15. Storm
Chapter 15
Storm
T he ceiling feels wrong when I open my eyes. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. I roll over with a groan, burying my face in the pillow that smells too clean and too expensive.
I lie there for several minutes, waiting for my brain to catch up with my body. The silence in the apartment is odd. Usually, there's the faint hum of activity that signals I'm not alone.
Today, there's nothing.
I sit up, suddenly alert. The penthouse feels empty in a way it hasn't before. I slip out of bed and pull on what passes for my pajamas—tiny sleep shorts and a thin cami. I don't bother with a bra. If Jonathan and Reed don't like it, they can look away.
I really should ask them to let me go shopping. I’m gonna run out of things to wear… like yesterday.
The hallway is deserted as I pad toward the kitchen with my bare feet. The flooring is heated. Fancy . No alpha scents lingering in the air, no sounds of movement. Just silence.
I head straight for the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly. The light doesn't even come on. I try again, harder this time, as if sheer force will make it work.
"Are you kidding me?" I mutter, moving quickly to the stairwell door. I twist the handle, but it's locked tight. I rattle it harder, frustration building in my chest. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."
Movement catches my eye, the security camera in the corner of the ceiling, turning slightly to track my movements. I glare directly into it, hands on my hips.
"This is a safety violation!" I shout at the camera. "You can't lock people in with no way out. What if there's a fire?"
The camera adjusts again, zooming in a fraction. Confirmation that someone's watching. Jonathan or Reed? Either way, they’re both assholes.
"I know you can hear me, asshole," I continue, stepping closer to the camera. "Let me out."
The camera remains fixed on me, but nothing happens. No response, no unlocking doors, nothing.
"Fine," I snarl, raising my middle finger directly at the lens. "This is how you want to play it? Real mature, dicks."
I stomp away, anger and something uncomfortably close to fear churning in my stomach. I hate being trapped. I hate not knowing what's happening. But most of all, I hate that Jonathan and Reed think they can just lock me in here and disappear.
The sound of movement in the kitchen pulls me towards the door. I find Frankie at the stove, his back to me as he cooks something that smells amazing. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly at the sight of him. He’s wearing a gray tee and what looks like basketball shorts. Not the usual guard uniform I’m used to.
"Morning," I say, leaning against the doorframe.
Frankie startles, nearly dropping the spatula as he spins around. "Storm! I didn't—I mean, I thought you were still—" His eyes drop to my outfit, then immediately dart away, a deep blush spreading from his neck to his cheeks. "Ah, good morning."
I can't help but smile at his reaction. I totally forgot what I was wearing. This is more skin than I intended to show Frankie. I clear my throat.
"Have you seen our jailers this morning?" I ask, pushing off the doorframe and hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter beside the stove. Frankie keeps his eyes firmly on the pan, but the redness of his ears intensifies.
"No," he says, his voice cracking slightly. "I woke up, and the place was empty. I tried the elevator too, but it's not working."
"Stairwell is locked," I add. "We're trapped."
Frankie's scent shifts—toasted marshmallows and cinnamon taking on a sharper edge of concern. "Did they say anything to you about leaving?"
I shake my head, swinging my legs slightly. "Not a word. You'd think they'd at least leave a note if they were going to lock us in."
"Maybe it's business," Frankie suggests, carefully flipping what I now see are pancakes. "Jonathan always seemed busy with meetings and calls at the Omega House."
"Busy being an asshole, you mean," I mutter, then notice how unusually warm the apartment feels. The heat seems to curl around me, making my skin prickle with sensitivity. A tendril of worry works its way up my spine. My heat. Fuck. Not now. I know I toyed with the heat suppressants, and I barely took my blockers. But I can’t go into heat here with them. I need Rook .
My body reacts before my mind can catch up. My nipples tighten visibly against the thin fabric of my cami, and I feel the rush of slick between my thighs. My dark chocolate scent intensifies, filling the kitchen with its richness. Fuck.
Frankie sways slightly, his grip on the spatula white-knuckled. His pupils dilate, and for a moment, I think he might actually pass out.
