13. From The Shadows
13
FROM THE SHADOWS
~JESSICA~
T wo days of deliberate absence.
Two days of silence.
Two days of weighing impossible choices while my body reminds me with increasing urgency that some decisions aren't mine to make.
My limbs feel like they're filled with wet cement, each step requiring concentration I can barely muster. Sweat beads along my hairline despite the autumn chill, trickling down my spine in an uncomfortable reminder of what's coming.
Pre-heat symptoms. Right on schedule.
I've skipped all my classes since the confrontation in the dance studio, retreating to my crumbling dorm to think, to plan , to consider my options without interference.
Or at least, that was the intention.
Instead, I've spent most of that time fighting waves of exhaustion so profound they border on illness.
The suppressants are to blame—those little white pills that have kept me safe for seven years, preventing the biological vulnerability that would make me prey to any Alpha with basic instincts and minimal self-control.
They work, mostly, but not without cost.
Each cycle brings worse side effects: dizziness, fatigue, and occasional visual disturbances.
Worth it. Always worth it.
Because the alternative is unthinkable. To be at the mercy of my biology, to lose control of my body, my mind, my choices... I'd rather face the hunters Prescott has undoubtedly dispatched than endure that particular hell again.
I adjust the strap of my bag, feeling the reassuring weight of my rifle against my back. The familiar pressure grounds me somewhat, a reminder of who I've become, of what I'm capable of despite the limitations of my designation.
The forest stretches before me, a twisted maze of ancient oaks and skeletal birches. Most students avoid the Dead Forest, with good reason.
The terrain is treacherous, the shadows concealing threats both natural and man-made. But it's the fastest route between my dorm and the east campus where I'm supposed to meet Emilia, and I'm not in the mood for the main pathways today.
Too exposed. Too many opportunities for unwanted encounters.
Alphas hunt during daylight hours with increasing boldness lately.
Something about the turning season makes them more aggressive, more entitled, as if the falling leaves signal some primal shift in acceptable behavior. The regular routes are patrolled, technically, but Dead Knot's security is a joke—understaffed, underpaid, and generally indifferent to the fates of those deemed expendable by the academy's administration.
I step into the forest's embrace, immediately enveloped by its distinctive atmosphere. The canopy above filters sunlight into dappled patterns that shift and dance across the forest floor with each breath of wind. In another context, it might be beautiful. Here, it merely provides useful camouflage.
The scent hits me after about fifty paces—that distinctive rot-sweet miasma that gives the Dead Forest its more colorful nickname: the Boneyard . It's not just fallen leaves and damp earth decomposing beneath my boots. There are darker contributions to that particular perfume.
Bodies. So many bodies.
Some from duels gone wrong. Some from hunts that ended in death rather than submission. Some from accidents, suicides, or murders disguised as either.
The administration knows, of course. They send cleanup crews for the more obvious remains, but they don't dig deep. Don't excavate the layers of death that have accumulated over decades of institutional neglect.
What falls in the Dead Forest stays in the Dead Forest.
I pinch my nose, trying to block the worst of the stench. Usually, I can tolerate it—just another unpleasant reality of life in Dead Knot. Today, with my senses already heightened by approaching heat, it's nearly overwhelming.
"Fucking hell," I mutter, pausing to collect myself. The path ahead blurs momentarily, forcing me to blink rapidly to clear my vision. "Not now."
These episodes have been increasing in frequency and intensity.
I should see a doctor—a real one, not the academy's excuse for medical staff who dispense aspirin and condescension in equal measure. But what would be the point? They'd take one look at my medical history, my Omega designation, and offer the same prescription they always do.
Find a pack. Submit to your biology. Accept your place.
As if finding Alphas to fuck me would somehow cure whatever is slowly unraveling inside me. As if surrendering my autonomy would magically restore my health.
As if I haven't already tried that route with Viper. With Rook. Whatever the hell I'm supposed to call him now.
The thought of him sends an unwelcome pang through my chest. Two days without contact. Two days to process the revelation that my masked lover is part of a pack that's been monitoring me for years. That what I'd believed was a private, if complicated, arrangement was perhaps something else entirely.
Stop it. Focus on the present. On survival.
I push forward, forcing my leaden limbs to cooperate.
The forest grows denser the further I walk, the undergrowth more tangled, the trees pressing closer together as if conspiring to bar my path. My breath comes harder than it should for such mild exertion, another warning sign my body is determined to send despite my equally determined ignorance.
When the dizziness hits again, stronger this time, I'm forced to stop completely.
I lean against the nearest tree, its rough bark digging into my palm as I struggle to remain upright. The world tilts and spins, the forest floor seeming to ripple beneath my feet like water disturbed by a stone.
