Chapter 38 #3
That was always my superpower—finding exactly where to press to make him lose that precious control he guards so precariously.
We're locked in a staring match, his dark eyes boring into my hazel ones, and I refuse to blink even as my vision starts to sparkle at the edges. Stars bloom in my periphery, dancing like fireflies made of oxygen deprivation and spite.
This is fine.
I've survived worse.
I'll survive this...
Tank will come.
Elias will follow.
Julian wouldn’t dare to be left behind.
They’re the first pack who’ve proven to me that real Alphas do show up for those they love…
and oddly enough, despite the pain these men before me have delivered in the past, I dare to be hopeful that the new set of men that have made these last 6 weeks the most wild fruitful rollercoaster of love, passion, and lust will stick to their words and actions.
That they’ll pull through yet again…
The room is tilting now, my lungs burning for air they can't quite catch. Black spots join the stars in my vision. Caden says something in the background—Damien's name, a plea, something I can't quite make out over the rushing in my ears.
Finally, Damien makes a sound of disgust, a sharp tsk that I feel as much as hear. His hand releases, and suddenly, there's blessed, beautiful air flooding my lungs.
I cough. Gasp. Wheeze in the most undignified way possible, doubling over as much as my restraints allow while my body remembers how breathing works. My throat burns, raw and abused, and I can already feel the bruises forming.
Glamorous. This is definitely how the night was supposed to go. Eating chocolate-covered strawberries and letting my Alphas worship every inch of skin…not wheezing in a warehouse like an asthmatic Victorian waif.
Damien turns away, addressing the remaining security goon—who looks like he's reconsidering his career choices—with the kind of cold authority that makes lesser men scramble to obey.
"Get her some fucking food," he orders, "so I don't need to suffer listening to her fucking complain." A pause, loaded with barely contained rage. "And clean this shit up."
He has every intention of walking away.
I can see it in the rigid line of his spine, the way his hands flex at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from doing something he'd regret. Or something he'd enjoy too much.
And my stupid, self-destructive mouth—the same mouth that got me through three years of hell by refusing to be silenced—decides this is the perfect moment to keep going.
"Jeez," I rasp, my voice wrecked but my attitude entirely intact, "if you're gonna choke me, at least do it right so I'm dead and not reminiscing on how Tank enjoys choking me into ecstasy."
Too far? Probably. Do I care? Absolutely not.
I've been silenced for too long. I've spent too many years swallowing my words to keep the peace.
No more.
I'm still heaving for breath, my throat burning, but the memory washes over me unbidden anyway—Tank's massive hand wrapped around my throat in an entirely different context, dark brown eyes watching my every reaction with the intensity of a man worshipping at an altar.
The way he'd asked, every single time, if I was okay. If I wanted more.
If I wanted him to stop.
The way he'd held me after, pressing kisses to my pulse point, murmuring praise until I felt precious instead of used.
That's the difference.
Consent. Care. Love.
It’s so fucking simple…and yet why is it so hard for all these Alphas to follow through?
Damien stops mid-stride.
The air in the warehouse shifts, temperature dropping several degrees as every Alpha in the room goes rigid. Even Milo and Caden, who've been doing their best impression of furniture, seem to stop breathing.
"Damien," Caden starts, voice threaded with warning. "Don't—"
"You," Damien snarls, spinning on his heel with violence written in every line of his body, "never fucking listen. Never do what you're told."
And ladies and gentlemen….there it is.
The real issue.
The thing that drove him crazy during our entire farce of a relationship; my refusal to be the perfect, obedient omega he wanted to parade around like a show pony. My insistence on having thoughts and opinions and a goddamn spine.
I brace myself as he storms toward me, every muscle tensing for whatever's coming next.
"Well," I mutter, unable to stop myself even now, even when I should absolutely shut the hell up, "next time tell me to shut u—"
The butt of his gun connects with my temple.
Pain explodes through my skull like a supernova—bright, consuming, total.
The world tilts sideways, colors bleeding into shapes bleeding into darkness. Somewhere far away, I think I hear shouting, the clatter of something falling, maybe my own body slumping in the chair.
