Chapter 9
9
A white light pierces through the fog, stabbing into my brain. I try to turn away, but my body won’t respond, my muscles locked in place.
Panic rises. This happened at the lab - being paralyzed, examined, and experimented on.
“Seven? Can you hear me?” Damien’s voice breaks through, laced with worry. His face swims into view as the light moves away. “I don’t understand what happened. We were doing fine, talking, and then he just… shut down. Stopped responding.”
Another figure in a white lab coat appears, and my heart pounds wildly. Not again. Please, not again. But it’s not the scientist from before.
This man has a kind face behind wire-rimmed glasses. “It happens sometimes, with people who have been through significant trauma. The mind protects itself by shutting down. What were you doing when this occurred?”
Traumatized.
Broken.
The words slice into me, confirming my deepest fear. I’ll never be normal, never be whole. Despair threatens to pull me under.
Damien comes back into view, his brows knitted with worry. “We were in the bathroom, about to wash our hands. Seven seemed comfortable. Nothing in there has triggered him before.”
The doctor jots down notes on a clipboard. “What were you discussing, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I was telling him about my brothers and cousins. And then I asked…” He trails off, and uncertainty pinches his features. “I asked about his family.”
The ringing in my ears returns, and a shrill whine builds in my throat.
No, no, no. I can’t go back, can’t let the darkness swallow me whole again. My chest constricts, each breath a struggle.
Damien’s attention snaps back to me, his hands cupping my face. “Seven? You’re here, in the present. Whatever you’re remembering, it can’t hurt you now.”
His thumbs brush my cheeks. “Come back to me, sweetheart. It’s okay, you’re safe. I’m right here with you.”
Raising my hands to my ears, I shake my head.
“Breathe, Seven. In and out, nice and slow.” Damien’s pheromones wrap around me, soothing my anxiety. “You’re not alone. I’m right beside you.”
Gradually, the ringing subsides, replaced by the steady thump of my heartbeat. The tightness in my chest eases, and I suck in a trembling breath. Damien’s kind face returns, filled with a mixture of relief and concern. His touch grounds me, a lifeline I cling to as I take in our surroundings.
We’re still in the suite, in the bedroom. Not in a lab.
“That’s it, you’re doing great,” Damien murmurs. “Keep breathing. Focus on me.”
Craving the comfort and safety he provides, I lean into his touch. His arms wrap around me, pulling me close, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck. The warm, musky scent of him envelops me, chasing away the lingering tendrils of fear.
“I’ve got you.” His lips brush my hair. “You’re safe.”
I want to believe him, want to trust that he can keep the nightmares at bay. But what if I’m too broken to heal? I may have escaped the hell of the last year, but the scars still live on my body as constant reminders.
Damien’s hand glides over my trembling back, soothing me with his touch. “Do you want the blanket?”
At my nod, he releases me with one arm and reaches for the quilt on the bed, draping it over us both. I burrow my head down until only my eyes poke out and every breath I take delivers another dose of Damien’s calming pheromones.
Across from us, Dr. Walton sits on a chair he pulled from the corner of the room, and he regards us with concern. “Seven, Damien, I need to talk to you both. What happened earlier was not a simple incident. It’s a clear sign of severe trauma.”
My stomach twists. I know what’s coming, that he’ll want to separate me from my Alpha, and I don’t want to hear it.
Damien’s tone turns defensive, almost like a growl. “Are you saying I’m bad for him?”
“No, not at all,” Dr. Walton reassures us. “In fact, I believe you’re helping him right now. But this kind of dependence can become unhealthy if it’s not addressed. Seven needs to heal, and while your bond is part of that, he also needs to regain a sense of self outside of you.”
Damien’s arms tighten around me, tension humming in his body. “What do you suggest?”
“Let’s move to the living room,” Dr. Walton suggests. “It will help to be in a less intimate space while we talk.”
With reluctance, we untangle ourselves from the security of our cocoon. Damien brings the blanket, and I stick close to him as we follow Dr. Walton out to the front room.
The dishes from breakfast still sit on the dining table, the air smelling of coffee and French toast. So my episode must not have been long.
Damien sits on the sofa and lifts the blanket in invitation. I dive under it, curling up into his side, and he tucks the quilt around us.
Dr. Walton takes a seat in the armchair across from us, his expression soft with compassion. “Seven, I believe you would benefit from therapy.”
The words land in my mind with the impact of a boulder dropped into still waters, sending ripples of fear and anxiety through every fiber of my being. How can I possibly speak about everything that happened to a stranger? I don’t want to relive it all. I want to lock it in a box deep in my mind and never open it again.
Dr. Walton breaks through my rising anxiety. “Seven needs a safe space to work through his trauma. A therapist can also help guide both of you, so this relationship remains healthy and supportive for you both.”
His face softens with understanding. “Seven, you have endured more than any person should ever have to. Seeking therapy is not a sign of weakness, but of strength. It gives you the tools to keep moving forward, rather than locking you in the past.”
I fidget with the fabric of my pajama pants, feeling stripped bare in front of this too-perceptive doctor. “Will… Will I still stay with Damien?”
Dr. Walton’s reply is gentle but firm. “That decision is up to you and Damien. Staying here can be a part of your healing process, but it must be balanced with steps toward independence. Small things, like having your own routines and hobbies, can make a big difference.”
I twist toward Damien, searching for some kind of reassurance in his face. Who am I without him? Who am I if not Seven?
As if sensing my thoughts, Damien’s hand catches mine under the blanket. “We’ll do this together, on your terms.”
Tears blur my vision. “Okay… I’ll try.”
Dr. Walton smiles gently. “That’s all anyone can ask for.”
Damien looks at me, hesitates, then turns back to Dr. Walton. “We’ll talk to the therapist, too, but Seven and I are attracted to each other.”
