7. Rook
Chapter 7
Rook
T he crowd roars as my fist connects with the alpha's jaw. He staggers back, blood spraying from his split lip, but he doesn't go down. These beta-born alphas are getting tougher. Or maybe I'm getting slower.
"Kill him, Holloway!" Someone shouts from the crowd.
I circle my opponent, keeping my guard up. He's younger than me, with that hungry look they all have when they first start fighting. Like they've got something to prove. I used to be the same way. Now I just need the money.
The alpha lunges, his move so obvious I almost feel sorry for him. I sidestep, letting his momentum carry him past me, then drive my elbow into his kidney. He drops to one knee with a grunt of pain.
"Stay down," I tell him. "No shame in it."
But he doesn't listen.
They never do.
He rises, swaying slightly, blood dripping from his lips onto the dirt floor. The crowd's roar intensifies, a hungry beast demanding more violence. This isn't The Pit. If they want that shit, they can go there. This is just an abandoned warehouse with a makeshift ring and too many desperate alphas looking to prove themselves and make some quick cash.
Just like me.
"You fight like an elite," the young alpha snarls, circling me again. "Too pretty to get your hands dirty."
I almost laugh. If he only knew how many fights I've been in, how many times I've bled onto floors just like this one. Or how many times I've broken my knuckles on the faces of alphas who thought they were better than me.
"Keep talking," I tell him, shifting my weight to the balls of my feet. "Makes it easier to know when to hit you."
He takes the bait, lunging forward with a roar. I weave to the side, catching his arm and using his momentum to slam him into the ground. The crowd goes wild as he lies there, dazed.
The referee starts counting. I back away, flexing my hand. My knuckles are bleeding again, torn open on his teeth. It's not as bad as it used to be. Four years ago, I'd have been a mess after a fight like this. But now? This is just another Friday night.
"...eight, nine, ten!" The ref grabs my wrist, raising it high. "Winner! Rook Holloway!"
The crowd erupts and money changes hands as bets are settled. I scan the faces, looking for the promoter. He owes me for this fight, and I need the cash. Rent's due next week, and the bastard always tries to short me.
I push through the crowd, ignoring the slaps on my back and the offers of drinks. Some of these alphas think buying me a beer means we're suddenly pack brothers. That's not how it works. Not for me. I haven't had a pack since?—
No. I shut that thought down hard. Thinking about her only makes it worse.
The promoter spots me coming and his smile falters. He knows I won't accept anything less than what we agreed on.
"Holloway! Hell of a fight!" He claps me on the shoulder, trying to distract me. I just hold out my hand. "Thousand, Mack. Like we agreed."
He sighs dramatically, pulling out a wad of cash. "Business as usual with you, isn't it? No time for celebration."
"I've got plans."
I count the bills he hands me, making sure it's all there. It is, for once. Maybe the night's going better than I thought.
"Plans?" Mack laughs, a short, ugly sound. "You never have plans. Just fights and that apartment you never leave."
I pocket the money without responding. He's not wrong, but I don't owe him an explanation. My "plans" consist of a shower, some takeout, and passing out until my next shift at the garage tomorrow. Not exactly the exciting life of a champion fighter.
"Actually," Mack leans closer, his breath sour with cheap whiskey, "speaking of plans... got another fight lined up for you. Next week. Double the money."
I hesitate. Double the money means double the risk . "Who's the opponent?"
Mack's smile widens. "Reed Howard.”
The name hits me like a bucket of ice water. Reed Howard. Elite alpha with a reputation for destroying anyone who steps into the ring with him. Including me four years ago.
"You're out of your mind," I say, already turning away. "I'm not fighting Reed Howard." It’s not worth it.
Mack grabs my arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Two grand. Think about it, Holloway. That's rent for two months."
I shake off his hand. "Don’t need rent money that badly."
I've only recently begun paying for it myself after The Pit covered my apartment expenses for the last four years. I've been putting any extra money aside and I’ve built up a decent savings. I'm only doing this so I won't have to dip into those savings to cover rent and utilities, just until Storm’s with me. Then I have the money for us to leave and start that life I promised her.
"He's asking for you specifically." Mack's voice follows me as I push through the crowd.
That stops me cold. I haven't seen him or fought at that underground fight club in four years—not since that night when Storm stepped into the ring to save me from Reed. The night that changed everything.
I turn slowly, facing Mack again. "Why would Reed Howard want to fight me?"
Mack shrugs, trying to look casual, but I can see the excitement in his eyes. This would be the biggest fight he's ever promoted. They don’t get elites down here. This club is too beneath them, and that's why I fight here.
"Don't know, don't care. He's offering good money, and he wants you specifically."
A cold feeling settles in my gut. This doesn't make sense. Unless it has something to do with Storm. His pack runs the Omega House. It didn't take long after Storm was sent there for his pack to take over. I might not follow the elites and government. But I sure as hell follow everything to do with Storm. The Omega House and who runs it are part of that.
