10. Victor
My boots thud against the expensive hardwood floor of the living room. I pace the length of the rug. The rhythmic sound of my footsteps echoes off the vaulted ceiling.
I hate this feeling of losing control of my head. My cold, detached exterior took years to perfect. I built a fortress of arrogance to isolate myself. Now, a tiny woman with a sleek bob and a fierce glare occupies my thoughts.
I cross the room and stare through the bay windows. The manicured lawn offers no distraction.
My mind loops back to Olive. She sits in a cramped, depressing suburban box.
The investigator pulled the property records for us.
We know she shares a roof with her sister and a Beta brother-in-law.
She suffers through the brutal side effects of those suppressants in some tiny spare room.
The thought of another man living in the same house and looking at her makes my blood run hot.
My teeth grind together with the urge to fight.
I turn back to the room. Malcolm sits on the leather sofa, staring at the muted television. Finn leans against the mantle, chewing on his thumbnail. The tension in the house suffocates us.
Footsteps hit the hardwood in the hallway.
Lawrence walks through the archway. He holds his phone in a tight grip. His charming, relaxed mask vanishes, replaced by a grim scowl.
"We have a problem." Lawrence stops in the middle of the room. "My private investigator sent a text."
Every muscle in my back tenses. Finn drops his hand from his mouth. Malcolm sits forward.
"What happened?" I keep my voice tight, fighting the panic rising in my throat.
"She ran out the front door carrying a duffel bag." Lawrence rubs the back of his neck. "The P.I. said she looked terrified. She got into her sedan and sped down the street. He followed her from a distance."
My hands form fists. "Where is she?"
"She parked in a deserted strip mall lot on the edge of town." Lawrence checks his phone screen. "She looks distressed. She’s sobbing."
My vision tints red.
A fresh, unbonded Omega sitting alone in an empty parking lot paints a target on her back. The city crawls with desperate Alphas looking for an easy mark. She lacks a pack to protect her. She lacks a safe place to hide.
"Send the coordinates to my phone." I march across the living room and grab my keys off the marble console table.
Malcolm stands up from the sofa. "Victor, wait. You piss her off. Showing up right now will make things worse."
"I have to go get her." I look at Malcolm, pleading with my eyes for him to understand. "I refuse to let her sit in a vulnerable car while we wait around for her to change her mind."
"She needs space." Finn steps away from the mantle. "We push too hard. We overwhelm her."
"I refuse to leave her there." I grip my keys. My protective instincts surge. But they bypass my heart and manifest as raw, blinding anger. I thrive on anger. It serves as my armor. I feel furious at the situation.
She acts foolish. She behaves like a stubborn child throwing a tantrum.
We offered her a mansion, unlimited funds, and total security.
She chose pride over survival. Her ridiculous need for independence pushes her into real danger.
She thinks she can outrun her designation.
She thinks she can survive on the streets without a pack.
Her stubborn pride blinds her to the threat.
Every second she sits in that car, a predator Alpha could catch her scent.
"You act reckless." Lawrence follows me to the hallway arch. "You plan to storm a parking lot and play the dictator. She hates that macho routine."
"I refuse to stand around and wait." I grip the door handle, looking back at my packmates.
I tone down the bite in my voice, knowing they share my panic.
"Coaxing failed. Pleading failed. An unbonded Omega crying in a dark parking lot needs help.
She needs someone to step up and bring her somewhere safe. Let me handle this."
I step out into the hallway and stomp to the garage. The door slams shut behind me.
I hit the button on my key fob. The headlights of my sleek black sports car flash in the dim light. I slide into the driver's seat and grip the leather steering wheel. The engine roars to life with a deafening growl.
I throw the car into reverse and back out of the garage.
My jaw clenches until my teeth ache. I plan to pull up to her car, open her door, and get her into my passenger seat. She can yell and scream all she wants. I will endure her hatred to guarantee she makes it back to the safety of our guest wing.
Hitting the open road, I press my foot against the gas pedal. The speedometer climbs. I weave through the afternoon traffic with reckless precision. My blood burns with the frantic need to reach her before a real threat does.
