Chapter 28 #2
I sink to my knees, wrap my arms around my stomach, and calm my breathing.
In and out. Steady.
I reach for my Bond, fortifying myself with its light. It’s the only way to get through moments like these. The only way to remember who I am. I can feel it, pulsing steadily, it’s light a bit brighter than before. I close my eyes, exhaling a breath of gratitude.
He’s healing.
I wipe my cheeks and settle back on my knees, mentally preparing myself to get started. Reaching to my right, I grab a random wooden crate, making sure to move slowly so I don’t pull at my injury.
Holding myself back makes me furious.
Everything I’ve been told about Alpha and Omega dynamics was clearly a lie. There’s no protection. There’s nothing but pain.
I grab hold of that anger and shove my discomfort into it until there’s nothing left but simmering irritation.
I’m angry. Angry at the whole world.
Angry at my books for making me believe the stories I’ve read are the standard. I’m angry with my mother for not warning me that her relationship with my father is the norm, not the exception. Angry that no one warned me I’d spend my life bouncing from one abusive asshole of an Alpha to another.
For hours, I only move to grab more boxes. I sift through broken watches, belt buckles, compasses, and all kinds of personal artifacts. All of them were left here after their owners died.
There are so many lost pieces. An ancient, beautiful rosary made of jade. Hand-carved dice. Even a silver ring with a house crest, still streaked with someone’s blood.
These aren’t simply random belongings of dead warriors. They’re tokens. The kind of heirloom you cradle close to your heart as you draw your last breaths.
I don’t have the faintest idea who any of this belonged to, which adds a macabre intimacy to each piece.
I can’t help wondering about the males who owned these mementos.
What lives did they lead? Did they leave loved ones behind? What did they die for? Was it worth it?
The questions plague me, though I don’t know why I care. Thanks to my misplaced sentimentality, I’m sure I place far more into the “keep” pile than one of the males would. It just feels wrong to throw most of it out without knowing its significance.
I reach blindly into another box. When I wrap my hand around soft leather, an odd humming at my fingertips makes me jolt in surprise. The humming lasts only a moment, so I tighten my grip on the object and pull it out for inspection.
It’s an old satchel. Covered in dirt, but obviously well made, with intricate stitching and brown leather that’s as soft as butter. Beautifully wrought brass buckles and clasps hold the front flap shut.
It’s a forgotten carry-all, full of ghosts.
Tears burn behind my eyes and I scold myself for being so soft-hearted. I have enough to cry over. There’s no need to get emotional over a satchel belonging someone I don’t even know.
Whoever owned this could have been a complete jerk. Like Cage, or Silas.
I don’t even know what the males that live here are really involved in.
It’s obvious they’re military of some kind, but that’s the extent of my knowledge. I don’t know who or what they fight, and no matter how often I try to listen in on conversations, no one ever talks about anything important around me.
One thing’s for certain. Whatever they’re involved in, their organization has real power.
What other reason could there be for the existence of this ancient castle and sprawling compound crawling with vampires ready for war?
I can feel the history of this place in every stone, corridor, and stained glass window—the product of centuries of ancient authority.
I feel a familiar hatred toward my father for keeping me so ignorant of the world. I despise feeling left behind all the time. Like everyone else is always ten steps ahead, and I’m not only scrambling to play catch-up, but to survive a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
Frustrated, I open the satchel and check the insides. There’s nothing in any of the smaller pockets, but the main compartment holds a small book and a dagger.
I pull the book out first and flip through the pages, realizing quickly that it’s not a book.
It’s a journal.
I place it in the keep pile.
I hesitate only a second before wrapping my palm around the handle of the dagger.
It’s beautifully carved, made of smooth, white bone. There’s not much else to it. No gems or intricate scroll work as I’ve seen on other pieces I found.
I rotate it in my palm, admiring the subtle glow pulsing under the fluorescent lights. A hum, soft and low, buzzes through the air.
The lights above flicker once, twice, then steady.
Odd. I haven’t seen the electricity go out while I’ve been here.
Shrugging, I lean over to place the dagger next to the journal, intending to write their descriptions down and move on, but something stops me.
There’s something about the dagger that tugs at me. Instead of setting it to the side, I pull it closer. A quick check of the doorway verifies Cage is still in the hall, watching videos on his phone, not paying me any attention.
