37. Candice
Chapter 37
S hortly after Seth left, a woman came in, started a shower, cut my ties, and offered to help me strip.
No, I’m good, thanks.
I asked for privacy, and while her pinched brows said she wasn’t any happier about this than I am, she refused. However, she did stand outside the shower door looking towards the bedroom the entire time, so at least I was able to get clean. I washed my hair a few times; it took a while to get all the blood out, and there is a really tender spot on the back of my head. Not going to lie though, the conditioner in there is amazing, and my hair is now super soft.
I scrub hard in the hot water, feeling like my skin is going to melt off, but I have to get the sensation of Seth’s touch off my body. By the time I’m done I look like a big red lobster. The woman hands me a huge fluffy towel, and I just want to bury my face in it…I didn’t know something that soft could be absorbent, but it feels so good against my abused skin.
She leads me back to the bedroom and hands me a stack of fresh clothes to put on. My old ones are gone, which is no great loss on my destroyed shirt, but I want my underwear and bra back. The ones she has are about two sizes too small, but hey, stretch pants are known for stretching. Still the t-shirt looks almost obscene stretched over all my jiggly bits.
Seriously if this douche canoe is that rich, you’d think he could afford prisoner clothes that fit.
I hate tight clothes, partially because I’m heavy. They’re pinchy, and expensive clothes that are tight are no exception. She leads me down the hallway to another room, there’s a midsized table laid out with food, a steak, baked potato, and wine on one side, chicken breast and rice with a side of broccoli and a glass of water on the other, also a salad, but I don’t eat salad because I am not a fucking rabbit. I mean, I usually eat the croutons and sliced carrots out of it, but I have a feeling Seth would get pissed if I try that here.
Not surprisingly, he’s standing behind the chair with the steak, and his eyes bug out when he sees the spectacle that is my outfit. If he doesn’t like it, it’s his own fault for getting rid of my stuff and not having the right size. I feel like a sausage stuffed into a too tight casing. His eyes roam over me and he swallows a few times before he opens his mouth.
“You look lovely, my dear. "
Oh, fuck…it’s not disgust. He likes the jiggly bits.
Shit.
I lower my eyes demurely, but it’s really just so I don’t have to see him staring at my nipples poking against this fucking shirt. To be completely honest, I know a LOT of guys like plus sized women, in theory—or at least in art. I get that request a lot, and you know, part of me really enjoys that there is an appreciation for a variety of body sizes and shapes. But the most common request, hands down, no contest…is big breasts. Anywhere starting with a C cup and just going up to impossible sizes, and ok yeah, drawings. But most straight or bi-guys who buy art from me like boobs.
I have been blessed, or cursed, depending on the day, with an ample supply. Most omegas are petite and slim, we are said to be the ideal female form, curvy in all the right places, but not too much. But, if we are discussing body types, my figure leans more towards ancient fertility goddess and less Tinkerbell. I made my peace with that a long time ago, but it doesn’t mean I like to have some creep staring at me.
I hunch my shoulders and scurry towards the table…maybe I can put that fucking big bowl of salad right in his sightline between him and my boobs. As soon as I sit, I curl my shoulders in, trying to hide as much of myself as possible with the table. Undeterred, Seth circles the table and pushes me closer to my plate, running his hands across my shoulders and taking a moment to complete the perv trifecta and stare down the gaping collar of my shirt .
Open eye contact with nipples – check.
Pervy comments – check.
Looking down cleavage – check-erooni!
His hands linger longer than they should, fingers dipping towards my collarbones, before slipping away. He walks back to his own chair.
He takes a sip of wine, holding it in his mouth for a moment, and staring at me, before he finally swallows.
“Now, Candy, I can understand your confusion here, but I would rather start over fresh. Let’s put that whole messy business behind us, and get to know each other, shall we?" He smiles, and it makes me feel slimy, like I need to run back to the bathroom and scrub again. I sip my water to hide my grimace.
“I don’t use the name Trey here, my name really is Seth Thompson, my fathers created Thompson glass, but I now own the company. What else would you like to know?" My mind whirls with questions.
Why am I here?
How did you know I’m an omega?
Why were you working for Gabe…no, wait, better not mention any alphas.
How long have you known I was an omega?
What did I do to slip up, and how can I fix it in the future ?
