15. Fight Through The Darkness Of Dread
15
FIGHT THROUGH THE DARKNESS OF DREAD
~KAMARI~
F aster. I need to run faster.
My feet pound against the forest floor, each step sending shockwaves of pain through my already battered body. Adrenaline courses through my veins like liquid fire, pushing me forward even as fatigue threatens to bring me down.
The saree that once symbolized tradition and propriety now becomes a hindrance to survival.
Wet silk catches on branches, threatens to tangle around my legs with every stride. But I can't stop to adjust it – can't risk even a moment's pause.
Not with death wearing a glowing mask somewhere behind me.
How many dark romance novels had I devoured where the heroine fled through woods like these? How many times had I swooned over the descriptions of pursuit and capture, finding excitement in the dance between predator and prey?
What a fool I was.
Those stories never captured the true horror of being hunted. They couldn't convey how your lungs burn with each desperate breath, how your heart feels like it might explode from pure terror. How every shadow becomes a threat, every sound a harbinger of doom.
The scene replays in my mind: that lighter falling in slow motion, the explosion of flames, Maharaja's screams as his precious car became his coffin. The man who thought himself untouchable, who collected cars worth millions just to lord his wealth over others, reduced to ashes in his own symbol of status.
How quickly power turns to nothing.
My legs grow heavier with each step, muscles protesting the abuse I'm putting them through. The concussion makes it hard to run in a straight line – trees seem to move, the ground shifts beneath my feet like a living thing.
All those years I spent following rules. All that time wasted trying to be the perfect Omega, the obedient daughter, the acceptable bride. For what? To end up running through a dark forest, bleeding and terrified, while a masked killer stalks me through the rain?
What a waste it all was.
I think of Damon and Kieran, of how they showed me glimpses of what life could be. How it felt to be valued, desired, respected. One perfect taste of freedom before everything spiraled into this nightmare.
Is this my punishment?
Thunder booms overhead, making me scream despite myself. The sound feels like judgment from above like my Goddess expressing her displeasure at my defiance.
"If this is punishment for all the steamy books I've been reading," I gasp out between breaths, "you could just give me a sign?—"
The universe, it seems, has an immediate response.
“AHHHH!”
My foot catches on something – a root or vine – and suddenly I'm airborne. Time slows just enough for me to realize how close the trap came to taking my whole foot, before gravity reclaims me with brutal efficiency.
The ground rushes up to meet me, and all I can think is how stupid my last words to my goddess might be. All the profound things I could have said, all the apologies and prayers I could have offered, and instead I die complaining about romance novels.
At least I got to experience my own steamy scene before the end.
The thought surprises a hysterical laugh from me as I plummet toward the earth. Even facing death, my mind drifts back to those moments in Cardinal's VIP section. To hands that touched with reverence rather than ownership, to kisses that asked rather than demanded.
Rain continues to pour, turning the forest floor into treacherous mud. My soaked saree weighs me down like armor made of silk and shame. The expensive fabric that once marked me as high-status now drags me toward my doom.
How fitting that the very symbols of my cage – the traditional dress, the cultural expectations, the weight of propriety – would contribute to my downfall.
Even running for my life, I couldn't fully escape the trappings of my upbringing.
Fucking hell…all of this is madness.
In these last moments before impact, my life doesn't exactly flash before my eyes. Instead, I see all the moments that could have been. All the choices I might have made if I'd broken free sooner and trusted my instincts instead of bowing to tradition.
I could have been more than this.
I could have been free.
The ground rises to embrace me like a jealous lover, eager to claim what the flames couldn't. Behind me, somewhere in the rain-soaked darkness, a killer in a glowing mask follows with mechanical patience.
Knowing they don't have to rush.
Knowing their prey is already trapped.
The impact with the ground is surprisingly gentle – or maybe I'm just too broken to feel new pain.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up from my chest, echoing through the rain-soaked forest. The sound carries an edge of madness that should frighten me, but I'm beyond fear now.
Beyond everything, really.
My body protests as I try to stand, movements sluggish and uncoordinated. The world tilts and spins like a carnival ride designed by a sadist, but still I fight to rise.
Every muscle screams in protest, every breath feels like swallowing glass, yet some primal instinct demands I get up.
Keep moving. Keep fighting. Keep running.
When I finally manage to stand, my shoulders heave with the effort of drawing breath. The rain has plastered my saree to my skin, the once-beautiful fabric now nothing but a sodden prison weighing me down.
