Chapter 10 Caelan
Caelan
Dax’s response is, predictably, swift and absolute.
“No, the fuck you are not.”
He sounds one heartbeat away from sending someone after me, but I simply don’t care.
“Her door is locked from the outside, Dax.”
My Alpha is running the show, instincts on high-alert. If Dax thinks I’ve been stubborn lately, he has no idea the level I’ll go to now that I’ve seen that damned lock.
“I need to check on her.”
“Who cares?” I can practically see him throwing his hands up in disgust. “You can’t do shit. You’re not a social worker.”
This argument is pointless—especially to my Alpha. The decision has already been made. Honestly, it was made the night I first saw her.
Still, I humor my packmate.
“No,” I agree with a feral smirk, pulling my tools from my side pocket. “You know what I am, though? A tactician. A warrior with centuries of experience dealing with traumatized Omegas. I’m telling you, this is more than shit parenting.”
I take a deep breath and try, once again, to level with him. His agreement won’t change my mind, but my rational side respects him enough not to be a total dick right now.
“Five minutes, Daxen. I just want to make sure she’s safe, then I’m out. If this were any other Omega, we’d already have made plans for extraction,” I point out.
“Fuuuuuck.” Dax’s palm rasps over the stubble on his jaw.
I can picture him back at HQ, surrounded by his screens, cursing my name.
“This isn’t any other Omega, though, Caelan.
This is the daughter of our enemy. This is an Omega who already has you acting out of character.
This is an Omega who has made no attempt to defy her father or ask for help in the twenty-two years she’s been alive. This—”
“That’s enough. Don’t push this, Dax.” I snap. His bullshit excuses are pissing me off.
“I’m going to say this plainly. I’m not asking you for fucking permission, I’m informing you of my next move.”
I send a wave of stubborn determination down our Bond right before throwing up a mental block so thick he’ll have to spend hours picking it apart to get through.
Not that he’ll waste his time on that.
Knowing Daxen, he’ll pace and stew until he reaches a boiling point.
When that happens, he’ll draft some bullshit “Omega risk assessment survey,” force every Bastard at HQ to take it, then try to pass the results off as a legitimate peer-focused study that proves I’ve been manipulated by a female I’ve never even met.
He’ll feel bad, but he’ll do it all the same.
“Fine.” He groans, and I still, shocked he’s stopped fighting me. “Check for signs of life, and then you’re done. You get out, and you get your ass home.”
A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth.
“Copy,” I reply, right before muting my comms.
He can send a warning through the Bond if there’s an emergency.
I take a breath, trying to stabilize my emotions. It’s not that I’m not aware that this is out of character for me. I just… don’t care right now.
Which is also wildly out of character, but it’s something I’ll have to examine more at a later date. When I’m not about to break into the room of the Omega I haven’t stopped thinking about for the better part of a week.
The lock disengages. Gently, I press down on the handle and push open the doors.
The cat is nowhere to be found, but somehow that doesn’t surprise me.
I shut the door and cast out my senses to get a read on the room.
Two heartbeats. One of them is fast and steady—the cat’s. The other is slower, accompanied by the sound of soft, even breaths coming from the corner.
Sleeping, then. Or close to it.
The room is nearly dark aside from the moonlight filtering through the windows.
Luckily, my night vision means I can see as well in the dark as I can in the light.
I scan the room, looking for her bed. Then I scan it again.
And again.
No matter how many times my gaze darts around the open area, the reality refuses to change.
The whole room is fucking empty.
It’s not empty, as in, the Omega’s a minimalist when it comes to decorating. Empty like she owns nothing.
There’s no sunken mattress for her nest. No blankets and pillows. No photos, books, television, or clothes strewn all over the floor.
There’s nothing fucking here except a desk in the corner, where the cat is perched, blinking lazily.
I’ve been in Omega’s rooms before. I’ve never fucked one, and I’ve certainly never knotted one, but there were times our pack toyed with the idea of courting. Times when the fear that we’ll never meet our Fated Mate started eating at us.
I’ve seen the way Omega’s live, and it’s sure as hell nothing like this.
There should be so much more here. The walls should be covered with photos or tapestries.
They should be painted in soft, warm colors that scream safety.
I should be tripping over cashmere blankets, not listening to my own breath echo around an empty void.
