22. Ghosts Of The Past
22
GHOSTS OF THE PAST
~JESSICA~
T he comfortable silence that follows a satisfying meal settles over the table, punctuated only by the occasional clink of silverware against plates and the soft sounds of contentment.
I can't remember the last time I ate this well— probably not since before the alley, before my life fractured into before and after . Bastian's cooking far exceeds what passes for meals in Dead Knot, where sustenance is prioritized over flavor, function over enjoyment.
I'm scraping the last bits of syrup from my plate when Marcus clears his throat, setting down his coffee mug with the deliberate precision that seems to characterize his every movement.
"We have school today," he announces, the statement so incongruous with our current situation that it takes me a moment to process his meaning.
Knox groans dramatically, head falling back as if physically pained by the reminder.
"I thought we'd forget about the whole Knot Academy bullshit," he complains, pushing his empty plate away. "Can't we just...not? Is that an option? Can we vote on that?"
Bastian sighs, the sound weary but resigned.
"Is it really necessary to go when we've taken out most of those hunting Nightshade?" he asks, glancing at Rook before returning his attention to Marcus. "Security concerns aside, our presence there seems increasingly superfluous."
Marcus turns to Rook, one eyebrow raised in silent inquiry.
The unspoken communication between them is fascinating to observe—the way Marcus defers to Rook's expertise in this matter despite clearly being the pack's leader, the way Rook responds to the subtle prompt without resentment or challenge.
"Sixteen teams neutralized," Rook confirms, his voice carrying the particular flatness that I've learned indicates he's reporting facts rather than expressing emotion. "Four remaining, though two are currently...indisposed."
I blink, the casual reference to what must be ongoing torture breaking through my breakfast-induced contentment.
"Wait," I say, fork pausing halfway to my mouth. "You have people chilling in your basement while you're all the way here?"
Rook shrugs, the gesture deceptively casual given the subject matter.
"Marination is an essential component of effective information extraction," he explains, as if discussing a cooking technique rather than torture methodology. "Isolation, discomfort, and anticipation create psychological vulnerability that physical methods alone cannot achieve."
"They're probably drenched in some proprietary liquid compound that makes staying still absolutely torturous," Knox adds helpfully, reaching for the last piece of bacon. "Rook's quite the innovator in the field of 'making people extremely uncomfortable without technically violating Geneva Convention protocols.'"
The matter-of-fact discussion of torture methods over breakfast should disturb me more than it does.
Perhaps it's a sign of my own damaged moral compass that I find myself more curious than horrified—wondering exactly what techniques Rook employs, what information he's extracting, whether his methods are as effective as he implies.
Or perhaps it's simply that I've done similar things to those who've hunted me over the years.
"Even if we'd prefer to avoid playing by the system's rules," Marcus continues, steering the conversation back to the original topic, "Jessica remains on the bounty list. We can't hide from reality indefinitely."
His gaze sweeps the table, making brief but meaningful eye contact with each of his pack members.
"It would be cowardly," he adds, the word clearly chosen to provoke a specific response. "And none of us are cowards, least of all the star of our show."
Four pairs of eyes turn to me, and I feel heat rising in my cheeks at the sudden attention.
Being the focus of so much Alpha intensity at once is ...overwhelming, to put it mildly. Each of them radiates a different quality of attention—Marcus's calculating assessment, Knox's bright curiosity, Bastian's steady watchfulness, Rook's smoldering possession.
"My friend's waiting for me to come back," I admit, playing with the edge of my napkin. "Emilia. She gave me three days before she sends 'every digital weapon in her arsenal' looking for me. And possibly actual secret services, knowing her flair for the dramatic."
Knox smirks, setting down his fork with unusual precision.
"She already tried to hack my system," he reveals, pride and amusement coloring his tone in equal measure. "Almost succeeded too, which is saying something. I had to implement a rather creative distraction strategy."
"What do you mean, 'distract her'?" I ask, suddenly concerned for my friend's wellbeing. Emilia's singular focus when she sets her mind to something can occasionally lead her into dangerous territory.
Knox shrugs, the gesture deliberately casual in a way that immediately makes me suspicious.
"I sent my sister to provide an interpersonal intervention," he says, reaching for his coffee. "She has a particular talent for disrupting digital hyperfocus through applied socialization techniques."
I stare at him, parsing the unnecessarily complex explanation.
"You sent your sister to... what? Physically drag her away from her computer?"
"More or less," he concedes with a grin. "Though 'dragging' implies more resistance than was ultimately required once proper incentives were introduced."
"What does your sister get in return?" I ask, knowing from limited experience with sibling dynamics that such favors are rarely performed without expectation of compensation.