"Shit," I whisper, looking up at the camera I know is watching us. "I know you said he can't touch me, but if you don't give me some heat suppressants, him touching me will be the least of your worries."
Frankie clears his throat, taking a deliberate step back. "I'll, um, I'll just finish these pancakes," he says, his voice strained.
I take a deep breath, trying to control my body's reaction. It's not Frankie's fault. It's this stupid omega biology, reacting to the lack of suppressants. Add that to the way I already feel about him, and it's a dangerous combination.
"I'm sorry," I say softly. "I didn't mean to..."
"It's okay," he assures me quickly, though he still won't meet my eyes. "It's not your fault. I know it's just... biology. "
But it's not just biology. That's the problem. I genuinely like Frankie. Have for years. The caring, shy beta guard who snuck me gum and played cards with me when no one else would. The one who never treated me like I was just an omega designation.
We eat breakfast in awkward silence.
Frankie setting a plate of pancakes in front of me before taking a seat across the table. The distance helps, but I can still feel the heat in my cheeks and the uncomfortable awareness of his presence.
"It's really coming down out there," Frankie says finally, nodding toward the wall of windows on this side of the apartment.
I look up to see rain sheeting down the glass. The city beyond transformed to shades of gray and dark blues. The gloomy skyline makes the penthouse feel even more like a cage.
"Do you want to play cards?" Frankie asks suddenly, breaking my melancholy thoughts. "I have the deck in my room."
I look up, surprised. "You brought cards with you?"
He ducks his head, that familiar blush returning. "Yeah, I, um, I always carry a deck. Force of habit, I guess."
I find myself smiling despite everything. "I'd love to play."
Ten minutes later, I have on Rook’s oversized hoodie and some fluffy socks. We're settled in the large living room, a safe distance apart, as Frankie shuffles the cards with practiced ease. I recognize the deck immediately—red and gold, with a tiny nick in one corner and a slightly bent ace of spades. These are the same cards we've always played with.
"Wait," I say, reaching out to touch the deck. "These are the same cards from the Omega House."
Frankie nods, a small smile playing at his lips. "They've always been mine. The Omega House never provided cards or games. I brought these from home with me when I moved to the Omega House."
The realization hits me like a physical blow. All those nights we played cards, all those games that kept me sane. They were only possible because Frankie brought his own personal deck. Because he cared enough to try to make that place bearable.
"I never knew," I murmur, watching his fingers shuffle with practiced ease.
I’ve been at the Omega House for exactly nineteen days, and I’m already losing my mind. The walls are too white, the rules too strict, the future too bleak. I pace my room for hours until they finally let me into the rec room early, before breakfast is served.
The room is empty, except for a young beta guard sitting alone at a table. He’s shuffling a deck of cards, his movements rhythmic and precise. Something about the simple, repetitive motion calms the storm in my chest.
I flop down in the chair across from him without invitation. He startles so badly he drops half the deck.
“Sorry,” I mumble—not feeling sorry at all. The guards keep us in. And I want out.
“I—I shouldn’t be sitting here. I’m sorry,” he stammers, scrambling to gather the fallen cards. His cheeks flush a deep pink. I get this feeling he isn’t like the other guards. This one seems sweet.
“I’m Storm,” I say, introducing myself.
“I—I know who you are,” he swallows, his eyes darting to mine, then around the room before landing on the cards in front of him.
“And you are?” I prompt, raising an eyebrow.
“Frankie,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Frankie Calloway.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat.
“I don’t. I’m not allowed… I don’t think…”
“Well, Frankie Calloway,” I interrupt, ignoring what I know he’s about to say—that he can’t talk to me. I don’t think he’s supposed to give me his full name either. But fuck the rules.
I lean forward. His eyes snap to mine, and I smile. “Do you know how to play gin rummy?”
He blinks at me, clearly surprised by the question. “Y-yes?”
“Good,” I declare, “because I’m bored out of my skull, and if I don’t do something besides stare at these white walls, I’m going to lose what’s left of my mind.”