This is bad. Worse than usual.
If I'd felt this sick before leaving my dorm, I wouldn't have risked the journey. Would have messaged Emilia to come to me instead, or simply postponed our meeting altogether. But I'd been functional then— tired, yes, but coherent. Whatever is happening now has accelerated with alarming speed.
I lift my gaze, trying to orient myself.
The tree I'm leaning against is massive—an ancient oak that's witnessed more death than most battlefields. Its branches stretch toward the sky, creating a natural ladder for those with the strength and skill to climb.
High ground. Safety. Perspective.
The decision forms without conscious thought, instinct overriding exhaustion.
I haven't climbed trees since childhood—since those carefree days before designation, before Harvard, before the alley. Back when I thought I could outrun biology through sheer force of will, when I'd scale the tallest trees on our property and pretend I was anything but what I would inevitably become.
My body remembers, though.
Muscle memory guides my hands to find purchase on the lower branches, my feet seeking the knots and ridges that will support my weight. It's harder than it used to be, my coordination compromised by whatever is happening to me, but I push through, driven by some primal understanding that ground level is no longer safe.
Each pull upward costs more than it should. My arms tremble with effort that once would have been negligible. Sweat stings my eyes, blurring my vision further. But I don't stop. Can't stop. Not until I've reached sufficient height to see what my instincts are screaming about.
The branch beneath my boot gives an ominous crack, nearly sending me tumbling before I manage to shift my weight to a more stable support. My heart hammers against my ribs, the surge of adrenaline momentarily cutting through the fog of fatigue.
Pay attention, idiot. Dead is dead, whether it's from hunters or gravity.
I continue my ascent more carefully, testing each branch before committing my weight to it.
By the time I reach a suitable height— maybe thirty feet above the forest floor —my shirt is soaked with sweat and my breath comes in ragged gasps.
But the view is worth it.
From here, I can see the twisted paths that wind through the Dead Forest, can track movement for several hundred yards in all directions. More importantly, I can see what my body was trying to tell me before my conscious mind caught up.
The air is different up here. Clearer. Less dense than at ground level, where an almost imperceptible haze hangs among the trees.
Gas. Some kind of airborne toxin.
Not concentrated enough to kill immediately, but enough to disorient, to weaken, to make prey easier to catch. A hunter's tactic, and a sophisticated one at that. Not the work of academy students looking for easy targets.
Professionals. Bounty hunters. Already here.
I curse softly, the realization that I've walked into a trap settling like ice in my stomach. The forest should have been safe—or at least, safer than the main routes. Instead, I've delivered myself directly into their hands.
With practiced efficiency, I unsling my rifle from my back, the familiar weight providing what little comfort is possible under the circumstances. I rest it across the branch before me, scope already aligned as I scan the area below with methodical precision.
Movement catches my eye—fast, purposeful, coming from the east. A figure running flat out through the trees, leaping fallen logs and dodging branches with the grace of someone familiar with woodland pursuit.
I adjust the scope, tracking the movement until the runner comes into clear focus.
Knox.
The realization is so unexpected it nearly breaks my concentration.
Knox Eastman— the mismatched-eyed Alpha from Marcus's pack, the tech specialist with the quick wit and quicker smile —sprinting through the Dead Forest like demons are on his heels.
I pan the scope further back and realize that's not far from the truth. Five men in tactical gear are in pursuit, moving with the coordinated precision of a hunting party that's done this many times before. Their clothing is high-end despite its practical purpose—custom-fitted body armor, boots that cost more than a month's rent in any decent city, weapons that wouldn't be out of place in military special forces.
Rich men's hired killers. Here for me.
I track their movement, calculating trajectories, distances, possibilities.
Knox is fast— faster than most men his size have any right to be —but he's outnumbered and apparently unarmed. The hunters are gaining ground with each passing second, their longer legs and superior numbers giving them an advantage even Knox's obvious training can't fully overcome.
A shot rings out—not from my rifle, but from one of the pursuers. The bullet kicks up dirt just beside Knox's foot, close enough to make him falter, to disrupt his rhythm. He stumbles, momentum carrying him forward in an ungraceful tumble before he rights himself and turns to face his pursuers.
His hands rise in surrender, his chest heaving with exertion. Even from this distance, I can see his expression—a mixture of resignation and calculation, as if he's running scenarios in his head, looking for options where none seem to exist.
I shift position slightly, careful not to rustle the leaves around me, to remain invisible in my elevated perch. The scope brings Knox's face into sharp focus—sweat-slicked, flushed with exertion, but still maintaining that hint of irreverence that seems fundamental to his character.
