Chapter 12
“Oh my god, this place is too nice!” I’m nearly bouncing out of my seat as Rich pulls up to the intimate restaurant.
It’s small, with crawling ivy and beautiful, warm-toned lights wound through trellises.
A valet stand is out front, and I watch one of the attendants drive away with a sports car that costs as much as med school did.
I’m now wondering if my outfit is appropriate for this type of place.
Rich grabs my hand and kisses the back of it. He flashes me a gorgeous grin that threatens to melt me. “What, did you think I forgot what today was?”
Our anniversary.
We’ve been dating for four years now, and every moment of it has been bliss.
We met during our first year of residency, and we were both fortunate to secure full-time positions in the emergency medicine department at St. Mark’s Medical Center in Florida after graduation.
It wasn’t a big deal for me to move across the country to work alongside him.
My first preference was closer to my parents, but when it comes to choosing my parents or the man I love, I’m choosing Rich every time.
My Alpha is a dream. He’s kind, gentle, and understanding. I’ve never met someone so attuned to how others are feeling. He’s a great doctor and an even better partner. He defies all stereotypes about Alphas, and I love him all the more for it.
I could never be with a chest-banging, caveman-like, aggressive Alpha. Even some of the Alphas with larger statures make me nervous. Rich is tall, but not exceptionally tall, and his build is on the slender side for an Alpha.
I feel safe in his arms.
He opens my car door, but before I can climb out, he crowds me, stealing a kiss from my lips. I melt under his touch.
Four years and he still makes my knees weak.
“Come on, gorgeous,” he purrs, taking my hand and pulling me out of his sports car. He tosses the keys at the valet without looking. I wobble a bit on my heels but correct myself quickly, and he wraps a hand around my lower back, tucking me into his side.
The restaurant is softly lit, creating a romantic ambiance that has my heart galloping.
We haven’t discussed marriage much, and my Omega hasn’t pushed me to bond with him yet.
I don’t know why. Maybe I need a ring first, the stability of that promise, for my Omega to take over and bond him.
I’ve heard about how it’s nearly impossible to hold back a bond with your scent match, especially during heat, but I haven’t struggled.
Maybe it’s because I’ve not yet gone through a heat with him because of the suppressants I’m on.
It’s been four years since we got together. He must be thinking about marriage, right? He has to know that I’d say yes. I moved across the country for him. He’s my everything.
Every step has my chest tightening with excitement. Is this it? Is he going to propose to me tonight?
It would be a beautiful place to do it, with the twinkling candles and scent of fresh flowers in the air. We pass a wall of expensive wines, and I wonder which we’re going to open after I accept his proposal .
Today is going to be the beginning of the rest of my life, and I couldn’t be more excited.
I can’t imagine doing this with anyone else.
We turn a corner into a dimly lit and secluded portion of the restaurant, and the waitress gestures at a table, indicating that it’s ours.
But it’s already occupied with two huge men.
Rich pulls a chair out at the table, and must see the confusion on my face, because he covers my hand with his. His eyes are soft and sweet, and I find myself relaxing into his touch instinctively.
“Alex, I’d like to introduce you to Tripp and Greg. My pack.”
My phone blares, waking me out of a fitful sleep. My clothes are stuck to my sweat-drenched skin, and my hair is tangled from thrashing.
As I pull it up to answer, I notice the time is only a little after three in the morning. I haven’t even been out that long.
“Yes?” I say, my voice thick with sleep.
“There’s been an injury. You’re needed at the dress tent immediately. Hurry”
The line clicks, and it takes me a moment to orient myself and remember where I am after that trip down memory lane my dreams took me on.
After a few moments and a couple of slaps to my cheeks to wake me up, I slide on my flats and grab my bag, not caring that I’m braless, not worrying about the fact that every inch of my legs is on display.
This is why they hired someone with experience in emergency medicine. Someone is hurt, and I need to be there quickly. I don’t have time to change. In an emergency, a few seconds can make all the difference.
I rush into the dress tent to find it empty.
I turn on one of the lights that are connected to the portable generator, and frown.
It looks exactly as it did when I last saw it.
