19. To Cherish Sins Of The Past
19
TO CHERISH SINS OF THE PAST
~VALE~
P ain rips through my legs with savage intensity, muscles spasming beyond control as the experimental serum's effects crash into brutal withdrawal.
The sterile hallway walls mock my predicament – this dead end becoming both sanctuary and trap as I fight to remain conscious through waves of agony.
A blessing to find temporary shelter.
A curse to become a sitting duck.
My breath comes in ragged gasps while sweat drips down my face, each spasm more violent than the last. The tactical vest feels suffocating now, its weight pressing against lungs that can't seem to draw enough air.
The odds of my pack finding me before Ravenscroft's forces grow slimmer with each passing second.
Even if they track my location, the facility's maze-like structure works against swift rescue. This realization draws a bitter laugh from my throat – after all our careful planning, my stubborn defiance may have doomed not just myself, but compromised the entire mission.
At least Subdivision D succeeded in reviving that omega from the flooding chamber.
The frantic radio chatter had confirmed her survival, though details remained frustratingly vague through the growing static in my earpiece.
Something about emergency resuscitation protocols and stabilizing vital signs.
The success should offer comfort, knowing we prevented at least one death in this hell. But my mind fixates on tracking her – on finding Nyx before retreating to the van.
The room of fallen guards had carried her scent, that bewitching sweetness lingering in the air like a ghost.
So close.
Yet still beyond reach.
I'd intended to check the remaining chambers on this level, desperate to ensure she hadn't been recaptured and sealed away in one of their torture rooms.
The blueprints burned into my memory guided each turn through the facility's corridors as I eliminated threats with mechanical efficiency.
Thirty bodies now lie cooling in my wake – guards and researchers alike falling to precise shots that offered no chance for mercy. Their deaths felt like justice, payment extracted for years of torturing omegas under the guise of scientific progress.
The experimental serum had worked better than expected, granting not just mobility but enhanced strength and reflexes. For one glorious hour, my body obeyed every command with fluid grace.
No hesitation, no weakness, no betrayal from failing nerves.
But such gifts always carry a price.
The crash hit without warning – legs simply ceasing to function mid-stride. Only my training prevented a complete collapse, muscle memory guiding me to this relative safety before total paralysis set in.
Now I can't even feel my legs beyond the violent spasms that wrack them. The pain pulses in time with my thundering heart, each beat sending fresh waves of agony through nerve endings that scream in protest.
The tactical part of my mind catalogs my situation with brutal clarity:
Compromised mobility, limited communication, exposed position, and dwindling options.
The static-filled chatter in my earpiece proves the others are coordinating something, but the words remain frustratingly unclear. Calling for help isn't just a matter of pride anymore – it's literally impossible with failing equipment.
This could very well be my end, trapped in the heart of an enemy facility with no way to signal my location.
The irony tastes bitter on my tongue.
After surviving so much, pushing past every limitation my disease imposed, to die here because I couldn't follow simple orders...
Pure irony…
Yet I can't summon proper guilt for my choices.
The serum bought me an hour of restored strength – that time slot spent hunting those who hurt her, eliminating threats that might have blocked her path to freedom.
If the price is my life, perhaps it's worth paying.
A fair trade, maybe.
My remaining years exchanged for her chance at escape.
The thought barely forms before her scent hits me – that impossible blend of vanilla cream and dark chocolate, of childhood magic and pure possibility. The sweet aroma wraps around my senses like a physical caress, making my head spin with recognition and need.
Fate, it seems, has a cruel sense of timing.
To taunt me with her presence now, when I'm helpless to move, helpless to reach for her, helpless to do anything but drink in that sweetness that haunts my dreams.
The memory of her photograph burns behind my eyes – the defiance in her expression even after years of torture unlocked the strength that radiated from every pixel.
My guilt surges fresh and hot as I recall how I'd defiled that image, spilling my release across her digital face in a moment of shameful weakness.
But what alpha wouldn't break for her?
What man could resist such perfect temptation?
Those eyes that seemed to see straight through to my soul, that face that combined delicate beauty with hardened survival, that body that spoke of power carefully contained...the combination proved impossible to resist, especially knowing she was the one who'd haunted me since that autumn day.
The omega who got away.
The one I failed to protect.
The ghost whose scent never quite faded from memory.
Footsteps approach with ghostly stealth, forcing me to strain my ears through waves of pain. The sound barely registers – more whisper than impact, suggesting whoever stalks these halls moves with practiced silence.
Perhaps they've removed their shoes, adopting tactics for maximum stealth while hunting prey through Ravenscroft's sterile corridors.
My heart stumbles through erratic rhythms as acceptance settles deep in my bones.
Death comes for me in these final moments, and though anxiety claws at my chest and fear whispers through my thoughts, I bury those instincts beneath layers of conviction.
This was my choice.
My sacrifice.
My gift to her.
The thought of Nyx brings a strange peace.
Even if my life ends here, trapped in this whitewashed hell, perhaps my actions helped clear her path to freedom. Other alphas might claim her, might offer the happiness and security she deserves, but I can face my end knowing I contributed to her escape.
