28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emma
A sudden, jarring boom jerks me from sleep, ripping me from soft oblivion into immediate, suffocating panic. Darkness presses down on me from all sides, heavy and absolute.
No. No, oh gods. Not again.
I’m back in the basement.
Imprisoned in that stale, dark tomb.
Buried alive surrounded by damp walls and impenetrable darkness.
My heart explodes into a racing rhythm and fear slices beneath my skin.
My breaths are ragged blades, sawing in too-tight lungs as ghost footfalls come toward me.
Tap, tap, tap down the stairs. There’s nowhere to go.
Nowhere to run. I’m chained to a brick wall with the bite of iron.
If I could saw my foot off I gladly would, but even if I did that, I’d never get through the bars.
Pack Carmichael are coming for me to do unspeakable things to my body.
I won’t survive it.
Living terror shatters me apart.
I scream, sharp and involuntary, the sound thin and strangled in my ears as I fight to free myself from the tangles around my legs. Light floods the doorway, silhouettes filling the opening. Three towering shadows framed by dim hallway glow.
They're huge, ominous. Matthew. James. Derek. The dark devils of Pack Carmichael. Come for me again.
“ No !”
Need to get away. Scramble back. Legs twisting in blankets. I lunge. Fall to land on carpet. Breath jars from my lungs. My pulse hammers loud and wild in my head. Heart thrashing against the cage of my ribs.
A figure closes the distance. Arms scoop me upright like I'm nothing, like I'm a ghost made of air and terror, and I fight against the strong, solid chest pressed against mine.
“Please let me go,” The words are raw. Broken. Desperate.
The arms stay around me, locking me down.
I'm trapped, enclosed, captured again. My nightmare life is a choking reality wrapping its suffocating hands around me.
Steel arms bind me. One large hand cradles the back of my head, forcing my face into the hollow of a throat.
I inhale to scream again, wild panic flaring higher, deeper, until his scent floods me.
Whiskey. Dark, smoky, and powerful. Old, reassuring leather teases the smoke.
The terror seizing me falls away. A slice of awareness cuts through the tornado in my head.
Asher. Asher is holding me.
My chest opens wide and a rush of emotions stumble through me. Terror—deep, overwhelming. Fear—gut-wrenching fear. Alongside the terror, anxiety pours, colored sharply with worry, tenderness, and raw desperation in a swirling, chaotic storm that belongs completely and entirely to him.
Powerful and overwhelming but…these emotions aren't mine.
They’re Asher’s and he…he’s scared. For me.
Blinking away the hot tears running down my cheeks, my vision slowly shifts into clearer focus.
My face presses into Asher’s strong throat.
His pulse beats wild and urgent beneath the scratch of his stubble.
His breath brushes quickly against my temple as he drags in uneven breaths, desperately trying to calm himself.
To calm me . The bond is open and I read his emotions as though they’re my own.
He’s trying to tamp down his emotions, but he’s finding it impossible against the terror shearing through him. For me.
This is nothing like Pack Carmichaels’ emotions. Nothing like their bond.
In fact, with Asher’s dominance, I can’t feel them at all.
Hot breath ruffles my hair and on the wings of it is a whispered plea, anguished and fiercely protective. Asher rocks gently in the chair, cradling me carefully on his lap as though I'm something precious, something devastatingly fragile.
My head clears enough to realize he’s in the chair in my seaside room.
I'm curled on his lap, wrapped against the hardened shelter of his powerful chest. His heartbeat pounds fiercely beneath my cheek.
He's holding onto me as if he’s terrified I might vanish if he loosens his grip.
Holding me as though I'm his anchor, every bit as much as he's become mine in this exact moment.
“I'm here. It’s okay. Nothing’s going to get you, Moonbeam.” His voice is shaky and hoarse, a low rasp in my ear. “You're safe. You're with us. I've got you.”
His surety becomes mine, steadying my shattered breaths, quieting the rush of cold panic along my nerves.
My body shudders, hands curling into fists over his broad shoulders, clutching now instead of fighting.
My nightmare fades slowly, replaced by the vivid, comforting reality of his arms encircling me, his rich scent enveloping me completely.
It was a nightmare. Nothing but a nightmare .
I draw another unsteady breath, taking in more of him. I can’t stop myself because it loosens the terror, replacing it with something deeper and sweeter than fear.
Trust.
