7. Charlotte
CHAPTER 7
CHARLOTTE
M y head throbs, pulsing with each heartbeat as consciousness creeps back. The concrete floor beneath me is cold, unforgiving against my naked skin. But the poor excuse of a bed is worse, so the floor will have to do. I don't know why I thought someone would come and return what was left of the dirty clothes I've been wearing for weeks. I'm not surprised they've left me naked, cameras still recording in the corners, giving the assholes of the world one hell of a show. It's debasing, humiliating, but nothing like witnessing me being taken against my will. Regardless of my body’s natural proclivities, rape is fucking rape. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to remember. Refusing to feel. Not yet .
"Help! Please, somebody help me!" A voice breaks the silence, feminine and terrified.
I force myself to move, crawling toward the heavy metal door of my cell. Each movement sends daggers of pain through my body, but I make it, pressing my face near the gap at the bottom.
"Hey," I whisper, my voice barely there. "Hey, I hear you."
The sound of sobbing on the other side hitches. "Who—who's there?"
"I'm Charlotte. What's your name?" I ask, keeping my voice as inviting as I can considering my own circumstances.
"Reya." Her voice cracks. "Where am I? What is this place?"
Before I can answer, someone hisses from another cell. "Shut up! Both of you! Just shut up!"
"They'll hear you," another voice warns. "They'll come back."
But I can't stay quiet. Won't stay quiet. These bastards might have taken my clothes, my dignity, pervasively invaded my body, but they haven't taken my voice. "Reya, listen to me. You're not alone. There are others?—"
"Others who want to live," a male voice interrupts, hollow and defeated. "I'm Patrick. Been here. . . two months. Three? Lost count after they started. . ."
The silence that follows is heavy with his unspoken horror.
"The things they do to us," Patrick continues, voice barely a whisper. "The heats they force, the. . .the breeding examinations. Sometimes I pray they'll just kill me already. Fucking sell me. Anything is better than this."
Rage burns through me, hotter than the shit they pumped through my veins when they induced my heat. My hands curl against the concrete until my nails crack and my fingers bleed. "No," I growl. "No, we're not dying here. None of us are."
"Charlotte," Reya whimpers, "I'm scared."
"Good. Fear keeps you sharp." I press closer to the gap, ignoring how the cold floor leaches warmth from my body. "But don't let it paralyze you. Channel it. Use it," I tell her and myself.
"You don't understand," Patrick says. "Do you know how many men and women are out there between us and freedom. They're well organized. This isn't some random operation, they know what they're doing. They have doctors, guards, Alphas—strong Alphas—everything's calculated and well planned."
"Then we'll be smarter. Find out what we can, help each other." My voice grows stronger with each word. "I've spent years fighting for our rights, exposing abuse, building networks. People are looking for me. They'll be looking for all of us." For all our sakes, I really hope I'm right.
Someone scoffs. "Famous last words."
"No," I insist. "These are fighting words. I don't care what they've done to me, what they plan to do. I refuse to let them break me. Patrick, Reya—everyone listening—we're getting out of here."
"How?" Reya asks, a desperate edge to her voice.
I close my eyes, thinking of Brookes, of my parents, of every Omega I've ever helped. "First, we survive. We watch, we learn, we gather information. And when the moment comes, because it will come, we act together." Again, I force bravado into my voice, I have to believe there's a way out of this. I will not fall into a pit of despair, I can't.
"They'll kill us," Patrick whispers.
"Maybe." I press my palm flat against the door. "But I'd rather die fighting than live like this. Sold and forgotten, lost to those who love and care for us. We're Omegas, they've always underestimated us. That's their weakness, not ours."
The silence that follows is different this time. Less desperate, more contemplative. I can feel it, the tiniest spark of hope flickering in the darkness. God, please let me speak our freedom into existence. I don't want to let these people down.
"Now," I say, keeping my voice low but firm, "tell me everything you know about this place. Some of you have been outside your cells, actually seen the layout of this place. Every detail matters. Together, we're going to?—"
Heavy footsteps echo down the corridor, and everyone falls silent. But before I retreat from the door, I whisper one last time: "Stay strong. Stay ready. Don't lose hope."