Movement in the distance catches my eye – multiple figures approaching through the trees. My overtaxed mind immediately conjures the worst possibilities: Hunters. Opportunistic Alphas. Men who prowl these woods looking for exactly what I am – a helpless Omega, alone and vulnerable.
A whimper escapes me as tears blur my already compromised vision. Is this what all my running has led to?
To escape a masked killer only to fall prey to the kind of monsters that feature in cautionary tales told to young Omegas?
I've heard the stories. We all have. Whispered accounts of what happens to Omegas who wander into the wrong territories, who trust the wrong people, who simply exist in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Stories of bodies found with ankles chained together – a post-mortem courtesy to prevent further violation.
Is that my fate? To become another whispered warning?
My grandmother's words echo in my mind, wisdom passed down through generations of women who learned to bend rather than break:
"Sometimes, beta, the river must flow around the mountain because it cannot move it."
But I'm so tired of flowing around mountains.
Exhausted of bending, of adapting, of surviving.
Lightning splits the sky like divine judgment, followed by thunder that shakes the earth beneath my feet. The rain transforms from a gentle sprinkle to a punishing deluge, as if the heavens themselves have decided to weigh in on my situation.
My hands press against my face, fingers tracing features I can barely recognize anymore.
Am I still the same girl who dreamed of freedom? Who believed in love and passion and happy endings? Or has fear carved me into this permanent being of emotional imbalance?
The whimpers start small, barely audible above the rain. But they grow, building into wails that harmonize with the storm's fury. All the pain, all the fear, all the desperate longing for something better – it pours out of me like the rain that's turning the forest floor to mud.
I've reached my breaking point.
The realization brings with it a strange sort of peace. I've been running for so long – from my family, from tradition, from arranged marriages and forced submissions. Always moving, always hiding, always fighting for just one more moment of freedom.
But for what?
Why is it so impossible for an Omega to find peace? To experience the love and adoration that our fairy tales promise us? To be cherished and protected rather than owned and controlled?
Everyone wonders why there's such a decline in Alpha-Omega pairings, and why our numbers dwindle with each generation. But the answer is obvious to anyone who's lived it: death becomes preferable to this endless cycle of running and surviving.
The masked killer. The gang of approaching strangers. Maharaja and his pack. My father and his business associates. They're all just different faces of the same oppression, different mountains trying to shape my flow.
I'm done flowing.
The rain continues its assault, turning my body numb with its icy fingers. My saree – this symbol of tradition and propriety – clings to me like a shroud. How fitting that I should face my end dressed in the very garments that marked the beginning of my rebellion.
Standing here in the storm, I finally understood something fundamental: peace was never possible while running.
Not real peace.
Not the kind that sinks into your bones and lets you breathe fully.
The figures draw closer through the rain, and I make no move to flee. Let them come – whether they're hunters or helpers, killers or saviors.
I'm tired of letting fear guide my steps, of letting survival instinct override everything else that makes life worth living.
Better to die standing than live forever on my knees.
Acceptance doesn't stop the tears.
If anything, surrendering to my fate opens a floodgate I've been holding back for years. My hands press against my face as sobs wrack my body, the sound mixing with the storm's fury.
This is my wake, I realize. I'm mourning myself while I'm still alive enough to feel it.
My thoughts drift to what comes after. Will my goddess grant me another chance? Force my soul back into the cycle of rebirth? The idea holds both terror and hope – terror that I might face this same oppression again, hope that next time might be different.
Maybe in my next life, I'll be born into love.
I imagine it: a family that celebrates my existence rather than seeing me as a burden to be traded. Parents who hold me close instead of keeping me at arm's length, preparing me for eventual sale. A mother who teaches me to value myself rather than diminish my worth to please others.
The vision shifts to my brother, living his life of effortless privilege. How different would my story be if I'd been born male? If I'd been given the same opportunities, the same respect, the same right to exist without constant judgment and restriction?
My male cousins move through the world like they own it – because in many ways, they do.
Every door opens for them, every path lies clear before their feet. They never have to calculate the risks of walking alone at night or worry about the clothes they wear sending the "wrong message."
Maybe I should pray to be reborn male.
No expensive suppressants eating away at my savings. No need for specialized underwear that costs more than most people's monthly rent.
No heats to plan around, no slick to hide, no biological imperatives to fight against.
