Vallaverse: Twist (The Vallaverse #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Brooks

The Omega beneath me is the embodiment of ripe perfection.

She is everything any Valla could ever want or need.

Beautiful. Soft. Warm. Giving in to every perceived or anticipated desire I might have.

She is exquisite, and I should be grateful for her willingness to attend to my need, but slow-rolling rage is beginning to thread through the heavy disappointment churning inside me.

Already, I can feel it, snapping my hips with discontent.

It isn't fair to her. She doesn't deserve this. She deserves more than I or this wretched den could ever give her. It isn't fair, but it is the way of things. This is the way it must be if I am to maintain my sanity and the structure I have fought so hard to maintain.

She whimpers, and through the thick fog of this godforsaken rut, I can't tell if it's pleasure or pain that pulls the sound from her.

I don't want to open my eyes again. I don't want to see her.

Selfish, I know, and foolish, but I squeeze my lids shut a little tighter for just another moment.

I have a rule, that the Omegas face away from me when I fuck them.

It feels safer that way for some reason, for both of us.

I pushed her onto her stomach before I stretched my way inside her, and she has remained exactly the way I positioned her.

I don't want to open my eyes.

It isn't because of her. She's lovely, and I need to make sure I'm not hurting her before we continue.

I just don't want to see him.

I can’t see his face in my head again.

Regardless of my intentions when I have no choice but to check into one of these vile dwellings, I always end up gravitating toward and choosing an Omega who looks like him.

In the early days of this toxic little cycle of mine, I would allow myself the temporary joy of taking a male Omega who resembled him.

I did it on purpose. I missed him so much, and I was in such misery that I thought it would help ease some of the hurt.

But while I never inflicted actual physical damage onto one of them, the mental and emotional toll on both me and the Omega was more than enough to merit my second requirement.

I only allow myself to have female Omegas now.

Every house in Santum is aware of my requirement at this point.

Maybe I need to make a new rule that requires any future potential Omega to have light hair and eyes and have no sharp angles.

Another soft whimper drags me back to the forefront, and I sigh as I slowly open my eyes.

I don't want to do this. I don't want to see. It still hurts too much.

The sheet is bunched in her tight fists, her knuckles stark white, but she's still on her stomach with her quivering legs spread alongside mine.

I force my gaze to follow the path of her spine, taking in every feminine detail.

The curve of the hip. The dip of the waist. The swell of breast against the mattress.

Those things should make looking at her easier…

safer, but I can already tell they won't by the way the pit of my stomach drops.

I lean down closer to her, letting my chest brush against the soft skin of her back and praying that the feel of her body will be enough to keep me in the present.

It's a mistake. It feels too similar. Too close to how it felt to have him writhing and arching underneath me.

His skin was soft too. And warm. I slam my eyes shut again and drag myself out of her as I sit up on my knees.

The startled gasp that rushes from her barely registers in the madness of my pulse and frantic thoughts.

Logically, I realize that seeing who she is—and isn't—with my own eyes is the best way to reset the situation.

But the terror of it keeps my eyes firmly closed.

I have gone into exactly one rage when I opened my eyes to find a different Omega than the one I yearn for.

That was years ago, and I cannot allow that to happen again.

The other wretched, and possibly more disgusting, side of this is the silent fear that I will open my eyes one day and be glad it isn't his body splayed across the sheets. If that day ever comes... I don't know. I can't imagine it. But I'm terrified of it.

My throat constricts dryly at the thought.

The Omega shifts slightly, testing the situation. Trying to determine if it's safe for her to move. It isn't. My dysfunctional thought process isn't enough to suppress the urgent thrall of this rut. She's mine for the moment, whatever that means for the both of us.

Seeing her will help. Even if I'm afraid, it's worth the risk. I blindly reach down and roughly flip her over onto her back. I won't give myself any choice but to see her.

When I open my eyes, I force my eyes straight to the most obviously visible difference between her body and the memory of his. Her breasts rise and fall with her rapid breaths, and I try to lose myself in the rhythm of it.

“It isn't fair,” I murmur hoarsely, unsure if I'm saying it to her or to myself at this point. “I'm sorry.”

Her lips part to say something, but I gently cover her mouth with my palm as her eyes blink up at me.

I can't explain it, but hearing her voice right now would be too much.

I'm already forcing my eyes to see her; that's enough.

I don't need to hear the truth as well. Too much truth might tip me over the edge.

Seeing it is enough to keep me tethered.

She blinks twice more, her brows scrunched together in what might be concern. Or confusion. Maybe fear. Probably all of those things.

“Shhh,” I rasp, moving my hand to smooth her hair away from her damp forehead. “It's alright now.”

She doesn't understand what that means or the lie swirling beneath the words.

