Chapter 13
The Auditorium Of Reckoning
~SERAPHINE~
Isigh.
Dramatically.
The kind of sigh that makes my whole body slump against the chair I'm tied to, head lolling back, eyes rolling toward the ceiling like I'm a teenager being forced to attend a family function instead of a kidnapped Omega surrounded by men who clearly want me dead.
"If you're going to tie me to this chair and use me as some sort of ransom," I announce to the room at large, "at least offer me some water. Or better yet, wine even." I pause, considering. "At least I can die tipsy."
The multiple men—I've counted them three times now, twelve total, always landing on an even number, which is the only good thing about this situation—all turn to look at me.
Their expressions range from annoyed to confused to that particular kind of exhaustion that says why is this Omega still talking.
I shrug.
"What?"
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
My toe taps against the floor—tap-tap-tap-tap—four times before I force it still. The ropes around my wrists are tight but not unmanageable. Whoever tied them knew what they were doing, but they didn't account for the fact that I've been dislocating my thumbs since I was fourteen years old.
Survival skill.
Learned the hard way.
Like everything else.
"Force the innocent, crazed Omega to stay still after you guys deliberately set my house on fire," I continue, because apparently my brain has decided that talking is better than thinking about the fact that my sanctuary is currently a pile of smoking rubble. "Which is diabolical, to say the least. You’re lucky I didn’t have any valuables there to begin with, but taking it that far?
All for what? To use me as bait for those set of men you're calling Devils of Hard Knot Academy? "
The leader—a tall, scarred man with dead eyes and the kind of posture that says I've killed more people than you've had hot meals—twitches slightly at the name.
Interesting.
"Which is wild," I add, warming to my subject, "since they're clearly a part of Ruthless since they're in our territory, and it just feels so counterproductive to even mention Hard Knot at all because Ruthless is the hardest, most challenging, and deadliest—"
"Shut up."
The leader's voice is flat.
Dangerous.
"—sector of the entire academy system, and honestly, if you're going to be technical about designations, then you should really consider the geographical implications of—"
"I said shut up." He steps closer, one hand moving to the knife at his belt. "Or I'll slice your throat."
I groan.
Loudly.
Dramatically.
Letting my head fall back against the chair with enough force to hurt.
"Thank goodness." The words come out almost reverent. "I was going to do it myself, but you know how it is when you're suicidal—you start to wonder as to whether there's an afterlife. God. The Devil. Or maybe if there's an afterparty when you die."
The men exchange glances.
I can see the confusion rippling through them—the dawning realization that they've kidnapped someone who doesn't react to threats the way normal people do.
Good.
Keep them off-balance.
Buy time.
"But at least I know if one of you kills me, then I'm guaranteed entrance into the golden gates.
" I flash a bright, slightly unhinged smile.
"Thank goodness, because fuck, all this thinking is giving me a headache.
And when I get migraines, I become more manic and insane, and you don't want to trigger the whole bipolar part of me because she's just cynical. "
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
My fingers flex behind my back—open, close, open, close—four times each while I continue talking.
"You know, hearing voices, giggling, a killing machine if you ask m—"
"NO ONE IS ASKING YOU!"
The shout makes me flinch.
Genuine flinch.
The loudness of it triggers something old and painful—memories of other men shouting, other rooms, other moments when the volume of someone's voice was a precursor to violence.
Don't go there. Stay present. Count.
One-two-three-four.
I whistle, low and impressed.
"Well damn. Don't need to yell."
One of the minions—a shorter man with a crooked nose and the kind of face that suggests he's been punched more times than he's done the punching—mutters something under his breath.
"No wonder why she's packless. She's a nut case."
I pucker my lips, considering.
"I'm not that bad if you get to know me."
The others roll their eyes.
They turn back to their various posts—guarding the doors, checking weapons, doing whatever minions do when they're waiting for the main event to start. Their dismissiveness is almost insulting.
Almost.
But it's also exactly what I need.
"She's simply the bait and dead anyway," one of them says, not bothering to lower his voice. "Moment they arrive, they'll submit for their Omega, and that's when we'll have them."
Their Omega.
The words land wrong.
Make something in my chest twist in a way I don't want to examine.
I clear my throat.
