Chapter 2
River
Time creeps by, seconds stretching into minutes.
My feet throb with every pulse of my heartbeat, but I still manage to pluck the worst of the glass from my skin before dragging myself to the closet, into my makeshift nest. There I take comfort, my body curled in on itself.
I tune out the noise from my father and Storm fighting, each thud and bellowing insult bearing down on my soul, making me hate myself more and more with each shout.
I grip my unicorn stuffie tighter, wishing that I was anywhere but here.
I know he's only still around because of my heat that’s just around the corner.
He’s been secretly going behind my father’s back, obtaining the scent blockers and suppressants that I’ll need to escape from here and hide who I really am.
His mission before finding his own pack is making sure that I’m safe.
That I have the chance to decide who I want to be with. What I want to be.
My first heat. Just the thought of it looming so near in the future heightens my anxiety.
I’ll be alone, no pack, no prospects, but that’s if I go through with it.
If Storm can get the needed suppressants, then I firmly plan to take them so that I can keep that from happening.
The blockers will help me hide my scent so that no one will know I’m an omega.
My plan is to trick everyone into thinking I’m a beta.
I don’t want a pack. An alpha. Not if men like my father are what I can expect. I know that not every alpha is like my brother. Storm is kind and caring. The type of alpha who would give his shirt to the homeless. He’s done it in the past. He’s even gone as far as to make sure they have food.
I don’t have a mother to tell me what to expect.
All I have is what The Omega Foundation instructs all of us on, and they give me the heebie jeebies.
Something just seems off at The Foundation.
Each time I’ve entered the building with my father, my hair stands on end and my throat tightens to the point I feel like I’m suffocating.
I tried to voice my concerns to my father once, and I’ll never do it again.
The beating he gave me that night for questioning his authority left me in pain and barely able to walk for days.
He didn’t just hit me. No, he stripped me down to my underwear, face down on my bed, hands and legs tied to the bedposts.
Then he whipped me. The marks still mar my flesh.
A permanent reminder never to speak up again.
My unease and despair grow, and all I want is to feel some relief. To escape from this life, if only for a few moments. My hands slip under the pillows, feeling along the carpet until I find the one piece I can pull up and pick up the razor blade that’s safely hidden under it.
Just a few slices through my flesh. It’s all I need to take away what I’m feeling and replace it with something else. My hands tremble as I sit up, debating the best spot. I still need to keep it hidden; Storm doesn’t know that I do this.
My eyes drop to my stomach, and I lift my shirt.
Faint lines peek out of the top of my leggings, and I decide to trace over the old scars.
Just a few. Enough to give me the release I need.
In and out. I breathe, the blade hovering just over my flesh as I pull down the band of my leggings, letting the blade pierce my flesh.
Not too deep. Just enough for the pain to hit me, and my body to crumble under the release of emotions as I trail the blade over the scar, before moving to the next.
I hate that I do this. But I hate the way I feel even more when I don’t. One day I won’t need this escape. One day I’ll be able to face the hell I’ve called my life and turn it into something beautiful.
Today just isn’t that day.
Eventually, I come out of my haze. The jarring boom of what I can only assume to be the front door reverberates through the house, sharp and sudden, like a gunshot. The sound is a violent punctuation mark that leaves the air vibrating with tension in its finality.
But it’s the lingering silence that follows that feels almost louder, as though the house itself is holding its breath. Waiting for what might come next. My heart races as anxiety and fear take over.
Storm.
Is he okay? Was this the final outburst from my father, the final fight that snuffs the life out of him? Is Storm dying on the floor, all alone? So many questions and no answers. I won’t have them hiding away in my room.
I don’t leave my room right away. I can’t.
Instead I wait, holding my breath. Slowly, I count the seconds as they stretch into minutes.
Fifteen minutes. That should be enough time, right?
Surely he’s gone by now. There’s no chance of him reappearing, making a surprise return to finish what he started with me.
Finally, when I’m positive my father’s gone, I wipe my blade on my shirt and put it back in my hiding spot.
Then I stand. My legs are shaking like Jell-O beneath me, barely able to hold my weight and move across the room to the door.
