The Morder #2
We turn a corner, the velvet curtains shifting around us like a maze. Warren stops to read another one-sheet, his brow furrowing as he scans whatever meaningless stats they have listed.
I let my gaze drift, more out of habit than anything else.
And then I see her.
An omega with long legs sits in her alcove like the others, framed by soft light and velvet. She’s draped across a red velvet couch, in a tight black corset, lacy little panties, and thigh-high stockings, posed in a way that’s meant to look inviting.
And she’s…breathtaking.
Her dark red hair is long, spilling over her shoulders in loose waves that catch the light. Her cheeks are full and soft, her mouth shaped in a way that makes her look both young and timeless. There’s a natural beauty to her that hits harder than any of the perfectly styled girls we’ve passed.
And I cannot look away.
The omega’s eyes lift, and they land right on me. They don’t drift or flutter; they stay completely focused.
Sharp and alive.
They’re the color of dark chocolate, and in the dim light, they look liquid, like they could melt and run right over my skin.
It sends a spark firing straight into my cock. A hot, vicious jolt that thickens my dick against my zipper in an instant.
For a second, I forget where I am. The music and hushed voices around me fade, the entire room dissolving into meaningless static as I suck in a breath, trying to scent her from here.
But the mix of other omegas, alphas, and muted betas clog up my nose, a cacophony of smells that’s an insult to what she must smell like.
My instincts snarl, a primal, desperate urge to shove through the crowd, to bury my face in her hair and find that one perfect scent that’s meant only for us.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms, the sharp pain a welcome distraction from the feral need clawing at my gut.
“Hey.” I try to get Warren’s attention. He’s reading. Completely unaware of the gorgeous omega sitting not even ten feet away from us. “Warren.” I smack his shoulder harder than I mean to.
“What?” He turns with a quiet grunt of annoyance. His gaze follows the line of my stare.
And then he sees her too.
Warren's spine goes rigid, and his breath hitches. His eyes lock on hers the same way mine did, like he got punched in the sternum. But she doesn’t look away.
Her gaze snaps between us, sharp and assessing, so fucking aware. The other girls have that medicated float to them, limbs loose, unfocused eyes. But this omega…she feels present. Awake.
“Wow,” Warren says softly.
My throat works, tight. “She’s looking right at us.”
“Yeah,” he says. His voice is strangely low. “She is.”
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Me. Warren. The omega behind the velvet rope. It feels like the air is pulsing around the three of us, something invisible strung tight enough to snap.
Then the omega blinks. Not slow. Not empty. But purposeful. Like she is choosing to break the moment.
I exhale, realizing I had stopped breathing.
Warren straightens his tie. “Let’s check out her paperwork,” he says.
I nod, and we step toward her alcove, her dark eyes following us the entire way.
Warren marches straight for her one-sheet. He snatches it up and scans it in silence. It’s got all the usual stuff, but there’s no name. The word “Unknown” is written in thick black letters.
Warren lowers the page a fraction and looks to the guard standing beside the rope. “What’s her name?”
The guard shrugs. “She hasn’t given one.”
Warren’s brows pull together. “She can’t speak?”
The guard pulls in a deep breath, like he’s preparing to give the same speech he’s given a thousand times already.
“Sometimes lost omegas struggle after they’re rescued,” he says.
“It takes time for them to come back to themselves. Memories can be spotty. Speech can be slow. Fear responses get stuck.” He nods toward her with a detached sort of pity. “She’s one of those cases.”
My whole body goes tight.
Lost and too scared to even say her name?
The thought hits me hard. Something protective flares in my chest, and my fists curl. I push it down and steady my breathing, not wanting to scare her more than she already is.
Warren inches his way a bit closer to the rope. “Can we talk to her?”
The guard doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks over his shoulder, scanning the little alcove until he spots a female beta sitting in the far corner. He lifts a hand and signals.
The petite female quickly walks over. She’s dressed neatly in a white button-up and dark slacks. Her expression is calm and professional, but the way she studies us tells me she is used to managing alphas on the edge.
“They want to speak with her,” the guard says.
The handler nods once, then turns her attention fully to us.
“Please be aware that this omega is reacting atypically to the sedatives,” the handler explains.
“Instead of calming her, they’ve made her a bit edgy.
Now, she hasn’t spoken to anyone yet. So don’t take that as a slight.
Just be prepared to step back if she becomes overwhelmed. ”
I look at the omega again.
She is still watching us, completely aware. Nothing like the medicated girls slumped in the other alcoves.
“Understood.” Warren nods, and the handler steps to one side, letting him look straight at her. “Hello, omega,” he says, his voice steady and low. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
She doesn’t move. But her jaw is locked so tight I can see the muscle ticking, a frantic little beat under her skin. Her throat works, a slow swallow like she wants to speak but is afraid to let the sound out.
Fighting the urge to step closer, I watch as her fingers curl against the bottom edge of that too-tight corset, knuckles whitening. Is she bracing herself or holding on for more? I can’t tell.
I wish I could fucking scent her.
Warren tries again. “Can you tell us your name?”
Her mouth opens, and I hold my breath. But then her little chin trembles, and something inside me snaps tight.
It’s a hard, instinctive pull in my chest, the urge to jump the rope, grab her, and carry her as far from this place as possible. The image hits me so fast it steals my breath.
I shove my hands into my pockets so I don’t do something stupid.
Warren hasn’t moved. His gaze stays locked on her, sharp and analytic, but beneath it, I sense the same protective surge tearing through me.
“Omega?” Warren steps a little closer to the rope. The guard notices and tenses. “Are you in pain?” he asks softly.
Her lips part. Her wide eyes flicker between us. Then her breath catches—a tiny, fragile sound, but it hits like a gunshot.
Warren’s head snaps toward the guard. The calm disappears, stripped away in an instant. What’s left is cold, lethal focus.
“I’m claiming this omega,” he practically growls. “Get her out of this fucking tent now.”