"She wants to meet you," Knox replies simply. "Or more accurately, she wants to invite you to join her 'carefully curated cohort of extraordinary individuals who refuse to conform to societal expectations regarding appropriate female behavior.'"
I blink, taking a moment to translate.
"She wants me to... join her posse of friends?"
Knox nods, seemingly pleased with my interpretation.
"Precisely. Though I should warn you, her definition of 'friendship' involves substantially more trust exercises and collective mischief-making than the statistical norm would suggest."
The idea of being incorporated into a female friendship group—of being invited to participate in normal social bonding—is so unexpected that I'm momentarily speechless. It's been years since I allowed myself anything resembling a typical social life. Years since I considered myself capable of the vulnerability real friendship requires.
"I'm not good with friends," I finally admit, staring at my empty plate rather than meeting anyone's eyes. "Not anymore."
"What do you mean?" Bastian asks, his deep voice gentle despite the directness of the question.
I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation has taken.
"My best friend was Elizabeth Abercrombie," I say, the name feeling strange on my tongue after so many years of careful avoidance. "Before..."
I trail off, unable to continue, eyes drifting automatically to Marcus.
Our gazes lock, and something passes between us—understanding, perhaps, or shared knowledge of what that 'before' entails. He gives me a subtle nod, encouragement without pressure, permission to share as much or as little as I choose.
The gesture shouldn't mean as much as it does.
This man has orchestrated so much of my life from the shadows, has manipulated circumstances and people to achieve his own ends. And yet, in this moment, I feel an unexpected gratitude for his presence, for the steady anchor he provides as I contemplate revisiting my darkest memories.
I take a deep breath, gathering courage I didn't know I needed for this conversation. The others wait patiently, no one pushing or prodding, giving me space to find my way through this minefield of memory.
"We met when we were kids" I begin, the words emerging hesitantly at first, then with increasing fluidity as I allow myself to remember. "Both of us thinking we were going to take the academic world by storm until we became ballet champions at Juilliard. Would only be more of an achievement due to whom we were, you know? She was this absolute firecracker—brilliant, fearless, determined to prove that Omegas could excel in fields traditionally dominated by Alphas and Betas."
A small smile touches my lips at the memory of Elizabeth in those early days—her mane of platinum blonde hair always escaping whatever attempt she'd made to contain it, her blue eyes fierce with determination, her laugh bright and unexpected in the stuffy lecture halls.
"She was the first person who didn't look at me differently when I presented as Omega," I continue, fingers tracing patterns on the tablecloth. "My parents had... sheltered me, I guess you could say. Protected me from the realities of what being an Omega in our society actually means, but then again, we kinda knew the inevitable. I just… I had no idea what I was walking into."
I think back to the final days before the incident.
Before the real nightmare began…
“People don’t like outgoing Omegas. Those who outshine as if we’re not born into a world that thrives on dimming our existence in any shape or form. It’s not like now, how I barely wear a pop of color. My hair is only this shade because it reminds people of a burning flame. Trouble that spreads and leaves nothing but ash and regretful consequences.”
I smile at my own analogy before my eyes darken.
"We were inseparable, really. She always had my back, no matter what," I say, picking up the thread of my story. "We had every intention of graduating and being the first early bird Omegas on full scholarships into Harvard, but then…well…”
I pause, swallowing against the tightness that's building in my throat. This is the hard part—the transition from before to after, from happiness to horror. The dividing line that separates who I was from who I became.
What became my new reality.
"That night came that changed my life. I thought I was making the right choice. The safer option in an odd situation
The irony of that decision— the choice that led directly into danger rather than away from it —still burns after all these years.
One simple choice, made with the best intentions, that changed everything.
"They were waiting in the shadows between buildings," I continue, my gaze fixed on some middle distance, seeing not the kitchen but the scene that's played on repeat in my nightmares for seven years. "Six of them. All Alphas. All wearing the same fraternity jackets, though I didn't recognize the letters at the time."
I don't need to look at the others to feel the change in the room's atmosphere—the sudden stillness, the sharpening of attention, the subtle shift in scents as four Alphas react to the threat in my narrative, even though it's long past.
"They surrounded me," I say, voice growing flatter as I distance myself from the emotion of the memory. "Made comments about a bright, sweet, innocent Omega out alone after dark. Wearing such clothes…'asking for it' dressed the way I was. I didn’t know a school uniform was suddenly deemed sexual enough to be ra…” I pause, struggling to say the word. To acknowledge it at all. " Raped. Abused. Tortured. I told them to fuck off, and I wasn’t here for any type of trouble. Just trying to go home.”
I pause, taking a steadying breath.
"That's when the first one grabbed me. Yanked me by the hair so hard, hoping I’d scream for help. Guess I was being too loud after that, cause then I was hit in the back of my head. Everything after that is... fragmented."