Pain radiates with each step I take from the cuts on my soles.
Trembling, my hand reaches for the handle, the hinge creaking softly as I ease it open.
My heart thuds as I strain to listen for any sign of movement, but there’s none.
The house is eerily quiet, and instead of calming my nerves, it only ramps up my fear that Storm has been seriously hurt.
I pop my head out the doorway, trying to peer down the hallway, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but there’s nothing except disarray in my line of sight.
Sucking in a deep breath, I put one foot in front of the other, knowing I need to move forward if I want to find him and get him help if he needs it.
If he needs it. I snort.
Of course he will. He just went head to head with our father. If he is alive, he took a beating that was meant for me, so of course he’s going to need medical attention. My head pounds, and I lift my hand to my face, trailing along my cheek to my temple, wincing with the contact.
The fall, the glass. All the blood. Everything comes rushing back.
I step into the hallway, my bare feet cold against the wooden floor.
Each step I take has pain shooting through me.
My muscles tense; the expectation that my father will leap out of the shadows is muscle memory at this point.
I wish I had a knife or a gun to defend myself.
But I don’t have anything except my mounting fear and the will to survive.
When I come close to the end of the hallway, I pause, my hand on the wall holding me steady. I take a deep, shuddering breath.
I can do this. He’s gone. He’s not here.
But the mantra does little to quiet the voice in my head, the one whispering that he can come back at any moment to finish what he started.
I move forward, each step heavier than the last. My stomach churns, a sickening cocktail of dread and determination swirling inside me. By the time I step into the living room, my legs feel like rubber.
Then I see him.
Storm.
Lying in the middle of the floor, his body in a crumpled, unmoving heap.
Blood dribbles from his mouth or his nose.
Perhaps both. I can’t tell. There’s a cut on his forearm; the skin I can see, already turning shades of purple.
The sight steals the air from my lungs. For a moment, I’m frozen, unable to process what I’m seeing.
“Storm,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I rush to his side. I drop to my knees, my hands trembling as I touch his shoulder. He’s so still. Too still. Panic claws at my chest.
“Storm!” I shake him vigorously, but he doesn’t answer.
Seconds pass and he still doesn’t respond, so I shake him harder, mindful not to injure him any more than he already is.
My fingers fumble at his neck, searching for his pulse, and relief washes over me when I feel the faint, steady thrum beneath his skin.
“Storm, are you okay?” My voice breaks as tears spill down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. This is all because of me. If I hadn’t—”
“Stop.” His voice is weak, but it’s enough to silence my spiraling thoughts. He opens his eyes, his gaze clouded with pain but steady as it meets mine. “This isn’t your fault, sis. He’s a fucking prick. An alcoholic. None of this is on you.”
I shake my head, my tears falling faster now. “You need to leave. Go somewhere far away. You need a pack, Storm.”
He winces as he tries to sit up, and I gently press him back down. “I’m not leaving here without you,” he says firmly, his voice gaining strength despite his injuries. “You’re an omega, and to him, you’re nothing but money in his eyes. If I leave, there’s no telling what he’ll do with you.”
His words cut deep, the truth of them sinking in like a blade. I glance around the room, my eyes landing on the shattered remnants of the coffee table and the bloodstains that seem to mock me. This house, this life, it’s a prison, and my dad holds the keys.
But as I look back down at Storm, battered and broken but still alive, something fierce ignites in my chest. Yes, I’m an omega, and maybe he thinks that means I’m weak.
If I leave, my father will go right to Storm, and I couldn’t live with myself if he were to hurt him again.
But I’ll find a way to get away. Even if it means burning this entire house to the ground.
“Storm,” I help him sit up. “Please go. I may be a moneymaker for him. A means of raising his status, but until I have my heat, I’m useless to him. I still have time to find a way out of here. To escape.”
He starts to move and flinches, holding his stomach as he groans painfully.
“Let me help you.”
My heart pounds as I help Storm to his feet. He leans his weight against me as we make our way toward the kitchen. Storm’s breathing is labored, his body tense with pain and rage.