The thought of her name sends a familiar ache through my chest. Four years . Four long years since I watched her being dragged away to the Omega House, her wild auburn curls flying as she fought the beta guards every step of the way. Four years of waiting, planning, saving every penny I could.
"I'll think about it," I tell Mack, my mind racing.
If Reed Howard is asking for me by name, it has to be connected to Storm. Or maybe she's already had her Choosing Day, and I missed it. She went to meet me and I wasn't there. Does he know of our plan? Fuck.
The thought makes my blood boil. I've kept up with the Choosing Day broadcasts as best I can, watching every couple of months in case I spot her. But I haven't seen her yet. I've been waiting, counting down to her twentieth birthday, which was last month. All omegas go up for Choosing Day after they turn twenty. This has to be it.
"When?" I ask Mack, decision already made.
"Next Saturday," he says, trying to hide his excitement but failing miserably. "Ten PM, the old warehouse near the docks."
The last place I fought him. I clench my fists. This time will be different.
"I'll be there."
Mack's face splits into a grin. "Knew you couldn't resist, Holloway."
I push past him without another word, shoving through the crowd toward the exit. My mind is racing faster than my heartbeat. The cool night air hits my face as I step outside, a welcome relief from the stifling scent of alphas in the warehouse. I flex my bruised knuckles, wincing at the sting. I need to clean them up.
My apartment is fifteen blocks away, but I walk it every time. The movement helps clear my head, and tonight I need that more than ever. The streets are quiet at this hour, most of the city asleep or at least pretending to be. The only sounds are my footsteps and the occasional car passing by.
As I turn onto the next street, I notice something unusual—a small crowd gathered around one of the storefronts. The electronics shop, the one with all the TVs in the window. People are pressed against the glass, watching intently.
Curious, I slow my pace. It's late for this many people to be out, especially on this street. I approach cautiously, keeping to the edges of the crowd.
"Is that her?" someone whispers. "The one they're announcing for next month?"
"Two of them," another voice replies. "Beta-born omegas. They're doing something different this time."
My heart skips a beat. Beta-born omegas. Storm . I push forward, ignoring the protests as I shoulder my way to the front of the crowd.
And there she is. My Storm. My beautiful, fierce Storm.
She's on the screen, her wild auburn curls framing her face, her gray eyes defiant even through the television. She's wearing a pale gold dress that swirls around her legs as she moves across the stage to the announcer. But it's the way she carries herself that makes my breath catch—chin high, shoulders back, every inch of her radiating the same untamed spirit I fell in love with.
I can't tear my eyes away as she grabs the microphone from the announcer, then she's darting across the stage, the mic firm in her hand, like she's daring the world to defy her. Her image blurs for a second as some woman and the announcer start to chase her and wrestle the mic from her hands. She grins on the screen, looking right at me. Her lips are moving, but this goddamn TV has no volume. I don't know what she's saying. I can't hear a single word. Frustration knots in my chest.
I need to know what she's saying.
I need to know everything.
I push my way through the crowd with the memory of Storm on that screen burning behind my eyes. She looks different now—older, harder maybe—but still unmistakably my Storm. I start jogging, my feet pounding the pavement in rhythm with my racing thoughts.
Five years earlier
"Hold still, you big baby," Storm says, dabbing the alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the cut above my eye. I hiss through my teeth, jerking away. At fifteen, she is already the toughest person I've ever met, all five-foot-nothing of her.
"It stings like a bitch," I complain, trying to pull away, but she grabs my chin with surprising strength, forcing me to face her.
"And whose fault is that?" She raises an eyebrow. Those storm-gray eyes challenging me. "I told you that guy was too big."
We are sitting on the roof of an abandoned building in the industrial district, our makeshift sanctuary, for when we need to escape our foster home. The setting sun casts her wild auburn curls in copper and gold, making her look like she is on fire.
"I had him. I won, didn't I?" I mutter, wincing again as she continues cleaning the gash.
Storm rolls her eyes. "Two-hundred fifty against one-seventy isn't good odds, even for you, Rook." She reaches for the butterfly bandages she's stolen from the drugstore. "You're lucky he didn't break your pretty face permanently."
I grin despite the pain. "So you think I'm pretty?"
She snorts, but can't hide the flush that creeps up her neck. "I think you're an idiot. Hold still."
Her fingers are surprisingly gentle as she closes the cut with the bandages, her face scrunched in concentration.
"Three hundred," I say, watching her work.
"What?"
"I made three hundred tonight."
Her hands pause, eyes flicking to mine. "Seriously?"
I nod, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "The promoter says if I keep it up, I could make twice that in the bigger fights."
Storm's expression softens. "That's... that's amazing, Rook."
