13. The Price Of Breath
13
THE PRICE OF brEATH
~KAMARI~
" M eri jaan," Maharaja's voice cuts through the darkness like a blade, the Hindi endearment for 'my dear' twisted into something ugly. "Keep breathing so loudly, and I'll stop this car on the side of the road and silence you with the cock you surely missed!"
I try to control my breathing, to suppress the panic that makes each inhale sound like a desperate gasp in the confined space of the car. But it's easier said than done when your entire world is collapsing around you, when every breath might be counting down to your last.
What would he know about fear?
Maharaja has never known real anxiety, never tasted the bitter cocktail of uncertainty that's been my constant companion since childhood. His whole life has been cushioned by privilege – not even earned privilege, but stolen wealth accumulated through generations of ruthless acquisition.
I watch his profile in the intermittent glow of passing streetlights, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the scar that marks him as someone who takes what he wants regardless of the cost.
His family built their empire on the ruins of others, swooping in with perfectly timed bids when other families faced crisis or hardship.
How many ancient bloodlines saw their legacies crumble because of men like him? How many generations of careful stewardship ended because they couldn't compete with his family's bottomless resources and criminal connections?
But who would stop him?
No one has managed it yet.
The police? Bought. The courts? Influenced. The media?
Controlled.
His reach extends into every corner of power, every institution that might hold him accountable.
He was never meant to feel like the sacrificial lamb.
Not like me.
The thought brings a fresh wave of bitterness. I wasn't born to be the favorite child, the cherished daughter. From my first breath, I was an investment – a future bargaining chip in my father's endless quest for more power, more connections, more wealth.
Never loved. Never adored.
Just assessed for value like a piece of jewelry to be traded when the price is right.
My thoughts drift to my grandmother – Nani – lying in her sickbed across the city. The last time I saw her, she could barely lift her head, years of submission to the patriarchy having worn her body down to nothing but sharp angles and quiet dignity.
Even if she knew what was happening to me now, what could she do? In our world, status is everything. Without money, without power, you're less than nothing – worth less than the garbage that lines the streets.
Would she try to help me if she could? Or would she be like my mother – another Omega broken by the system, conditioned to accept that our suffering is simply the price of existing?
The questions circle in my mind like vultures, picking at the remnants of my hope. My grandmother taught me to read, snuck me books when my father thought education would make me too independent. She was the one who first showed me that words could be weapons, that knowledge was its own form of power.
But she also taught me about survival. About keeping your head down when the storm rages, about bending so you don't break.
"Sometimes, meri beti," she would whisper, stroking my hair as I cried after another of my father's rages, "the river must flow around the mountain because it cannot move it."
But I'm tired of flowing around mountains.
Tired of reshaping myself to accommodate the immovable forces in my life.
A sob catches in my throat, drawing a sharp look from Maharaja. The threat in his eyes is clear – make another sound and he'll make good on his promise to silence me.
The thought of his touch, of being forced to service him on the side of the road like some common whore, makes bile rise in my throat.
How different from the tender passion I'd shared with Damon and Kieran what felt like moments ago.
Thirty minutes that feel like lifetimes now.
My hand drifts to my neck, where their kisses had left marks of pleasure rather than pain. Will those marks still be visible when Maharaja and his pack are done with me?
Will there be anything left of me to mark?
The trees along the highway blur into a dark mass, their shadows reaching for the car like grasping fingers. Each mile takes us further from safety, from the possibility of rescue, from any chance of a different ending to this story.
My mother's voice echoes in my memory:
"This is the way it has always been, beta. This is the way it must be."
But is it? Really?
The world is changing. The Knot Their Omega Movement proves that. Omegas are fighting back, demanding rights, refusing to accept the old ways simply because they're traditional.
Too late for me, though.
The irony tastes like ash in my mouth. I'll probably end up as a cautionary tale in their movement – another Omega who dared to dream of freedom only to pay the ultimate price.
The car speeds through the night, eating up distance with mechanical efficiency. Each rotation of the wheels brings me closer to those sprawling estates where Omegas disappear behind high walls. Where the staff pretend not to hear screams, where money buys silence more effectively than any gag.
Three days.
That's what Maharaja said earlier in his mumbling tangents.
Three days of "training" before they have to acknowledge my existence with the authorities. Three days for him and his pack to break and punish me for daring to reject them, to ensure I never even think of running again.
If I survive that long.
The way he keeps glancing at me suggests he hasn't decided if he wants me to. The scar on his face catches the light each time he turns, a constant reminder of what happened to the last Omega who defied him.
At least Lakshmi went out fighting.
Left her mark on him, ensuring he'd never forget her defiance.
Maybe that's the best any of us can hope for, but what wound can I leave behind to plague him with the memory of hurting me?
Ruining me and the chance of a future.
Not survival, but the chance to leave a scar of our own before the end.
