something.
His footsteps are measured, unhurried. Roman never rushes. He says it shows weakness, and Roman Slater has never been weak a day in his life.
He appears in the doorway, every inch the successful defense attorney in his tailored charcoal suit. Blond hair perfectly styled, not a single strand out of place. Blue eyes cold as they take in my appearance.
“The Morgans will be here in ninety minutes,” he says.
I nod, turning to pull the roast chicken from the oven. “Everything’s on schedule. I just need to—”
The pan is heavier than I expect, or maybe my hands are shakier than I realized. Either way, I watch in horror as the ceramic dish slips, tilting sideways as I pull it out.
Hot juices splash across my wrist. Pain flares, bright and immediate.
“Shit!” The curse escapes before I can stop it.
The chicken hits the floor with a sickening splat, sending herb-flecked juices across the imported tile.
For three heartbeats, the kitchen is silent. Then Roman speaks, his voice eerily soft.
“Six months,” he says. “Six months I’ve given you to adjust to your role, and you still can’t manage the simplest tasks.”
I drop to my knees, grabbing a dish towel to clean up the mess. “I’m sorry, I’ll make something else. There’s still time—”
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
I freeze, then slowly raise my head. His expression hasn’t changed, and that’s how I know just how angry he truly is.
“Your mother promised me you’d make a suitable omega,” he continues. “Yet here we are, with you failing at basic domestic duties any omega should handle instinctively.”
I swallow hard. “The chicken just slipped—”
“And your scent.” His nostrils flare with disgust. “What kind of omega smells like this? Chamomile. Like some bland herbal tea. Where’s the jasmine I was promised?”
My hand unconsciously goes to my neck, where my scent glands have betrayed me over the past months. When I first moved in, I’d smelled like a proper omega—sweet, enticing. Now my body produces this other scent Roman hates so much.
“I don’t know why it changed,” I whisper, the same answer I’ve given dozens of times.
“Get up,” he orders.
I stand, the dish towel clutched in my burned hand. The pain is nothing compared to the knot of fear in my stomach.
“I’ve been patient,” Roman says, stepping closer. “I’ve given you time to adjust. To overcome whatever... defect... has caused this change in you. But my patience has limits, Katherine.”
“I’m trying,” I say, hating the tremor in my voice. “I’ll clean this up and start something else for dinner.”
His hand shoots out, gripping my chin. Not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that I can’t look away.
“Do you have any idea what this dinner means?” he asks. “Morgan is bringing his wife. If we secure their business, it means millions for the firm. I need everything perfect, and instead, I come home to find my omega has destroyed dinner and smells like a fucking beta.”
“Roman, please—”
His hand moves before I register it. The sound comes first—a sharp crack that echoes off the kitchen tile. Then pain blooms across my cheek, hot and shocking.
He’s hurt me before. Sharp yanks of my hair, a shove against the wall, hands gripping my upper arms until they bruised, fingers pressed into my ribs hard enough to ache for days. But never my face. Never where anyone could see.
We both freeze, equally shocked by the line he’s crossed.
My vision tunnels as a single thought crystallizes in my mind: he will kill me one day.
Maybe not intentionally. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But eventually, his control will slip further. And I won’t survive it.
“Katherine.” His voice comes from far away. “Look what you made me do.”
The familiar words slice through me. The same words my mother used when she’d lose her temper. Look what you made me do.
As if I’ve ever had the power to make anyone do anything.
“I need to change,” I whisper, pressing a hand to my burning cheek. “For the dinner.”
Roman straightens his tie, composure returning like a mask sliding back into place. “Yes. Make yourself presentable. I’ll call for takeout from Alessandro’s. The Morgans won’t know the difference.”
He turns without waiting for a response, heading toward his office. The dismissal is clear: fix yourself, be ready, don’t embarrass me.
I walk to our bedroom—his bedroom, really—my movements mechanical. Instead of going to the closet for the dress he picked out, I go to my drawer and take out the emergency backpack I prepared three weeks ago, after he threw a wine glass at the wall beside my head.
Forty-three dollars cash, all that’s left since he took over my accounts the day I moved in at my mother’s insistence. One change of clothes. My ID. My grandmother’s pendant.
It’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough to start over. But it has to be.
I don’t bother changing or cleaning my face. Holding my breath, I ease the bedroom door open just enough to slip through. Each footstep is carefully placed on the polished marble. Roman’s voice drifts from his office, the low murmur of a business call. I freeze when a quiet tap of my shoe echoes down the corridor, but his conversation continues uninterrupted.
Once I reach the end of the hallway, I quicken my pace. I take the service stairs instead of the elevator—no chance of running into neighbors who might mention seeing me to Roman later. My heart hammers so hard I’m certain it will burst from my chest, but I keep moving.
The doorman gives me a concerned look as I hurry past, my cheek still flaming red. For a horrifying moment, I think he might call up to Roman. Instead, he just looks away.
