FORTY-SEVEN
DAKOTA
Waking up is so goddamn rude.
But you know what’s even more rude? Waking up in pain.
The first thing I become aware of is my mouth. It’s dry as the Sahara with a bitter and wrong tang I can’t seem to run away from. My tongue feels too big, my teeth too sharp, and every breath I try to take tastes like chemicals, old metal, and someone else’s really shitty life choices.
For a few seconds, I don’t open my eyes. It’s not because I’m scared, because I am. I’m scared out of my mind, obviously. But fear can wait its turn this time.
I need information first.
My wrists have been restrained above my head, locked into something cold and metal.
Not rope. Not cuffs. Something… I don’t know, something mounted?
What I do know is that my shoulders are burning from the position, my muscles trembling from dangling like a fish on a hook for too long.
My ankles are strapped down too, because of course they are.
Love that. My thighs are basically strapped tight to some kind of narrow chair or tilted table.
A medical chair, I realize with a healthy dose of horror.
Wait, no. Not medical. Because that word actually implies the idea of helping. This shit isn’t helping anyone but the fucks who took me. This is literally just a cage that learned big, fancy science words.
I keep my breathing slow. At least, I do my very best. The drug is still pumping through my bloodstream, thick and sluggish, making every thought drag itself through quicksand before it finally reaches the front of my skull.
My body doesn’t feel numb, though. I actually think numb might be better, because this shit feels like I’m being wrapped in wet cloth from the inside out, every one of my instincts muffled and every limb responding just late enough to piss me off.
My Omega is there, but she’s far away in my head. She’s angry and pinned down, fury pulsing from her in waves.
The bonds are there too, all three of them, stretched thin and distorted but very much alive.
Ewan burns somewhere way past my ribs, bright panic morphed into something sharper.
Kaito is colder and quieter, like a blade dragged slowly over glass.
Fletcher is steady in a way that makes my chest hurt.
Not calm. Never calm. Steady in the same way a locked door is steady before the thing behind it breaks through.
They’re coming. Maybe. Fuck, maybe that’s just me hoping.
Wishful thinking or something. Or maybe that’s the drug.
Maybe I’m about to hallucinate all four Alphas performing a rescue with really complicated dance choreography that includes too much footwork, a musical number, and an award-winning soundtrack, all while I drool on myself like some goofy raccoon that’s been sedated.
Honestly, that still sounds way better than the chair. I’ll even sing a few bars myself, just for the vibe. And maybe, as a bonus, it’ll keep the fear bottled a little while longer.
Under those three bonds, I still feel that gnawing empty place in my chest.
Xeon.
Not gone and that’s the problem. I mean, gone would actually be a clean cut.
But this? This is worse. This is reaching for a handle that should be there and instead just finding nothing but air.
My body keeps trying to find him the way it finds the others, my brain yearning for a bond, and every time it fails, something inside me flinches.
No frost.
No steel.
No thread.
Just a goddamn memory that haunts me worse than the ghosts of my past. His hand on my hip in the greenhouse.
The warmth of his fingers. The softness of his voice low in the dark.
The way he spoke about Seoul. South Korea when he was young.
He misses what he remembers but he doesn’t know if that’s the same thing.
I wonder if he is close. I wonder if he can even tell if I’m alive. I wonder if the silence is hurting him just as much as it’s hurting me.
A voice cuts through the room the moment that thought crosses my mind. “Dose is holding.”
Male. Close. Bored.
I don’t dare move, even though my shoulders are screaming at me and my body trembles.
Someone else answers, farther away. “Should have put her under completely.”
“Leader said not to. Buyers want responsive presentation if possible.”
Presentation.
Oh, isn’t that just great? Love that. Just absolutely love that for me. I’m not even kidnapped for five goddamn minutes before I’m put up for sale like some cheap toy on eBay. A girl really can’t have high standards in an apocalypse, Jesus Christ.
A third voice joins them. Female this time. That’s a nice change, huh? “She’s not standard. Took four restraints and two transport rounds to keep her down.”
“Because she’s feral?” the guy asks.
“Because she fought through a suppressor, shock contact, and the transport dose longer than she should have.”
I keep my face slack, mostly because making expressions right now requires effort I don’t currently possess.
“She’s an Omega,” the first man says. “Rare enough. Don’t need her to be special.”
Charming. What a delight. Really, the highlight of my apocalypse holiday.
The woman snorts. “Tell that to the Commander’s contact. They paid extra for this one.”
