Chapter Seven #4
The man’s jaw tightens visibly, anger flashing across his face as he raises his rifle slightly higher. “You don’t need to know who sent us. You need to do exactly what we say, and no one gets hurt.”
My grip tightens subtly around my cup, anger mixing dangerously with the adrenaline in my veins.
I exchange a quick, pointed glance with Fallon, silently communicating our next move.
Whatever these bastards think is going to happen here—they’re about to learn just how badly they’ve underestimated me.
I tilt my head slightly, eyeing the trio of men in full tactical gear standing in Fallon’s living room, my heart pounding furiously beneath a mask of absolute calm.
A sudden realization hits me like a slap—the room is missing something crucial.
They have no scents. None. Just the subtle sweetness of Fallon’s honey peach scent mixing with my lemon frosting aroma.
My instincts immediately scream danger. Scent blockers will make it harder for our packs to figure out who was in Fallon's home.
Fantastic.
“Wait.” I raise a finger, interrupting whatever ridiculous speech the leader was about to make. “Are you here for me, or her? Like her pack or mine? Because, honestly—no offense, Fallon—it could genuinely be either at this point.”
Fallon huffs out a laugh, giving the intruders a look of casual amusement. “Right? Did my pack piss you off? Was it Voss? Did he kill someone you love? That really sounds like something he’d do.”
I snort softly, rolling my eyes. “She’s not wrong. But it honestly might be my guys. A few weeks ago, some jackasses in tactical gear broke into my house and tried to kill me. My alphas took them out, though, so fair warning—I wouldn’t try that again if I were you.”
I notice the leader’s eyes narrow sharply at that little tidbit. Good. Let them know we aren’t easy prey.
“Get up,” he snaps suddenly, clearly irritated by our casual disregard of his intimidation tactics.
I sigh dramatically, standing up slowly and reaching for my boots beside the couch. “Leave them,” he growls impatiently.
“Dude,” I say slowly, shooting him a look of pure disbelief. “No. Just no. Do you even know how filthy the ground is out there? This is Chicago. I’m putting my shoes on.”
Without waiting for a reply, I shove my feet quickly into my boots, subtly checking that my knife is still secure in its hidden sheath.
Fallon rolls her eyes and stands too, effortlessly casual despite the tense situation.
I didn’t see where exactly she hid her knife, but knowing her, it’s somewhere incredibly dangerous and discreet.
Thankfully, our kidnappers are too distracted—or maybe too arrogant—to notice.
“I’m really getting tired of being kidnapped,” I say to Fallon conversationally, like I’m complaining about a late pizza delivery instead of, you know, active hostage-taking . My tone is bright, almost chipper, which is probably more unsettling than if I’d started screaming.
Fallon doesn’t miss a beat. Her lips curl into a feral grin, all teeth and barely contained violence. “Want to make a bet on which pack gets here first? Ten bucks on mine.”
The man standing closest to her jolts slightly, clearly thrown off by her casual death-pool vibe. His eyes widen, like he just realized we’re not your standard-issue, swoon-and-sob omegas. Poor guy. Rookie mistake.
I hum, tapping my chin like this is a perfectly logical time for a wager. “Hmm. Tempting. Your pack is nuts—especially Voss. That man gives off ‘might stab you or kiss you, and he hasn’t decided which’ energy.”
Fallon nods sagely. “He’s a wildcard. Keeps things spicy.”
“But,” I continue, leveling a look at the man with the rifle—who now seems deeply unsure about every life choice that brought him here—“my guys met me in the middle of a kidnapping rescue, then got themselves detained for a month, then busted out and found me again. So yeah... they’ve got a lot of pent-up murder energy. ”
Fallon snorts.
I flash her a grin. “I’ll see your ten and raise you twenty on mine.”
We both shift a little closer toward the men, who suddenly seem less cocky and more... concerned.
And somewhere under all the bravado, the banter, and the stubborn refusal to look scared—I feel it: the quiet, simmering rage. Not fear. Not this time.
Because I’m done being stolen. And I am so ready for someone to regret underestimating me.
“ Shut up and move, ” the leader barks again, his voice sharp and commanding—the kind of bark that slams into my bones and hijacks my body before I can stop it. My limbs jerk forward on instinct, traitorous and automatic.
Gods, sometimes I really hate being an omega.
But at least this time, the submissive pull doesn’t come with terror laced through my veins. No. This time? My omega is furious . She wants blood, not mercy.
