Chapter Ten
Voss
The second the omegas clear the room with John and Colby, the atmosphere shifts.
The subtle mask of calm we've all been wearing cracks, letting the bloodlust we’ve held back spill into the shadows.
Kingston’s eyes go cold, colder than ice, and I grin slowly, savoring the burn of anticipation that floods through me.
“Let’s finish it,” Kingston says, voice dark with a quiet fury he rarely lets loose.
Jace and Romano nod silently, the gentle softness they show Fallon replaced by the lethal focus I've always known them for. This is who we are beneath the masks she’s somehow pulled over our true faces—the monsters we've always been.
We move like shadows down the hallway, our footsteps barely audible on the cracked tile.
The heavy scent of mold, fear, and blood clings to everything, but to me, it’s exhilarating.
My pulse races with a perverse kind of excitement—the promise of chaos sings through my veins, igniting something primal, something violent.
Something I only ever feel when I’m ending lives.
“On your left,” Kingston whispers, his voice barely above a breath.
The next room erupts into chaos as we breach it.
Gunfire flashes bright, bullets tearing holes through walls.
Romano ducks low, knife glinting in his hand as he slashes a man’s throat open.
Blood sprays in an arc, painting his face in crimson.
He doesn’t flinch—none of us do. We’ve bathed in blood so often it no longer stains us; it simply reminds us who we truly are.
I spot two men scrambling for weapons near a battered desk.
Too slow. My own gun is already up, aiming, firing.
The sharp crack rings out, echoing violently in the small space.
One man falls, choking, clawing at his chest, the other’s head snaps back, a hole punched neatly through his forehead.
Satisfaction curls inside me, dark and delicious.
“Jace, cover!” Kingston shouts, and bullets tear past us, shattering plaster and glass. I spin, teeth bared in a wild grin, heart pounding wildly. Jace curses harshly, gripping his arm where blood trickles from a fresh wound.
I laugh, raw and untamed. Pain just makes us sharper, angrier, deadlier.
Jace growls, barely pausing as he fires back, dropping another attacker with ruthless efficiency.
Romano darts between the chaos, using shadows as cover, his blades catching what little moonlight filters through cracked windows.
He moves like a ghost, leaving bodies in his wake.
Kingston’s eyes meet mine across the chaos.
We’re both smiling—blood-soaked grins of two beasts set loose.
This is who we are at our core: violent and unforgiving, built to destroy anyone who dares to threaten what's ours. And Fallon is ours, which means anyone she considers hers is ours too. These men stole what wasn’t theirs. They deserve no mercy, no hesitation.
I drop my empty clip and reload smoothly, stalking forward. A bullet whips past my head, too close, and I turn, finding the shooter’s wide-eyed fear. He’s young, barely a man. My finger doesn’t pause on the trigger. A harsh bark of gunfire, and he collapses, lifeless eyes staring at nothing.
No one leaves here alive.
It’s done in minutes, but the carnage feels timeless—bodies sprawled across the filthy floors, the sharp scent of gunpowder thick in the air, smoke lingering like a ghostly witness. We walk silently back toward the entrance, our breathing harsh, adrenaline still surging.
Jace grimaces slightly, blood seeping between his fingers. “It’s nothing,” he mutters, noticing my look.
“You’ll live,” Romano says dryly, though he still looks him over quickly. Tearing a strip off Jace's already shredded shirt, he wraps it and ties it off.
Kingston hands Romano a gas can from outside, and he douses the walls, the furniture, and even the corpses.
There will be no trace of what we’ve done here, no survivors, no loose ends.
I smile darkly as Kingston hands me the match.
I strike it slowly, savoring the hiss and the faint sulfur smell, before flicking it casually toward the soaked room.
Fire blooms instantly, orange and red tongues hungrily devouring everything—evidence, sins, memories. It’s beautiful, really.
The flames dance in my eyes, the heat warm on my face, cleansing, purifying.
This building, these men—they deserved every flame, every scream silenced, every life ended.
We won't stop until we find every omega and every building they are kept in.
We won't stop until we tear the person in charge apart.
Fallon
March 30th
1:23 PM
The shrill ringing of my phone cuts through the silence, making me flinch and nearly send a stack of resumes flying across my desk. Jesus. I already have a headache from staring at these damn things for hours, and now I’m jumping at sudden noises like a skittish kitten.
