Chapter 7 #3
The fever burned hotter beneath my skin, responding to my distress with cruel biological efficiency, and I could feel my omega pressing against my consciousness, desperate and afraid in ways that mirrored my own terror.
Please, she whispered, and her voice was small now, scared in a way I'd never heard from her before. Please, just let them help us. We're dying. Can't you feel it? We're dying and they could save us if you'd just let them—
"Completing the bonds isn't saving us," I said out loud, and my voice cracked on the words like ice breaking apart in spring. "It's just a different kind of death."
That's not true. That's not—
"Mom completed her bond once," I interrupted her, the memory rising unbidden like a ghost I couldn't exorcise.
My mother's face, young and hopeful in an old photograph I'd found tucked away in a box after her death, her mark whole and colorful before she'd made her choice, before love had destroyed her piece by piece.
"Before she broke it. It still destroyed her.
The bond consumed her, controlled her, made her into someone she didn't want to be.
That's why she broke it — because she'd rather die slowly than live as someone else's possession. "
But we're not her. My omega's voice was firmer now, pushing back against my certainty with a conviction I hadn't expected.
They're not him. We don't know what kind of alphas they are.
We don't know what a pack bond feels like.
You're assuming destruction because that's all you've ever known, but what if—
"I can't," I cut her off, the words coming out broken, jagged pieces of sound that hurt my throat like swallowing glass. "I can't trust them. I can't trust any of this. I can't just... give up everything I've built because biology says I'm supposed to belong to five strangers I've barely met."
My omega went quiet.
Not gone — I could still feel her there, curled up in some corner of my consciousness, radiating hurt and confusion and fear in equal measure.
But she'd stopped arguing. Maybe she understood that words weren't enough to breach walls this thick, this old, this built on the foundation of watching someone I loved die because of exactly what she was asking me to accept.
Maybe she was just too tired to keep fighting a battle she knew she couldn't win.
I looked at my reflection in the dark screen of my closed laptop. Grey eyes staring back at me, haunted and too bright. Pale skin marked with the flush of fever that wouldn't break. Visible tremor in my hands that I couldn't will away no matter how hard I concentrated on stillness.
I'm dying, I thought with cold clarity. Slowly but definitely dying.
Unless I complete the bonds.
But completing them might kill who I am.
Is there even a difference?
I dressed carefully, every choice deliberate and defensive, armor for a battle I wasn't sure I could win.
Loose clothes that wouldn't irritate my oversensitive skin — a worn cotton shirt soft from years of washing until it felt like wearing a cloud, comfortable jeans that didn't press too tightly against my aching legs.
A high-collared sweater in charcoal grey to hide the mark on my neck, the fabric rising almost to my jaw like a shield against curious eyes and inconvenient questions.
Flat boots that I could run in if I needed to, the soles worn enough to grip pavement without slipping.
I tried not to think about why that last consideration felt so important, tried not to imagine scenarios where running would be necessary again.
Scent blockers went on next.
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror — defogged now from the steam of my shower, forcing me to face my own reflection in all its terrible honesty — and applied twice the recommended amount.
The chemical gel was cold against my skin, clinical and sharp with an almost medicinal smell that made my nose wrinkle, and I worked it into my wrists, behind my ears, down my neck over the mark that pulsed with heat beneath my fingers like a living thing trying to be noticed.
The sensation was strange, the warmth of the mark meeting the coolness of the blocker, two forces fighting for dominance over my skin.
The bottle was nearly empty, I noticed with a sinking feeling. I'd been using more and more over the past two days, trying to build walls that kept crumbling no matter how much cement I applied.
When I finished, the chemical smell almost overwhelmed my own honeysuckle scent.
Almost.
I could still detect it underneath — sweeter than yesterday, stronger, my omega scent breaking through every barrier I tried to build like weeds pushing through concrete. Like perfume bleeding through paint. Like truth seeping through lies no matter how desperately you tried to maintain them.
