Chapter 30
CHAPTER
THIRTY
TWO MONTHS LATER
June
ALISA
Silas set up a lounger underneath the dogwood tree this morning, and while it’s still small, there’s plenty of shade above me from the other trees to allow me to work.
My feet slide through the pond before me, the sight bringing a wistful smile to my lips as I lean my head back to gaze up at the sky.
The water is helping to cool me off as I daydream about life in general, and I get ready to begin writing.
I don’t speak about my past because I’m realizing my body remembers how everything felt while it was happening.
It throws my mind into places it’s difficult to come back from, and I pass out.
Lyle and I discussed working on a comprehensive list of people who have bought and sold me to begin hunting them, but my emotions went haywire as we attempted to figure out how to do this.
I blacked out as I tried to argue with him that I could push through, waking up to Doc sitting beside me on the couch.
He may have set himself up in the cottage, but now he’s officially moved in.
He was living with family nearby but says he’s decided he needs space.
I think he’s trying to figure things out as he goes.
Sometimes, you just need a change, he told me.
I’m the last person to say anything to the contrary, so now he’s our neighbor.
Our pack refuses to charge him rent, and won’t allow him not to accept payment for his services, which means we’re at an impasse.
I imagine some insane sort of war between their egos is going to break out and it’ll be ridiculous to watch.
I’m going to stay in my own lane and let them figure it out. It is nice having him closer on a permanent basis though.
My fingers drag along the dirt until I touch the cool stone of my baby’s grave marker.
There may not be a body, but this is where I can sit with them.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and sit quietly.
My laptop is in my lap, waiting for me to take a walk down memory lane in the shape of pretending it’s fiction.
The characters in my book may be fictional, but the experiences are lived by me. Not all stories have to be happy, as one of my wise alphas has told me, but I want their ending to be. Maybe I can fashion a life I want to live one day.
Manifesting happiness is taking a whole new meaning in my eyes. My therapist thinks it’s not a bad idea, but I’ve been pulled into nasty flashbacks while doing this. He suggested I only write while someone is home and for my alphas to check on me periodically as well.
Since Doc lives just behind where I’m sitting, I’m well covered.
This is for us, Ellis.
Sighing, I open my tablet and log into the website I like to use to log my sprinting progress. Searching through the people I’ll work with, I click on Mary’s name. I like writing with her because she seems to be able to keep up with me pretty well.
Me
I’m going to be writing for the next hour. Would you like to sprint?
I feel so formal while typing this to her, but I think I’m always going to overthink things.
I’m able to relax with my alphas, yet they aren’t strangers on the internet.
Some aren’t meant to be social butterflies, instead they’re happy to lean away from the spotlight.
I think I’m going to need to learn to be alright with this.
Mary
Yes! I’m trying to get motivated and here you are. I’ll let you know when to start!
My lips curve slightly as she sets the timer on the website and I open my document.
I tend to write slower when pulling from real events because I have a shared notes app where I type things from my past that I remember as I go.
My pack has access to it in an effort to tell them about the things I’ve gone through without re-living it.
Instead, these are bare facts Lyle and Easton can use to track down people who have hurt me. I don’t want to destroy myself in an effort to help others, and there’s so much trauma built up in little boxes in my mind, this is the only safe way to unlock things.
Otherwise, I’ll end up drowning in my memories, lost and unable to return to my alphas.
Swallowing hard, I force myself to relax in the chair and pull my feet from the water. My toenails are a happy purple with pink tips, bright and happy as a fuck you to the world that threatens to destroy my sanity.
Mary
Ready? Go!
Blinking as the notification comes through, I begin writing. My female heroine was bought by a collector of people, a man whose name I can’t remember, but who owned me for a short time.
Typing sucks me down the hole of destroyed innocence and misery. Even as I write, I feel a memory surfacing that’s been long lost.
My dark hair hides my face as I curl up at Master’s feet, the leather collar thick around my delicate throat. A leash leads from it to his fist, and I keep my body pressed against his legs to keep him from choking me.
“Isn’t she beautiful, son?” he asks someone, chuckling. A boy stands in front of me that can’t be older than sixteen, and he simply nods before glancing away. He’s barely two years younger than I am, but there are deep shadows in his eyes that belay any sort of innocence.
