30. Blood And Rain

30

BLOOD AND RAIN

~JESSICA~

T ime slows in the way it only does during combat—each second stretching into infinity, senses heightened to preternatural levels, the world narrowing to a series of tactical opportunities and immediate threats. I raise the twin pistols, feeling their weight as extensions of my own murderous intent as the Alpha fumbles with his jammed weapon.

Our eyes lock across the rain-soaked clearing. Recognition registers in his expression—surprise followed by cruel amusement, as if my presence is somehow a gift rather than his death sentence. His lips curl into a sneer, revealing teeth that seem too sharp in the storm's eerie light.

"Well, if it isn't Elliott's little Omega bitch," he calls over the storm's fury, abandoning his jammed gun to pull a hunting knife from his belt. The blade gleams dully, rainwater running along its edge in rivulets that mimic the blood it's designed to spill. "Saves me the trouble of tracking you down later."

I don't bother responding to his taunts. Words are wasted energy in a fight for survival. Instead, I squeeze the triggers in rapid succession, expecting the satisfying impact of bullets tearing through flesh.

He moves with unexpected speed, dodging sideways as my shots go wide, the storm and my own injured state compromising my usually impeccable aim. Before I can adjust, he's charging toward me, knife extended, face contorted in a primal snarl that speaks of pleasure in violence rather than mere determination to survive.

There's no time to recalibrate, no opportunity for another shot. I throw myself forward, meeting his charge with one of my own, using momentum rather than strength to compensate for our size difference. We collide with bone-jarring force, my shoulder driving into his sternum as bullets from unknown shooters whiz past us both.

We go down hard, the impact knocking precious air from my lungs. The world spins in a kaleidoscope of mud and blood and fallen leaves as we roll down a slight incline, each struggling for dominance. His knife slashes wildly, catching my upper arm in a glancing blow that tears fabric and skin in equal measure.

The pain registers only distantly, cataloged and set aside as irrelevant to immediate survival. Another bullet skims past my ear—so close I feel the displaced air against my skin—before burying itself in a nearby tree trunk. Whether it came from Elliott's people or was simply a stray round from the chaotic firefight surrounding us is impossible to determine.

The Alpha uses our momentary distraction to gain the upper hand, his greater weight and strength allowing him to pin me briefly beneath him. Rainwater drips from his face onto mine, his expression transforming into something that sends ice through my veins despite the adrenaline burning through my system. It's the same look I saw seven years ago in that alley—the expression of an Alpha who sees an Omega as nothing more than prey, as a body to be used and discarded.

"Maybe I'll have some fun before I kill you," he growls, knife pressing against my throat with just enough pressure to break skin without severing anything vital. "Show you your proper place, just like Elliott did before."

The words ignite something primal within me—a volcanic rage that transcends fear, that burns through the last vestiges of hesitation or restraint. This isn't about survival anymore. It's about vengeance. About retribution. About ensuring this man and every one like him understands the deadly mistake of assuming my designation makes me vulnerable.

With a battle cry that tears from my throat with animal intensity, I drive my knee upward with all the strength I can muster. The blow lands perfectly, his grip on the knife faltering as pain explodes across his features. I don't waste the opening, bucking upward to dislodge him further, twisting to reverse our positions.

We roll again, leaves and mud plastering against rain-soaked skin and clothing, the storm's fury providing a fitting backdrop to our brutal struggle. When we finally come to a stop, I'm on top, straddling his chest, the position giving me leverage his greater strength can't immediately overcome.

My fists find his face with mechanical precision—one blow, then another, and another. Each impact sends a shock of pain through my already injured knuckles, but I welcome it, use it to fuel the savage rhythm of destruction I'm inflicting. Bone gives way beneath my assault, cartilage crumpling, skin splitting to reveal the red truth beneath the surface.

I'm screaming now, though I can't hear myself over the storm's rage and the blood pounding in my ears. Words have dissolved into primal sounds—growls, hisses, the raw vocalization of seven years of accumulated hatred and pain finding its release through my fists.

He tries to defend himself, arms rising to block my onslaught, but I'm beyond tactical thought now, operating on pure instinctive violence. I grab his wrists, slam them against the ground on either side of his head, then headbutt him with enough force that stars explode across my vision.

The momentary disorientation is worth it for the satisfying crunch of his nose collapsing beneath the impact. Blood gushes upward, mixing with rain to create a grisly mask that transforms his once-handsome features into something grotesque and broken.

He bucks beneath me, desperation lending him strength as he realizes this isn't a fight he's winning. I roll with the movement, using his momentum against him, coming back to my feet as he struggles to rise.