He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to stop him. “I don’t know if we’re allowed to ? —”
“To what? Play cards? Is that against the rules, too?” I challenge.
“No, I just... we’re not supposed to fraternize with the omegas.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s a card game, not a marriage proposal.”
That makes him laugh—a short, startled sound that transforms his whole face. Suddenly, he’s not just a nervous beta guard—he’s a handsome guy with kind eyes and a nice smile. Someone who could be a real friend.
“Okay,” he says, beginning to deal the cards. “But if I get in trouble…”
“I’ll tell them I threatened you,” I promise solemnly, crossing my heart with my finger.
His eyes widen. “Did you?”
I flash him a wicked grin, picking up my cards. “I will if I have to.”
"You were the only guard who ever played cards with me," I say now, watching him deal just as he had that first day. "The only one who treated me like a person, not just an omega designation."
Frankie looks up, surprise flashing across his face. "I was just doing my job."
I shake my head. "No. Your job was to keep me in line, to enforce the rules. Playing cards with me for four years? That was friendship."
He smiles then, a real smile that lights up his warm brown eyes. "Best part of the job," he admits quietly. My heart beats a little faster at those words.
We play in comfortable silence for a while, falling into the familiar rhythm we'd established over those years of card games. It hits me suddenly how much I relied on those games to get through my time at the Omega House. How much I relied on him.
"How old are you?" I ask, realizing I've never bothered to find out. He's been a constant in my life for four years, and I don't even know his age.
"Twenty," he answers, not looking up from his cards.
I blink in surprise. "Twenty? But you were a guard four years ago. You would have been?—"
"Sixteen," he finishes. "I lied about my age to get the job. Said I was eighteen."
"Holy shit," I mutter, staring at him with new understanding. "Why would you want to work at that hellhole?"
He shrugs, rearranging his cards. "Didn't have much choice. My mom got sick when I was fifteen. Needed the money for her treatments. The Omega House paid better than most places willing to hire a beta teenager."
"I never knew," I say softly. "Is she..."
"She died two years ago," he says, his voice holding an old pain. "Lung cancer."
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate, but they're all I have. I wish he had told me when it happened. Was that when he was away for a few days and he returned and I teased him that he was cheating on me with another omega? Oh god.
He offers a sad smile. "It's okay. She'd be happy to know I'm still using her card skills. She taught me everything I know. I told her about you. I wasn’t supposed to, but I wanted to tell her about my friend. She loved my stories about how strong you were and the things you did to drive Veronica and Miranda crazy. She laughed a lot at those. I wish she could have met you in person. I know she would have loved you."
A lump formed in my throat. He told his mom about me? She sounds like the most amazing woman. And she raised Frankie to be the sweetest, most compassionate man I had ever met.
“She sounds like the most amazing person, Frankie. Your mom did a good job raising you.” I want to comfort him, hug him and tell him that it’s okay to cry. His been so strong all those years and I want to be there for him if he needs. Hell, I need it.
I move to the couch beside him, close enough that our knees almost touch. He tenses slightly but doesn't move away. The apartment feels even warmer now, my skin flushed, my omega instincts humming beneath the surface. I try to ignore it, focus on the cards, on Frankie's presence.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"For what?"
"For being there. For the past four years. For..." I gesture vaguely, unable to articulate everything he's meant to me.
He looks up, and the warmth in his gaze makes my breath catch. "Always," he says simply, and it means everything to me.
The sudden ding of the elevator breaks the moment. We both spring to our feet, cards forgotten as we turn toward the sound, expecting Reed or Jonathan to come storming out.
Instead, a figure strolls into the penthouse who is eerily familiar yet somehow entirely different. He's tall and broad-shouldered like Jonathan, with the same sharp features and vivid green eyes. But where Jonathan radiates ice and power, this man carries an easier vibe, his stance less rigid, his expression less severe.
He freezes when he sees us, surprise flashing across his face before it's replaced by a warm smile that I've never seen on Jonathan's features.
This must be Alexander.