The Undercover Scarred Omega

1. Sophie

Sophie

I’m ready to die.

The thought doesn’t scare me anymore.

I wonder how many days have passed since they brought me down here. A month? Two? The days bleed into nights until I can’t tell one from the other. My only clock is the sound of footsteps above me and the scrape of the bolt when they come.

I try to shift to a more comfortable position on the concrete floor, but my bound hands make it impossible. The rope has dug deeply into my wrists, though I stopped feeling the burn days ago. Lying on my side, I curl up in a futile attempt to somehow protect myself.

Please, just let me die already.

My throat is so dry it clicks when I swallow.

My stomach has given up growling; it just aches now, a dull emptiness that matches the cold of everything else in this room.

The shoulder wound that Marek left on me with that rusted knife should hurt but my senses are dulled from it all.

The older cuts on my stomach, my inner thighs, have scabbed over and cracked open so many times I’ve lost count.

So much pain. It should overwhelm me.

Instead, I feel nothing.

Part of me keeps hoping they’ll just end it already. Put me down like the broken thing I’ve become. What do I have to live for now?

Their words replay in my head. Rourke’s breath, hot against my ear while his brothers held me down.

We’ve marked you now. No one will ever want you after this.

His fingers would trace the wounds he’d just inflicted, a strange look of fascination dawning on his face, as if he’d created a masterpiece.

Every scar we leave is proof you belong to us.

Do you hear me? His finger would move deeper into the wound, and I’d bite my lip to keep from crying out.

Even if you run, even if someone finds you, they’ll see what we’ve done. They’ll know that you’re ruined. He’d laugh then, like ruining me was the funniest thing in the world.

Silas, gripping the knife with filthy fingers, dragging its tip across my stomach, not deep enough to kill, just deep enough to scar.

And every time I didn’t react, the blade would dig a fraction deeper.

You think you’re fighting us, you silly girl?

The lack of response only seemed to excite him further.

You’re not. You’re just making it more fun.

Marek... the quiet one. He never raised his voice, and that control was what scared me most. He’d wait until the others were done, then come to me alone.

He’d stand over me for a long time before he said anything, his eyes dark and devoid of any emotion.

His patience was worse than their violence.

Your father sold you to us. He sold his own daughter. That’s how little you mean.

Stepfather, I’d wanted to scream. He’s my stepfather. But by then I’d learned that correcting them only made things worse.

I hear footsteps above me.

My body goes still. I listen, counting the steps, trying to identify the gait. They are heavy and deliberate, coming toward the basement door.

Please don’t let it be Marek.

I squeeze my eyes shut. My ribs protest when I inhale too sharply, so I force myself to keep my breathing shallow, trying not to make a sound.

I know it won’t make a difference, but I do it anyway.

There’s only this. This basement, a body that doesn’t belong to me anymore, and the slow, grinding wait for the end.

The footsteps stop at the door.

The bolt scrapes back, and the handle turns.

Harsh, blinding light floods the room and I squeeze my eyes shut against it, turning my face into my arm. The movement sends fire through my fresh shoulder wound and trickles of blood spill toward the concrete. Still, I don’t make a sound.

“I found her. She’s alive.”

But the voice doesn’t belong to Marek or Silas or Rourke.

This voice is deeper and completely unfamiliar.

I force my eyes open.

The man standing in the doorway is wearing tactical gear—black vest, radio hissing at his shoulder. He’s big, blocking most of the light from the stairs behind him, and for a moment all I can see is his silhouette.

Then he moves closer, slow enough that I can track every movement. His eyes meet mine and hold there for a while. He swallows hard, and his jaw works like he’s pushing something down.

He crouches down, keeping his distance, his hands visible in front of him. The way you’d approach a wounded animal.

“My name is Declan,” he says. His voice is calm and steady. “I’m with Sentinel Security. We’ve been tracking this pack for months.”

I stare at him. The words don’t make sense.

“It’s over now, Sophie. We’re going to get you out of here. I promise.”

I try to speak—to ask how he knows my name, where the pack is, if this is real or just another fever dream my broken mind has conjured to help me survive—but my throat won’t cooperate. All that comes out is a hoarse rasp.

For just a moment, I see a raw anger in his eyes. Then it is gone, so quickly I almost think I imagined it. He looks away for a second, toward the stairs, and then back at my face.

“Don’t try to talk,” he says. “We have medical on standby. They’ll get you treated. You’re going to be okay.”

I want to believe him. I want to believe him so badly it hurts worse than any of my wounds.

He reaches for me slowly, letting me see each movement coming. His hands are gentle when they touch the ropes at my wrists. I can’t help but flinch anyway, and he pauses immediately to let me catch up.

“I’m going to cut you free,” he says. “Is that alright?”

I barely manage the slightest nod.

The knife appears in his hand, and for one terrible second I’m back with Marek, watching the blade catch the light, waiting for the bite of cold steel against my skin.

