Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Violet
“I’m so fucking bored,” Fallon groans, flopping back on the bed like she’s auditioning for a tragic stage play.
Her midnight-blue hair spills in a dark wave across the dingy green comforter as she throws an arm over her eyes and kicks one leg restlessly.
“This is honestly offensive. If you’re going to kidnap someone, at least have the decency to provide a little entertainment. A movie. Snacks. A hostage menu.”
From my spot at the edge of the mattress—where I’ve been hanging halfway upside-down like a sulking bat—I let out a snort.
Blood rushes back into my skull as I roll upright with a dramatic sigh.
“Excuse me? Is my sparkling presence not enough for you? I’ve been providing premium company content for hours . ”
She peeks at me from beneath her arm, eyes narrowed with mock betrayal. “Vi, I love you, but even your sass has a shelf life. After hour two, I need snacks or someone to punch.”
“Fair,” I mutter, dragging my fingers through my curls and glaring at the humming fluorescent light above us. “Still better than the last place we were locked up. At least this one doesn’t smell like mold and existential dread.”
She props herself up on her elbows, giving the room a long, unimpressed once-over. “Yeah, well, beige walls and thrift-store chic decor doesn’t exactly scream ‘hostage glam,’ either.”
She’s not wrong. The room is… weirdly clean.
Like someone tried to make it cozy but gave up halfway.
The queen bed is old but solid, covered in a faded comforter that feels like it was washed with industrial-grade sandpaper.
Two battered wooden chairs sit in the corner like they’re waiting for an awkward interrogation, and there’s a dusty lamp that flickers whenever the AC kicks on.
A chipped ceramic mug sits abandoned on the side table, half-full of something that may have once been coffee or poison. Honestly, who knows?
What’s more unsettling is the silence. No yelling. No threats. Just the quiet hum of overhead lighting and the muted echo of our own breathing. It’s the kind of silence that makes you start imagining all the ways it could break.
The door, of course, is reinforced steel.
Electronic lock. Keypad. I saw them punch in a code earlier when they shoved us in here like inconvenient luggage.
Fallon tried to watch the pattern, but one of them blocked her view.
Not amateurs, then. And they’ve been wearing scent blockers—cowards.
I haven’t been able to get a whiff of anything useful since they grabbed us.
I hate this. The not knowing. The stillness. The waiting.
I glance at Fallon, who’s now using one of the pillows to stage a mock execution with her bare hands. Her face is calm, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitch. She’s pissed. I am too.
But underneath the anger is something sharper. Colder.
Worry.
Because this isn’t random, they came for us. They came prepared.
And that means someone knows exactly who we are.
“You know what is strange?” I ask into the momentary silence. “The last commando idiots said that there was a kill order on me. But we were kidnapped?”
“That is odd.” She doesn’t seem to be able to give me more than that. “Maybe they feel like you are more useful alive?”
That makes me laugh. “I also feel like I’m more useful alive.”
Fallon shifts restlessly again, letting out a heavy sigh as she slumps against the wall, her honey-peach scent a calming presence in an otherwise tense room. “How long do you think it’ll take the guys to find us?”
“Not long,” I reply confidently, though I can’t help the faint twist of anxiety in my chest. “Between your paranoid pack and my overly protective alphas, I’m surprised they aren’t already storming the place.”
She smiles, but it’s strained around the edges. “I know they’ll come for us. I just really, really hate waiting.”
I nod sympathetically, crawling up onto the mattress beside her and leaning against the wall. “I get it. The waiting is the worst part. I’d prefer fighting or running—anything but sitting around.”
“Exactly.” She blows a stray curl out of her face, glaring at the blank wall across from us. “Who even kidnaps omegas without having the courtesy to entertain us?”
I laugh softly. “Maybe we should put in a formal complaint.”
Fallon snickers, bumping her shoulder gently against mine. “At this rate, we’ll get frequent-kidnapping discounts.”
I grin, grateful for her humor in the tense moment. But despite the jokes, my thoughts drift anxiously to our mates. They’ll find us, of that I have no doubt, but what if something goes wrong? What if they get hurt? A quiet dread coils in my stomach, mixing with my frustration.
As if sensing my mood shift, Fallon’s expression softens. “They’ll be okay, Vi. They’re insanely protective—and yours have already proven they’ll kill anyone who hurts you.”
