Chapter 2
Amelia
I slowly blink myself awake, my eyelids heavy as the fairy lights above my nest blur and come into focus, their warm glow making little halos in my vision.
I'm not surprised to find I fell asleep.
The exhaustion that comes with constant fear is bone-deep, pulling me under at the strangest times, leaving me disoriented and groggy when I surface again.
But my heart is hammering against my ribs, hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
My chest heaves as I drag in breath after breath, my lungs burning like I've been running.
Sweat dampens my hairline, my neck, and the space between my shoulder blades, my shirt clinging to my skin, only adding to the discomfort.
The nightmare I just woke from still clings to me, fragments of it flashing behind my eyes even as I try to blink them away.
An open field stretched endlessly in every direction, tall grass swaying in a wind I couldn't feel.
The sky above was that strange twilight color, not quite day and not quite night.
I was alone, spinning in circles, trying to figure out where I was, how I'd gotten there.
My phone was dead. No landmarks, no roads, no signs of civilization.
Just grass and sky and the growing certainty that no one was coming for me.
That specific scenario never happened, not exactly. But similar things did. Too many similar things.
I remember being happy with Vincent one moment, laughing at something he'd said, feeling almost normal. Then his expression would shift, something dark sliding behind his eyes, and everything would change in an instant.
He'd pull the car over on some back road and tell me to get out.
Or he'd leave me at a store while he drove away, watching in the rearview mirror as I ran after him, panicking.
Teaching me a lesson, he'd call it later, when he came back.
Teaching me not to take him for granted, not to disrespect him, not to do whatever imaginary thing he'd decided I'd done wrong.
The fear in those moments was primal. The absolute certainty that I was going to be left behind, or abandoned, and that no one would find me or care that I was gone, was always on my mind. The worst was that I started feeling like I deserved it somehow.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories and focus on something else. Like my empty nest.
Maddox and Dylan are gone. The TV across the room is dark, no longer playing the animated movie we'd put on. The house is quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the distant sound of traffic outside.
I scramble for my phone as I dig through the blankets and pillows until my fingers close around the familiar shape. The screen lights up when I tap it, making me squint against the brightness.
7:14 PM.
I stare at the numbers, confused. We'd started the movie around five, I think. Or was it six? My brain feels fuzzy. Did I sleep for hours or just minutes? I don’t even remember falling asleep.
My days are all confused lately, my sleeping schedule completely upended. I'll be exhausted at noon and wide awake at three in the morning. I'll sleep for twelve hours straight and still wake up tired, or I'll be unable to sleep at all despite feeling like I need to pass out.
The doctor I saw last week said it was normal after a traumatic experience, that my body was still in survival mode, my brain unable to distinguish between real threats and imagined ones.
She'd said it so kindly, too, like the fact that I'm this messed up is understandable and not something to be ashamed of.
I'm still working on believing that.
Blowing out a heavy breath, I sit up a little, struggling to get my bearings. I groan as I shift, my muscles protesting, my gaze dropping to the fading bruise on my wrist, a visible reminder of the horrors I left.
I trace the edges of it with my right hand. The bruise wraps around my wrist in the clear shape of fingers, a handprint that tells a story I don't want to remember.
The day before I left, Vincent had wrapped his hand around my wrist to keep me there.
We'd been arguing about something stupid, something I can't even remember now.
I'd tried to walk away because I'd learned that sometimes walking away was the only way to de-escalate, to give him space to calm down.
But he hadn't let me, yanking me back so fucking hard that I stumbled.
"You don't walk away from me," he'd snarled, his face inches from mine. His grip had tightened, grinding the small bones of my wrist together until I'd cried out. "You don't get to just leave. You're mine."
The terror in that moment had been all-consuming. The certainty that if I didn't get out, if I didn't run, I was going to die. Maybe not that day, but eventually. He was escalating, getting worse, and some part of me understood that I was running out of time.
So I'd waited until he'd left for work the next morning, thrown everything I could grab into a bag, and ran.