Why is he here? Why alone? Where are the others?
Questions without immediate answers, and no time to ponder them properly. The hunters have surrounded Knox now, weapons drawn, postures radiating the casual confidence of predators who've cornered their prey.
I strain to hear their exchange, the distance making it difficult to catch every word. But the breeze carries fragments, enough to piece together the essentials.
"—the girl," one demands, his voice carrying the cultured tones of expensive education. "Where is she?"
Knox's response is too quiet to make out clearly, but his body language suggests confusion, or perhaps feigned ignorance.
"What girl?" I finally hear him say, the words accompanied by a nervous laugh that sounds uncharacteristic for the confident Alpha I'd briefly met. "You'll have to be more specific. So many girls, so little time."
The apparent leader steps closer—a tall man with silver at his temples and the bearing of someone accustomed to authority.
"The cunt bitch you lot were talking to during the audition. We reviewed the security footage. She's got a bounty on her head. Ten billion fucking dollars. We need that shit."
Ten billion?
The figure staggers me because now it’s clearly doubled in the last two days!
Marcus had said five billion—already an astronomical sum. But ten billion? That's nation-changing money. The kind of wealth that buys islands, overthrows governments, rewrites the rules of society itself.
No wonder they're hunting so openly. For that kind of money, the consequences would be worth it regardless of outcome.
Knox giggles— actually giggles —like the threat is amusing rather than deadly. He gestures at their expensive gear with a theatricality that seems out of place given the circumstances.
"You boys look pretty well off to need ten billion dollars," he observes, his tone conversational despite the guns pointed at his chest. "Designer tactical gear? Custom weapons? Seems like overkill for academy hunting grounds."
Three of the hunters shift their aim, fingers visibly tightening on triggers.
Knox raises his hands higher, the gesture somehow managing to convey both surrender and mockery simultaneously.
"Whoa there, trigger happy," he says, voice pitched higher with artificial fear. "I'm not part of Dead Knot, so you can go ahead and kill me, but you'll enjoy the rest of your freedom in jail. And that's only if you're lucky, because I'm from a prestigious empire of crazed motherfuckers and have a very cynical sister—but she's all the way in Ruthless Knot, and you know how them Omegas can be when they need revenge."
The statement is so absurd, so out of place in the deadly tableau unfolding below, that I nearly laugh despite myself. It's either incredible bravery or complete insanity to taunt armed men when you're unarmed and outnumbered.
And he has a sister? Attending here at Knot Academy, Ruthless sector?
The leader raises a hand, signaling his men to hold their fire. Knox's shoulders relax marginally, his smile widening into something that almost resembles genuine amusement.
"Good decision," he says, nodding approvingly. "Very wise. Excellent judgment. Gold star for?—"
His words cut off as the leader's boot connects with his chest, a vicious kick that sends Knox sprawling backward. The impact drives the air from his lungs in an audible whoosh, leaving him gasping like a landed fish.
"You're going to regret that," Knox manages between desperate breaths. "Just... give me a minute... to catch my breath first..."
The leader crouches beside him, producing a wicked-looking knife from a sheath at his belt. The blade catches the dappled sunlight, the edge gleaming with lethal promise as he presses it against Knox's throat.
"I'll gladly slit it deep enough for you to bleed to death if you don't tell me where this cunt is," he says, voice soft but carrying clearly in the sudden stillness of the forest.
Knox sighs, the sound surprisingly steady given the blade at his jugular.
"You know, I've never been the loyal type. But my Pack brother—you know, the one who wears a mask? The one you should know about if you did your research?" He pauses, a theatrical grimace crossing his features. "He has a big fat crush on that chick, and if I put her in danger, he's going to do more than slit my throat."
I shift position again, bringing my rifle to bear with practiced ease. The crosshairs settle on the leader's head, the distance and wind conditions automatically calculated through years of training.
One shot. Clean. Quick. But then what about the other four?
Below, Knox continues his bizarre monologue, seemingly unconcerned by the knife pressing harder against his skin.
"But hey, why don't I give you a hint? She's one with the trees."
My breath catches.
He knows.
Somehow, despite my careful concealment, despite the height and distance, Knox knows exactly where I am.
The hunters exchange glances, clearly questioning their captive's sanity.
"He's fucking mad," one of them mutters. "Just kill him and move on. We're wasting time."
Knox laughs, the sound holding a sharp edge that wasn't present before.
"Yeah, I'm a bit psycho. Usually happens when you don't get therapy because you can't afford it after your parents were killed in front of you and you're forced to watch your older sister be a sex slave just to keep you alive and barely fed. Really screws up the brain psychology."
