10. The Price Of Salvation
10
THE PRICE OF SALVATION
~MARCUS~
T he leather of my chair creaks as I lean back, studying the three men standing before my desk.
My pack. My responsibility.
Each one damaged in ways the world would never understand; lethal in their own right.
Knox — the shortest but arguably the most dangerous—bounces on the balls of his feet, never still, his mismatched eyes darting around the room as if cataloging potential escape routes. A habit from a childhood spent running from those who recognized his genius and sought to exploit it. His fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, likely coding some new algorithm in his head even as he stands at attention.
Bastian — immovable as a mountain, his massive frame blocking a significant portion of the afternoon light streaming through the windows. The scars that mar his face tell only a fraction of his story. The rest is written in the bodies he's buried for me over the years, in the blood that stains hands too large for normal men's gloves.
And Rook —the newest addition to our fractured family, yet in many ways the most unpredictable. Even without the mask, his face reveals nothing, a perfect canvas of controlled emotion. Only his eyes betray him, burning with an intensity that has made lesser men confess sins they hadn't even committed yet.
All of them killers. All of them mine.
The folder sits heavy on my desk, its innocuous beige exterior belying the weight of its contents. I open it with deliberate slowness, allowing the moment to stretch as the first photograph comes into view.
And there she is.
Jessica Vesper Calavera.
The ghost that haunts us all.
Her eyes stare up at me from the glossy eight-by-ten—vivid blue, almost electric in their intensity, filled with a life and joy that seems foreign now. This was taken before.
Before the alley. Before the rain. Before I found her broken body and made a decision that would alter all our trajectories.
Seven years ago.
Maybe more.
The date doesn't matter. The moment does.
I remember it with perfect clarity.
The night had been unusually cold for early autumn, rain falling in sheets that turned the city into a glistening, treacherous maze. I'd been handling some business for the Calavera family— a simple exchange, nothing that would normally require my personal attention.
But something had felt off from the beginning, an instinct honed through decades of survival in a world that rewards paranoia.
I'd taken a shortcut through an alley in the club district. And that's when I smelled it—beneath the city stench of garbage and rain, beneath the lingering notes of cigarettes and alcohol and violence.
Omega in distress.
No. Not just distress.
Dying.
I'd never cared much for Omegas. In our world, they're commodities at best, liabilities at worst. I'd spent my forty-five years avoiding entanglements, knowing that my lifestyle, my choices, my empire built on bodies and blood made a traditional mating impossible.
But her scent...
It had stopped me in my tracks.
Cut through decades of indifference like a blade through silk. There was something in it—something beyond the normal sweet notes that characterize Omega pheromones. Something almost...feral. Defiant even in death's grasp.
I found her half-hidden behind a dumpster, clothes torn, body broken in ways that made even my hardened stomach turn. Blood mingled with rainwater beneath her, creating abstract patterns on the concrete.
Her pulse had been thready, her breathing labored.
But her eyes—when they flickered open for just a moment—had locked onto mine with a focus that belied her condition.
She wasn't begging for help. She was memorizing my face. Cataloging me as another potential threat even as life seeped from her body.
That's when I knew I couldn't let her die.
Not out of some misplaced chivalry or sudden awakening of Alpha protectiveness. But because I recognized in her what I saw in my own reflection each morning—the absolute refusal to surrender, even when surrender would be easier.
I'd gathered her broken form in my arms, her weight almost nothing, and carried her through the deluge to my waiting car. The drive to my private medical facility had been a race against time, her pulse growing weaker with each passing minute.
The doctors had worked on her for hours. Multiple surgeries. Transfusions. A litany of injuries that painted a picture of brutality I'd seen only in war zones.
I remember sitting in the hallway outside the operating room, my clothes still damp with rain and her blood, making calls that would alter the official narrative. By morning, Jessica Vesper Calavera was officially declared dead—a tragic accident, her body too damaged for an open-casket funeral.
Only four people knew the truth: myself, the doctor whose silence I'd purchased for a price that would fund his retirement three times over, Bastian, and later, Knox.