She wants to act stubborn and sit in a dark parking lot, risking her life to avoid us. I refuse to let her become a victim of her own pride. I plan to get her out of danger, even if she hates me for helping her.
Weeds grow through the cracks of the deserted strip mall lot.
My sleek green Aston Martin creeps past faded storefront signs, tires crunching over loose gravel.
The abandoned grocery store on the corner casts long shadows over the pavement.
Her beat-up sedan sits parked under a busted streetlight near the back.
Hitting the brake pedal makes the tires squeal against the grit. Leaving a few feet of space between my door and hers gives her a clear path to back out. Throwing the gearshift into park cuts the engine. The silence of the empty lot feels oppressive.
A crisp March breeze hits my face the second the door swings open.
The lingering winter chill rises off the cold blacktop, biting through my thin shirt.
Crossing the narrow strip of asphalt between our cars takes two strides.
Smudges and dust coat her driver's side window.
The tinted glass fails to hide the misery inside.
Olive huddles behind the steering wheel.
A death grip on the worn plastic turns her knuckles bone white.
Fresh tears leave blotchy stains across her cheeks.
Ragged gasps shake her chest. The sight of her crying twists a painful knot in my gut.
A protective instinct flares, demanding blood from whoever made her cry.
But the harsh truth stings worse. We caused those tears.
A faint trace of her scent leaks through the car vents.
Crushed cinnamon and distressed apple pie hit my nose like a match to dry kindling.
Arousal twitches inside my jeans, thickening with an instinctual urge.
The desire to comfort her clashes with a desperate need to claim her.
Losing control frustrates my structured mind.
Seeing her tears makes my chest ache, so anger steps in to bury the vulnerability. Rage feels safer than fear.
My knuckles rap against the glass. The loud thud makes her jump in the driver's seat. Her head snaps sideways, brown eyes wide with panic. The terror in her gaze feels like a punch to the jaw.
"Roll the window down. Just crack it." Gesturing to the glass feels pointless when she shrinks back against her seat.
"Olive." Raising my voice ensures the sound penetrates the glass. "You’re alone in a sketchy parking lot. The sun goes down in a few hours. That makes you a target for any unbonded Alpha roaming the streets. Just roll the window down so we can talk."
"Go away!" Her hoarse shout vibrates through the closed window. "Leave me alone! I don't want you here!"
Resting my hands on the roof of her sedan, my face drops level with the glass. The chilled metal of her car bites into my palms.
"You're acting like a stubborn idiot." Frustration boils over, sharpening my glare. "Running from the people offering safety puts your life at risk to prove some stupid point about independence. Refusing our help makes no sense. I refuse to leave you out here alone."
"I would rather sleep in my car than talk to you!" A furious snarl twists her mouth.
The stubborn defiance grates on my nerves. Boiling anger consumes my patience and blinds my common sense. She needs to listen. Dropping those walls and cracking the window remains the best way to help her. Frustration pushes me to try an Alpha Command.
A Command requires immense focus. The sound bypasses an Omega's rational brain and compels them to obey, forcing submission through sheer instinct. Drawing a deep breath, projecting authority requires an unyielding foundation. Alphas need confidence to project a command.
A deep ocean of self-hatred rots my core.
Using rage to mask my paralyzing fear of loss works most days.
But the memory of a flatlining heart monitor still haunts my every move, stripping away the confidence.
The truth hurts. A broken mess pretending to be a king has no business barking orders.
Desperation overrides logic. My mouth opens.
"Roll down the window."
The Command misfires.
The sound leaves my throat lacking the deep, vibrating resonance of true authority. The frequency cracks and splinters in the crisp air. A fractured, weak tone carries the desperate pitch of a terrified man instead of the booming demand of an Alpha.
The order hits the glass and falls flat. It fails to compel her or trigger a single submissive instinct in her brain.
Olive blinks. The panic in her brown eyes fades, replaced by a stunning realization of my pathetic attempt.