The casual delivery of such horror startles me nearly as much as the content itself.
Is he telling the truth? Making up stories to buy time? Playing some angle I can't yet see?
If a percentage of what he just said is real, I can already feel my heart clenching in agony for him and his older sister.
Would he tell me if I asked? No…that’s for an Omega…his Omega. Whoever that may be.
The leader shakes his head, clearly losing patience with what he perceives as delaying tactics.
"I don't need your games or give a shit about whether your sister was raped. She probably deserved it."
Something flickers across Knox's face then—a darkness, a coldness that transforms his features from playful to lethal in an instant. It's gone so quickly I might have imagined it, replaced by his usual irreverent mask.
"We'll do the same to that bitch you're trying to protect, whether you want to live or not," the leader continues, pressing the blade harder, drawing a thin line of blood across Knox's throat. "So I won't ask again. Where. Is. She?"
Knox smiles—a genuine expression this time, reaching his mismatched eyes with a warmth that seems completely disconnected from the life-or-death situation he's in.
"Fine, I'll tell you," he says, leaning back slightly, his grin widening to manic proportions. "Fuck you."
Loyalty.
Right there and then, I realize for the first time that this man — this Alpha that barely knows me — was about to die for me.
I always assumed no one at Knot Academy would ever die for me.
Yet, this Alpha, riddled with insanity, was about to be the first.
The leader growls, drawing back the knife to plunge it into Knox's chest.
Time slows, my focus narrowing to a single crystalline point of absolute clarity. I exhale, finger squeezing the trigger with practiced precision.
The shot echoes through the forest, impossibly loud in the stillness.
The leader's head snaps back, a red mist exploding behind him as the bullet exits through the base of his skull. He collapses forward, knife falling harmlessly to the side as his body drapes over Knox's legs.
The remaining four hunters react with professional speed, weapons swinging up as they scan for the shooter. But they're too slow, too surprised by the sudden death of their leader. My second shot takes the one furthest to the left, catching him through the throat as he turns toward my position.
The third and fourth shots follow in rapid succession, dropping two more before they can even begin to return fire. The last hunter manages to get off a wild shot in my general direction before my fifth bullet finds his heart, ending the threat with clinical efficiency.
Five shots. Five kills. Less than five seconds from first to last.
The forest falls silent again, the echoes of gunfire fading into the distance.
Below, Knox shoves the leader's corpse off his legs, rising to his feet with a grace that suggests his earlier breathlessness might have been at least partially feigned.
He brushes dirt from his clothing with exaggerated care, straightening his jacket before tilting his head back to look directly up into the trees. Directly at my position.
"Nice shooting, Venom," he calls, confirming beyond doubt that he's known my location all along. "Though I had it under control, I promise."
I don't respond, still processing the rapid sequence of events and their implications.
Knox knew I was here. Possibly led the hunters straight to me. Certainly put himself in danger, whether as diversion or bait remains unclear.
Why? What game is he playing?
He steps over the bodies with casual disregard, moving to stand directly beneath my tree. From this angle, I can see his expression clearly—amused, self-satisfied, but with an underlying tension that suggests the danger isn't entirely past.
"You can come down now," he says, gesturing expansively. "Unless you're enjoying the view. The forest is lovely this time of year, especially with the new fertilizer I've just arranged."
His casual reference to the corpses scattered around him should disturb me.
Instead, I find myself fighting an inappropriate urge to laugh. There's something almost refreshing about his complete lack of pretense, of false morality.
Maybe we’re both crazy.
I start to reply, but the words die in my throat as another wave of dizziness sweeps over me, more intense than any before. The forest spins around me, the branches seeming to twist and writhe like living things. My grip on the rifle loosens, nearly sending it plummeting before I manage to secure it across my body with the strap.
"Fuck," I gasp, fighting to maintain consciousness. "Not now."
Below, Knox's expression shifts from amusement to concern.
"Venom? You okay up there?"
I try to respond, but my tongue feels swollen, uncooperative. The branch beneath me gives an ominous crack—not from my weight, which hasn't changed, but from my inability to maintain proper balance as the world tilts and spins around me.
Move. Now. Different branch. Safety.
I try to obey my own command, forcing deadened limbs to respond.
But it's too late.
My vision narrows, darkness encroaching from all sides like an advancing tide. I feel myself slipping, falling backward into empty space.
The last thing I register before consciousness flees entirely is not the ground rushing up to meet me, not the certain death that awaits at the end of my fall, but the strange clarity of a single thought:
I never told Rook which option I'd choose.