When she finally stabilized, when the doctors assured me she would live, I'd left her a single card. My personal number, printed on heavy cardstock with no name, no affiliation.
Just digits and a promise: If you want vengeance, call.
Six months later, she did.
"Alpha?"
Bastian's voice pulls me from the memory.
I refocus, aware that I've been silent too long, lost in a past that never seems to fade no matter how many years pass.
"Let's proceed," I say, my voice steady despite the weight of what's to come.
I begin spreading photos across the desk—a timeline of a life interrupted. Jessica at fourteen, accepting a ballet trophy, her smile radiant. At fourteen, performing on stage, her body creating lines that defied physics. At fifteen, in her Harvard orientation photo for future early acceptees who were already being offered scholarships for when they graduate in three years, looking both young and determined in her freshman beanie that she’d surely keep for the guaranteed future ahead.
And finally, at sixteen — the last official photo taken before the night that erased her.
The three men study the images, their expressions revealing different facets of the same emotion: Rage.
Knox's eyes narrow, his normally playful demeanor hardening as he takes in the progression. Bastian's massive hands curl into fists, the knuckles whitening.
And Rook...
Rook's reaction is the most telling. His face remains impassive, but his breathing changes—becomes shallower, more controlled. A predator recognizing its prey in unexpected territory.
I slide the final photograph toward them—the one taken in the hospital during her initial assessment. Clinical. Impersonal. Documenting injuries with detached precision.
The growls that emanate from Knox and Bastian are instinctive, Alpha rage at seeing an Omega— even one they've never met —so brutalized.
But it's Rook who moves, snatching the photo with a speed that makes even Bastian blink.
Before any of us can react, he's striding toward the balcony, a lighter appearing in his hand as if conjured from thin air.
The flame catches the edge of the photograph, consuming the image with hungry orange tendrils. He watches it burn for a moment, his profile sharp against the afternoon light, before letting the flaming remnants fall from the balcony.
I hear the startled shrieks from below—probably Magda and the gardening staff, witnessing what must look like some strange ritual.
"That better not land in my roses," I mutter, though there's no real heat in it.
Rook turns, and the look in his eyes makes me grateful for the desk between us. In three long strides, he's returned, hands slamming onto the polished wood with enough force to make the remaining photos jump.
"Explain," he says, the single word carrying more threat than most men's diatribes.
Knox shifts slightly, ready to intervene if necessary. Bastian remains motionless, but I can feel his focus intensify. They've seen Rook's temper before—we all have—but there's something different about it now.
Something personal.
Interesting.
"Jessica Vesper Calavera," I begin, maintaining eye contact with Rook despite the murderous intent rolling off him in waves. "Sole heir to the Calavera crime syndicate, one of the most powerful underground organizations in North America. Her father, Victor Calavera, has spent the last seven years believing his daughter died at the hands of rival Alpha enforcers."
"But she didn't," Knox interjects, his brain working faster than most computers. "Because you found her first."
I nod.
"I found her. I ensured her survival. And when she was strong enough, I helped her disappear—gave her the resources to become someone new. Someone who could move unseen through the spaces where her attackers operated."
"Vesper," Bastian says quietly. "She took her middle name."
"A ghost hiding in plain sight," I confirm. "Enrolled in Knot Academy under a constructed identity, positioned within the Dead Knot sector where the administration's oversight is minimal at best."
Rook's eyes narrow.
"Why?"
The question contains multitudes.
Why save her? Why hide her? Why reveal her now?
"Initially? Because I recognized something in her that deserved a second chance," I say, knowing the partial truth is better than none. "The longer-term strategy became clear as she recovered. The Calavera network has connections that even I can't access. Territories that have been closed to us for generations."
"So she was a business opportunity," Rook says, his voice dangerously soft. "A fucking investment."
"She was a human being who deserved better than to die in the rain," I snap, my own temper flaring. "The strategic advantages came later."
Rook straightens, his hands leaving the desk, though the imprints of his palms remain on the polished surface.
"And now? Why bring this to us now?"
I take a deep breath, centering myself before delivering the news that will change everything.
"Last night, a bounty was placed on her head. Three billion. Dead or alive."
