Chapter 24 #5
Instead, I close my eyes as relief floods through my veins. Like a strong balm, a warm hug. Everything goes fuzzy.
Exhaustion drags me under before I can form another thought.
I wake up alone.
The room is dark. Quiet. I'm in my bed, under the covers, wearing a clean pair of boxers I don't remember putting on.
For a moment, I think I dreamed it all.
Then I shift, and feel the lingering soreness. The tenderness between my thighs. The phantom sensation of fingers deep inside me.
Real.
It was real.
I sit up slowly. My body aches in ways I've never felt before—a deep, satisfying soreness that radiates from my core. My thighs are tender. My hole feels... used. Empty in a way that makes me want to clench around nothing.
For a long moment, I just sit there in the dark, trying to piece together what happened. The heat spike at dinner. Screaming at Margot. Running inside. The brothers breaking down my door.
And then—
I swallow hard. My throat is raw. From screaming?
From—
Bane's fingers in my mouth. Atlas's tongue. Zero's hands spreading my thighs.
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the temperature. I press my palm flat against my stomach, feeling the ghost of Atlas's hand holding me down. My skin still tingles where they touched me. All of them. Everywhere.
I should feel violated. Used. Wrong.
Instead, there's a warm curl of satisfaction in my chest. A sense of... rightness. Like my body finally got something it's been starving for.
They took care of you, a voice whispers. They saw what you needed and they gave it to you.
I let myself sit with that for a moment. Let myself remember the way Atlas looked at me—focused, intent, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. The way Bane held my wrists, firm but never bruising. The way even Zero, for all his sharp edges, touched me like I was something precious.
Maybe this doesn't have to be a disaster. Maybe—
And then the rest of the memory crashes back.
Please, I need all of you—I need you to fuck me—please, please, I'll be good, I'll be so good—
My stomach drops.
Not tonight.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, but it doesn't help. The memory keeps playing, relentless, humiliating. My own voice, high and desperate. The words spilling out of me like vomit. Promising things. Begging for things.
I begged them. Begged like some desperate, pathetic thing. Promised I'd be good. Promised I'd do anything.
And Atlas said no.
Not tonight.
The words echo in my skull, taking on new meaning now that the heat fog has cleared. Not tonight. Not ever. They didn't want to claim me. They just... took pity. Saw the pathetic omega in heat and did the bare minimum to shut him up.
My stomach churns.
I think I might be sick.
They touched me—held me down, made me come until I couldn't think—but they didn't want me. Not really. Not enough to actually claim me. Atlas made that perfectly clear when I was on my back, legs spread, literally begging for it.
Not tonight.
Translation: Not you. Never you.
The shame hits like a tidal wave. I curl in on myself, pressing my face into my knees, breathing through the nausea that crawls up my throat.
I can still feel their hands on me. Can still taste Bane's fingers on my tongue.
Can still hear myself whimpering and pleading and making promises I would have kept—god help me, I would have let them do anything—
And they didn't want it.
They cleaned me up. Put me to bed.
Left.
Like I was a problem to be managed. A charity case.
I can't breathe. The walls are closing in. If I stay in this house one more day, I'll have to face them. See the pity in their eyes. Watch them pretend tonight never happened while I walk around knowing exactly how desperate and needy and unwanted I really am.
I can't do it. I won't survive it.
My hands are shaking as I grab my laptop from the nightstand. The screen is too bright in the dark room—I squint against it, typing fast.
Black market suppressants. No prescription.
The first page of results is useless. WebMD articles. Reddit threads about why you shouldn't buy medication online. A news story about counterfeit pills killing someone.
I scroll faster. Click through to page two. Page three.
Omega suppressants buy online no rx
More garbage. Scam sites with broken English and stock photos. Forums where people warn each other about getting ripped off.
Come on. Come on.
I throw off the covers, suddenly unable to sit still. My skin is crawling. The heat is still there, simmering under the surface, and any minute now it's going to spike again and I'll be right back where I started—desperate and needy and begging for someone to touch me.
I yank open my dresser drawer, pulling out clothes at random. Jeans. A hoodie. Underwear. I don't care what I grab, just that I'm moving, doing something, not sitting here waiting to fall apart.
I force myself back to the laptop. Dig deeper. Click through sketchy links I'd normally never touch.
And then—finally—a forum thread. Someone asking the same question I am. And in the replies—a handful of contacts. Burner numbers. Telegram handles. Warnings about which ones are scams and which ones are legit.
I start texting.
Looking for suppressants. Can pay cash. How fast can you deliver?
I send it to three different numbers, then go back to packing. Shirts crammed into my duffel bag. The charger for my phone. My wallet—I check the cash inside. Two hundred and change. Is that enough? It has to be enough.
My phone buzzes. I nearly drop it scrambling to check.
Sorry bro, don't have any rn. Try back next week.
Fuck. Fuck.
I pull on my jeans, hopping on one foot, almost falling over. Another buzz.
$500 minimum order. You got Venmo?
I don't have five hundred dollars. I don't have Venmo. I don't have time.
I'm yanking a t-shirt over my head when the third response comes through.
What area?
My fingers fly across the screen. I send my general location—not the exact address, I'm not stupid, but close enough.
Three dots. Someone typing.
I shove socks into the side pocket of my duffel. Grab my toothbrush from the bathroom. Check my phone again.
Can meet tomorrow night. 10 PM. $300 for a month's supply. Pharmaceutical grade. Cash only.
Tomorrow night. That's—that's more than twelve hours away. I can't wait that long. I can't spend another day in this house, dodging their eyes, pretending nothing happened.
Any chance you can do tonight? I type back, fingers shaking. I can pay extra.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
I hold my breath.
Tonight's tight. Got another pickup at 11.
I can be there by 10:30, I type immediately. Please. I really need this.
A long pause. Too long. I'm about to send another message when the response comes through.
Fine. 10:30. Same price. Don't be late.
Relief floods through me so hard my knees nearly buckle.
I'll be there, I type back. Send me the address.
The response comes almost immediately—an intersection on the edge of the city. Not a great neighborhood, but not the worst either. Public enough that I shouldn't get jumped. Probably.
I save the address. Screenshot it just in case.
Then I'm back to packing. Moving on autopilot now, grabbing anything I might need. A jacket. My laptop. My notebook. The emergency credit card Margot gave me "for textbooks" that I've never used.
Margot.
Her face flashes through my mind—the confusion, the hurt when I screamed at her to leave me alone. She was just trying to help. She's always just trying to help, and I keep pushing her away, keep ruining everything she's trying to build.
She doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve a stepson who's been letting her husband's sons finger him to orgasm in the room down the hall.
I shove that thought down. Can't think about it. Can't think about any of it.
I zip the bag closed and sling it over my shoulder.
I have to go.
I can’t stay.
I’m the problem. I always have been.
Check the hallway—empty, dark. Everyone must still be downstairs, or maybe they've gone to bed. Either way, I'm not sticking around to find out.
I slip out of my room, down the back stairs, through the kitchen. The house is quiet. Too quiet. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a gunshot.
The garage door feels impossibly loud when I ease it open. My car is right where I left it. I throw my bag in the back seat, slide behind the wheel, and pull out of the driveway with my headlights off.
I don't turn them on until I'm a block away.
Then I'm driving. Away from the house. Away from them. Away from everything I've ruined.
The address glows on my phone screen. Forty minutes away.
I press the gas pedal a little harder.
One meeting. Get the suppressants. Find a motel. Disappear.
Then I won't be anyone's burden anymore.