Brokenness recognizes each other.
“Yes, sir. Is there a reason she’s here?”
“I need to know if she’s special or not, Deacon,” Master says. “People lie when they auction off omegas, but I can appreciate beauty, can’t you?”
“Of course, Father.” The words are whispered, and I barely breathe. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has forced me to be involved in a fucked up power trip. I don’t understand what’s happening here.
He’s the only child I’ve seen as of yet, and I curl my fingers into my palm as I hope he’s sent out of the room. I haven’t been innocent for a long time. I don’t want to be responsible for stealing something from him because I’ve been alpha barked to.
Master bought me two months ago, and seems to enjoy his parties. He passes me around the room without thought, chuckling when I’m hurt and shrugging his shoulders as he turns away.
He seems to only want me tethered to him during the day, half naked and vulnerable, because it makes him feel like a king during his meetings.
Master is a business man of some sort, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard his name before. He keeps me drugged to keep me pliant and quiet, because he says he’s a busy man and doesn’t want to hear me whine.
However, I never speak for him, as my words aren’t something he cares about. The servants of the house call me Slave girl, my name receding deep into my mind to keep it safe.
Alisa Finnegan. Who is this girl? I sure as fuck don’t know anymore.
Cohen James sold me as quickly as possible once his staff trained me to be the perfect omega. Subservient, beautiful, and always willing to be used.
Turns out, he was more than willing to give me to Dr. Reach as a thank you for unlocking my designation early.
I was sent to live at a brothel to be used just shy of seventeen, and was there for a year and half before I was deemed too old to be useful.
They have a certain type of clientele that prefers their omegas as young as possible.
It’s why the Institute exists: for the people of the world with dark and disturbed interests.
The auction house alpha told Master I was an omega with special talents only my owner could unlock.
Little does he know, I’m not special. Not unless keeping the broken pieces of my soul alive is considered a cute party trick.
A hand pets down my hair like an animal and pushes it out of my face until I can’t hide anymore. My breasts are bared to the air, and my barely there panties draw heat to the boy’s cheeks standing in front of me.
It’s just a little skin, I want to say. Look away.
His eyes finally move away and he takes a deep breath.
“You have visitors, sir, that's why I came in here. They said you promised to let them see your new whore.”
Hmm. I refuse to allow his thoughtless words to cut me, because the rest of the world manages to do this just fine. I’m not here because I want to be.
“Thank you, Deacon. Pet, crawl to him and rub against his legs to thank him for being a good son.”
“Father…”
“Shh. You need to learn to accept your place in this family, Deacon. I took you from your shit stained home and have given you a kingdom. Fucking act like it!”
His scream tears a deep whine of distress from my throat, and I can feel myself flush with shame. I hate when he yells. It makes me willing to do anything to get him to stop.
I hate myself too for wanting this.
Breathing hard, I wait for Master to give my leash a little slack before I begin to crawl toward Deacon. I don’t have a choice in the languid movements or the way my breasts sway as I crawl.
I only get to have basic niceties like water and food from Master’s hand, and I need to do everything he tells me to. The drugs may keep me quiet, but my instincts know he could easily kill me with his temper.
Today, I’m his favorite. Tomorrow? Who fucking knows.
Pressing my body against Deacon’s jean covered thigh like a cat, I rub my head as I wait for him to pat me. Master treats me like a pet, and it was explained to me by my handlers that I need to act as such to keep him happy.
“Touch her hair, Deacon. Tell her how pretty she is and then you can tell my guests to come in. I promised them pleasure along with their business. It’s how I bring them to heel and get whatever the fuck I want.
My party favors come in the flavor of a pretty pet who obeys every command and sucks cock like a fucking Hoover. ”
Deacon shudders as he drags his palm over my glossy hair, and I can almost feel his revulsion. We’re both prisoners here. I hope he can understand this.
“Her hair is beautiful and so is she, Father. However, that’s why you bought her. May I go?”
“Fine, fine,” Master chuckles. “Let them in, and then let Rubella know to send in food in an hour. They’re all going to be working up an appetite.”