Just...freedom.
Pure, simple freedom to exist without constantly watching over my shoulder.
The thought brings fresh tears as I realize all the simple pleasures I'll never experience.
I'll never know what it feels like to truly embrace my femininity without fear – to wear beautiful clothes because they make me feel powerful rather than because they mark me as someone's property.
I'll never experience the joy of capturing candid moments with my Alphas, preserving those precious instances when they're lost in their passions and interests. Never curl up in a nest of their combined scents, sharing lazy afternoons of reading or gaming or simply existing together in comfortable silence.
Such simple things.
Even something as basic as family dinner – saying grace together, sharing meals and conversation as equals, building the kind of bonds that can't be measured in dowries or business contracts. These ordinary moments that most people take for granted now feel like impossible luxuries.
The rain continues its relentless assault, but I barely feel it anymore.
My body has gone numb, accepting this final baptism as my tears mix with the storm.
"Devi Maa," I whisper, addressing my goddess with the familiar term of endearment used in prayers. "If you grant me another life after this one, could I just...could I have a few days as a true Omega? Just enough time to know what it feels like to be valued for who I am rather than what I can provide?"
A few days of genuine love.
Of being cherished rather than possessed.
Of experiencing all those little moments that romance novels describe so beautifully – morning kisses and shared laughter and the simple joy of belonging to a pack that sees me as a person rather than a prize.
Is that too much to ask?
The approaching figures are closer now, their outlines blurred by rain and tears.
I keep my hands pressed to my face, partly to contain my sobs, partly because I don't want to see what form my end will take.
Will it be the masked killer, come to finish what they started with Maharaja? Or the strangers I glimpsed, perhaps drawn by my cries?
Does it even matter anymore?
The storm rages around me, thunder punctuating my sobs like nature's own drumbeat. Each flash of lightning illuminates the forest in stark relief, creating shadows that dance like spirits come to witness my surrender.
In these final moments, I find myself thinking of Damon and Kieran. How for one brief, shining moment, I experienced something close to what I've been praying for. They showed me that different kinds of Alphas exist – ones who value consent and pleasure, who see Omegas as partners rather than possessions.
At least I'll die knowing that was possible.
That knowledge feels like a gift, even if it makes everything else more painful by comparison. Like seeing a glimpse of paradise before being cast back into hell.
The rain plasters my saree against my skin, the weight of tradition literally dragging me down even in these final moments.
But I remain standing, refusing to meet my end on my knees.
If this is to be my last act of defiance, let it be this: dying on my feet, praying not for rescue but for a better chance of resurrection into my next life.
"Trouble?"
The voice cuts through the storm's chaos, familiar and impossible.
Time seems to stop as that voice echoes through the rain.
My body goes completely still, muscles locking in place as my mind struggles to process what I've just heard. With painful slowness, I turn my head over my shoulder, just enough to see the figure standing mere steps away.
The glowing mask stares back at me, its eerie red and blue illumination cutting through the darkness. But I barely register the terror it should inspire.
I'm too caught up in that voice – a sound that sometimes whispers through my dreams, a reminder of a brief moment when life held real joy.
It can't be him.
But I'd know that voice anywhere.
The boy who was barely more than a teen himself back then. The one whose smile could light up entire rooms, whose very presence sparked excitement and possibility.
Everyone called him a firecracker because that's exactly what he was – explosive energy contained in human form, ready to ignite at any moment.
I only knew him for an instant, really.
What started as a one-night stand of rebellion – my first, my chosen loss of innocence – bloomed into a week of wild adventure and forbidden pleasure.
Seven days that changed everything I thought I knew about life and love and possibility. Seven days of sneaking out to midnight races, of kisses stolen in dark corners, of laughter that felt like freedom.
He showed me a world beyond the suffocating walls of tradition, beyond the carefully prescribed paths my father had laid out.
But like all beautiful things in my life, it couldn't last.
My father's network of spies was too vast, his control too absolute.
When he discovered my rebellion, he gave us one final night – though looking back, I realize he probably thought we wouldn't dare take it. Wouldn't risk his wrath for a few more hours together.
But we did.
That last night burned with the intensity of a supernova. We knew it was ending, knew everything would change come morning, so we poured all our defiance, all our passion, all our youth into those precious hours.
After that, the walls closed in.