Fallon moves with that deceptively lazy grace of hers, circling the couch like a cat sizing up prey—or pretending to, anyway. Then she stumbles. Just a little. Just enough to make it believable. Her hand shoots out, palm slapping hard against the fireplace mantle with a loud crack .
It echoes through the room, and the men barely blink.
But I catch the flicker in her eyes. That split-second glance she throws my way. I nearly sag with relief.
That wasn’t just a stumble. That was the panic trigger—the one hardwired into her fireplace that silently alerts her pack.
Cheating? Maybe.
Brilliant? Absolutely.
And bless Fallon’s paranoid, dramatic, hyper-violent alphas for thinking of it.
I resist the urge to laugh, tightening my jaw instead as I school my features into something blank and bored. Wouldn’t want them realizing just how screwed they are.
I glance at the men again—three strangers with big guns and bigger egos, acting like they’ve already won.
Oh, boys.
If you think this kidnapping is going to go according to plan… You are tragically mistaken.
Honestly? I almost feel bad for them.
Almost.
At least this time I’m not high on tranquilizers, waking up in a filthy building. Look at me—personal growth.
Jex
May 25th
7:45 P.M
The sharp chorus of phones pinging at once slices through the charged silence like a blade. Voss pauses mid-sentence, his knife glinting under the industrial lights, the tip still hovering dangerously close to the bloodied man hanging limply from the chains in front of him.
The warehouse is sterile, pristine—concrete floors polished to an unsettling shine, walls insulated against sound, heat, and mercy. The Rosetti pack calls it The Pit , a place meant to break secrets out of the worst kind of people. And tonight, it’s too quiet.
Until now.
I pull my phone out thinking it's mine. Kingston pulls his next to me, staring at his screen. Whatever he sees turns his expression to steel.
“ Fuck! ” he roars, spinning sharply on his heel. “Marco!”
The man in question doesn’t flinch. Marco sits perched like a lion at rest—immaculate black suit, polished shoes, a bowl of peanuts in hand as if we’re not surrounded by chains and bloodstains. His eyes lift lazily, unimpressed.
“Watch him,” Kingston snaps, already storming for the exit. Romano and Jace are right behind him, both men moving with precision that only ever comes from panic cloaked in control.
Voss drops his blade without a word and takes off, the slap of his boots echoing across concrete.
Marco sighs, brushing peanut dust from his lap. “Got it.”
Fox is already moving, brows furrowed in alarm as he closes in on Kingston’s crew. His normally calm demeanor is cracking, a rare flicker of fear creeping in beneath his usual stone face.
“What’s going on?” he demands.
“Fallon hit the panic button,” Jace barks, shoving the SUV door open hard enough to rattle the hinges. “Something’s happening at the house.”
My stomach drops. The blood drains from my face.
“Violet was with her,” I say, voice hoarse, urgency tearing through me like shrapnel. My heart lurches against my ribs, pounding in time with the rush of adrenaline that floods my veins. “We’re coming.”
Kingston doesn’t argue—nods tightly, his face carved from granite as he slides into the driver’s seat. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel, eyes glowing with fury that could level cities.
Dare curses under his breath, so low it’s nearly a growl. His fists flex at his sides, jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder his teeth don’t crack. He moves like a storm—shoulders taut, his black T-shirt stretched tight over his chest as he bolts for our truck.
Voss snarls something savage as he slams the SUV door shut beside Kingston. The look on his face is pure violence, like he’s seconds away from ripping the world apart.
And then we’re moving—Fox and I, tearing across the lot toward our truck. I barely register slamming the door behind me, my focus razor-sharp and trembling with rage.
I see her in my head. Violet. Her purple curls. The way her smile curves slightly to the side when she’s holding back a laugh. The way she looks when she lets herself be soft, for us.
And the fear that someone could take that away from me and us twists something deep in my chest.
We’ve already lost her once.
Not again.
“Floor it,” Dare snaps, his voice low and brutal from the back seat. He grips the headrest so tightly his knuckles bleach bone-white.
I don’t even answer. I slam my foot down, the engine roaring beneath us as the tires screech against the pavement.
Kingston’s SUV is already a blur ahead of us, tearing through the night like it’s chasing vengeance.
We follow—hard and fast.
Streetlights whip past, casting flashes of gold across Fox’s grim face. He’s staring ahead with that same dangerous calm he always gets when the mission matters most. But even he can’t hide the tension coiled in his jaw, the silent desperation in his eyes.
I don’t say it out loud, but it’s pounding in my chest, echoing in every breath I take.
Please, gods, let us be on time.
Because if anyone touches her—if anyone hurts her—
I will make the Pit look like a vacation.