How many omegas has he pretended not to see leaving with marks?
Outside, spring air hits my face, carrying the scent of rain and car exhaust and freedom. I walk six blocks before I dare to look behind me, certain Roman’s sleek black car will be there, ready to drag me back.
The street holds nothing but strangers. None of them look twice at me.
At the bus stop, I keep my head down, letting my dark hair fall forward to hide the mark on my face. An older beta woman sits beside me, her gentle lavender and wool scent like a warm blanket on a cold night. She gives me a look of such understanding that I have to turn away.
On the city bus, watching Roman’s world recede through the grimy window, I pull out my phone. My hand hovers over my mother’s contact information. I press call before I can lose my nerve.
“Katherine?” Her crisp voice carries the perpetual note of disappointment I’ve grown up with. “Shouldn’t you be hosting Roman’s dinner party?”
“Mom,” I start, then pause as my voice breaks. “I left. He...” The words stick in my throat. “He hit me.”
Silence stretches between us, thin and brittle.
“What did you do?” she finally asks.
My grip tightens on the phone. “What?”
“I imagine Roman wouldn’t lose his temper without reason. What did you do to provoke him?”
The bus lurches forward, and so does the reality of my situation.
My voice trembles as I find myself saying words I’ve never spoken aloud. “He’s been hurting me for months, Mom. I just never told you.” My fingers touch my cheek, the pain still sharp. “But this time he hit my face. I can’t go back. I’m afraid he’ll kill me.”
She sighs, the sound so familiar it aches. “Oh Katherine, stop being so dramatic. You’ve always been overly sensitive. This is exactly why Melissa is so successful and you’re still... struggling.”
The mention of my sister’s name makes my chest tighten with old wounds.
“Struggling?” My voice breaks, the word barely a whisper. “I’m calling because I need help. I have nowhere to go.”
“Go back to Roman and apologize,” she says firmly. “Do it before you destroy your one chance at a proper future. Do you know how many omegas would kill to be in your position?”
I hold the phone away from my ear, staring at it in disbelief. For a moment, I think I’ve misheard her, that she couldn’t have actually said that.
“Did you hear what I said? He hit me. I’m afraid of him.”
“Katherine, stop being childish. Roman Slater is the most eligible alpha in the city. He’s offering you security, status… everything we’ve worked for. He’s the best thing that has ever happened to you. Whatever happened, I’m sure it can be fixed.”
The bus passes through a tunnel, momentarily throwing my reflection back at me in the darkened window. A stranger stares back—pale, thin, with haunted eyes and an angry red mark blooming across her cheekbone.
If he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, then why am I covered in bruises? And why do I feel more broken than ever?
“I need to go,” I whisper.
“Katherine, don’t you dare hang up—”
I end the call, my thumb pressing down so hard it hurts. For a full minute, I just stare at the black screen, letting the truth sink in.
My mother will never love me. Not how she loves Melissa. Not how a mother should love her child—completely and unconditionally.
The realization doesn’t hurt as much as I expected. Maybe because part of me has always known.
With trembling fingers, I scroll to another name. Becca Martinez. My best friend from the legal office—before Roman convinced me I didn’t need to work, that a proper omega should focus on her alpha.
We haven’t spoken in months. The last conversation replays in my mind—a few weeks after I’d moved in with Roman. Becca had frowned at my high-necked blouse, so different from my usual style.
“Since when do you dress like you’re heading to a Victorian tea party?” she’d asked.
I’d pulled at the collar, hiding the fingerprint bruises underneath. “Roman likes a more classic look.”
Her eyes had narrowed. “Kate, is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I’d snapped, defensive in a way I’d never been with her before. “Just because I’m dressing better now?”
I couldn’t tell her the truth. For the first time in my life, my mother was proud of me. She’d called me three times that week just to check in, to ask about Roman, to tell me how happy she was that I’d “finally found my place.” The bruises seemed worth it for that approval. It had only happened once, and Roman had apologized so sincerely. I was sure it wouldn’t happen again if I just tried harder to please him.
Becca had let it drop, but as we’d parted, she’d hugged me tightly and whispered, “If you ever need me for anything, I’m here. Remember that.” As if she could see what I couldn’t yet.
Roman hadn’t liked Becca. Too outspoken, too independent. “Bad influence,” he’d called her. After that day, I’d stopped answering her calls. Eventually, they stopped coming.
The phone rings three times before her familiar voice answers. “Kit-Kat! Holy shit, I was just thinking about you yesterday! How are you?”
The sound of my old nickname fractures something inside me. A sob escapes before I can stop it.
“Becca,” I manage. “I need help.”
“Where are you? I’m coming to get you. Are you safe?” I can hear the immediate worry in her voice, the way she jumps straight into action instead of asking what I did wrong.
The contrast to my mother’s response is dizzying.
“On the number twelve bus,” I say, wiping at my eyes. “Heading downtown. I left him, Bec.”