Before he can fully regain his stance, my boot connects with his ribs, the impact vibrating up my leg with satisfying force. He doubles over, exposing his face to my next kick. Blood and one or two teeth spray outward from the impact, his body crumpling to the muddy ground once more.

Part of me knows I should end this quickly—put a bullet in his head and move on to the next threat. But the rational tactical part of my brain has been overwhelmed by the primal need to make this man suffer, to ensure he understands exactly what it means to threaten me and mine.

I kick him again. And again. Each impact accompanied by grunts of effort that might be words, might be curses, might be prayers—not even I know anymore. I'm riding a wave of violence that has transcended conscious thought, reduced to the pure animal satisfaction of inflicting pain on someone who deserves nothing less.

Only when my foot misses its target, momentum carrying me slightly off-balance, do I remember the guns. I scan the ground, locating them half-buried in mud several feet away where they must have fallen during our initial collision.

I scramble toward them, suddenly aware of how exposed I am in the open clearing. The Alpha is struggling to all fours behind me, blood dripping from his ruined face to stain the already soaked earth beneath him. His movements are sluggish, uncoordinated, but he's still conscious, still a threat until permanently neutralized.

My fingers close around the first pistol with relief that transforms immediately to renewed vigilance. I reach for the second weapon, arm extending, fingers just grazing the grip?—

Movement in my peripheral vision sends me rolling sideways on instinct, barely avoiding the spray that erupts from a canister in the Alpha's shaking hand. Some of the mist catches me despite my evasion, stinging my eyes and burning the skin of my exposed neck and hands.

Pepper spray. Military grade, not the civilian stuff.

I recognize the distinctive sensation immediately, having been on both ends of similar weapons during Dead Knot's more chaotic territorial disputes. My eyes water profusely, vision blurring as I fight the instinct to rub them, knowing that would only grind the irritant deeper into sensitive tissue.

Instead, I take a deep breath, holding it momentarily before exhaling with all my strength, blowing outward as if I could force the caustic mist back toward its source. By some miracle of shifting wind patterns or pure desperate luck, it works—the spray catches a sudden gust, reversing direction to envelop the Alpha's already battered face.

His scream transcends pain, entering a register of agony that would inspire pity if aimed at anyone else. He claws at his eyes with frantic desperation, the chemical compound mixing with open wounds to create a torment far beyond what nature intended humans to endure. Blood mingles with the natural tears his body produces in a futile attempt to flush the irritant, creating crimson tracks down his ruined cheeks.

I stagger backward, fighting the vertigo that threatens to topple me completely. The world spins with alarming intensity, trees and sky seeming to trade places in a nauseating carousel. Something's wrong beyond the pepper spray, beyond the injuries sustained in our struggle. My body is trying to tell me something important, something urgent, but the message is lost in the chaos of immediate survival needs.

Muscle memory takes over where conscious thought falters. I raise the pistol, aim for his legs rather than center mass, and squeeze the trigger twice in rapid succession. The reports are muffled by the continuing storm, but the impact is immediately evident—the Alpha's screams reach new heights as bullets tear through both knees, ensuring he won't be pursuing anyone in the immediate future.

With the immediate threat neutralized, I allow myself a moment to assess the broader battlefield. The bodies scattered around the clearing are familiar—Elliott's self-styled pack, the Alphas who'd surrounded Emilia before my arrival on that fateful morning. Six or seven of them, sprawled in death positions that suggest they never knew what hit them.

But no Elliott.

Of course he wouldn't be here. He never does his own dirty work, never exposes himself to actual risk when others can serve as convenient shields for his cowardice. The realization brings a bitter taste that has nothing to do with the pepper spray residue.

A gasping sound cuts through my tactical assessment, my head whipping around so quickly that fresh waves of dizziness threaten my already precarious balance. Across the clearing, Knox's body convulses as Sera curses, rolling him onto his side as he fights for that first desperate breath after apparent resurrection.

Relief floods my system with such intensity that my knees nearly buckle. He's alive. After everything—the poison, the cardiac arrest, the firefight raging around his vulnerable form—Knox Eastman is breathing again.

The knowledge unlocks something within me, allows a momentary lowering of the hypervigilance that's been keeping me upright and functioning. As if responding to this internal permission, pain crashes through my system with fresh intensity, no longer compartmentalized by survival necessity.

I glance down at my clothing, the casual black ensemble now soaked through with rain and other, darker moisture. It's only because of the dark material that I can't immediately see the extent of the bleeding, but my body is finally sending clear messages my brain can no longer ignore.

I've been hit. Multiple times. Not direct shots but glancing blows, bullets tearing across flesh rather than penetrating fully—still damaging, still potentially lethal given enough time and blood loss, but not immediately incapacitating.