I wrap my hand around the hilt, admiring the way it feels in my palm. Soft, smooth, and oddly warm against my cold skin. Just like before, everything starts to feel hazy and dream-like.
I don’t think. I slide the blade from its sheath.
Behind the walls, a metal clicking sound echoes, making me jump.
I still, waiting to see if the lights will flicker again. When nothing else happens, my eyes flick back to the blade.
It shines. I don’t know much about steel but the iridescent gleam doesn’t seem normal. Looking closer, I notice tiny etchings in the metal. Lines and circles, engraved in intricate patterns that pull at my memory the way the blade pulls at my senses.
I almost feel like… I could read—or maybe understand—the delicate etchings if I focus enough. It’s like, when a word you can’t remember is right at the tip of your tongue, and you’re sure you can grasp it if you think hard enough.
Tentatively, I run a finger along the flat of the blade, shivering at the cool feel against my skin.
When my skin touches the symbols, something inside of me sits up, paying attention.
The same part that woke when Vae almost touched me the other morning.
The electricity in the air grows thick, thrumming with power. Just like the blade thrums in my hands. It’s singing in a frequency I can’t hear, but feel in my bones.
My Bond with Caelan pulses in my chest, brighter and stronger than before. I get the sense it’s greeting an old friend.
The electricity hums louder, the air dancing with invisible sparks.
The lights above me explode.
Glass shatters overhead, spraying throughout the room like an explosion of stars, sharp enough to kill.
Everything goes dark.
I hunch over, making myself smaller, curling my body around the dagger. I don’t know what I do it, but I clutch it to my chest, pressing it close to my heart.
That clicking noise behind the walls starts again, then there’s a loud POP!, and the continuous hum running through the building whirls off. A siren blares somewhere above my head, and distant shouts ring through the halls.
It sounds like a chaotic mess, like everyone thinks we’re under attack.
I see sparks spitting outside the room, and what sounds like a very pissed-off Alpha, cursing about systems frying and everything short-circuiting.
I catch the scent of ozone in the air, but on my next breath, it’s gone.
Once the mayhem dies down, I glance up warily from my crouched position. Fumbling in the dark, I re-sheath the dagger and try to stand. It’s slow going, pulling myself up inch by inch, using whatever I can find around me to help.
Sharp pain shoots through my stomach and chest, my injury screaming. My stomach rolls with nausea, and I moan. It’s been hours since Cage pushed me, but the ache’s only sharpened.
My knees buckle, and spots dance in front of me. Each time I move, the spinning worsens. I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from getting sick.
Once I’m finally standing, I lean against the wall, panting while I let the pain settle.
Fates, I’m starting to think there’s something seriously wrong.
I expect Cage to rush in, and brace myself for his accusations. Or, maybe it’ll be Vae this time, storming through the door like an indolent prince. Sneering at me down his nose in contempt and demanding answers I don’t have, for things I don’t even understand.
I don’t know how long I lean there, forcing back the nausea and pain. But when someone bursts through the door, it isn’t Vae or Cage, or even irreverent Silas.
It’s Daxen.
He looks like a demon, backed by the red lights of the emergency LED’s, his face a storm of accusation. He doesn’t have to say a word. Anger suffuses every inch of his aura, and the harsh lines of his face tell me all I need to know.
He takes one look at my position—leaning against the wall, shattered glass all over the floor, hand wrapped around the hilt of a dagger I shouldn’t have—and makes up his mind.
It isn’t the gnawing pain of my injury that has my body deflating under his scrutiny. It isn’t the oppressive fatigue, insatiable thirst, or the constant slow-burning hunger that makes me curl my shoulders, press my chin to my chest, and bare my throat with a defeated whimper.
It’s not even the constant shriek of my Omega screaming at me to make myself smaller and more submissive in the face of a furious Alpha that has my eyes burning with exhaustion.
It’s the absolute certainty that no matter what I say, no matter how I explain the dagger in my hand, he’s already decided I’m guilty of something.
He won’t listen.
The only thing Daxen sees right now is a target he needs to dispose of.
I unclench my fingers. Let the dagger fall to the floor with a muffled thud. Daxen’s eyes follow its descent, his lip curling in contempt.
My eyelids flutter closed. I know what’s coming. Everything that goes wrong works as a convenient excuse for them to take their anger out on me.