Different hands cherish what I couldn't protect.
Another pack gives her the sense of belonging I failed to provide.
Allow death to come, knowing she might taste freedom.
Lowering my head in final surrender, I close my eyes against whatever execution approaches.
That haunting scent of vanilla and chocolate grows stronger, my mind's final torment as it conjures the omega I never truly met.
How fitting that my last thoughts center on her – on regret for words unspoken, introductions never made, connections left unexplored. Certainly, fate designed this path, keeping us apart because my death was always written in these sterile halls.
A ragged sigh escapes my lips as I fight to steady my desperate panting. The spasms in my legs have evolved into constant tremors, each wave of pain sharper than the last. But even this agony fades beneath the weight of what's coming.
At least it ends here.
Hopefully, she might live.
Something good might rise from my failure.
Gathering what courage remains, I lift my head for one final act of defiance. Let death look me in the eyes as it claims its prize.
Let my end carry some shred of dignity despite my broken body's betrayal.
But instead of an executioner's cold stare, I find myself drowning in impossible green.
What…
My heart seizes completely as I drink in the vision before me.
There she stands, barely ten feet away, chest heaving with exertion, wrapped in a shirt I'd recognize anywhere.
Atlas's favorite tactical gear hangs loose on her smaller frame, the collar carefully folded despite obvious wrinkles in the fabric.
The sight of her in my pack leader's clothing sends conflicting waves of emotion through my system – relief at knowing she's under his protection warring with something darker that tastes like jealousy.
But all thoughts of possession and pack dynamics fade as I truly look at her. The photograph I'd studied so carefully, the image that haunted me throughout this mission pales in comparison to her living presence.
Her hair falls generously past her shoulders in messy loose waves that catch the harsh fluorescent lighting, transforming ordinary illumination into something magical. The strands shift between dark forest green and ethereal magenta, creating an aurora of color that frames her face in ever-changing patterns.
Like the northern lights captured in silk.
Like magic made manifest.
But it's her eyes that steal what little breath remains in my lungs. The clinical description in her file – "green with teal undertones" – did nothing to prepare me for their reality.
They shine like ivy after rain, deep emerald bleeding into sea glass, with hints of teal that surface and fade like tide pools catching sunlight.
Those eyes hold stories I ache to read, secrets I long to unlock.
Six years of torture hover in their depths, yet they haven't lost their ability to express wonder. Even now, as she stares at me with clear recognition, I watch hope and fear wage war in those incredible irises.
Her face combines delicate features with harder edges forged by survival. High cheekbones and a graceful jaw speak of natural beauty, while tiny scars map constellations of endurance across her skin. Her lips, slightly parted as she catches her breath, curve with a fullness that makes my fingers itch to trace their shape.
She's smaller than I expected – delicate in a way that makes my protective instincts roar to life. But the way she holds herself, the fluid grace of her stance, reveals strength carefully contained. This is no fragile flower to be sheltered, but a warrior who's survived hell itself.
Atlas's shirt does nothing to hide the lean muscle built by years of fighting to survive, even with the obvious signs of malnutrition, stress, and sudden weight loss.
Each scar visible on her exposed skin tells its own story of torture endured and overcome. These marks don't detract from her beauty – they enhance it, proving her resilience with every silvered line.
It also makes me want to hunt any motherfucker who dared hurt her to leave an irrevisable scar in its wake.
My eyes trace the elegant column of her throat, noting the careful way she monitors her surroundings even while focused on me. Her head tilts slightly, an unconscious gesture that reminds me of Atlas processing new information.
She's cataloging everything about this moment…just as I am.
That impossible scent grows stronger as she takes a hesitant step forward. The vanilla sweetness carries darker notes now — hints of antiseptic and metal that speak of recent violence. But underneath lies that core of pure possibility that first drew me to her years ago.
The essence that haunted my dreams.
The aroma that made me ache with regret.
The scent that led me to break every rule to find her.
She takes another step, and I watch emotion flash across her features too quickly to catalog. Recognition wars with uncertainty, hope battles fear, and something else – something that makes her pupils dilate and her breath catch – flickers in those mesmerizing eyes.
The sight of her – alive, free, and somehow here despite impossible odds – makes my pain recede to background static.
My body's betrayal seems insignificant compared to the miracle of her presence. Even the certainty of death that gripped me moments ago fades beneath the weight of this unexpected gift.
Because she's real.
Tangible.
Present.
Not just a photograph to obsess over or a memory to haunt my dreams, but a living, breathing omega who defied everything they tried to make her. Who survived their torture, their experiments, their attempts to break her spirit.
Who now stands before me wrapped in my pack leader's shirt, staring at me with eyes that remember that long-ago autumn day. Eyes that hold recognition, understanding, and a hint of the connection I've never been able to forget.
Fate itself conspires to offer one moment of perfection before the end.
"Nyx," her name falls from my lips in a reverent whisper, making her pause mid-stride.
The recognition in her eyes transforms to wariness, her body tensing at the sound of her name from a stranger's mouth.
Racing footsteps echo through distant corridors, freezing my blood with primal fear.