The memories come in flashes, disjointed and chaotic— feeling the contorted constraint in my face, the pain pulsing through my body in dismay, my own voice screaming until something silenced it, hands tearing at clothes, the cold ground against my skin, pain so intense it transcended physical sensation to become something almost metaphysical.
"I remember their leader clearly," I continue, voice now completely devoid of emotion—the only way I can get through this part without breaking. "Elliott Prescott Junior. He kept talking the whole time. Explaining what they were doing, why we deserved it, and how this would teach us our place in the hierarchy."
The name lands in the silence like a stone dropping into still water, ripples of recognition radiating outward. I don't look up, can't bear to see their reactions—pity, horror, rage, whatever emotions my story is evoking.
"When they were done, they left. Gone as if I didn’t matter. As if nothing they did mattered, simply because it was done to me. An Omega," I say, the words mechanical now, as if I'm reciting something learned by rote. "I don’t know how long I must have been there. I thought I was dying, too. Everything hurt so much that death seemed like the only possible outcome. The only mercy left."
My voice catches, and I have to pause, gathering the fraying edges of my control.
“I surely laid there for what felt like hours. Until the very sky must have felt pity for me because it began to rain. It felt so ironic. I wondered if it was another punishment. To drench me in the cold cast of rain that would wash the way to the crime scene, as if everything that was done to me would even matter. I knew…it wouldn’t.” I swallow the lump in my throat, the acceptance still leaving a bitter taste in my mouth even after all these years. “But to have it actually happen to you…I guess it’s that moment where you wake up and finally smell the coffee. It’s not like people hadn’t come and passed. It’s not like I was invisible. The blood…the scent of my agony and me being an Omega, I surely could have been found…but all those who didn’t care about Omegas walked past. Like I was simply trash in a dumpster, waiting for the right people to pick me up.
The silence that follows is absolute—no movement, no sound, as if everyone at the table is collectively holding their breath. I force myself to continue, needing to finish now that I've started, needing to expel these words that have lived inside me for so long.
"After that, it's mostly darkness," I say, fingers clenching and unclenching in my lap. "Waking up in a private medical facility. Being told that, as far as the world was concerned, Jessica Vesper Calavera had died alongside her friend. That I could stay dead, or I could reclaim my life and face the same system that had already failed me once. Thanks to a certain someone’s mercy."
A bitter smile curves my lips, no humor in the expression. I’m sure Marcus knows that I’m talking about him, and I’m even more assured that the rest of his pack knows it.
"I chose a third option," I say, finally looking up to meet their gazes one by one. "I decided to become someone new. Someone who wouldn't be a victim. Someone who would hunt instead of being hunted."
The intensity in their expressions would be overwhelming if I allowed myself to fully register it—Rook's barely contained fury, Knox's analytical focus masking deeper emotion, Bastian's stoic compassion, Marcus's knowing acceptance.
"Since then, I've made it my mission to find each of those six Alphas," I continue, voice stronger now as I move from past trauma to present purpose. "To make them pay for what they did to me. How they ripped and destroyed my future. Ruined the friendship, I didn’t see the need to fix because…I wasn’t the same person anymore. The naive me was gone, just like the future in store for whom I was supposed to become.”
"You've been using Knot Academy as cover," Knox says, the words not a question but a realization. "Dead Knot in particular, because of its lawlessness."
I nod, grateful for his matter-of-fact approach, for the absence of pity in his assessment.
"No one pays attention to the weird loner Omega in Dead Knot," I explain. "No one questions when she disappears for days at a time, or when she returns with unexplained injuries. And no one investigates too deeply when certain Alphas who cross her path end up missing or dead."
"The perfect hunting ground," Bastian observes, his deep voice thoughtful rather than judgmental. "Hidden in plain sight."
"Exactly," I confirm, meeting his dark eyes briefly before looking away. "I've been tracking them for years, picking them off one by one whenever I could locate them without exposing myself. It wasn't easy—they scattered after what happened, protected by family connections and money. But I'm nothing if not persistent."
"And successful, apparently," Marcus notes, his tone neutral but his gaze sharp with assessment. "And confirm the number of eliminated fuckers?"
The question is direct, without artifice or judgment—a simple request for information rather than an accusation. I appreciate the straightforwardness more than I can express, especially with that pinch of derogatory label.
"Four," I answer, matching his directness. "The two who held me down while the others..." I pause, unwilling to articulate those specific details. "Them first. Then the one who filmed it—kept saying he was going to make me famous online. Then the one who wanted to plan a round two when he found out I was at Knot Academy."