They could find us, my omega observed, not unkindly. If they're looking. If they care. The scent blockers won't hide us from alphas who know what they're searching for.
"Then let's hope they're not searching," I muttered at my reflection, capping the bottle and shoving it into my bag with more force than necessary. The walk to the café felt like climbing a mountain with stones in my pockets and chains around my ankles.
Every step required conscious effort, a deliberate command from my exhausted brain to my uncooperative body.
My legs wanted to give out with each stride, the muscles trembling with exhaustion that no amount of rest could touch, no amount of sleep could cure.
My head pounded with each heartbeat, a relentless drumbeat of pain that made the morning sunlight feel like an assault on my senses, every ray of light a needle stabbing at my eyes.
Everything was too bright, too loud, too much — the world turned up to volumes I couldn't tolerate, every stimulus magnified to the point of pain.
Seoul sprawled around me in all its chaotic glory, indifferent to my suffering, a city of millions going about their days without any idea that one of them was slowly falling apart in their midst.
The streets of the entertainment district were already busy with mid-morning activity, the industry that never slept grinding forward regardless of my personal crisis.
Trainees in matching workout clothes jogged past in perfect formation, their young faces bright with dreams that hadn't yet been tested by reality, their synchronized steps a reminder of the discipline this world demanded.
Managers hurried between buildings with phones pressed to their ears, barking orders in voices that carried too far and stabbed at my aching head.
Stylists wheeled racks of costumes through lobbies, sequins catching the light and throwing tiny rainbows across concrete walls like scattered promises of glamour and success.
I kept my head down and my pace steady, trying not to draw attention to myself, trying to be invisible in a crowd of people too busy with their own ambitions to notice one sick omega shuffling through their midst.
My omega was hyperaware of every scent around me.
Each alpha who passed made me flinch, my body registering their presence before my mind could catch up, some primitive warning system I couldn't turn off no matter how hard I tried.
I could smell them from meters away — their unique signatures cutting through the urban backdrop of coffee and exhaust and humanity like knives through silk.
Cologne and musk and that particular sharpness that marked their designation, each one unique but all of them unmistakably alpha.
Each one made my mark pulse with something like hope before settling back into its constant burn of disappointment when the scent didn't match.
Wrong, my omega catalogued each one as they passed, a running commentary I couldn't silence. Wrong. Wrong. Not ours.
She was searching for something. For two specific scents she'd already memorized — sunshine-citrus and woodsmoke-rain, the scents of Hwan and Jin-ho burned into her consciousness after even the briefest contact — and for three more she somehow anticipated even though we'd never encountered them.
Ocean spray and mint. Vanilla and fresh bread.
Cedar wood and approaching thunder. Scents I didn't know yet but that my omega seemed to reach for anyway, like she could sense them waiting for us somewhere in the city.
I hated that she was searching.
I hated more that part of me was searching too.
The café appeared ahead of me like an oasis in a desert of steel and glass, its faded green awning and steamed-up windows a beacon of normalcy in a world that had stopped making sense.
I could see Jeni through the window, already seated at our usual table near the back where the worn velvet armchairs were positioned perfectly to watch the world go by while remaining slightly hidden from casual observers.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail that emphasized the sharp lines of her face, and her outfit was stylish and professional — she must be heading to work after this, ready to conquer the fashion world while I could barely conquer the walk to the café.
She was scrolling through her phone, one perfectly manicured nail tapping against the screen with characteristic impatience, probably wondering if I was going to cancel again.
I stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, just looking at her through the glass.
This was real. This was my actual life. Jeni was my best friend — had been since we'd met in a music theory class during our second year of university, bonded over shared frustration with a pretentious professor who thought he knew more about composition than anyone who'd actually written a successful song.
She'd been there through everything since then: my mother's final days, my father's withdrawal, my decision to suppress my omega nature and build a life in the shadows of the industry instead of its spotlight.