But Declan only cuts the rope. The pressure releases, and blood rushes back into my fingers with a thousand needle-like sensations.

“There you go.” His voice stays steady, an anchor in the storm. “Can you sit up?”

I try. My arms shake, my ribs scream, but I try. Declan doesn’t reach for me again. He just waits, patiently, while I drag myself upright against the wall.

The room spins. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

“Easy,” Declan says. “Take your time.”

Footsteps thunder overhead—more people, voices calling to each other. Someone says clear and someone else says get the medic down here and the world is suddenly too loud and too bright after so long in silence and darkness.

My vision tunnels. Declan’s face blurs.

“You’re going to be okay, Sophie,” he says, and it’s the last thing I hear before everything goes black.

The sharp smell of antiseptic drags me back to consciousness.

I open my eyes slowly, blinking against the fluorescent lights overhead. White ceiling and walls. A monitor beeping somewhere to my left. I try to lift my arm and feel the tug of an IV line taped to the back of my hand.

Everything around me is unfamiliar, especially the clean sheets that smell like industrial laundry detergent instead of damp concrete and blood.

Movement catches at the edge of my vision.

A middle-aged woman in pale blue scrubs steps up beside the bed, her expression open and unhurried. Her hand hovers near the IV as she leans closer. “Don’t try to move too fast.”

I try to speak, but my throat feels like I’ve swallowed sand. “Water.” The word comes out cracked and barely human.

“Of course, dear.” She helps me sit up carefully and brings a plastic cup to my lips.

I drink greedily. Water has never tasted so good. It’s cold and clean and I want to cry just from the simple mercy of it.

“Where am I?” I manage when the cup is empty. “How long have I been here?”

“You’re in Sentinel’s medical wing.” She refills the cup from a pitcher on the side table. “You’ve been here about a week now.”

A week.

It all comes rushing back... the basement. The knife. The rope cutting into my wrists. And then—kind eyes and a voice telling me it was over.

“What is Sentinel?” I ask.

The nurse pauses, pitcher in hand. “I think it’s better if you ask Pack Hayes that.” She gestures toward the door, and I peek toward the doorway to see three men standing in the hallway.

I recognize Declan immediately—he’s in jeans and a gray henley instead of tactical gear, but he still has the same kind eyes. He meets my gaze and nods.

Beside him stands a tall, dark-haired man, his black eyes moving over the room slowly, taking stock.

By the door, the third man leans against the frame with his arms folded. He’s the biggest of the three by a wide margin, broad enough that he takes up most of the doorway. When his gaze reaches me, it stays there too long.

“I’ll leave you to it,” the nurse says, giving my hand a gentle pat. “Just press this button if you need anything.” She indicates a call button beside my pillow, then slips past the alphas and disappears down the corridor.

The three men enter the room. Declan takes up position by the window; the big one stays near the door. The tall one walks directly to my bedside and pulls up a chair like he owns the place.

I’m guessing he probably does.

“Sophie,” he says. “I’m Griffin Hayes. This is Nolan Reid”—a nod toward the man at the door—“and you’ve already met Declan Murphy.”

I say nothing. My fingers curl into the sheets.

“How are you feeling?” Griffin asks. The question sounds practiced, like he has asked it a hundred times before.

“What is this place?” I counter. “What is Sentinel?”

Griffin leans back in his chair, studying me with those dark eyes. “Sentinel Security is a private organization that operates with government oversight. On paper, we provide security consulting and threat assessment for high-profile clients.”

“And off paper?”

The ghost of a smile crosses his face. “We help omegas. Or anyone who’s being abused by people powerful enough to evade the legal system. We find them, we extract them, and we make sure the people who hurt them never hurt anyone else again.”

Abused.

The word hits something in me.

Yeah, I think distantly. I was abused.

I never wanted to think of myself that way. Victims were weak. They were helpless. I fought every single time, even when I knew it was pointless. I refused to break, even when they were breaking me.

But I was still a victim. I’m still lying in this bed with an IV in my arm and scars on my body that will never fade.

“What happened to the alphas?” I force my voice to stay flat, though my fingers tighten in the sheets.

Griffin’s expression doesn’t change, but Nolan shifts near the door. Declan turns from the window.

“They’re being held here,” Griffin says.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid.

“They’re imprisoned and restrained,” Declan adds quickly, stepping closer. “Twenty-four hour security. Multiple checkpoints between their location and this wing. You have nothing to worry about.”

I make myself breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way I used to do in the basement when I heard footsteps on the stairs.

“What will happen to them?” I ask.

Griffin tilts his head, considering me. “What would you like to happen to them?”

The answer rises up from somewhere deep and dark, a place I didn’t know existed before all of this.

“I want them to die.”

The words are out before I can stop them.

I expect shock or horror, some lecture about due process or the value of human life.

Instead, the three alphas exchange a look and then Griffin nods, once, like my answer was the only answer that made sense.

“You’re going to get what you want, Sophie.”