Commander.
My anger wakes up before the rest of me does at the sound of that name.
Fucking Hale.
That good-for-nothing, high-and-mighty, uptight, pushy, clipboard-licking, shit-sniffing little piss dumpster. When I get my hands on him…
“They knew there was an Omega inside Haven Ridge,” the woman continues. “They didn’t know she’d be bonded to half a pack by the time we got in.”
“Three active bonds,” the bored man says. “Not half.”
“Four Alphas around her.”
A pause right before the first man laughs. “Greedy little thing, isn’t she?”
My fingers twitch. Only barely and not enough for them to see. It is enough for me to know I am still in here, though. Disgusted by what’s left of the population and furious that once again, my distrust in humanity’s leftovers has been proven.
“Don’t start,” the woman says. “Omegas with attached Alphas are dangerous cargo.”
There it is again, stripping me of my humanity and identity and whittling me down to nothing more than a thing to be possessed.
Cargo. Not a girl or woman. Not a person.
Fucking cargo.
I breathe in through my nose slowly, willing my patience to remain strong. It only works because I take in the rancid chemical scent that seems to swarm around me with no vent to escape from.
“You saw the cages downstairs,” the bored man mutters. “They’re all dangerous until they break.”
My stomach turns.
Cages downstairs.
Others.
They’ve done this before.
Of course they have. I shouldn’t really be surprised, because people don’t generally build a chair like this for just a single, random bad idea they’ve thrown together.
A door opens somewhere to my left, followed by the roll of wheels. Something squeaks. A cart, maybe? Bottles clink. Plastic rustles. Then a woman asks, “Where are the NOVAC drives?”
“Separate cargo,” someone answers from nearby. “Moving at dawn with the older samples.”
Older samples. Two words that turn the blood in my veins ice cold.
“Medical wants the Omega logged before transport,” the bored man mutters, sounding like he wants to be anywhere else but right here. Like, damn. I’m sorry my kidnapping is sooo inconvenient for you, asshole. It’s not exactly a skip through a weed-infested, Zed-pond-filled park for me either.
“No blood draw yet,” the woman replies. “Leader’s orders. Visual assessment first. Scent response. Heat markers. Bond reactivity. Then samples.”
My pulse stumbles.
No blood draw.
Oh good. That’s good. That means they really don’t know. They don’t know about Mercer’s vial. About potential immunity. About my body being a creepy little NOVAC-shaped question mark with trauma issues.
They know that I’m an Omega. They suspect I’m unusual. I mean, yeah, that is bad, but it’s not the worst. Not yet, anyway.
I let my head loll slightly to the side and the room swims. White lights overhead. Metal ceiling beams. A wall lined with cabinets. A row of cages beyond a plastic curtain, all empty from what I can see, though one has a blanket twisted in the corner and dark stains on the floor.
A camera watches from above the door.
Two guards.
One woman in gray medical gear.
One man near my left side with a shock baton clipped to his belt.
One man by the door with a rifle.
A tray beside me.
Needles.
Scissors.
A scanner.
Metal picks.
My knife is gone.
My boot knife too.
My pistol.
My hat.
My chest clenches so sharply I almost give myself away, my heart stilling so violently that I almost choke on it. My lungs seize and the blood in my veins stops moving while everything around me warbles and tilts sideways.
Maine’s hat.
No.
No, no, no.
I force my breathing slow before the panic dials my scent up to a frequency that will scream through the drugs.
I mean, it’s just a hat.
That’s a filthy, stinking lie.
It’s not just a hat.
I will kill everyone in this room if they lost it. Fuck it, even if they haven’t, I’ll slaughter them all for even removing it from my goddamn head.
“Pupil response,” the woman says.
A hand grips my chin and my skin tries to crawl away from the touch. I let my eyes flutter open halfway, unfocused and heavy.
“There she is,” the woman murmurs. “Can you hear me, sweetheart?”
I stare through her. Not at her but through.
Like she’s just a smudged pane of glass standing in front of me.
It’s actually harder than it sounds, mostly because my vision keeps trying to split her into two terrible women and I just don’t have the patience for duplicates right now.
Not when they’re wearing a lab coat and a face I want to carve with a knife.
“She’s still under,” the man at my side says.
The woman leans closer. “Dakota O’Reilly.”
My name in her mouth makes something old and vicious rear up inside me but I stay completely limp. Even when the woman says, “You were a very expensive inconvenience, you know.”
That almost makes me smile. Almost.