The footsteps grow closer, and I crawl back to my corner, but my mind is already racing, planning, calculating.
The door to my cell crashes open with a metallic screech that sends me scrambling backward. My body betrays me, curling into itself, arms lifting to shield my face. I hate this. Hate how my muscles remember the pain, how my instincts override my determination.
Get up, Charlotte! Stand your fucking ground!
But I can't. My recent trauma plays on repeat—their hands, their scents, the violations—and I'm cowering like a frightened animal. Two guards advance, their Alpha pheromones filling my small cell, making it hard to breathe. One of them tosses something white at me that lands in a heap on the floor.
"Put it on," he barks, his voice grating against my eardrums.
I reach for it with trembling fingers. Not clothes exactly—a simple shift dress, thin as a hospital gown and about as dignified. Still, it's better than nothing. I unfold it, clutching it to my chest.
"Turn around," I demand, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
The guards exchange amused glances. "Now she wants privacy," the taller one snickers. "Wasn't so shy on camera."
Pure rage runs through my veins and the casual way he mentions what happened to me. "Fuck. You!" I bite out, my voice is pure venom. The audacity of these assholes.
His eyes narrow, but the second guard, who sporting a nasty scar down his exposed neck, grabs his partner's shoulder. "Let her dress. We're on a schedule."
They don't turn, but they do step back, giving me the barest illusion of space. I slip the dress over my head as quickly as my aching body allows, swallowing the humiliation that threatens to choke me. The fabric barely reaches my knees, thin enough that the chill still penetrates but it's armor, nonetheless.
The moment I'm covered, Scar-neck lunges forward, his fingers dig into my bicep so hard I cry out before I can stifle it. He yanks me toward the door and I stumble, my bare feet slapping against the concrete.
"Let go!" I twist in his grip. "I can walk on my own."
"Shut up," he hisses, dragging me into the corridor.
For the first time clear headed, I see the place of my captivity—a long hallway lined with identical metal doors, each with a small slot at the bottom. Dim fluorescent lights cast everything in a sickly pale glow. I try to memorize details, count doors, note the cameras mounted in corners. Information is survival.
“Charlotte?!” Reya’s voice is muffled through her cell door, shrill with panic. “Charlotte, where are they taking you?”
"It's okay," I call back, earning a rough shake from my captor. "I'll be?—"
The guard's hand clamps over my mouth, fingers pressing painfully into my cheeks. "One more word and I'll break something. Understand?"
I glare at him over his hand, but nod. When he removes his grip, I taste blood where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek.
"Someone's eager to talk to you," the other guard says, his tone mocking.
Cold dread pools in my stomach. "Who?"
"You'll see." Scar-neck pulls me around a corner, through a door that requires a keycard. Three beeps and a green light. I have taken a mental note.
We enter a different section. Its hallways are cleaner, brighter, with paint on walls instead of exposed concrete. This isn't a prison cell block, this looks almost administrative. I catalogue everything, noting two additional key-carded doors, a stairwell, and what looks like a security office with monitors glowing through glass walls.
They stop me before a wooden door—actual wood, not metal. It's jarring, this sudden shift to normality.
"Remember," Scar-neck breathes into my ear, his scent making me gag, "you are merchandise. Valuable merchandise, but with the price on your head, they'll buy you broken, so fucking behave."
I hit the chair hard, my body still so sore that the impact sends fresh pain tingling through my limbs. The conference room is surreal in its normality—polished table, ergonomic chairs, even a potted plant in the corner catching light from a window with actual blinds. For a moment, the sharp contrast between this corporate setting and the horror of my cell makes me wonder if I've gone mad.
"Sit," one of the guards barks, though I'm already down.
They move to stand at the door, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me but minds elsewhere. I glance around, taking inventory. No visible cameras, though I assume they're there. No weapons within reach. Just me in a flimsy dress, and what looks like a round speaker sitting in the center of the table like a bizarre centerpiece.