She didn't know about the bonds. Didn't know about SIREN. Didn't know that I was slowly dying from soul sickness while my omega screamed for alphas I was too afraid to let near me.
I was going to have to tell her all of it.
You could run, my omega suggested quietly, her voice tired and small. Go home. Climb back into the nest. Hide.
The temptation was overwhelming, washing over me like a wave I could barely resist. My body wanted nothing more than to turn around, retreat to my apartment, and bury myself in the soft safety of the nest I'd built.
To hide from the world and the bonds and all of it until the universe got tired of tormenting me and found some other omega to torture.
But hiding wouldn't save me.
Running wouldn't save me.
Nothing was going to save me except choices I wasn't ready to make.
The least I could do was talk to someone first.
I squared my shoulders, ignoring the way they ached with the movement, took a breath that made my chest hurt like my ribs were too tight for my lungs, and walked inside.
The bell over the door chimed, a cheerful sound that felt almost mocking given my circumstances.
The smell of coffee washed over me in a familiar wave — dark roast and caramel syrup and the slightly burned undertone that said the espresso machine needed maintenance again, had needed maintenance for months but the owner was too cheap to call someone.
Familiar. Comforting in a way that made my eyes sting with unexpected tears.
Jeni looked up at the sound of the bell, spotted me crossing toward her, and her face went through about five different expressions in the space of two seconds.
Relief first — that I'd actually shown up, that I hadn't bailed at the last second like she'd probably been expecting after my cryptic message last night.
Then concern as she took in my appearance — the pallor, the dark circles, the way I was moving like each step cost me something I couldn't afford to spend.
Then alarm as she really looked at me, her dark eyes sharpening with the intensity of someone who'd known me for years and could read my face like a book — the trembling, the wrongness that must be written all over my features like a sign announcing my deterioration.
"Holy shit," she said as I dropped into the chair across from her, my legs giving out more than sitting down, the velvet cushion absorbing my weight with a soft whoosh of displaced air.
Her voice was sharp with worry, drawing curious glances from the tables nearest us.
"Keira, what the hell happened to you? You look like death. "
"Thanks," I managed weakly, attempting a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "Love you too."
"No, I'm serious," Jeni insisted, leaning forward across the small table between us, her elbows planted on the scarred wood and her eyes locked on my face with an intensity that made me want to squirm.
"You look terrible. And you smell..." She trailed off, her nose wrinkling slightly as she caught whatever was bleeding through my inadequate scent blockers, frowning like she was trying to identify something she couldn't quite name.
"Different. Sweeter. When did you stop taking your suppressants? "
"I didn't," I replied, wrapping my hands around the water glass already sitting on the table, trying to absorb some of its coolness into my fever-hot palms. The condensation was slick against my fingers, little droplets running down to pool on the wooden surface. "They just stopped working."
Jeni's face went pale, the color draining from her cheeks like someone had pulled a plug.
She was a beta — not intimately familiar with omega biology, not attuned to the subtle shifts of pheromones and bonding hormones that ruled my world — but she knew enough.
Everyone knew enough. Suppressants stopped working for one reason and one reason only.
When something stronger overrode them.
Something like a bond.
"Keira." Her voice was careful now, gentle in a way that made my chest tight with something that might have been gratitude or might have been fear. The voice you used with someone who might shatter at the wrong word. "What's going on? What happened?"
I looked at my best friend — at her worried eyes and her practical concern and her complete ignorance of the nightmare my life had become in the span of twenty-four hours — and felt something crack inside my chest like ice breaking apart after a long winter.
"I need to tell you everything," I said, and my voice came out smaller than I intended, younger, like the twelve-year-old girl who'd sat beside her mother's deathbed and learned that love was just another word for loss. "And I need you to not freak out until I'm finished. Can you do that for me?"
"You're scaring me," Jeni said softly, her hand reaching across the table toward mine.
"I know," I admitted, taking a breath that shook on the way in and trembled on the way out. "I'm scaring myself."