Chapter 27 #2
I pressed my forehead against the cool wood of the door, listening.
Soft, steady breathing. Someone was definitely out there.
My humiliation from last night crystallized into fresh anger.
They really were still guarding me, treating me like a prisoner after forcing all that bullshit about respecting my autonomy and after seeming so scared for me last night.
They’d acted so relieved that I was safe.
Wade had so tenderly cleaned my wounds and wrapped them after my bath, yet to them I was still their plaything, caged for the keeping.
Last night, the way Levi had given me his jacket arrowed to my heart, piercing irrevocably, yet now it made me feel betrayed.
God, I hated this. I hated them.
Fuck them. Fuck the "protection" and the fake "concern" and the gentle hands tending my wounds! If I had to piss, I was going to piss, and I wasn't going to cower in this room until my bladder ruptured just to avoid them. And if I wanted to try to run away again, I’d just be smarter about it. I’d plan more carefully. I’d lull them into thinking I was willing to stay. And, when their guards were down, I’d bolt. Hell, I’d find where they kept the truck keys. That would be so much easier.
I yanked the door open, chin lifted defiantly, ready to glare down whoever stood watching.
My plan died at the sight of Boone. Seeing him sent a pang through my heart that had nothing to do with fury. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it.
He sat on the floor directly across from my door, long legs crisscrossed.
His head was tilted back against the wall, eyes closed and thick lashes casting shadows on his high cheekbones.
His glossy black hair was pulled over one shoulder in a neat braid, the end of it curling against his lap.
He wore a plain white shirt and loose jeans.
Massive arms crossed over an equally impressive chest; the muscles defined even in repose.
He was a mountain of a man. Nothing soft in sight.
As he slept, his glands were producing the loveliest scent—campfire, dark cocoa, cinnamon and a salty undertone of sweat.
I found myself inhaling deeply despite myself, my inner Omega pushing me to get closer.
Boone hadn’t stirred at the sound of the door opening, his breathing rhythmic.
My gaze lingered on his face, though I tried to look away.
I wanted to run a finger down the bridge of his carved nose and plant a kiss on his full lips which were slightly parted while sleeping.
His expression was unguarded, free of the fluctuating emotions I’d seen on it since meeting him. He was incredibly handsome.
A primal part of me responded with fluttering awareness that infuriated me. I’d come here against my will, and I had the distinct feeling that if I leaned into my Omega desires, I’d stay by choice. And that wasn’t fucking happening.
I had to remind myself that his looks and my desire didn’t excuse what he’d done. What they’d all done.
And yet, looking at his sleeping face, I couldn't summon the burning hatred I wanted to feel. Just exhaustion, resignation, and the increasingly urgent need to empty my bladder before I embarrassed myself completely.
I eased out of the room, taking a right.
I whispered down the hall with the practiced silence of a dancer, my toes gripping the floorboards to distribute my weight evenly.
Still, the floor creaked slightly, as floors in old homes tend to do.
I went to the restroom I’d snuck into yesterday during the day, not the different one from last night.
No one appeared as I made the short journey.
I wondered where the other men were. The house felt too quiet.
Though I was trying to be light-footed, a floorboard groaned loudly beneath my weight.
The sound shot into the silence. I froze, heart hammering, and glanced back at Boone.
He was still caught in sleep, peaceful and unaware of my movement.
The man was exhausted, even his Alpha instincts dulled.
He should have heard that sound. He should smell my anxiety.
But if he was sleeping so soundly, and the other Alphas were nowhere to be seen, maybe I should find those truck keys. They wouldn’t expect another escape attempt so soon, especially not in the daytime.
If my freaking bladder wasn’t screaming at me, I’d do it.
I really hate my body sometimes.
I continued forward, pushing into the bathroom.
Slipping inside, I locked the door with a soft click.
I darted to the toilet, struggling to pull down the taut swimmers and knotted boxers.
Finally, ass settled on the toilet lid, I allowed my body to relax.
The relief of emptying my bladder was so intense it bordered on painful, my body trembling as the pressure released.
Physical relief flooded me, momentarily overshadowing everything else—the ache of injuries, the confusion of my situation, the burning determination to escape.
Before in this bathroom, I’d been in such a hurry that I hadn’t looked around properly.
It was cramped, like the rest of the house, the fixtures barely fitting into their spots.
The combination tub and shower took up most of the space, with the toilet and sink shoved between it and the door.
I wiped, flushed, and then redressed, going to the single pedestal sink to wash.
The bathroom light over the mirror was far harsher than the mirror in the bedroom had been.
My disheveled state was highlighted in unforgiving detail.
I looked like hell, but more disturbing was the defeated slump to my shoulders, the wary exhaustion in my eyes.
I'd never seen myself look so... resigned. Even after losing everything. After Imperial dumped me. After Grandpa died… The expression didn't fit the face that had stared back at me from different dressing room mirrors for years. Once, I’d been determined, focused, occasionally broken by injury but never truly beaten. That wasn’t the case now.
Had I really given up?
Turning the tap as cold as possible, I bowled my hands and slapped water against my face.
The shock of it helped clear some of the cobwebs.
Water dripped from my chin as I studied my reflection again, searching for the fighter.
She was still there, whispering against the edges of my eyes.
I had to be stronger. I couldn’t let my Omega side override my rational mind.
The medicine cabinet above the sink might hold something useful—a razor I could pocket as a weapon, sleeping pills I could crush into their food, anything that might give me a literal or figurative edge. I opened it carefully, mindful of squeaking hinges, and scanned the contents.
Empty.
Well, not completely empty. Toothpaste. Band-aids. A bottle of mild painkillers, the kind you could buy at any grocery store. Nothing with sedative properties. Nothing sharp. Nothing remotely useful for either self-defense or a second escape attempt.
"Just my luck," I muttered, shutting the cabinet with more force than intended, the mirror bouncing slightly against the wall. My luck… those two words made acid creep into my mouth.
Lucky, talented ballerina. Unlucky, broken dancer.
Lucky Star finding a new life. Unlucky, claimed Omega.
I wondered if that would be the new pattern to my life. That, maybe even now I’d find the silver lining to this situation and forge something fresh. Then, just as I clawed back a morsel of happiness, the coin would flip. Heads, tails. Lucky, unlucky again.
No weapon.
No idea where they kept the truck keys.
Maybe a phone. A computer. Some way to contact the outside world, to let someone know where I was. But who the hell could I call?
Grandmother didn’t recognize me anymore.
Crystal was a work friend, who’d risked enough to help me already.
Madame Belova? I could call her… but what could an aging Omega dance instructor do for me? How could she fight contracts worth millions and a cooperation who probably kept shark sharp lawyers on retainer?
No one. I had no one.
The realization was like swallowing a thorn.