The silence that follows is absolute, broken only by Knox's low whistle.
"Three billion?" he repeats, eyes wide. "For an Omega? That's..."
"Unprecedented," Bastian finishes, his massive frame suddenly tense with new understanding.
"The bounty came through traditional channels, but the source is clear," I continue. "Elliott Prescott."
The name lands like a grenade in the center of the room. The Prescott family—old money, old power, untouchable due to governmental connections that span generations.
"What does Prescott want with her?" Bastian asks, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.
"That's where it gets complicated," I say, closing the folder. "Victor Calavera has surfaced. After seven years of operating from the shadows, believing his daughter dead, he's suddenly making moves. Aggressive ones. Taking back territory, eliminating rivals, consolidating power in a way we haven't seen since..."
"Since before she supposedly died," Knox concludes, his quicksilver mind connecting dots faster than I can lay them out.
"Exactly. And now, Prescott is scrambling. If Victor discovers his daughter is alive—and worse, that she's been living in Prescott-affiliated territory all these years—the resulting conflict would destabilize every power structure in the region."
"Including ours," Bastian adds grimly.
"So Prescott wants to find her first. Either to use as leverage against Victor, or to eliminate the threat entirely," Knox says, pacing now, his energy impossible to contain.
Rook has gone still, his expression unreadable.
"What's your play, Marcus?"
There's something in his tone— a challenge, an accusation —that makes me choose my next words carefully.
"We have three days to register as students at Knot Academy. To position ourselves as potential suitors for an unclaimed Omega who's approaching the end of her eligibility window."
Knox barks a laugh, more shocked than amused. "You can't be serious. You want us— all of us —to enroll in that hellhole? You're practically ancient, Marcus. Your back would give out trying to keep up with those kids."
I raise an eyebrow, letting the jab slide. "I may not have your youth, but I've got more survival skills than most of them will ever learn."
"What area is she in?" Bastian asks, always practical, always focused on logistics.
Before I can answer, Rook speaks, his voice flat.
"Dead Knot."
Our eyes meet, and in that moment, I understand what I've been suspecting since his reaction to the photographs.
He knows her. Not just knows of her—knows her.
"You've met," I say. Not a question.
I obviously know he’s been fucking her but playing naive gets you further when playing with fire.
Rook's jaw tightens.
"We're not doing this. Not with Venom. Leave her out of whatever game you're playing."
He turns, striding toward the door with the kind of purpose that usually precedes violence.
"The bounty is now five billion," I call after him. "As of an hour ago."
He freezes, hand on the doorknob.
"Five billion," Knox repeats, actual shock registering on his usually composed features. "For an Omega? That's beyond insane."
Bastian's eyes widen.
"Shut the fuck up. You're bloody lying. Who the fuck puts that much on an Omega? Fuck, he wants her to have his babies?!"
The gunshot is sudden, exploding a vase on a nearby pedestal. The pieces scatter across the hardwood floor, tiny porcelain shards that catch the afternoon light.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"Can you not use my replicas as shooting practice?"
Bastian glances at the destroyed vase, then back at me.
"Was that actually a replica?"
"Yes," I confirm, lips twitching toward a smile despite the gravity of the situation. "I had everything of value removed this morning, knowing Rook was coming."
"Fuck you," Rook mutters, but there's less heat in it now.
His hand remains on the doorknob, but he hasn't turned it yet.
"If you have even a hint of compassion for that Omega," I say, addressing his back, "you'll meet us Monday morning. I've already made an offer to Knot Academy to serve as temporary Alphas for Jessica, whether you like it or not."
I let the words sink in before adding, "I know you act now and think later. You can thank me when this is over."
Rook stands motionless for a long moment.
Then, without another word, he yanks the door open and stalks out. The solid oak slams behind him with enough force to rattle the remaining artwork on the walls.
The silence he leaves in his wake is heavy with unspoken questions.
"Well," Knox says finally, dropping into the chair opposite my desk. "That went about as well as expected."
Bastian moves to the bar cart, pouring three generous measures of Scotch.
"He knows her. More than knows her, I'd say."