And now I feel so stupid for not realizing the nightmare for what it was, as real as it seemed.
Shame pulses through me. I bury my head against his chest. “I'm sorry. I-I thought…it doesn’t matter. It was just a…a nightmare.”
Saying that doesn’t really describe how real it was. The terror lived inside me. I saw the basement. Breathed in the foul air. Felt the damp surrounding me.
I was there .
“It's okay, Emma. You're allowed to have nightmares,” Phoenix murmurs.
He’s here too. His hand settles on my knee from where he’s kneeling on the carpet in front of me. His eyes, cloudy with concern, are luminous even in the dimness of the room; staring at me intently as though I’m the sole focus of his entire universe.
Soren sits on the edge of my bed, watching me closely, his gaze fierce with worry. Right now, there's no hiding his vulnerability, not as he hunches forward slightly ready to catch me if I spiral back into fear.
My cheeks flush with shame. I hate the fact that I’ve let a nightmare drown me. That I've drawn them all here in frantic worry. Again.
Outside, a storm rages against the windows, rain lashing fiercely in harsh, angry sheets.
Bright white flashes periodically flood my room, accentuating the sinister twist of bare tree branches in silhouette against sharp bursts of lightning.
Thunder growls a deep, rumbling bass that resonates through the walls and floor, vibrating deep and low within my bones.
The storm woke me, the sudden, furious boom anchoring itself inside my nightmare. I’m so stupid.
“I’m sorry I woke you up for nothing,” I say.
“Don't,” Asher’s voice is rough and firm, carrying a quiet intensity that burrows beneath my skin. His arms tighten around me. “Don't apologize, Moonbeam. It's not nothing. Not even close. ”
His words hang softly in the air between us, silencing my shame but not quite chasing away the shadow of embarrassment still clinging to me. The three alphas exchange a silent, weighted look, something deep and wordless passing between them.
Soren leans toward me. “You've been through experiences no person should ever have to endure. Nightmares, anxiety, panic attacks and all completely understandable given what you've survived.”
His eyes hold mine steadily, sincerity reflected in their dark depths, and I find myself swallowing thickly. “Remember this isn't weakness, Emma. It's Post-traumatic stress disorder—PTSD.”
The unfamiliar term settles inside my chest, sharp-edged and foreign. “It is?”
“It’s your mind’s way of responding to severe trauma.
When you've experienced something deeply frightening or harmful, something dangerous or hurtful that's robbed your sense of safety, the brain tries to cope any way it knows how, often by replaying the event or triggering panic and anxiety through dreams, flashbacks, or even certain sounds and smells. And you’ve been subjected to trauma for years.” In the light falling from the hallway, his face is hidden in shadow, but beneath a heavy brow, his gaze is liquid.
I turn my face against Asher’s neck, inhaling his scent so deep it might drive away these demons, yet shame still twists through my stomach.
I don’t want these jagged edges of memories to slice me open night after night.
I don’t want them to be my normal, nor my forever.
I don’t want to be a damaged, broken omega, unable to stand on my own.
I hate it. I hate the idea of being so…needy. This helpless omega they have to coddle and comfort. A burden weighing down their pack because I'm too broken to hold my own pieces together.
How many times can I do this before they get sick of it? Of me?
A soft squeeze against my thigh pulls my attention toward Phoenix. His smile is gentle, tinged with quiet understanding as though he's heard every unspoken fear threading my silence .
“Hey, Tough Girl, you’re not alone. You’re anything but weak, all right? It takes incredible strength to even admit you're hurting.” He pauses, waiting until he sees the faintest relaxation of my muscles beneath his touch before continuing softly. “Mira told you that she’ll help you.”
My brows come together as I peer at him. She did say that, but she isn’t like me. Not now. She’s strong. Able and sure. But we’ve come from the same place. Shared each other’s shadows. And I trust her.
“When this is all over and you're safe, we will take you to the center she runs with Zane’s sister. Mira knows incredible therapists—psychologists who specialize in helping omegas who've survived different versions of hell. We can do something about this. You don’t have to suffer.”
The thought is both comforting and terrifying.
My pulse stutters nervously in my throat and I turn my gaze downward, anxiety flaring again at the thought of trying to put voice to the nightmares, the memories seared into my soul.
Everything is too raw, too immediate. How am I supposed to talk about horrors when I'm still struggling to survive the aftermath each day?