26. Fractured Reality
26
FRACTURED REALITY
~JESSICA~
I stare at Elliott, my body feeling numb while I'm sure my very pupils have dilated to take in the man before me. The world around us seems to fade, sounds becoming muffled and distant as my focus narrows to the monster who destroyed my life so completely.
He looks the same. Different, but the same.
The years have been kind to him in the way they often are to wealthy men born into privilege and power. His blonde hair is styled with calculated perfection, not a strand out of place, the golden hue reminiscent of the way mine used to be before I dyed it crimson and orange to match the flames of vengeance burning inside me. Designer stubble frames a jawline that's been featured in society magazines and business publications, the carefully maintained roughness an affectation of masculinity rather than true ruggedness.
And his uniform—the Knot Academy blazer and pants in the same shade as mine, but with gold trim that designates his status in Prestigious Knot rather than the bloodstained crimson of Dead Knot. The sight of it makes bile rise in my throat. How dare he walk these grounds as if he belongs here, as if he's anything but the predator I know him to be.
His scent hasn't changed from that night—expensive cologne with underlying notes that remind me of rotting vegetation, a nauseating combination that makes me want to vomit here and now. But I'm too filled with shock to move, let alone react to this man's presence.
I've played this moment out in my mind countless times over the years. Rehearsed what I would say, what I would do when I finally came face to face with the ruthless son of a bitch who led the pack that ruined me, who took my purity and left me for dead in that rain-soaked alley. But none of the scenarios I envisioned led to confronting him right outside of Dead Knot territory, in broad daylight, surrounded by witnesses.
This isn't how it was supposed to go.
In my imagination, I would corner him alone, somewhere private where I could take my time making him understand exactly what he took from me before ending his miserable existence. I would be in control, prepared, armed with more than just a small pistol and the element of surprise.
I can't kill him here. Not like this. Not with so many witnesses, not without risking expulsion and criminal charges that would prevent me from finding the remaining sixth man on my list. Even if I were willing to accept those consequences—and part of me is screaming to do exactly that, to end his life regardless of what comes after—I couldn't live with being so sloppy.
Seven years of careful planning, of rebuilding myself from the broken pieces he left behind, of crafting the perfect revenge—I can't throw it all away on an impulsive act, no matter how desperately my body aches to do exactly that.
But I can't move. Can't speak. Can't even breathe properly as past and present collide with such violence that the world seems to fracture around the edges of my vision.
Elliott decides to speak first, his voice hitting me like physical blows, each word a perfect echo of the taunts he whispered in my ear that night.
"Who does this Omega think she is, shooting one of my pack members?" He steps closer, invading my space with the same entitled confidence he displayed seven years ago. "Someone needs to teach her some manners."
Pack members . The words penetrate the fog surrounding my thoughts. This pretentious mastermind is using these Alpha douches as his personal muscle. I almost want to laugh at the predictability—of course he wouldn't operate alone. He's always needed an audience for his cruelty, has always drawn strength from the sycophants surrounding him.
The wounded Alpha spits blood onto the ground near my feet, his face contorted with pain and rage. "She fucking shot me! Are you going to let her get away with that? Do something!"
I swallow the lump in my throat, trying to force my body to respond, to run, to fight, to do anything other than stand frozen in the presence of my greatest nightmare made flesh.
Emilia tugs on my arm, her voice cutting through the static filling my head. "Jessica, we have to go. Now."
The urgency in her tone finally breaks through my paralysis. I nod jerkily, turning away to get on the motorcycle. Escape. Retreat. Regroup. The tactical part of my brain takes over, pushing aside the emotional maelstrom threatening to drown me.
A hand closes around my wrist, stopping my movement. The touch is like acid on my skin, burning through layers of carefully constructed defenses. My whole body freezes as my gaze darts back, meeting Elliott's with undisguised hatred.
That playful, cocky grin spreads across his face—no different from the one he wore that night as he tore my life apart piece by piece. "Where do you think you're going when I'm talking to you, Omega?"
The slur in his voice when he says "Omega" is unmistakable—contempt dripping from every syllable, reducing me to my designation rather than acknowledging my humanity. Just as he did that night, when he explained in clinical detail why Omegas like me needed to be "put in their place."
Before he can say another word, he hisses in pain, jerking his hand away from my wrist. My eyes barely register the flying arrow that was only an inch away from piercing through his flesh, now embedded in the ground at his feet.
All eyes scan for the culprit, landing on a figure standing just within the gates of Dead Knot territory.
Knox.
He stands with casual confidence, another arrow already nocked in a sleek compound bow that looks more like a weapon from a science fiction movie than traditional archery equipment. His mismatched eyes are so dark with possessive rage that they're almost frightening even from this distance, the usual playful spark replaced by something colder and more predatory.
When our eyes lock, he tilts his head with a sadistic smile. "Oops."
There's a heartbeat of silence as everyone waits for the follow-up apology, the expected 'my bad' that would defuse the situation.
Instead, Knox's smile widens, revealing too many teeth to be reassuring. "I should have aimed better, but I won't miss the next time."
Murmurs ripple through the growing crowd of onlookers. A few Alphas curse under their breath, clearly reassessing the threat level of the situation. Nearby Omegas whisper among themselves—"Who the fuck is he?" "He's hot as hell with that bow and arrow."