Two metal tubs, filled with the now tepid water from the twins’ ice baths, a few crates, a wardrobe, and a desk with a mirror for makeup application.
It’s a bare bones tent, but functional—a transitional space.
And there’s no one here—no sign of a disturbance or blood on the ground from an injury.
I pull out my phone, intending to call the person back, assuming that in their fear for their colleague, they told me the wrong location, but the call was from a blocked number. I must’ve missed that in my half-awake state.
I still would’ve answered it, but maybe I would’ve been on higher alert of the situation I was walking into.
Turning to leave, I startle backward when three men in clown masks block the entrance to the tent.
How long have they been there? I didn’t hear them come in. I was too preoccupied with trying to parse out the emergency.
These aren’t sweet clown masks that they’re wearing. They’re horrifying, with fake blood and exposed bones, sinister expressions twisting their features.
“Ha ha, very funny,” I say woodenly. “Wonderful hazing. You totally got me. I’m terrified.”
They don’t speak.
They press forward in synchronized steps.
Leave it to the circus to give me a trio of well-rehearsed attackers. I wonder if they practiced this moment.
I take several steps backward, every part of me screaming to put more space between me and them. I don’t need to read their expressions on their face to interpret the messages their bodies are broadcasting loud and clear.
I’m not safe.
Alarm bells that I had spent so long ignoring, wondering if they were even still functional, flare to life, and I’m not going to make the mistake of disregarding them again.
Not after what happened last time.
I spin on my toes and rush for the opposite side of the tent, where the second entrance is, in hopes of escaping the men.
A hand presses between my shoulder blades and shoves, and I go flying. My head hits the side of one of the tubs.
If this were a cartoon, little birds and stars would be spinning around my head, and my eyes would have little ‘x’ marks over my pupils. But it’s not, and instead, my vision is white in the corners because of the sharp pain.
But I can handle this. I’ve been here before. This is nothing new.
I’ve felt worse.
I struggle to my feet, pivoting in an attempt to escape again, but they’re on me, crowding me against the tub. With every step they take, I mirror them, eventually pushing the backs of my legs against the cool metal of the tub.
They haven’t spoken. Not a single sound has crept around the corners of those terrifying masks. It’s like something out of a nightmare or a horror movie.
They barely seem to be breathing, their chests still and bodies held rigid. Like they’re not even real. Not alive. Statues that were purchased from a discount Halloween store.
But this is not a nightmare .
This is not a horror movie.
This is the continuation of my fucked up life, and I’m going to have to figure a way out of this.
“I don’t know what this is about,” I begin, trying and failing to keep my voice even. Demure. Unoffensive.
Don’t make the men angry.
Don’t make yourself too big.
Keep your head down.
Keep your voice low.
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“Omega bitch,” one of them snarls. It looks like I’ve found out who has hemorrhoids.
His mask looks as if it were dipped in acid, with the skin and makeup melting down its face.
“No one wants you here. You’re going to fuck everything up with your Omega bullshit. Leave now or there will be problems.”
“I’m just here to do a job. You won’t even know I’m here.” Unfortunately for me, I’d rather deal with the creepy clown triplets than what is waiting for me back home.
I wonder if that’s a unique experience. Has anyone else ever made the decision to face a trio of horrifying clowns rather than return to their pack?
My hands are shaking, so I curl them into tight fists. “I won’t screw up any dynamics. You have my word.”
“You already have,” another spits. This one’s mask has a fake knife sticking out of one of the eyes. At least, I hope it’s fake. “We can’t even scent your pheromones, and you’re already getting everyone in their heads.”
I want to rant that it’s not my responsibility to ensure that Alphas know how to control themselves around an Omega, but something tells me that won’t go over well with this particular crowd.
My head is throbbing from the impact with the tub, and my ribs ache from exertion and memories.
It’s not the first time I have been at the whim of three angry men, and I’m struggling to keep my wits about me and not drop to the floor and cover my head with my arms. “Just let me go,” I whisper, hoping the whine I feel building inside me doesn’t escape.
The third, silent until now, takes a big step towards me. We’re nearly chest to chest, and I can’t look away from his mask. Half of the face is a skeleton, the other a sadistic clown that looks like something out of hell.