Seth smiles at my confusion, “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? My fathers were alphas, my mother was a beta, and yet they were surprised when I never revealed as an alpha myself." He chuckles like there’s a joke behind that, but I don’t see the humor.
“Of course I was groomed to be one, you know. You don’t build and run a multi-million dollar company without trying for an appropriate heir, they were so certain I would be an alpha that they ignored all the doctors tests and common sense, and insisted that my designation would come in any day, I would start a pack, and get my own omega, the coveted prize that they themselves never managed to acquire.” He swirls his wine around his glass like some fucking cartoon villain.
This asshole loves to talk about himself…but the food smells so fucking good.
I’m so hungry right now…but he isn’t eating. He’s fucking monologuing. I sit here and stare at my chicken and rice and wonder if he will look away so I can pop a piece of it into my mouth.
“They, sadly, passed away just after I graduated high school, still determined that I would grow to be an alpha, and carry on their legacy. I figured I should start with finding an omega, and that would help me build a pack, even if my proper designation never came in. But omega sanctuaries don’t want to talk to betas. You have to be an alpha to court an omega with them. Or at least be part of a pack of alphas." He tips his glass back, finishing the wine in one swallow, and a smartly dressed man steps forward to refill it for him.
“I was not about to lower myself to looking for a pack, once I had the omega, they would come to me. But you know how hard it is to find one…free range…so to speak?" He laughs at his joke, and I just want to punch through his teeth.
“So I started looking into packs in the area, packs that had children who weren’t registered, packs that might be hiding away a sweet little omega for me. But there weren’t any.” His smile was more of a grimace, as he took another large drink of his wine.
“So I dug deeper, we aren’t a large area, so it’s easier to keep under the radar here. Then I found a pack…a deceased pack, two alphas, one omega, and a beta. They had a daughter, now living with her grandfather." I can feel the blood drain from my face as he stares at me.
“Of course, there was no guarantee she would be an omega, not with one beta father, so I watched. I hired someone to follow you in high school, and you were always so small. Personally, I had hoped by some fluke that your friend Stephanie would be a surprise reveal. She is short too, but svelte. Alas, her parents are both betas, and it seems that there were no surprises by the time she left for college.”
“But you, you didn’t go away to college, did you? You took online classes only, and lived with your grandpa. You didn’t leave the house unless absolutely necessary, and even then, the man I hired could never get confirmation." I don’t want this fucking chicken anymore, my stomach is rolling and if there was anything in it, I am sure it would come back up.
“Then, of course, dear old grandpa died. Cancer, such an awful way to go. And you became even more of a shut in. I began to look for a way to put myself in your path. The few times a year you would interact with other people were at the veterinary clinic, bank, or garage. I enjoy taking things apart, so I had Bernard here help me fabricate all the items I would need.” He gestures vaguely towards the well-dressed man with the bottle of wine.
“There was a bit of a learning curve, and of course the wait for you to come out. But then, one day it happened, you called and set up an oil change for your car, and then I had your contact information. Some of which we already had from research, but every little bit helps. So, we searched more online.”
“Candice Manning…you couldn’t have thought up a better online name? CandyMan? Really? And look, you draw art for money. Well, artists are always looking for customers, so it was easy enough to become one of those. Bernard broke into your house–he’s actually quite good at picking locks you know–and confirmed your designation. He said your whole house smelled like a thin mint cookie…I had to have his tongue cut out for going on about it, as if he had any right.” My eyes flick to Bernard, but if he’s upset by what happened, he doesn’t react.
“Some things you were careful of, but you freely let it be known you lived alone with your pets. My condolences on your cat, by the way." He sneers and I wrap my hand tightly around my fork, ready to fling it at his head.
“And there’s also the fact that you take off a week, like clockwork, every six months." He slams his wine down on the table, shattering the fragile stemware in the process .
“Of course, I could never get you to just take money, it always had to be an exchange with you, buy art, get an auction stream. Something! Like I want digital fucking art when I can just go buy actual art to hang in my home.” He scoffs, and tears fill my eyes. I thought I was doing good taking care of myself, fuck him.
“Then you stopped. You started missing streams, you weren’t available as much, and I worried a pack had found you, and had turned your pretty omega head. I had to get closer, make it so you needed the money I offered, so the next time you came out, I slashed your tires. You would have to come into the shop, you would h ave to take the money I offered to repair your car...but you didn’t." He stalks towards me.