My hands slip off the roof of her car. Stumbling backward, humiliation burns the back of my throat. The failure hangs in the air between us like a flashing neon sign.
Olive stares through the smudged glass. Fear vanishes from her brown eyes, replaced by a blazing, unyielding fury. The tears stop falling.
The window lowers three inches. The gap offers a clear path for her voice while a flood of distressed, sour apple pie scent hits my lungs.
"You tried to use a Command on me." Dark, venomous rage shakes her voice.
Standing frozen on the asphalt, my jaw locks tight. Offering a defense feels impossible when the fractured sound of my voice rings in my ears.
"You think you can bark a magic order and override my brain." Leaning toward the gap in the window, her eyes burn through my arrogant facade. "You think forcing me to listen works better than showing basic human empathy and asking for my trust."
The words hit like a slapshot to the ribs. Every syllable bruises.
"I tried to help you." Gritting the excuse out sounds weak and hollow. "Hiding in a sketchy lot paints a target on your back. You need your Alphas."
"I need a safe place!" Her shout echoes across the empty pavement, bouncing against the brick walls of the abandoned strip mall. "I need my job back! I need the life your entitled pack destroyed! You offer nothing but control and demands."
Gripping the steering wheel turns her knuckles white against the dark plastic.
"You want me to submit?" Absolute disgust drips from her tone. "Why would I ever submit to a hateful, entitled prick like you?"
A flinch escapes me. The insult slices into my chest, bypassing the anger and hitting a raw nerve.
"You act like a tough Alpha." A sneer curls her lips through the gap in the glass.
"But you lacked the spine to stand in a room with a sick child for five minutes without making the moment about yourself.
Complaining about the smell and your precious free time makes you a coward.
You ran and left a ten-year-old boy wondering what he did wrong. "
The accusation guts my remaining pride. She twists the knife into my deepest, darkest wound. Pink walls and sterile tubes flash behind my eyes. The suffocating terror of losing Loren steals the breath from my lungs. The hospital room felt like a graveyard.
Opening my mouth, the urge to explain burns on my tongue. Telling her about the trauma feels like a lifeline. Explaining the panic attack and the suffocating grief that drove me from that pediatric ward might earn a shred of understanding.
But my teeth snap shut. Using a dead sister as a shield to excuse toxic behavior crosses a line. Acting like a prick in that hallway and treating Sam like a burden warrants no sympathy. I deserve every ounce of the hatred shining in her eyes.
Olive glares through the glass for one more second. The window seals tight with a quiet click. Throwing the gearshift into drive, her foot slams on the gas pedal.
The sedan lurches into motion. Tires squeal against the cracked asphalt, leaving a trail of dark rubber in their wake. She speeds from the deserted strip mall lot and disappears into the afternoon traffic.
The silence of the empty lot feels loud in the crisp air. My hands drop to my sides. The anger that fueled my drive across town fades, leaving me feeling sick and hollow.
I stare at the empty parking space. The reality sets in.
My temper ruins everything. I use rage to punish everyone else for my own shit.
I use arrogance to hide the mess in my head.
Acting like a hostile prick soured her at the hospital.
Trying to control her drove her from the parking lot. I gave her every reason to run.
But a new, desperate truth settles in my chest. I want her in my life.
I want that fierce, unapologetic woman standing next to me.
Winning her back means making a hard choice right here on the asphalt.
I have to drop my toxic armor. I have to change, or I lose my Omega before I even learn her favorite color.
My hand reaches into my pocket and pulls my phone. I open the internet browser. I stare at the search bar and type the words.
Therapists specializing in anger management and trauma near me.
I hit search. A list of local clinics and private practices pops onto the screen. I tap the top link for a trauma specialist. I click the contact button and fill the new patient intake form standing on the cold asphalt. I type my name, add my phone number, and hit submit.
I lock the screen and walk to my car. Sliding into the driver's seat, I grip the steering wheel. Fixing the mess inside my head takes work. Earning her forgiveness requires a better man than the one sitting in this car.