I shove the stack aside and dig through the clutter until I unearth my phone, squinting at the screen. A group video call. Violet and Odette. Of course.
With a sigh, I swipe to answer and prop up my phone against a small stack of ‘qualified’ resumes, ensuring they get a good view of the absolute chaos I’m buried under. I came into my office in leggings and a soft pink sweater. At least I don’t have to wear shoes.
The moment their faces appear, Violet snickers. “Bitch, are you working?”
Odette, ever the enabler, grins. “Be nice, Vi. Our Fallon is a hero.”
They’re both laughing, and I let out a long suffering sigh, rubbing at my aching temples. I swear, my shoulders feel like they’re carved from stone at this point. How the hell am I supposed to get anything done when it feels like someone’s been using my spine as a tension rod?
“I didn’t really have a choice,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair and rolling my neck until it gives a satisfying pop.
My office is usually my sanctuary, a place of warmth and control, but today, it feels more like a war zone.
The large mahogany desk that once looked sleek and professional is now covered in stacks of paper, resumes, and financial reports.
The floor-to-ceiling windows on one side let in too much light, making my head throb harder, but at least they offer a view of the city skyline instead of the disaster on my desk.
“So what’s the crisis this time?” Odette asks, arching a perfectly groomed brow.
“My Boston location had a walkout,” I say flatly, gritting my teeth at the memory. “The manager refused to tell me why, and now I have to shut it down temporarily.”
“Oh, shit.” Violet’s face scrunches in concern. “What about the brides’ dresses?”
On the screen, she looks comfortably curled in her nest, makeup-free, hugging a bright purple pillow that’s only a few shades lighter than her hair. Lucky bitch. She looks so cozy, so unbothered, while I’m here drowning in responsibilities.
I let out another exhausted sigh as I start shuffling the stacks of resumes, separating them into dramatic piles—” Absolutely Not” and “Qualified.”
“Luckily, there were no outstanding orders—somehow. But something felt off, so I hired a financial investigator. Something about the numbers isn’t adding up, and I’m not about to get screwed over by someone playing dirty with my business.”
I almost laugh to myself at how ridiculous it sounds. But knowing my luck? It’s probably worse than I think.
Odette lets out a breathy sigh through the video, and I immediately take notice. She sounds slightly winded, and it takes me a second to really look at her.
Her orange-blonde hair is curled around her face, slightly damp at the edges from the wind. She’s dressed in workout clothes—leggings, a fitted top, and a light jacket tied around her waist. I squint at the screen, suspicion curling in my chest.
“O, what are you doing?”
Before she can answer, Violet groans loudly, throwing her hands up like she’s just discovered a crime scene. “O, come on. Why are you doing this to yourself?”
Odette rolls her eyes dramatically, letting out another breath as she shifts the camera slightly. “I’m headed to the gym. Don’t worry, I borrowed Henry.”
The screen tilts, shifting the view, and Henry’s back enters the frame.
My giant, intimidating, no-nonsense bodyguard, keeping pace just slightly ahead of her, his presence a silent but undeniable force.
He’s dressed in his usual dark suit, barely even winded, his sharp eyes constantly scanning their surroundings.
The second his gravelly voice rumbles through the speaker, some of the tension leaks out of my chest. “Hey, kid. Did your… friends get home okay?”
I exhale, not even realizing how tightly I’d been wound up until now. I didn’t realize how afraid I’d been of my best friends. I don’t know if I would survive without them. They are my one constant in this life. I know Mom loves me, but she has other priorities. I should call her.
“Oh, yes. Each one had a family member pick them up. Some needed a little extra help, but I think they’ll all be okay in time. Robert says hi, by the way.”
I keep my tone light, but we both know we’re being deliberately vague. I think Voss’ paranoia has bled into me because I can’t shake the feeling that discussing this too openly—even now—is dangerous.
Once Robert finished ushering the omegas inside, something shifted.
It was like Callie fully came back to life.
Thank the Gods, because she was really starting to worry me.
She initially reacted to me, then returned to how she was when they arrived.
The way she’d been staring blankly, barely reacting, barely breathing.
It had sent something cold into my chest. But the second Robert was safe.
It was like her soul snapped back into place.
There were more hugs, tears, and whispered promises that they’d be okay. Kingston made sure they all got home safely.