It crackles to life without warning.
"Charlotte Matthews." The voice is deep and masculine, educated, a man of means I assume. “How the mighty have fallen."
I straighten my spine despite the pain. "Who am I speaking to?"
A chuckle emanates from the device. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you. Senator Justus Blaine, at your service."
The name hits me like a physical blow. Blaine. The man who's fought against every piece of Omega protection legislation I've advocated for. The man who called me "an unfortunate anomaly in the natural order" during a live debate.
"Surprised?" The distorted voice continues. "Don't be. You've been a thorn in my side for years, Ms. Matthews. Your tiresome crusade for Omega rights has complicated matters for people who understand the natural order far better than you."
"Natural order?" I spit the words. "Is this what you call natural? Kidnapping? Rape? Selling human beings?"
"Correction, the selling of Omegas. And yes, this is precisely the natural order. Alphas lead, Betas serve, and Omegas, well, Omegas provide service and children. It's simple biology that your generation has complicated with needless sentimentality."
My hands curl into fists beneath the table. "You think you can get away with this Senator? I know people have noticed my absence from the public eye. They'll?—"
"They'll what? Launch investigations that go nowhere? Shed tears on television? Mercy Smooth will rally the troops, stage a protest?" The voice drops even lower. "By the time anyone connects the dots, you'll be property, broken and bred until that fiery spirit is nothing but a memory. "
I feel cold sweat breaking out across my skin. "The Foundation?—”
"The Have Faith Foundation will continue its little charity work, minus its most vocal advocate." There's a smile in his voice now. "In fact, your disappearance will work in our favor. One more missing Omega statistic, proof that these 'safe cities' are a dangerous fantasy. More reasons for protective legislation, well the kind of protective legislation that will benefit my invested parties."
My mind races, cataloging the implications. Breath leaves my lungs because it all becomes clear. The kidnappings aren’t just about profit, they are about control. Terrorize Omegas, make them fearful, instill doubt into our supporters. To finish it off, to really hammer it all home, push through new laws that strip away what little freedom we have left.
“You’re staging a crisis to justify oppression,” I whisper, rage and horror coiling together in my chest.
“Staging?” Blaine tuts. “No, Charlotte. I’m merely capitalizing on the inevitable. And thanks to your disappearance, my newest bill is on the Senate floor right now.”
God !
“I’ll expose you,” I promise, voice shaking with fury. “I don’t care where you send me. I’ll fight. I’ll burn your entire fucking operation down.”
“You’re welcome to try,” he says, utterly unbothered. “But by tomorrow, you’ll belong to someone else. You're being auctioned tonight, Ms. Matthews. Quite the bidding war is brewing, I understand. Prominent activists make for excellent exotic pets, especially ones as recognizable as yourself."
The walls seem to close in around me. Tonight. Hours, not days. Everything I whispered to Reya and Patrick, the hope I tried to give them was meaningless. There won't be time for planning, for gathering information, for resistance.
"Nothing to say? How disappointing. I expected more fight from the woman who once called me 'a relic of oppression in a three-thousand-dollar suit'."
“Fuck you.” My voice shakes with fury. “I am not a fucking pet.”
“You say that now.” The satisfaction in his tone makes my blood boil. “In time, you’ll be grateful for your place. They all are.”
I force words through numb lips. "You're making a mistake."
"No, Charlotte. The mistake was yours, thinking you could change the world. The mistake was believing Omegas deserved more than their biological destiny." He chuckles, as if the idea is mere lunacy and continues. "It's been enlightening, but I have a vote to cast, ironically, on a bill your disappearance will help pass. Farewell."
The speaker clicks off with depressing finality.
I sit frozen, staring at the now-silent device. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in the wounds still healing across my body. Tonight. An auction. No more time.
The guards move toward me, ready to drag me back to my cell. I don't resist, not yet. Hours, not days. Impossible odds. No time to plan. No time to escape. Damn it! I won’t go quietly.
I’m not dead yet, Senator.
And if there’s one thing they’ll learn about me, it’s that I wasn’t made to bow.