Dylan saw the bruises when I first stumbled through his door. The one on my wrist, the ones on my upper arms where Vincent had grabbed me too hard, and the fading mark on my ribs through my torn shirt from where he'd shoved me into a counter.
Dylan's face had gone through a rapid series of emotions, shock and horror and rage all flickering across his features in the space of a heartbeat. His hands had shaken as he'd reached for me, so gently like I was made of glass.
He never asked about them directly. Never pushed me to explain. But I could see the fury simmering beneath his careful control, the way his jaw would clench when he thought I wasn't looking, the white-knuckled grip he'd have on his coffee mug in the mornings.
He's still pissed. I know he is. Maddox too, though he hides it better.
I've tried to tell Dylan that I'm okay now, that I'm safe, that the bruises are healing, and I'm getting better. Even though I'm not sure I believe it myself.
I sit up a bit more, shifting my weight, and that's when I catch it. Just the faintest hint of scent cutting through the smell of lavender fabric softener and vanilla candle wax.
Rose. Sweet and warm, unmistakably Omega.
My scent.
My eyes go wide, panic slamming into my chest. No, no, no.
Where are the blockers? I scramble around my nest frantically, throwing pillows aside, searching for the small jar of scent-blocking cream I keep close.
My hands start shaking so badly I nearly drop it when my fingers finally close around the smooth glass.
I wrench the lid off and scoop out a generous amount, slathering it all over my neck with desperate, jerky movements.
My pulse hammers beneath my fingertips as I rub the cream into my scent gland, the cool substance quickly warming against my feverish skin.
I add more, covering my wrists, the inside of my elbows, anywhere my scent might escape from.
Even if that’s not how it works.
The fear is irrational because it’s just me in here and Dylan and Maddox out there.
But what if the scent tracks an Alpha to the house?
What if somehow Vincent can smell it and uses it to find me?
I know it doesn't work that way. I know he's not some supernatural creature who can follow a scent trail across state lines.
But the rational part of my brain has very little say right now.
You're safe, I tell myself. You're in Dylan's house. The doors are locked. Vincent doesn't know where you are. You're safe.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I stare at my device beside my thigh, holding my breath as I wait to see if the screen will light up again. It does, with another notification. And then another, until there’s just text after text filling up my screen.
A small whine falls from my lips as I grab it, some terrible compulsion forcing me to look even though I already know, I already know what I'm going to see.
Vincent.
Text after text after text pops up. I still don't know how he got this number. I'd been so careful, only giving it to Dylan and Maddox and the school. But somehow he found it this afternoon anyway.
The words blur together as I scroll, each message more vile than the last.
You can't hide from me
Stupid bitch, think you can just leave?
I'm going to find you and when I do
You're MINE. You'll always be mine
No one else will want you. You're worthless without me
I made you. I can destroy you
Answer me you ungrateful bitch
The messages keep coming, one after another, and I can practically hear his voice saying the words and feel the way he'd spit them at me with his face contorted in rage.
My vision tunnels, the edges going dark, but for some reason, I can't stop reading or look away from the proof that he's still there, still hunting me, still determined to drag me back.
A wounded, desperate sound escapes my throat as I clutch my chest, wondering if I deserve this. Vincent tried so hard to make me believe I wasn’t a good enough Omega and I almost fell for it. Sometimes, I still think that way and right now, every vile word showing up on the screen makes me wonder…
I drag in a breath that gets caught in my throat, the room starting to spin around as my stomach flips.
He's coming. He's going to find me. He's going to hurt me. The thoughts loop in my head, getting louder and louder until the voices in my head are screaming that I’m not safe here.
"Hey sis, it's me, Dylan. I'm coming in."
The voice cuts through the panic as I look up, tears streaming down my face, though I don't remember starting to cry. The main light flips on and I flinch but don't look away from the doorway where Dylan appears, his expression shifting from calm to alarmed the moment he sees me.