Rain begins to fall, fat drops splattering against the windshield in a rhythm that feels mockingly peaceful. There's something ironic about it – as if Fate itself is trying to wash away any evidence of the last few hours, to cleanse the world of the brief happiness I'd found.
My thoughts drift to those diamond-encrusted sandals, abandoned in the mud. I hope Kieran found them before the rain could destroy such beautiful craftsmanship. Something so precious shouldn't be ruined by one man's jealous rage.
But isn't that what's happening to me?
The rainfall intensifies as we exit the freeway, turning onto the winding country roads that lead to the estates. Ancient trees loom on either side, their branches creating dark tunnels that seem to swallow what little light remains.
We're almost there.
A sudden tickle in my nose makes me sniff, and when I wipe at it, my hand comes away red. Blood drips steadily, adding to what's already flowing from the gash on my head. The metallic taste at the back of my throat makes me wonder if the dashboard impact did more damage than just the obvious concussion.
More blood drips, falling onto the pristine fabric of my saree. I lift both hands to my nose, trying desperately to stem the flow.
"Crying isn't going to get you out of this, Kamari," Maharaja snaps, turning to look at me.
Our eyes meet, and for a fraction of a second, I see something unexpected flicker across his face – concern? Fear? It's gone before I can process it, replaced by something far more immediate.
A loud horn blares through the night.
"*DAAYAN!*" The Hindi word for 'right' tears from my throat as headlights flood the car's interior.
But it's too late.
The impact hits the driver's side with devastating force, and suddenly we're airborne. The car lifts off the ground in a graceful spiral that seems to defy physics, time stretching like warm honey as we rotate through the rain-soaked night.
Everything slows to a crystalline clarity.
Glass shards catch the light as they explode inward, each piece its own constellation suspended in the air around us. The ringing in my ears becomes a single, pure note – like the singing bowls my grandmother used during meditation.
And then the memories begin.
They start with my earliest recollection: cradled in my grandmother's arms, her face beaming with pride as she presents me to the family. But even in this moment of joy, violence lurks at the edges. My mother's sobs echo from another room as my father rages about her failure to produce a son.
The scenes cascade faster now, yet each one burns itself into my consciousness with perfect clarity.
Age three: Hiding under my bed as my father's business associates leer at my mother, making comments about how she's still young enough to try again for a proper heir.
Age five: My first dance recital. The joy of movement freedom shattered by my father's criticism – "She moves too boldly for an Omega. We must break this willfulness early."
Age seven: Watching silently as my cousin is married off at twelve, her eyes dead and empty as she's led away by a man four times her age. The adults call it tradition. I call it the day I learned what my future held.
Age ten: My first proper saree, wrapped so tightly I could barely breathe. "Beauty requires sacrifice," my aunts crooned as they pinned and tucked. But their eyes held warnings rather than pride.
Age thirteen: The first time I truly understood what being an Omega meant in our world. Watching through a crack in the door as my father negotiated marriage contracts for me like he was selling prize cattle.
Age fifteen: The night I caught my mother swallowing pills in her bathroom, tears streaming down her face as she prayed for the strength to endure another day. I never told anyone, but I started planning my escape that night.
Age seventeen: Standing before my mirror in another wedding saree, practicing the submissive smile expected of me while my soul screamed for freedom.
The memories blur together – a thousand little deaths of spirit, a million moments where joy was crushed under the weight of expectation. Years of watching the light fade from my own eyes, of seeing my reflection grow dimmer with each passing season.
Until finally, I see myself as I am now: nineteen, wrapped in a saree stained with blood and rain, spinning through the air in a car with a man who sees me as property to be broken.
But it's not fear I see in this final reflection.
It's regret.
Not regret for running away – never that. But regret for all the years I spent trying to be what they wanted. For every moment I dimmed my own light to make others comfortable. For every time I swallowed my words to keep the peace.
For believing, even for a moment, that I deserved any of it.
The realization hits harder than the car that struck us. All these years, I've been running from them, but in many ways, I've also been running from myself. From the truth that my worth isn't determined by their measurements, that my value doesn't decrease because they fail to see it.
Glass continues to spiral around us like diamonds catching starlight. The car's rotation seems endless, each fraction of a second stretching into infinity. In this suspended moment between impact and consequence, I see my life with perfect clarity.
Every choice that led me here.
Every moment of submission and rebellion.
Every spark of joy they tried to extinguish, every dream they attempted to smother.
And for the first time, I see something else in my reflection.
Beyond the regret, past the pain and fear, there's something new emerging in my eyes. Something that looks surprisingly like hope.
Because even if this is how my story ends – suspended in this moment of crystal clarity and shattering glass – at least I'm facing it on my own terms.
At least I tasted freedom, however briefly, before the fall.
Irony at its finest, and yet I wish that this isn’t my end.
That this could ignite the beginning of my rebellion.