I accept the glass Bastian offers, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully.
"Yes. That complicates things."
"Complicates?" Knox snorts, downing half his drink in one swallow. "That's one way of putting it. Rook isn't exactly known for his ability to share."
"And yet, that's exactly what he'll need to do," I say, taking a measured sip. "If we're going to pull this off."
Bastian settles his massive frame into a chair that creaks ominously beneath his weight.
"You're serious about this plan? The four of us pretending to be her potential pack?"
"Not pretending," I correct. "Offering. There's a difference."
Knox rolls his eyes.
"Semantics. You really think a young Omega—one who's clearly been surviving just fine on her own for years—is going to want four old Alphas suddenly swooping in to 'protect' her?"
I level a steady gaze at him.
"We're not that old."
"Speak for yourself," Bastian mutters, rubbing his knee—an old injury that still bothers him when the weather changes. "My joints disagree."
"Besides," Knox continues, "from what I've gathered about this Jessica—or Vesper, or Venom, or whatever the hell we're supposed to call her—she's not exactly the type to welcome protection. Especially not from Alphas."
"Can you blame her?" Bastian asks softly, his usual gruffness giving way to something darker. "After what was done to her?"
The question hangs in the air, bringing with it images none of us want to dwell on.
I drain my glass, setting it down with a decisive click.
"It's not about what she wants. It's about what she needs to survive what's coming."
"And what exactly is coming, Marcus?" Knox leans forward, eyes sharp. "You're not telling us everything."
I consider my words carefully.
Trust within our pack is absolute—it has to be, given what we've done for each other over the years. But some truths are more dangerous than others.
"Victor Calavera is dying," I say finally. "Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. The doctors give him less than six months."
Understanding dawns on their faces.
"He's looking for his heir," Bastian concludes. "Trying to set his affairs in order before the end."
"And if he discovers she's alive—" Knox begins.
"When," I correct. "When he discovers she's alive. It's inevitable at this point."
"He'll either embrace her as his miracle returned," Bastian says slowly, "or eliminate her as a liability."
"And Prescott?" Knox asks. "Where does he fit in all this?"
"Prescott and Victor have history. Bad blood that goes back decades," I explain. "If Victor reclaims his daughter, if he installs her as his heir with the full weight of the Calavera network behind her?—"
"She becomes the most powerful Omega in the hemisphere," Knox finishes, his expression caught between awe and horror.
"And the most hunted," Bastian adds grimly.
I nod.
"Exactly. Our goal isn't just to protect her from the bounty hunters who will come crawling out of every shadow once word spreads. It's to position ourselves as the only viable option for her long-term survival."
Knox studies me, his mismatched eyes narrowing.
"This is about more than protecting an Omega, isn't it? This is about securing the Calavera connection for ourselves."
I don't bother denying it.
"The world is changing. Our position isn't as secure as it once was. The Calavera network would provide infrastructure we've been trying to build for years."
"And you think she'll just hand that over to us out of gratitude?" Bastian sounds skeptical. "From what little I've seen, she doesn't strike me as the grateful type."
"No," I agree. "But she is practical. And practical people recognize when alliances are mutually beneficial."
Knox drums his fingers on the armrest, a rapid tattoo that betrays his racing thoughts.
"It's a risky play. Very risky. Especially with Rook already involved with her."
"Rook will come around," I say with more confidence than I actually feel. "He may not like it, but he's not stupid. He knows what five billion means."
"It means every Alpha with a weapon and a death wish will be hunting her," Bastian says. "But it also means someone very powerful wants her very badly."
"I'm still not convinced she'd want us," Knox persists. "I mean, look at us. I'm pushing thirty-five, Bastian's forty-two, you're forty-five?—"
"Forty-three," Bastian corrects with a glare.
"Whatever. The point is, we're hardly prime specimens for a young Omega in her prime. Even if she could get past the fact that we're, you know, killers who work for the man who's been manipulating her life from the shadows for seven years."
I can't help but smile at his bluntness. It's one of the things I value most about Knox—his refusal to sugarcoat reality, even when that reality is unflattering.