“Then that fucking alpha, Gabe came back from lunch the next day, he and Xan both…and they smelled like an omega. They smelled like my fucking omega! Tell me, did they fuck you that day, or did you play this stupid coy act with them as well?" He grabs my shoulders, yanking me out of my chair and slinging me across the room.
I hit the ground and slide into a wall. But he isn’t an alpha, he doesn’t have their inherent strength, so while it hurts, I can still stand up, and the fork I gripped earlier is still in my hand.
He drags me up by my hair, wrenching a scream from me when it pulls against the still sore lump on the back of my head. I don’t have any pockets, so I tuck the fork along the inside of my wrist, the curve against my hand, holding in place with my thumb as he drags me from the dining room and back down the hall the way we came .
I hear a bell ring in the distance and he bellows for someone to get the door, but never slows his stride. I could try to scream, but if the people here won’t help me, I don’t have any guarantee that the person at the door will either. I’m dragged back into the bedroom and he finally releases my hair, only to grip the back of my neck in one hand and tear the shirt down the back.
“Fucking omega whore…trying to lure me in, pretending you want me, and not just any fucking alpha knot that comes along." He’s screaming at me, pushing me towards the bed.
“Which one was it, huh? That mentally challenged moron who owns the garage, or his equally deficient stoner underling? The tall freak of nature or the tattooed lunatic who they all just keep around to make the rest of them look better? Which one!"
He’s shaking me by my neck, and I barely catch myself as I fall against the mattress, trying to make sure I don’t drop the one small weapon I have. He grabs the stretch pants, which are already strained, and tears them down the middle. I curl in on myself, trying to hide my exposed flesh, but he doesn’t stop.
“We have to check for claiming bites; make sure they didn’t mark you. You can’t tell with alphas, they can be sneaky bastards." He tries to roll me over and I kick out at him, but he just grabs my leg in his big hand and pulls it taut, his other hand trails up my thigh, and his breath grows rougher.
“Are you getting wet for me, omega. Are you making all that lovely slick for Seth"
Well, nope, my vagina is officially doing its best impression of the Sahara desert.
His hand stops groping me and he tries to pry my thighs apart…my skin crawls as he gets closer to my center, and I don’t think I’m going to get a better chance than this. Dropping the fork down the palm of my hand so the tines are sticking out against my thumb I thrust it forward, jabbing at his eye. He never sees it coming.
He doesn’t see it afterwards either as there is now a fork embedded in his eye socket.
Seth falls back, screaming and pawing at his face. I want to take time to cover up, but I don’t know what my options are, so I grab the oversized towel I used after my shower, and tie it around my chest as best I can. He is still screaming on the floor and a thick goop is sliding down the side of his face. Probably a good thing I didn’t eat that chicken, nausea rolls through my core.
I bolt from the room, holding my towel together with one hand, and jiggling my way down the staircase…I never thought I would miss a bra, but here we are. The woman who helped me with my shower earlier has the door open a crack, but I can’t see who’s on the other side, she seems to be trying to keep them from coming in, and right now that's good enough for me.
She is so focused on turning these unwelcome guests away, she doesn’t see me barreling down the stairs and straight for her until it’s too late. She starts to turn and I slam full speed into her, knocking her over and tearing the door out of her hand .
I sprawl in a totally unladylike position, sliding a few feet before I come to a stop at the foot of an entryway table with a big vase on it… oooh fancy!
Dammit, I think I hit my head again. Fuck.
My impact shakes the table enough that the vase wobbles and falls off, and the loud crash makes me cringe.
I really need to pull this towel down…I wonder if I am loopy from a concussion, hormones, or low blood sugar.
Is that last one even a thing…I don’t remember when I ate last.
Someone yanks me up, strong arms wrap around me, and I bring my knee up hard into their groin before I register the sweet scent of cherry tobacco.
Oh, shit .
Gabe lets out a loud “oof” of air, but doesn’t let go. He has his whole body wrapped around me, curled over my sprawled form, holding the towel in place and trying to preserve what little modesty I might have. When an officer comes over to check on us Gabe lets out a loud growl, and I have to lean around him to talk to the woman in blue.
My voice is overly chipper and a little hysterical sounding to my own ears. “We’re fine…but you might want to check upstairs, there’s a guy with a fork in his eye who just ripped off all my clothes, and he might need help.” Gabe’s head snaps up, his hands checking me over for injuries even as his growl gets louder and rougher.