Not for myself – death lost its terror long ago – but for her.
My useless legs mock every alpha instinct screaming to move, to protect, to throw her over my shoulder and race toward safety.
My muscles spasm in futile response, each tremor a brutal reminder of my body's betrayal. The knowledge cuts deeper than any physical pain – I cannot shield her from whatever approaches. Cannot prevent her recapture after she's fought so hard for freedom.
Failing her twice in one lifetime brands my soul with unforgivable shame.
First in that autumn forest, watching her disappear into captivity, and now here – a broken alpha who cannot even stand to face death protecting her.
An afterlife of eternal torment awaits.
Penance for twice failing an omega who deserved better.
"Go," urgency roughens my voice as those footsteps draw closer. "Go back to Atlas. Leave with him. Understand?"
Her extraordinary eyes widen at my desperate command, surprise and relief warring in their depths at my knowledge of her connection to my pack leader.
The sight pierces my chest – this remarkable creature considering my life worth risking her freedom.
Guilt claws up my throat, decades of regret spilling forth before wisdom can silence the words.
"I'm sorry," the whispered apology makes her brow furrow in confusion. "I shouldn't have left you. In the forest. Before the van..." My voice cracks beneath the weight of memory. "Should have done something. Interfered even if it meant taking bullets. I let you slip away…a coward at best…and no matter if I didn't know the implications, you deserved protection. Deserved salvation."
Understanding dawns in those mesmerizing eyes, recognition of our shared past transforming her expression.
That long-ago moment of connection blazes between us, time collapsing until we stand once more in that surreal valley of impossible autumn colors.
"So I'm sorry," sincerity bleeds from every word. "Now go. Back to Atlas and my pack. I'll be fine, alright?"
A final lie to secure her safety.
A noble deception to preserve her freedom.
Instead of fleeing, she launches into motion – closing the distance between us with fluid grace before spinning to face the corridor's entrance.
Her body becomes a living shield, gun raised with deadly purpose as she positions herself between me and approaching danger.
"Nyx," desperation claws through my chest. "Go!"
"Vale?" My name on her lips sends electricity racing down my spine. She glances down, emerald eyes meeting mine with an intensity that strips away pretense. "I forgive you."
Three simple words shatter what remains of my composure. Her grace, freely offered without conditions or expectations, lands like a physical blow against my heart.
Such mercy should mark the beginning of redemption, a chance to heal wounds left festering for six years.
Yet fate mocks such possibilities.
Presents salvation only to snatch it away.
The approaching footsteps grow louder, each impact marking seconds until discovery.
My treasonous body remains locked in paralysis, nerves firing useless signals to muscles that refuse commands. Every attempt at movement sends fresh waves of agony cascading through my system.
Memories assault me with cruel precision – missed opportunities haunting these final moments. Words left unspoken when they might have mattered. Actions not taken when they could have changed everything. A lifetime of carefully maintained control crumbling to ash in death's shadow.
Never told Atlas how his leadership saved me from despair.
Never thanked Kieran for staying through my darkest days.
Never admitted to Dante how his stubborn loyalty gave me strength.
But above all these regrets towers the ultimate failure – watching Nyx disappear into that van without acting. The cowardice of choosing protocol over instinct, of allowing an omega's suffering rather than risking career and reputation.
Her forgiveness burns brighter for its undeserved nature.
She extends mercy when justice demands eternal condemnation.
Offers absolution despite years of torment that might have been prevented by one moment of courage.
Now she stands guard over my broken form, preparing to die defending the very alpha who failed to protect her. The irony carries a bitter perfection – her strength highlighting my weakness, her bravery emphasizing my cowardice.
Let death come swiftly.
Claim me before witnessing her fall.
Allow oblivion to take these final moments of shame.
But even these prayers ring hollow as her scent wraps around me, carrying notes of determination alongside that haunting sweetness.
She has chosen this path and decided my life holds worth despite its impending end. Her forgiveness transforms these final moments from mere tragedy into something approaching grace.
The footsteps thunder closer, bearing destiny's final verdict. Soon our shared past dissolves into shared doom, united at last in death rather than life. My disease-ravaged body becomes our mutual downfall, trapping us in this dead-end corridor with no chance of escape.
Yet in these precious seconds, before chaos erupts, I drink in every detail of her presence. Memorize the way Atlas's shirt drapes her slender frame, how her hair catches sterile light and transforms it into aurora borealis, and how those incredible eyes hold neither fear nor regret for choosing to stand her ground.
If death comes now, it finds me drowning in wonder.
Marveling at strength disguised as a delicacy.
Witnessing courage cloaked in grace.
The universe's cruelest joke reveals itself fully – granting a moment of perfect connection only to end it in shared destruction. But as Nyx's finger tightens on her weapon's trigger, I realize truth transcends even death's finality.
Her forgiveness offers redemption even as life prepares to fade.
Her choice to stay writes meaning into my final breaths.
Her presence transforms a mere ending into destiny fulfilled, even if fulfillment spans mere heartbeats before obliteration.
Together at last.
United in doom.
Finding completion in catastrophe.