My father made sure I understood that joy was not for me, that pleasure and freedom were luxuries I hadn't earned. That relationships would be assigned, not chosen, and any further rebellion would have permanent consequences.
The boy disappeared from my life as suddenly as he'd entered it.
I convinced myself he'd been spirited away, become another casualty of my father's influence and wealth.
One more lesson in the price of disobedience.
Yet here he stands.
The same boy who taught me what freedom felt like, now wearing the mask that just committed murder. The same hands that once touched me with such gentle passion now carry the weight of Maharaja's death.
I must be hallucinating.
It's the only explanation for the wave of calm that washes over me, for the sense of belonging that fills my chest even as tears blur my vision.
My body moves almost mechanically as I turn to face him fully, muscles rigid with a combination of exhaustion and disbelief.
Each step I take toward him feels like moving through honey. My mind screams that this must be a trap, that I'm walking toward certain death.
The rational part of me knows that the boy I knew could never be this masked killer.
But when has love ever been rational?
And that's what this is, I realize.
Not the mature, complex love of adults, but that pure, fierce love of youth – the kind that burns so bright it leaves permanent marks on your soul. The kind that makes you brave enough to defy family, tradition, and common sense just for a taste of something real.
The rain continues to pour, but I barely feel it now.
My soaked saree drags at my limbs, but I keep moving forward. If this is death's chosen form, if my goddess has decided to grant me this one final comfort before the end, I'll accept it gratefully.
Better to die remembering love than living in fear.
My feet carry me closer to the glowing mask, to the figure who simultaneously represents my first taste of freedom and potentially my last. The red and blue Xs seem to pulse in time with my heartbeat, creating patterns that hypnotize and entice.
If this is a trap, it's the most beautifully crafted one I've ever encountered. To use his voice, to play on those precious memories of that one perfect week...it's either incredibly cruel or incredibly fitting.
But I'm done running.
One step after another, I move toward what could be my salvation or my doom.
The distance between us shrinks with each movement, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating from him even through the cold rain.
Maybe this is what all those romance novels were trying to tell me.
That sometimes the greatest acts of bravery look like walking straight into danger, that love and death are so closely intertwined they become impossible to separate.
And sometimes they wear the same mask.
My trembling hand reaches for his mask, shaking uncontrollably as my fingers touch the glossy surface.
Raindrops roll off the material with effortless grace, the red and blue glow creating patterns in the falling water. He remains perfectly still, neither encouraging nor preventing my exploration.
With agonizing slowness, I lift the mask just enough to reveal what lies beneath.
My breath catches as I find myself staring into familiar emerald eyes – the same ones that captured my attention at sixteen, when I stood at the end of an alleyway in a part of town I shouldn't have been in, desperately seeking someone to help me claim my own destiny.
Those eyes haven't changed.
Our first conversation had started because of them.
I'd never seen eyes so vibrantly green, and my curiosity had overcome my caution. He'd laughed – a warm, rich sound that made me feel safe despite our surroundings – and explained about colored contacts.
The memory floods back with crystal clarity: him sitting on the hood of a modified street racer, talking about his dreams with the kind of certainty only youth can provide.
How he'd get rich enough to have his eyes permanently changed, how something as simple as eye color could open doors that would otherwise remain closed.
"It's no different from blue eyes and blonde hair," he'd explained, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. "They get opportunities because they're seen as perfect – the ideal representation of wealth, beauty, intelligence, success. If I change my boring brownish-black eyes, if I make myself stand out... I could be someone."
His words had burned themselves into my memory.
At nineteen, he'd already understood something fundamental about our world – that appearance could reshape destiny, that standing out could be more powerful than fitting in.
Despite his Alpha status, his mixed heritage had created barriers. But instead of accepting them, he'd planned to destroy them completely.
"I'm going to build a legacy no one can take away," he'd declared with such conviction that I couldn't help but believe him.
Now, standing before me in the rain, I see the fulfillment of those teenage dreams. Those artificially emerald eyes, once just an ambitious goal, now look back at me with a coldness that makes my heart ache.
My hand cups his cheek, and I watch as something in his expression softens infinitesimally. But the change only highlights how much has been lost. The boy who radiated joy and possibility has been replaced by someone harder, darker.
His dreams came true, but at what cost?
The purity I remember has been shattered, dragged through dirt and darkness until only this cold anger remains. His eyes hold stories of violence and revenge, of paths taken that can never be untaken.