The clinical detachment with which I relay this information doesn't match the savage satisfaction I felt when each of those men drew their final breaths. Doesn't convey the way my hands shook after, not with guilt but with the release of rage long contained.
"And the remaining two?" Knox asks, leaning forward slightly, his mismatched eyes intent on my face. "Confirm it one more time."
It’s not like he’s asking me to repeat myself for the hell of it.
I know the power this Alpha has in our judgmental, financially stricken world where money talks and bullshit listens. They know this as well. He’s asking me to repeat myself so they know I’m not going to regret the madness that they’ll ensue on these Alphas if I don’t kill them first.
Their mere assumption of their support
I hesitate, weighing the implications of sharing this information. These four men have already inserted themselves into my life in ways I never anticipated, have already committed significant resources to my protection. Revealing the identities of my final targets feels like the point of no return—the moment where their involvement becomes irrevocable.
But haven't we already crossed that line? Aren't we already bound by blood and violence and whatever this strange connection between us might become?
"Elliott Prescott Junior," I say finally, the name bitter on my tongue despite the years that have passed. "He was their leader. The one who planned it all, who wanted to 'teach me a lesson' about the natural order. About what happens to Omegas who don't know their place. I wouldn’t doubt that he knew who I really was…who I was the daughter to, and exploited that, but that’s assumptions that will need to wait for the day I can capture and torture it out of him."
I pause, gathering courage for the final revelation.
The name I've kept closest, the one I've been most careful about pursuing.
"And Senator Richard Caldwell."
The reaction is immediate and visceral—a collective intake of breath, a shift in posture from all four Alphas, an almost palpable spike in tension that charges the air between us.
I guess the senator is a more surprising revelation than Elliot.
"The senator," Marcus repeats, his voice carefully controlled but an underlying current of something dangerous rippling beneath the surface. "You're certain?"
I nod, meeting his gaze squarely.
"He wasn't a senator then—just a wealthy legacy student with political ambitions and a reputation for treating Omegas like disposable toys. He was what I guess one would deem the cheerleader." I swallow hard, forcing myself to continue. "While Prescott raped me...he..kept telling me to 'cry prettier' because he liked watching up close."
The unified growl doesn’t necessarily startle me, but I’m not expecting all four of them to react to my truth. The vulgar cruelty of the memory makes my stomach churn even now, years removed from that night.
Some horrors don't fade with time—they just burn themselves deeper into your consciousness, become part of the foundation upon which everything else is built.
Knox doesn’t say anything, but he’s on his tablet in a heartbeat, fingers flying until he’s staring at something that clearly catches his interest.
"And now he's poised to announce his candidacy for the presidential nomination," Knox says, the words flat with contained anger. "The 'family values' candidate who's built his entire platform on 'traditional dynamics' and 'protecting Omega virtue.'"
"The ultimate hypocrite," I agree, a bitter smile twisting my lips. "Using his crimes as a stepping stone to power rather than a source of shame. Building a career on the backs of those he violated."
"That explains the bounty," Bastian observes quietly. "Prescott might be motivated by vengeance, but Caldwell's motivations would be primarily protective. Self-preservation."
"He can't risk exposure," Marcus agrees, fingers steepled before him as he processes this new information. "Not with his political aspirations so close to fruition. Your continued existence represents an existential threat to everything he's built since that night."
"And he's willing to spend ten billion to eliminate that threat," Knox adds, the calculation evident in his tone. "Though I suspect that figure would increase substantially if he knew exactly who you were targeting and why."
I lean back in my chair, suddenly exhausted despite the early hour.
Recounting that night, laying bare the mission that's driven me for seven years—it's taken more out of me than I expected. The vulnerability of sharing these painful truths with four people I'm still learning to trust weighs heavily, a gamble whose outcome remains uncertain.
"So now you know," I say, voice quiet but steady. "Why I'm at Knot Academy. Why Prescott wants me dead. Why I've been reluctant to accept your protection, your pack, your... whatever this is."
My gesture encompasses the four of them, the table between us, the domestic scene we've created that exists in such stark contrast to the violence of my revelations.
"Because once you've been broken that completely," I continue, meeting each of their gazes in turn, "it's hard to believe that anything can ever be truly safe again. That anyone can be trusted with the pieces that remain."
The silence that follows feels charged with potential—like the moment before lightning strikes, when the air hums with energy and possibility.
In this suspended moment, I can't predict how they'll react, what this disclosure will change, whether I've just secured allies or created complications I can't afford.
All I know is that for the first time in seven years, I've shared the full truth of that night with someone other than my own reflection.
For better or worse, these four men now know exactly who I am, what drives me, what I'm willing to do in pursuit of justice for Elizabeth. For myself.
The question that remains— the question whose answer will determine everything that follows —is what they intend to do with that knowledge.