My last coherent thought, before the void swallows me whole, is that I hope someone saves that chocolate truffle cake.
And that's when my pack finds me—because they will miraculously find where the hell this warehouse is—there won't be enough left of these bastards to identify.
Darkness welcomes me like a comforting embrace.
I wake to chaos.
There's shouting--distant at first, then closer, then everywhere at once.
Voices I don't recognize barking orders, the sharp crack of something that might be gunfire, the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground.
Alarms are blaring somewhere, a persistent wail that drills into my skull like a hot needle, like someone is systematically driving railroad spikes through my temples.
"--intruder alert--"
"--security is down, I repeat, security is being taken down left and right--"
"--how many are there?! How the fuck did they find us?!--"
What's happening? Where am I? Why does everything hurt so much?
The room around me slowly filters into my awareness through the haze of pain.
Concrete walls, industrial lighting, the smell of dust and mildew and something chemical--a warehouse, maybe, or an abandoned storage facility.
The chair I'm tied to is hard and plastic, biting into my wrists where rough rope has rubbed my skin raw.
My ankles are bound too, secured to the chair legs with the kind of efficiency that suggests someone has done this before.
I try to open my eyes fully, but the world immediately starts spinning, a nauseating carousel of blurred colors and shapes that makes my stomach lurch violently.
My head is pounding--a deep, throbbing ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat, radiating from somewhere near my left temple where I can feel crusted blood matted in my hair.
I'm too hot. Way too hot, like someone has turned my internal thermostat up to maximum and forgotten about it, like a fever is raging through my body unchecked.
Heat. I'm going into heat. The pre-symptoms from yesterday have escalated into something more urgent, more demanding, more impossible to ignore.
My skin feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending screaming for relief.
But that doesn't explain the pain in my head, the way my limbs feel like they're filled with sand, the complete disorientation that's making it impossible to focus on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.
The scents in the room are overwhelming and wrong--strange Alpha pheromones that make my Omega instincts recoil in disgust, the acrid smell of fear-sweat from men who know they're in over their heads, the metallic tang of blood that might be mine.
Everything is too loud, too bright, too much.
My body is screaming for my Alphas, for the familiar scents of cedar and pine and campfire smoke and bergamot, for the safety of my pack.
Someone grabs my face, fingers rough and impatient, forcing my head up so hard my neck protests.
I try to focus on the person in front of me, but I'm seeing triple--three overlapping versions of a face I should recognize but can't quite place through the fog in my brain.
Dark hair, sharp features, expensive suit that looks out of place in this industrial hellhole.
"Milo,” I manage, the name coming out slurred and uncertain. One of my family's loyal soldiers--I remember him now. He was always hovering at the edges of family gatherings, doing my father's dirty work with quiet efficiency.
"Fuck, man," Milo's voice is sharp with something that might be concern or might be annoyance--it's hard to tell through the ringing in my ears. "You punished her too fucking hard. You always take this shit too far."
He's talking to someone else. Someone I can't see. There's movement in my peripheral vision, shadows shifting in a room I don't recognize.
"She doesn't look too good at all," another voice adds, younger and more uncertain. "Like, at all. Is she supposed to be that pale?"
"Shut up." A third voice--older, harsher, dripping with contempt. "She's just bluffing. Trying to make us feel guilty. That's what Omegas do. Manipulate."
I'm not bluffing. I genuinely can't see straight. I genuinely feel like I might die. But sure, let's go with manipulation.
Milo releases my face, and my head drops forward, chin hitting my chest. I can't support it. I can't support anything. My neck feels like it's made of overcooked pasta, unable to hold the weight of my skull. A groan escapes me--pathetic and weak and entirely involuntary.
I feel like shit. Complete and utter shit. Which is strange because I don't remember feeling this bad before. What happened? How did I get here? The last thing I remember is... is...
The memories come in fragments. The coffee shop meeting that morning--signing papers, shaking hands, one step closer to my dream. Walking outside. A van pulling up. Hands grabbing me before I could scream.
They took me. My family's people finally caught up to me, and they took me right off the street like I was nothing. Like I belonged to them.