What does he see when he looks at me?
I must appear so desperate, so weak in this moment – soaked and bleeding, trembling from exhaustion and fear. But I push those thoughts aside as my thumb traces the skin beneath his eye, marveling at how reality has aligned with his teenage ambitions.
"Emerald green," I whisper, the words barely audible over the rain.
Tears mix with raindrops on my cheeks, and I find myself attempting a smile despite the bone-deep sadness that threatens to overwhelm me.
Even if these are my final moments, seeing him again – seeing that he survived whatever crucible transformed him – makes everything feel worth it somehow.
All the pain, all the running, all the fear...it led to this moment of recognition.
"Riot," I breathe out our old nickname for him, the one we used to maintain some illusion of anonymity during that perfect week.
The name fit him perfectly back then – he was chaos embodied, excitement personified, a riot of energy and possibility.
Just as I was his "Trouble" because trouble seemed to find us whenever we were together.
Every adventure, every stolen moment, every midnight race led to some new complication. We'd laugh about it then, too young to understand how that trouble would eventually tear us apart.
But here we are again.
Riot and Trouble.
Reunited in the rain.
The universe has a strange sense of humor, bringing us back together like this – him in his glowing mask, me in my ruined saree, both of us so changed yet still somehow connected.
A thousand questions crowd my mind, begging to be asked.
How did he survive my father's influence? What turned him away from street racer to masked killer? Why Maharaja, why now, why ? —
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks through my thoughts.
His gaze shifts past me, hardening as he registers the new threat. Whatever is coming, it's enough to concern someone who just committed murder without hesitation.
His eyes return to mine, and I can see the questions warring in their emerald depths.
In another time, another life, this would be our cue to run. That's what we did back then – two kids against the world, always one step ahead of the adults who sought to control us, the threats that lurked in every shadow and blended seamlessly into crowds.
But we're not in those familiar city streets anymore.
The forest offers limited options, its ancient trees both shelter and prison. Any path we choose will eventually lead to capture, to consequences we can't outrun forever.
My mind sluggishly attempts to calculate possibilities, to formulate escape routes and contingency plans. But every option feels like climbing a mountain with weights strapped to my limbs. The mere thought of running again exhausts me to my very core.
Riot frowns as my eyes begin to droop, concern flickering across his features.
The expression is so reminiscent of our shared past – of moments when he'd notice my fatigue during our late-night adventures and insist we find somewhere safe to rest.
I shake my head slowly, my neck stiff from injury and exhaustion.
"I don't want...to run anymore."
The words carry the weight of surrender, but they also bring unexpected relief.
I've spent so long running, surviving, and pushing through one crisis after another. There's a strange peace in finally admitting I've reached my limit.
Our eyes lock in a moment of silent communication.
I will him to understand what I've been through, to grasp the mountain of trauma and terror that's led me to this point of acceptance. To see that this isn't just exhaustion speaking, but a bone-deep weariness that no amount of rest could cure.
He gives a slight nod, and his hand moves toward his mask.
I expect him to replace it, to protect whatever identity he's built for himself in the years since we parted. He must have achieved some measure of that success he dreamed of – the mask alone speaks of resources far beyond what that teenage street racer could access.
My hand falls from his cheek reluctantly, already missing the warmth of that brief connection. Even that small touch had provided more comfort than I'd felt in months of running.
But instead of securing the mask back on his own face, he removes it completely.
Before I can process his intention, he's sliding it over my features with careful precision.
The world transforms through the mask's electronic display. Everything takes on an otherworldly quality, enhanced and illuminated in ways my normal vision could never achieve.
Through this technological lens, I see him with perfect clarity despite the rain and darkness.
His hair is a magnificent chaos of colors – purples, blacks, whites, and blues blending together in ways that should clash but somehow create perfect harmony.
The combination makes his artificial emerald eyes even more striking, like precious stones set in a revolutionary piece of art.
He's grown into his features, boyish charm replaced by sharp angles and deliberate style. But I don't get time to catalog all the changes years have wrought. His arms wrap around me suddenly, pulling me against him with protective urgency.
The firm pressure of his hand against my back feels like an anchor, holding me steady as the world continues to spin. His grip carries meaning beyond simple support – it's a statement of intent, a declaration of protection.
"Me too, Trouble," he whispers, his voice carrying that same weight of exhaustion and acceptance I feel in my own soul. "Let's stop running."