I doubt very seriously that it's alright, and I know it won't be alright when this is all over.

I can't do this again. I can't put anyone else at risk, and I can't put myself through it again. I'll finish this, and then I’m done.

I tilt my hips and ease back inside her, sighing as her legs automatically wrap around me. I slowly thrust until I'm seated as deeply as her body will allow, watching her eyes roll back and close. Then I take one last breath before I let myself go.

*

I roar as anguish and ecstasy overcome me.

Every feeling I've pushed aside for the past three days comes rushing back to me all at once.

Anger twines with fulfillment. Guilt wars against satisfaction.

Shame and pride fight, unsuccessfully, to overcome each other.

My body is floating in a sea of peace and slick while my mind and heart howl with the horror of it.

It should be him. He should be the one sprawled across the ruined bed. He should be the one purring with the feeling of being utterly filled to the brim with my release. He should be—

A sharp gasp shoves its way into my perception.

I look down to find her wincing as my fingers dig ruthlessly into her hips. I release her immediately, pushing myself away from her and off the foot of the bed.

“Are you hurt?” I say, my voice barely above a thick growl.

She shakes her head, but that isn't enough of an answer. If she were alright, there would be words.

“Tell me,” I urge.

“I… it doesn't matter. It's alright.”

It does matter, she's just afraid to complain. I get it. Complaining in these types of places often gets you much worse treatment than what you were complaining about in the first place.

“Tell me,” I repeat, taking a step away from the bed.

She takes a timid, shaking breath. “You said you hated me. During.”

Oh. I probably did. And I probably said much worse than that. But it isn't because of her. It's because of him.

“I don't hate you,” I assure her, going to the small dresser where I left my clothes folded and neatly stacked.

“Then why—”

“Just bad memories, and I got carried away. I apologize. Are you hurt? Tell me the truth.”

She shakes her head. “No. Just a little scared.”

She's too soft to be here. I'll never understand what leads an Omega to register with these places, but some of them aren't suited for it. This one isn't.

And neither am I. Not anymore, anyway. I can't put another Omega or myself at risk again. If I can't chemically depress my ruts, I will physically restrain myself when I have them. I'm not putting myself through this ever again.

I pull on my clothes quickly, not looking at her the whole time.

Shame has finally succeeded in making me feel like a monster; I don't deserve to look at her.

My righteous pride has made a fool of me enough times that I have learned to just apologize, get out of the situation as quickly as possible, and tip well.

I'm not sure how much money I pile on the dresser, but it's surely enough to cover my house fee, any incidentals, and her rent for a month.

“I'm sorry,” I say, and turn for the door. I twist the knob and push it open a crack before I take a breath and turn back to her.

I don't meet her gaze, my eyes stay planted firmly on the corner of the bed.

I register the unfocused shape of her body in my periphery, but I keep focusing on the way the sheet is barely clinging to the corner of the mattress.

“You shouldn't be here,” I tell her. “I'm sorry for hurting you. And for scaring you.” I reach into my back pocket for my wallet and pull out a contact card.

“Call my office. I'll help you get set up in your own place. But you shouldn't be here.”

Then I turn and stalk out of the room and down the halls and stairs until I'm out the front door.

The sunrise is blinding the city when I emerge onto the dirty sidewalk from the warm, moody lighting of the rut house.

I turn my face up to the sky as I blink against the harsh glare of the sunlight.

The sunlight won't wash away my disgust with myself, but it will burn away any lingering fog from my rut so I can properly damn myself without the distraction of any residual hormonal fugue.

Never again.

My feet start moving on their own toward the parking garage where I left my car.

I won't allow it. Nothing is worth the horrible feelings weighing me down right now.

I reach my car without seeing anything along the way and calmly get behind the wheel.

Never again.

I start the car and start the drive out of the city, again without really taking note of anything I pass as I weave through the streets and avenues until the traffic lights turn to signs that become fewer and farther apart.

I drive this path so often that I could probably take the drive blindfolded.

Now, there's an idea. Wrapping this car around a good, sturdy tree would definitely end this dangerous cycle.

The likelihood that long-term happiness will ever find me is slim enough that I don't feel like much would be lost if I didn't hit the brake pedal when I go around the next curve.

It could all be over then. He could go on living his life however he pleases, and I wouldn't be around to torture myself with the knowledge of it.

I won't do that, though. It isn't pride or necessity that fuels my self-preservation. It’s fear.

Not for myself, but for him. What if he decides that he's had enough of the chaos of his life and I'm gone when he comes looking for me?

What if he needs me? What if he's waiting for me to come save him again?

What if he's trying to get away from the people and things that have such a strong hold on him? What if he's not trying at all?

I can't abandon him if there's even a slight chance that he might try. A chance that one day I'll be enough for him.