Omegas are the heart of a pack. Whether that’s their family, their Mates, or their friend groups. They need connection. They need physical touch. They need to feel wanted and cared for. It’s not only psychological—it’s a biological imperative.
This room should be covered with clothes, photos, books, blankets, and sweatshirts that belong to the people she’s closest to.
It’s… not.
It looks like an institution and feels like a fucking prison.
And it smells like nothing at all.
My instincts are rioting—my Alpha slamming against my insides, growling in confusion and disgust.
I knew she was on suppressants, but… fuck. Her room should smell like her. It should smell like safety.
I’m barely coming to terms with my shock when I finally see it. Her bed. Nothing more than a thin mattress, shoved against the far wall.
My fury skyrockets.
It’s not that the mattress is so thin it can barely be considered a mattress, nor is it the fact that there’s not even a fucking sheet on the bed.
It’s the small figure lying on her side, curled into a tight ball, using a fucking bath towel as a blanket.
A bath towel. As a blanket.
I want to scream. I want to rip this fucking place apart. I want to destroy her father and everyone else who’s knowingly allowed her to live in this fucking nightmare.
My vision is blurry. My heart’s pounding in my chest. There’s an uncomfortable pressure behind my eyes that’s strangely unfamiliar.
I take a step toward the mattress, knowing there’s no way I’ll be able to stay away now. I don’t even remember crossing the room. I blink, and I’m standing over her sleeping form.
Omegas need comfort. They need pillows and blankets to nest with. They need a fucking nest, for Fate’s sake!
Denying an Omega those basic rights is nothing short of dehumanizing. It’s fucking abuse. Omegas have been removed from their homes for situations far less awful than this.
This is… Fates. This is so much worse than I could have ever imagined.
Guilt churns in my stomach. My anger’s no longer directed solely at her father.
I fucking left her like this. It’s only been a few days, but… I assumed—
I assumed that at the very least, Varenthrall provided his Omega daughter with the bare minimum required to prevent designation-related illnesses.
This shit is cruel. It’s sadistic. Her instincts probably register her father’s treatment as a rejection. Doesn’t he realize how sick he’s probably making her? Doesn’t he care?
My nails dig into my palms so hard I feel the skin split. I don’t rein in my instincts. I can’t. They’ve taken stock of her condition and are screaming at me.
Protect. Mine. Claim. Mine. Fuck. Mine. MINE.
My hands shake. I unclench them and flex out my fingers, trying to regain a bit of control, but it’s not working.
I’m so close. So fucking close to her. The need to protect her is overwhelming.
I want to touch her. Breathe her in. I want to wrap my body around hers more than I want my next breath.
I crouch down and before I realize I’m moving, my hand stretches, reaching for her. It hovers in the air between us, her hair so close to my fingertips I can almost feel it.
She looks fragile. She’s practically shivering from the cold, wearing nothing more than a short-sleeved shirt and pajama bottoms.
My nostrils flare instinctively, my Alpha desperate for even a hint of her scent.
At first, all I can smell are suppressants, but on its heels, there’s—something.
A hint of something new and soft. Honey, maybe, or… fuck.
I inhale again, searching, begging—
There. Right there.
I can almost catch it. The merest suggestion of her Omega perfume. It’s not much. Not nearly enough to confirm a Scent Match. But it’s enough for my Alpha to explode forward, reaching for it like a lifeline.
Reality rushes in, and I gasp, finding myself struggling for a full breath. When I stand, my legs shake.
I bend over, bracing my hands on my thighs for support.
Fates, what am I doing?
Seeing her in this hellhole, deprived of her basic needs, is pushing me too far. I’m torn between taking her away right now and damn the consequences, and tracking down Varenthrall and ripping his spine out of his fucking neck.
One thing’s for sure. Eventually, I will get vengeance.
For her.
For the way he’s kept her here like a fucking animal. For the way she’s been abused. For the fear in her eyes when she was near him. For whatever the fuck Alexander has to do with all of this.
The pull to be next to her is too strong. Giving in, I crouch back down next to her mattress.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
My gaze lands on her back and I follow the line of her spine from neck to waist, getting more and more pissed as I do. I can see each ridge of bone pressing through the cotton of her shirt, like she hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks.
That’s it. I give up. I can’t stay quiet and frankly, I don’t want to. I drop to the floor, pressing my palms into my eye sockets like it’ll somehow erase the image of her small, shivering body from my mind.