Elliott's face darkens with rage, mouth opening to issue what I'm sure will be another threat. But before he can speak, three more figures materialize between us, forming a living wall that separates me from my nightmare.
Marcus. Bastian. Rook.
They arrange themselves with the precision of a military unit, Marcus in the center with Bastian and Rook flanking him. Their postures are perfectly aligned—shoulders squared, stances solid, a united front that radiates controlled power rather than brute force.
Marcus and Bastian appear outwardly calm, their expressions betraying nothing beyond mild interest in the proceedings. But Rook... Even with his placid expression, I can see the slight tremor running through his powerful frame, the barely contained violence in every line of his body. He's a hair-trigger away from exploding, from tearing through Elliott and his cronies with the savagery I've witnessed firsthand in Dead Knot's darkest corners.
Elliott's expression shifts from rage to confusion, then back to arrogance as he processes this unexpected development. "Who the fuck are you people?" he demands, voice pitched to carry, to assert dominance over the situation slipping from his control.
Instead of answering, Marcus turns his back on Elliott completely, dismissing him as if he were nothing more than an annoying insect. The deliberate snub draws gasps from the watching crowd—no one turns their back on Elliott Prescott Junior, not if they value their social standing or physical wellbeing.
Marcus focuses his full attention on me, his silver-gray eyes assessing my state with a depth of understanding that makes my chest ache. He sees it all—the terror, the rage, the paralysis—and doesn't judge me for any of it.
"Go ahead to class," he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear the gentleness beneath the authoritative tone. "One of us will pick you up before first break."
I try to respond, but the words catch in my throat. I'm still too close to the edge, too fragmented by the collision of past and present to form coherent thoughts, let alone speak them aloud.
Understanding flickers in Marcus's eyes. With careful deliberation, he cups my jaw in his palm, the touch so gentle it makes something crack inside my chest. Then he leans forward and places his lips against mine in a kiss so soft it feels like a question rather than a demand.
The simple contact acts like an anchor, dragging me back from the abyss of memory and panic. His scent surrounds me—sandalwood and cedar, old books and expensive whiskey—overriding the nauseating smell of Elliott's cologne that had threatened to drag me back to that night.
Shocked whispers ripple through the watching crowd. "Are those older men her pack mates or something?" "I've only ever seen her with the big one in the mask, but I thought they were just fuck buddies."
Marcus pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine to ensure the contact has achieved its intended effect. "Ride along," he murmurs, hand still cupping my face with that unexpected tenderness. "Bastian will put your bike away, so don't worry when you reach your building."
I nod, still unable to form words but feeling the paralysis receding enough to function. He presses another kiss to my lips—this one more possessive, a deliberate claim made in full view of Elliott and his pack—before stepping back to allow me passage.
Moving on autopilot, I mount the motorcycle, securing my helmet with hands that shake only slightly now. The engine roars to life beneath me, the vibration grounding me further in present reality rather than past trauma.
I accelerate away from the confrontation, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to watch the four Alphas growing smaller in the distance. Knox catches my gaze as he strolls out from Dead Knot territory to join the others, offering a wink that somehow conveys both reassurance and promised violence in a single gesture.
The ride to the academic building feels eternal despite lasting only minutes, the world around me still slightly unreal, colors too bright, sounds too sharp. Emilia clings to my waist from her position behind me, her questions buzzing in my helmet's comms system like distant insects. I can't process her words, can't formulate responses beyond noncommittal sounds that she eventually accepts as the best she'll get for now.
When we arrive at the building, Emilia dismounts first, moving to stand in front of me with concern etched across her expressive features.
"Are you okay?" she asks, blue eyes studying my face with uncharacteristic seriousness.
"Yes," I lie, the word emerging mechanically. "Go ahead and save me a seat. I'll be right behind you."
She hesitates, clearly unconvinced. "Are you sure? Because that was some serious shit back there, and you look like you've seen a ghost."
Not a ghost. A monster. The monster.
"I'm sure," I insist, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face. "Just need a minute to clear my head."
She studies me for another long moment before nodding reluctantly. "Okay. But if you're not in there in five minutes, I'm coming back out with reinforcements."
The threat would make me smile under normal circumstances—the idea of five-foot-nothing Emilia marshaling "reinforcements" to check on me. But I can barely manage a nod in response.
"Got it. Five minutes."
Satisfied with this promise, she turns and heads into the building, throwing one last concerned glance over her shoulder before disappearing through the doors.
Alone at last, I sit motionless on the motorcycle, its engine now silent beneath me. The world continues around me—students rushing to class, faculty members striding purposefully between buildings, campus security making their belated and useless rounds.
But I'm not here anymore.
I'm in that alley again. Rain soaking through my clothes, concrete rough against my back, six faces looming above me in the darkness. Elliott's voice, cultured and cruel, explaining why this is happening, why I deserve it, why my pain means nothing compared to the lesson I need to learn.
The sound of my uniform being torn. The laughter. The flash of the camera phone. The smell of expensive cologne mixing with the dumpster's reek. The pain— God, the pain —as they take turns, as they reduce me to nothing but a body to be used, violated, discarded.
And through it all, Elliott's voice, calm and collected even in the midst of savagery: "Cry prettier for the camera, Omega. Your daddy might pay more if the footage is quality."
The memory engulfs me, drowning out present reality as effectively as if I'd been physically transported back to that night that ruined everything.