“I know,” I whisper, leaning my head back and closing my eyes briefly. “But it’s not just us in danger anymore. It’s them, too. And the waiting—”
“Sucks,” Fallon finishes softly. “Yeah, it does.”
Silence stretches between us again, heavy and oppressive. I stare at the locked door, silently willing it to open. If I have to wait much longer, I swear I’ll claw through the walls myself.
Because right now, being bored isn’t the worst part. It’s being powerless, stuck here, while the people we love rush headlong into danger.
“When we get out of here, I’m refusing to be kidnapped again. Like gun in my face don’t care no thanks.” I announced suddenly, breaking the long silence out of sheer boredom and frustration. “This kidnapping has officially killed all my patience.”
Fallon bursts into laughter, her eyes sparkling with amusement. I’m right there with you. I’m just going to start stabbing people.”
She’s abruptly cut off by a soft beep-beep-beep —the distinct rhythm of someone entering the access code on the keypad outside the door.
Instant silence.
Fallon and I lock eyes, and every trace of amusement drains from the room like a pulled plug. The air goes sharp, brittle. My stomach knots, and adrenaline roars to life in my veins, cold and hot all at once.
“Finally,” Fallon breathes, her voice practically a growl.
She rises from the bed with eerie calm, the predator in her surfacing like a switch flipped.
I barely blink before her hand disappears under her sweater—and fuck me , there it is.
A wicked blade flashes in her grip, curved and gleaming, pulled from a holster I swear to god wasn’t there a second ago.
I snap into motion too—no time to hesitate. I scramble into the corner of the bed, drawing my knees to my chest, body folding in on itself like prey. Wide eyes. Shaky breath. Vulnerable omega act: activated. It’s a dance I know too well, and I’m damn good at it.
The door clicks. Opens.
One man. Alone.
Poor bastard.
He’s holding a tray—food, maybe?—and his bored expression is the last thing he has time to register before Fallon erupts .
She lunges across the room like she’s airborne, slamming her blade deep into his thigh with bone-snapping force.
The sound he makes is not human—some mix between a roar and a gurgle as the tray crashes to the floor, scattering cold food and metal across the concrete.
He hits the ground hard, blood pulsing from the wound.
I don’t wait for him to recover—I pounce like something feral, grabbing his collar and dragging him into the room with everything I have.
He fights, grunting and flailing, but I throw my weight into it, slamming his back into the edge of the bed. His head snaps back with a loud crack .
The door swings halfway shut behind him.
Fallon lunges—she almost makes it—but it slips from her fingers, the heavy steel door slamming shut with a deafening clang and a mocking hiss as the lock re-engages.
“ Shit! ” I hiss, heart pounding so loud I can barely hear.
We freeze, breathing hard, then glance down at the bastard writhing on the floor between us. He’s groaning, spitting curses, trying to crawl backward despite the deep gash in his leg.
Fallon raises her brows and shrugs. “Oops.”
I laugh, breathless, every nerve lit up like fireworks. “Well… at least now we have a guest.”
“Hospitality’s about to get real cozy,” she mutters, already reaching for the bedsheets.
I drop beside her, grabbing the guy by his arms as he struggles and curses, trying to land a blow. He catches me across the cheek with a wild elbow— and that’s it . I slam my fist into his nose, the wet crunch and spray of blood instantly satisfying.
He howls. Fallon knees him in the gut for good measure.
“Shut the fuck up ,” she growls, ripping the sheet in brutal, angry jerks. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t shove this blade somewhere creative.”
He tries to spit at her.
She grabs him by the jaw, leans in close, and smiles —the terrifying kind. “Do it again. Give me a reason.”
His mouth snaps shut.
We wrestle him into one of the chairs, tying him down with layers of shredded sheets, ankles and wrists bound tight, shoulders pinned to the back. The bleeding from his thigh has slowed to a sluggish ooze, which is almost a shame—I would’ve liked him a little more panicked.
He looks like a half-mummified crash test dummy by the time we're done.
Fallon wipes blood from her cheek with the back of her hand and steps back to admire our work. “Not bad. Think we should add throw pillows?”
“Only if they’re filled with his dignity,” I mutter, standing to cross my arms and glare down at him.
His face is twisted in rage and pain, chest heaving, a little green around the edges from blood loss.
I lean forward, voice low and calm, almost conversational. “Now listen closely, because you’ve got one chance before Fallon starts getting creative. Who the fuck sent you?”
He glares at me in defiance.