My face instantly flames, and I duck my head against his shoulder.
“I suspected as much already,” Dr. Walton says without censorship.
“What about suppressants?”
Panic shoots through me, and I rear back. “No drugs!”
Sympathy fills Damien’s eyes. “They’re not experimental drugs like what the Doctor did. They’re regular over the counter stuff that all Omegas can take.”
A shudder goes through me. I fear my Heat coming on and driving Damien away, but I fear messing even more with my system. I already can’t get hard. What if adding suppressants takes away what little is left of what makes me an Omega?
“I don’t think suppressants are a good idea right now,” Dr. Walton interrupts. “We have no way of knowing what substances were used on Seven prior to arriving here, so we have no way to know how his body would react to adding new chemicals. We should wait for Seven to become healthy and run some blood tests before doing anything else.”
I shudder at the word tests and curl back against Damien, who curls his arm around my shoulders and nods.
Dr. Walton rises from his seat and gathers his medical bag. “I’ll email you a list of therapists who specialize in trauma and relationships like yours, and I’ll follow up in a few days to see how things are going.”
When the door closes behind him, the suite becomes safe again. Damien’s arm remains around me, anchoring me to the present, and I let myself believe everything will be okay.
“One step at a time, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “First order of the day, are you ready to try breakfast again?”
I’m not, but I need the calories, so I agree.
If eating makes Damien happy, I’ll do it. And if therapy means I can stay with him, I’ll do that, too.
Because without him, I’m nothing.
Weeks pass, with the search for Jade continuing, and the rhythm of my days falls into a pattern as I begin to speak with a therapist.
At first, our sessions are in the office in Damien’s suite, with him nearby. He sits across the room, a quiet, watchful presence as I share fragments of my thoughts and fears.
Over time, with my therapist’s encouragement, Damien moves to the living room during my sessions. It’s strange, not having him within arm’s reach, but I adjust.
The day I ask him to leave the suite altogether during therapy, my hands shake with anxiety. The space holds its breath without him, but I start to notice something in the silence. Myself.
Not the person locked in the box of my past. No longer just a number, either. Someone new I’m still getting to know.
Damien’s support never falters. Each evening, he brings home a new crafting book, laying it on the coffee table with a hopeful smile. Embroidery, knitting, paper quilling, painting, pages brimming with possibilities.
I try some, my fingers fumbling with yarn and paper.
Nothing sticks.
When frustration bubbles up, Damien says we’ll keep searching.
Three weeks after my arrival, he convinces me to take a tour of the manor house.
“Just one floor,” he encourages as I clutch my blanket, wrapping it around my shoulders like a shield.
It’s a new one, smaller than the comforter from the bed, that Damien purchased especially for me. It carries the scent of our home, the soft fabric giving me courage as we step into the main level of the house.
The rooms blur together, words like banquet halls, drawing rooms, and libraries all blurring together until we stumble upon one unlike the others.
Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating polished wood floors and rows of instruments. A grand piano sits in the center of the room, its black lacquer gleaming.
Damien follows my line of sight. “My grandmother used to play.” He gestures to an old photograph on the wall of a stately Alpha sitting at the piano. “No one else in the family ever cared to learn…”
He trails off as I drift toward the piano, drawn like a moth to a flame. I sit on the bench and lift the fallboard to reveal a row of ivory and black keys. My fingers hover over one, trembling. When I press it, a pure, clear note rings out, resonating through me.
My hands shake as emotions crash in a storm that threatens to sweep me under.
Damien comes closer, sitting on the bench beside me without speaking.
Another key, a higher note, joins the first, and tears well up, along with memories from my past that I’ve suppressed for so long.
“The community center where my papa took me had a piano,” I whisper. “It was old, out of tune, and half the keys were missing their ivory tops. But he always made it sing.”
Damien touches my back. “I’d like to meet him one day.”
“You can’t.” The tears spill over. “He’s dead.”
I place both hands on the keys, their cool surface grounding me. Muscle memory takes over as I recall the hours spent perched on that bench, my small hands straining to reach chords.
The first notes ring out, hesitant, uneven. Then they flow, a melody I hadn’t realized I still carried with me.
Tears fall unhindered as I play, each note a bridge between past and present.
Beside me, Damien doesn’t speak, but his hand settles on my back, his silent presence more reassuring than words.
This, more than the therapy, feels like healing.
When the song ends, the notes hang in the air, and I turn to Damien, who stares at me with awe. “I can give you information on how to find my owners and the holding pens where they kept me. It might not lead you to Jade, but the Alphas may have a way to contact the sellers.”
Damien sucks in a sharp breath. “You know where you were being held?”
“Those who buy Omegas don’t think of us like people. We’re pets or lab rats, used up and discarded like trash when there’s nothing left to squeeze out.” I run my fingers over the piano keys. “Owning someone makes them over-confident. Like gods our worlds orbit around. They forget to keep the blinds shut, forget to put on the blindfold, because why bother when we can’t run?”
My hand lifts to touch my arm, where Dr. Walton took out the stitches earlier in the week. “And even if we do run, we’re chipped like animals and easy enough to retrieve.”
This is a feeling I’ve been working on with my therapist, but it’s still difficult when I face Damien again. “But we’re not animals, and we’re not so broken that we can’t be put back together.”
“No, you’re not, sweetheart,” he agrees, a hardness to his features I’ve only seen once before, when he planned to destroy the compound where Jade and I were kept. “And if you tell me where to find these men, I will burn their lives to the ground.”
My pulse quickens. “I don’t care about the second and third owners, but can I be present when you question the Doctor?”
He appraises me. “If that’s what you need.”
My hands curl into fists. “I want to see him bleed. For him to know I’m the reason for his pain.”
“Then that’s what you’ll have,” he promises.