"I should probably mention," I say, keeping my voice carefully casual, "that I'm not really their Omega yet."
All eyes turn back to me.
"I just had a one-night stand with one of them." I shrug, the movement limited by the ropes but still visible. "Not all of them. So I doubt they're going to come racing here trying to save me when I'm just a fling."
The words taste like ash.
Like lies.
Because through the bond—that constant, humming awareness that exists somewhere beneath my sternum—I can feel him. Sage. Feel his panic, his determination, his desperate need to find me.
He's coming.
They all are.
I can feel the pack bond pulsing with borrowed emotions—not just Sage's now, but others. Anger. Concern. That particular kind of protective rage that Alphas get when something threatens what's theirs.
They're treating me like I'm theirs.
Even though I'm not.
Even though I'm the enemy.
Even though they don't know yet that I'm the heir they were sent to kill.
The leader huffs and walks toward me, his boots heavy against the auditorium floor.
The auditorium.
They brought me to the indoor recital hall.
It's different now.
The overhead lights. The trap doors built into the floor for dramatic entrances and exits.
My domain.
The thought surfaces unbidden.
They brought me to my domain.
I've performed on this stage dozens of times. Know every inch of it. Know where the hidden panels are, where the emergency releases are located, where the automated systems can be triggered if you know the right codes.
Did they not think about that?
Did they assume the crazy Omega wouldn't notice the tactical advantage?
The leader reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small container—glass, filled with something clear, the kind of vial you see in movies when someone's about to be dramatically poisoned.
He holds it up, letting the stage lights catch the liquid inside.
"One drink of this," he says, voice flat with satisfaction, "and you'll be dead in less than an hour."
I frown.
"Damn. Only?"
I can see his eye twitch.
The reaction is subtle but visible—a crack in his composure that tells me I'm getting under his skin. Good. Angry people make mistakes. Frustrated people get sloppy.
I give him my best nervous smile—the one that makes people think I'm harmless even when I'm calculating exactly how to kill them.
"So what do I have to do to avoid this ultimate doom?"
"Shut up."
I giggle.
Can't help it.
The sound bubbles up from somewhere unhinged, high and bright and completely inappropriate.
"Finally said something intelligent," the leader mutters.
"Thank you!" The giggle turns manic. "But I'm far smarter and feeling suicidal again because all of this shit is boring as fuck—"
His hand wraps around my throat.
Fast.
Too fast for me to react.
The pressure is immediate—not enough to cut off air completely, but enough to make breathing difficult. His fingers dig into the soft tissue beneath my jaw, tilting my head back at an angle that exposes my throat.
Vulnerable.
Prey.
With his other hand, he spins the lid off the vial.
The liquid inside is odorless—I can't smell anything over the adrenaline flooding my system—but I can see it. Clear. Viscous. Probably tasteless, the way the most effective poisons always are.
He forces it against my lips.
I try to turn my head, try to resist, but his grip is too strong and the angle is wrong and—
The liquid pours into my mouth.
Cold.
Bitter, despite what I assumed.
Wrong.
I swallow involuntarily, my throat working against the intrusion, and feel the poison slide down into my stomach like a cold weight settling into my core.
He throws the empty vial away.
The glass shatters against the stage floor—sharp, final, the sound of something irreversible.
"You weren't supposed to give her the whole fucking bottle!"
One of the minions is shouting, his voice high with panic.
The leader doesn't seem concerned.
"I don't give a damn. If she dies, fuck it. All we need to do is lure the men here, propose the deal, and then kill them."
Kill them.
The words penetrate through the fog of I just got poisoned which is currently clouding my thoughts.
"Wait, what?" I hear myself say. "Kill them?"
They all turn to look at me.
Bored expressions.
Like I'm a particularly slow child who's finally catching up to a conversation that happened hours ago.
"Wait a minute," I continue, my voice climbing despite my best efforts to stay calm. "Aren't you guys just kidnapping me or whatever because I'm bait?"
The leader huffs.
"You're an Eastman, yes?"
I pout.
They know.
I nod slowly.
"Well," the leader says, and there's something almost conversational in his tone now—the satisfaction of a man who's about to deliver a particularly devastating blow, "you're Lawson's enemy. His family ordered him to find you."