The realization should trigger panic, but instead, I feel oddly detached, almost curious about the mechanics of my own potential demise. I scan the forest edge again, ensuring no fresh threats have emerged while my attention was divided.

A strange sound reaches me through the storm's continuing percussion—music? The notes rise and fall with haunting clarity despite the physical impossibility of such a sound reaching this isolated clearing. It reminds me of something from a classical ballet, one of the pieces I danced to in another lifetime, when I was still whole, still innocent, still believed in futures that extended beyond vengeance.

The eerie sense of déjà vu intensifies as I tilt my face upward, feeling individual raindrops impact against my skin like tiny benedictions. Each droplet seems to move in slow motion, visible in perfect clarity before splashing against already soaked skin.

"Jessica!"

My name reaches me as if from underwater, distorted and distant despite recognizing Knox's voice. I try to turn toward him, to acknowledge his call, but my body no longer seems connected to my commands. The world tilts dramatically, gravity asserting its irrefutable dominance as my legs finally surrender to injury and blood loss.

I don't feel the impact when I hit the ground. Don't register the mud soaking into my hair, the leaves pressed against my cheek. All I know is that somehow I'm horizontal, staring upward at a sky transformed into moving art by the storm's continuing fury.

Thunder booms overhead, followed by lightning that fractures the heavens into jagged shards of brilliance. The display is beautiful in its terrible power, nature asserting its dominance over the petty concerns of humans who believe themselves important in the grand cosmic scheme.

Breathing becomes a conscious effort, each inhale requiring focus and determination that seems increasingly difficult to maintain. My thoughts drift, untethered from immediate concerns of survival, floating into philosophical territories I've avoided for years.

What am I fighting for, really?

The question emerges with unexpected clarity amid the encroaching darkness. Is it just for revenge? Just to ensure the six men who destroyed my life suffer equally before their deaths? Is that really all I've allowed myself to want, to plan for, to live for these past seven years?

Heavy regret settles over me like a physical weight, crushing what little breath remains in my lungs. I suddenly remember feeling this exact sensation before—lying in that alley, rain washing over my broken body, certain death was moments away. I'd made promises then, bargains with whatever cosmic force might be listening. That if I survived, I wouldn't just seek vengeance. I would live. Would find joy despite what had been taken from me. Would build something from the ashes of what had been destroyed.

Instead, I'd let the hatred consume me, narrow my existence to a single burning purpose that left no room for anything else. No room for connection, for joy, for the simple pleasures of being alive rather than merely surviving.

Cold seeps into my bones, a different kind of cold than mere weather can explain. My vision narrows, black spots expanding at the edges, consuming the storm-tossed sky in incremental bites. A curious detachment overtakes me, allowing philosophical clarity that's been absent for years.

This is what it means to die alone.

Despite Knox and Sera nearby, despite whatever connections I've begun forming with the four Alphas who've crashed into my carefully constructed isolation, I am fundamentally alone in this moment. As all humans ultimately are when facing the final transition.

The thought of the pack brings fresh regret, sharper now with the clarity of imminent ending. They'll find another Omega, of course. One less damaged, less consumed by revenge, more capable of whatever emotional connection they seek. But I find myself wishing I'd given them—given myself—the chance to discover what might have developed between us.

I'd been starting to like the idea, though I'd fought against acknowledging it even to myself. The possibility of belonging somewhere, to someone. Of having people who saw me for who and what I truly am and wanted me anyway.

My eyelids grow impossibly heavy, the effort to keep them open becoming too great to maintain. I expect darkness, expect the final extinguishing of consciousness that precedes whatever comes after life's completion.

Instead, a face materializes above me, swimming into focus with dream-like quality. Silver hair darkened by rain, eyes that have witnessed more death than most yet still burn with fierce determination to preserve life. Marcus's lips move, forming words I cannot hear through the roaring in my ears, the rush of blood leaving my body, the storm's continuing fury.

There's a certain cosmic irony to his presence in this moment—the same man who found me broken and bleeding seven years ago, who made the decision to save me rather than let nature take its course. Here again at what appears to be another ending, another transition from one state of being to another.

Almost as if he's locked in eternal combat with death itself, determined to thwart its designs where I'm concerned regardless of how many times our paths intersect at this particular crossroads.

The absurdity of it draws what little strength remains in my body into a final, faint smile. Then darkness rushes in like an unstoppable tide, consciousness receding as death or unconsciousness—I'm no longer certain which—claims its temporary victory.

Always temporary where Marcus is concerned.

The thought follows me into the void, a curious comfort as the world and all its pain finally, mercifully disappears.

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