"Age is less relevant than experience," I remind him. "And in this particular scenario, our experience is exactly what makes us valuable."
Bastian grunts, unconvinced.
"Still a hard sell. Especially if she's already involved with Rook."
"Involved might be an overstatement," I muse, remembering the cold fury in Rook's eyes. "There's something there, certainly. But I doubt it's the kind of connection that would prevent her from seeing the advantages of our offer."
"And if it is?" Knox challenges. "If whatever's between them is more than just convenience or lust? What then?"
The question strikes closer to a fear I've been avoiding than I'd like to admit. Rook has always been the wild card in our pack—the least predictable, the most resistant to authority, even mine. If he's formed a genuine attachment to the Calavera heir...
"Then we adapt," I say firmly. "As we always have."
Bastian refills our glasses, his movements deliberate.
"There's one more thing to consider. If she really is in Dead Knot, if she's been there all these years..."
He doesn't need to finish the thought. We all know what that sector does to people. It breaks them or transforms them, creates monsters or martyrs. No one emerges unchanged.
"She'll be damaged," Knox says bluntly. "More than just physically. The kind of trauma she experienced, followed by years in that environment—she won't be easy to handle."
"No," I agree, memories of those electric blue eyes flashing through my mind. "But then, neither are we."
The three of us sit in contemplative silence, each weighing the risks, the possibilities, the inevitable complications of what I'm proposing.
"So," Knox says finally, setting his empty glass on the desk with a decisive click. "Monday morning. Knot Academy. The four of us—assuming Rook doesn't decide to disappear with her before then—strutting in like some geriatric Alpha boy band to claim a traumatized Omega who probably wants nothing to do with any of us."
When he puts it like that, the absurdity of the plan is impossible to ignore.
A laugh escapes me—rusty, unused, but genuine.
"That's one way of looking at it," I concede.
Bastian joins in, his deep chuckle rumbling like distant thunder.
"We've attempted crazier things."
"Name one," Knox challenges, though his own lips are twitching toward a smile.
"Budapest, 2018," Bastian replies without hesitation.
"Fair point," Knox concedes. "Though at least there, we had the advantage of anonymity. Here? We'll be under constant scrutiny."
"From administrators who can be bought, students who can be intimidated, and rivals who can be eliminated," I remind him. "The venue may be different, but the game remains the same."
"And the Omega?" Bastian asks, serious once more. "What if she rejects us outright? What then?"
It's the question I've been circling since this plan first formed. The variable I can't control, despite my best efforts.
"Then we protect her anyway," I say simply. "Because regardless of whether she accepts us or not, Jessica Vesper Calavera is the key to everything that comes next. For her father. For Prescott. And for us."
Knox sighs dramatically, sprawling back in his chair.
"Fine. I'm in. But I am not wearing those ridiculous uniforms they make the students wear. There are limits to my dedication to this pack."
"I doubt they make them in Bastian's size anyway," I note dryly.
Bastian glares, but there's no real heat in it.
"I could always go as a professor."
"With what credentials?" Knox snorts. "Your PhD in Advanced Ass-Kicking?"
"Still more legitimate than your 'expertise' in cybersecurity," Bastian retorts. "Hacking the Pentagon doesn't make you an expert. It makes you a criminal."
"Says the man who once removed someone's spine through their?—"
"Enough," I interrupt, though not unkindly. Their bickering is familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. "Save it for Monday. We'll need to present a united front if we're going to have any chance of success."
They nod, serious once more.
For all their differences, for all the blood and violence and darkness that binds us together, we are a pack. Dysfunctional, damaged, deadly—but loyal to the end.
"There's only one way to find out if she'll accept us," I say, rising from my chair with a finality that signals the end of our discussion. "We ask her directly."
As they move to leave, I find myself staring at the scattered photographs still spread across my desk.
At the young woman whose fate has become inexorably intertwined with our own through a chance encounter on a rainy night seven years ago.
Jessica Vesper Calavera.
The ghost who haunts us.
The key to our future.
The Omega, whether she knows it or not, is about to become the center of a storm that could destroy us all.
Or save us.