"Two more years," I say, taking her hand in mine. It is small but calloused from the odd jobs she works. "Two more years and we'll have enough to get that apartment. No more foster homes. Just us."
She bites her lower lip, the excitement clear in her eyes before doubt shadows them. "If they don't kill you in that ring."
I squeeze her hand. "That won't happen. I won't fight at The Pit. I promise. Only these local underground clubs."
She finishes bandaging the cut above my eye, then moves to the split in my lip. Her touch is feather-light, concentration etched on her face. I watch her, memorizing every freckle scattered across her nose, the way her hair curls wildly around her face no matter how many times she tries to tame it.
"There," she says finally, satisfaction in her voice. "Good as new. Well, good as a disaster can be new."
I catch her wrist as she starts to pull away. "Thanks, doc."
"Shut up," she laughs, trying to tug free but not really meaning it.
"Make me," I challenge, raising an eyebrow.
Her eyes flicker to my split lip, hesitating. "But your mouth is all busted up."
I shrug. "Worth the pain."
Something shifts in her expression then, mischief replacing concern. "Well, if you insist on being a martyr..." She leans forward slowly, her breath warm against my face.
Her lips touch mine gently, careful of the split. I feel the familiar spark—the one I felt the first time we kissed under those high school bleachers, right before the security guard chased us. But this is different, softer. Her hand comes up to rest against my cheek, mindful of the bruises.
When she pulls back, there is a softness in her eyes that few people ever get to see. "Better?"
"Much," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. "Though I think I might need more treatment."
She laughs, shoving me lightly in the chest. "You're impossible."
"You love it."
"Maybe." She packs up her makeshift first aid kit, then settles beside me, her head resting against my shoulder as we watch the city lights come on below us. "So, three hundred, huh?"
"Three hundred," I confirm. "And I'm fighting again next weekend."
She is quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on the back of my hand. "Just... be careful, okay? We can't get that apartment if you're dead."
I turn, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm not leaving you, Storm. Not ever. No matter what happens."
"Promise?" she whispers.
"I promise. You and me against the world, remember?"
She nods against my shoulder, and we sit in comfortable silence as darkness falls around us. Two foster kids dreaming of freedom in a world determined to put us in boxes.
I shake the memory away as I unlock my apartment door. Five years. Five years of fighting and bleeding and saving every penny. Five years of holding onto that promise like it's the only thing keeping me breathing.
I burst through the door, nearly tearing it off its hinges in my rush. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely unlock my phone. When I finally manage to pull up the replay of the broadcast, I crank the volume as high as it will go.
"Now, before you all leave, we have the two beta-born omegas here who have been chosen for the next lottery. Their Choosing Day will be in two weeks. Since we have so many unclaimed omegas looking for their packs, we have sped up the process. It’s only fair we give them their Choosing Day sooner.” The announcer's voice booms from my phone's tiny speaker. Two weeks? Fuck. They're using them as a bandaid to try to quell the uprising. A little too late for that. It’s crazy out there. I haven't joined in the protests, only because I know soon, I’ll have my omega in my arms.
The camera pans to Storm, beautiful and defiant as I remember her.
"Storm," I whisper her name like a prayer, touching the screen with trembling fingers.
The announcer continues. “You'll be able to meet these omegas over the next week, giving you a chance to put your name into the lottery.”
The camera pans to the crowd of alphas in the theater, they are all looking around and talking among themselves. Also shocked at the change of events. The announcer continues like this is normal. It’s not.
“Harley likes to take walks in the gardens and enjoys watching the TV series Friends with her omega friend Storm. Storm is?—”
Then Storm grabs the microphone from the announcer, and my heart stops.
"Just so you know, Harley is so much more than that." Her voice, clear and strong. "This girl is one of a kind. She’s caring, sweet, and has the mouth of a sailor. So, you better get used to the word fuck , as she uses it a lot.” The camera zooms in on her face, capturing the fire in her gray eyes.
I laugh. Oh hell. She hasn’t changed at all. The fire still burns in her. The beta woman and the announcer are struggling to take the microphone from her, and I can't wipe the grin from my face. She might be small, but she’s strong.
She passes the microphone to the other omega, Harley, who accepts it as Storm keeps the announcer and the beta at bay. Harley laughs before starting to speak.
“Storm is just like her name. She will sweep you up and toss you around a bit. But it’s worth it, I promise. Thunder and lightning. Tornados and hurricanes. Nothing in your life will be the same once she’s a part of it. But you will be so grateful she is, because once you get to know her, you also get rainbows.”
The beta woman finally manages to wrestle the microphone away from Harley, but the damage is done. Storm is being dragged off the stage, but she's smiling, triumphant. The camera cuts away quickly. The announcer is trying to regain control of the situation, but it's too late.
Oh, Storm… my Hurricane .