“What will you give us for your freedom?” he whispers. It would probably be a sexy whisper after a lengthy discussion on boundaries with an emphasis on safewords, but in this one, it may as well be a blade shoved into my eardrum.
None of these men sounds familiar to me, but I haven’t been here that long. How would I hope to recognize them? It’s not like I’ve talked to everyone at length.
I do know this isn’t Jude. None of them are broad enough, large enough, to be the showrunner Alpha.
It’s not the twins. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.
It’s not Matteo. They’re all Alphas, for sure.
That leaves Quinton.
Could any of these be the quiet, perpetually stoned Alpha who took me nest shopping and got me groceries?
Every cell in my body revolts at the idea.
No, these aren’t men I know.
I may be stuck, I may be at their whim, but hell clown is speaking my language. I can do transactional safety.
“What do you want?”
What do I have to offer them?
That’s a stupid question.
I know what I have to offer .
I’ve been here before. Seen this movie play out a million times.
I know the ending.
When hell clown drags a hand down my neck, across my shoulder, and trails it down my arm, I know what he is going to ask for.
Why did I think I could escape? What made me think I was ever going to be safe?
Hope is a disease that no doctor can cure.
A terminal illness.
I let my guard down for just a few minutes, and look at me now. Look where I’ve ended up, after everything I did to get safe.
Same trauma, different territory.
I’m starting to think this is what I deserve. There is all sorts of talk about Alphas and Omegas being fated to be together, but maybe this is the thread the fates weaved for me.
After all, while I am not the one committing the offense, I am the common denominator.
There’s a place in my mind that I hoped I would never visit again, but I know that it will welcome me with open arms—a place where nothing can hurt me. Nothing can touch me there.
There, I am safe.
It is a paddock in the middle of a beautiful meadow, with babbling brooks running through it and fields of wildflowers that stretch as far as the eye can see. Wild horses running and butterflies landing on my nose.
As hell clown’s massive hand shoves up my shirt and grips my breast roughly, I open the gate of the paddock in the corner of my mind and run in, slamming it behind me and falling into the grass of my meadow.
Nothing can hurt me here .
But the hand is ripped away as quickly as he touched me, and I’m falling backward, crashing into the tepid water that still fills the tub from the ice baths the twins took tonight.
Hard to believe that was only a few hours ago.
“We gotta go!” one of the clowns shouts, as I scramble up, trying to catch my breath.
I watch impassively from under the water as they leave, half in the paddock in my mind and half out.
If I stayed in my paddock, in my meadow, I could be done with all of this. I could forget the trauma forever and live out my eternity in a beautiful, peaceful place.
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
Maybe that’s what I should do, instead of trying to run away.
What would I need to do to stay there forever? For my mind to leave my body behind and exist in the stillness that is my utopia?
“Why the fuck is this light on?” Jude’s rough voice fills the tent, slamming the gate shut on my paddock and forcing me to leave my meadow behind.
I jerk out of the water and clamor to my feet in the tub.
“You assholes better have a good reason since it woke me the fuck up!” It takes a moment for him to notice me, standing fully clothed and dripping wet on the other side of the tent.
I step slowly out of the giant metal basin, my teeth chattering and my arms wrapping around my body.
He’ll think it’s the cold.
Not that it’s very cold outside, and the water was room temperature, but that’s the easiest explanation, and the one his brain will no doubt latch onto.
My medical bag is by his feet, so I stoop to grab it as I pass him. Jude’s massive hand lands on my shoulder, and I can’t hold back my whine as I jerk away from him .
It’s a battle not to run to my meadow again. But I push down the urge, instead focusing on leaning across the fence, peering into the space but not crossing the threshold.
He swears and starts to apologize for touching me, but I don’t hear him over the sound of fresh running water and neighing horses.
I keep walking.
I walk to my trailer, to my nest, and hope that there I am safe.
It appears that I will never escape men who think I owe them something just for existing. It’s always going to be the same.
Same trauma, different territory.
As I climb the stairs to my trailer, I resist the urge to turn around.
I know without looking that Jude has followed me.
Prey always knows when it’s being stalked.