Lawson.
The name echoes in my skull.
Kai Lawson.
The heir to the cartel that destroyed my family. The man whose relatives ordered the hit that killed my parents. I’ve never met him face to face before, but if he’s coming here to seal my fate, I may be able to get even in some way…
The leader laughs—an ugly sound that grates against my nerves.
"But they don't know his own father put a hit on him and the pack of gymnastic freaks."
What?
The information lands like a punch.
His own father?
"When you look at who owns more," the leader continues, clearly enjoying himself now, "An heir is just that. An heir. The real deal is still alive and in power, wanting his own son dead. So what better arrangement than to use you as bait—which is whom he wants."
He gestures to me like I'm an exhibit in a museum.
The Eastman girl. The enemy. The target.
"You'll be dead before the hour, and then we'll clean him and that lot of fools. We get both sets of prize money and no evidence left behind."
He laughs proudly.
Like he's just explained the most brilliant scheme in history.
And maybe it is.
From a certain perspective.
Use me to lure Kai and his pack into a trap. Let the poison kill me so there's no witness to what happened. Eliminate the entire Ruthless Pack in one fell swoop. Collect the bounty from a father who wants his own son dead.
Clean.
Efficient.
No loose ends.
I bob my head, considering.
"It's a pretty good game plan," I admit. "Brilliant."
The leader preens.
"There's only one flaw."
His expression flickers.
"What's that?"
I let the smirk spread across my face—slow, deliberate, the kind of smile that promises violence.
"Well," I say, leaning back in the chair with a casualness I don't feel, "why did you bring me to the audition spot?"
The question hangs in the air.
"Which is obviously," I continue, "my domain."
He laughs.
"Your domain? When you're tied to a chair, hopeless, and about to die?"
I nod.
"Well, yeah."
The lights begin to flicker.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
The counting isn't just a ritual anymore.
It's a trigger.
The stage automation system responds to a specific sequence of movements—a code I programmed into Ro months ago, accessible through the neural link embedded in my wrist cuff. Four blinks in a specific pattern. Four taps of my toe against the floor in a specific rhythm.
Activation confirmed, Ro's voice whispers through the earpiece I never removed - always wearing when I leave my house like a glittering accessory.
"But did you really underestimate me?" I ask, watching the confusion spread across their faces as the lights continue their erratic dance, "because I'm crazy?"
They share a look.
They don't understand.
They don't know what's happening.
They have no idea that they walked into my trap, not the other way around.
Something makes a loud sound—mechanical, grinding, the unmistakable noise of the stage's automated rigging system activating.
Golden cages begin to descend.
The bars are reinforced steel, close enough together that a grown man can't squeeze through, strong enough to hold weight far beyond what any performer would need.
The cages lower over the rows of red velvet chairs secured for an audience, hovering just above the seats like some kind of avant-garde art installation.
The men are scrambling now.
Shouting.
Reaching for weapons.
Trying to figure out what's happening and how to stop it.
Too late.
Far too late.
I giggle.
High, bright, absolutely fucking unhinged.
"Well," I say, letting the manic glee color my voice, "you guys better hope either these men arrive in fifteen minutes, or I die."
The leader's face has gone pale.
Good.
He's finally understanding.
"For the outcome of this isn't going to end well."
I rise from the chair.
The ropes fall away—easily, effortlessly, because I dislocated both thumbs three minutes ago and have been slowly working free ever since. The pain is distant, manageable, nothing compared to what I've endured before.
My hands reach behind my back.
Find the familiar weight of my blades.
They never searched me properly.
Assumed the ropes would be enough.
Assumed the crazy Omega would sit there meekly and wait for death.
Wrong. Their mistake.
I pull the dual blades free, letting the stage lights catch the metal, letting them see exactly what they're dealing with.
Their expressions shift.
From confusion to fear.
From dismissal to understanding.
They finally see me.
Not the packless Omega.
Not the nut case.
Not the bait.
But…The killer.
I grin.
Wide.
Vicious.
The kind of smile that promises blood and violence and the specific brand of chaos that only the truly unhinged can deliver.
"And next time, fellas," I say, twirling my blades with practiced ease, "remove all playful objects from your victim’s grasp."