Chapter 5 – Billie
Five
BILLIE
The first thing I notice is warmth. Soft and safe, like being wrapped in clouds made of butter and sunshine.
This must be death.
My eyelids feel like they've been glued shut with industrial-strength adhesive, but I manage to crack them open just enough to see...
White.
Everything is white. A white ceiling with intricate molding. White walls that seem to glow with their own inner light. White sheets that feel like they were woven from the finest threads.
Holy shit. I actually died and went to the afterlife.
"Seveline?" My voice comes out as a croak, barely recognizable. "That you? Because if this is your idea of a welcome party, we need to talk about your hospitality."
No answer. Just the soft hum of something mechanical and the distant sound of voices speaking in hushed tones. The language is familiar but wrong, like listening to a conversation underwater.
I try to move and immediately realize three things.
One, I'm not dead, because dead people probably don't feel like their bones are made of broken glass.
Two, the injection site on my neck is still burning like a motherfucker, which means this isn't the afterlife unless Seveline has a really twisted sense of humor.
Three, I can't fucking move.
Panic slams into me along with a hefty dose of adrenaline.
My arms won't respond. My legs might as well belong to someone else.
Even my fingers refuse to so much as twitch when I tell them to.
The only things that seem to work are my mouth and my eyes, and they're doing a bang-up job of darting around like trapped moths.
Restraints. I feel them now that the initial fog is clearing. Not rough rope or cold metal like we use in the compound's interrogation rooms, but something soft around my right wrist and ankle. Padded. Like whoever tied me up was worried about leaving marks on my precious omega skin.
The thought makes me want to vomit, but even my stomach muscles won't cooperate with that plan.
There's weight around my neck too. There's a band of something smooth and heavy that sits just above my collarbones.
A collar. They put a fucking collar on me like I'm someone's pet poodle.
If I could move, I'd be ripping this entire room apart with my bare hands. Since I can't, I settle for trying to set things on fire with the power of my rage alone. Sadly, pyrokinesis hasn't replaced my omega nature as my resonance since falling unconscious.
The heat in my belly chooses that moment to remind me it's still there, launching a wave of need so intense it makes my vision blur. But it's muted somehow, like someone threw a wet blanket over a bonfire. Still burning, but contained.
What the fuck did they do to me?
I focus on my fingers first. Mind over matter and all that bullshit. If I can just get one finger to move, maybe I can work my way up to a whole hand. Then an arm. Then I can strangle whoever's responsible for this with their own intestines.
Goals. It's important to have goals.
My index finger twitches. Victory. I'd pump my fist if I could, but baby steps. Another twitch. Then my middle finger joins the party. Soon I've got a whole hand doing a pathetic little dance against what feels like silk sheets.
Of course they are. The Fae can't have their breeding stock sleeping on anything as pedestrian as cotton.
My other hand starts responding, and I realize there's something attached to it.
A tube. Clear liquid flows through it into a needle embedded in the crook of my arm.
An IV. The bag hanging above me contains fluid that seems to shimmer with its own inner light, like someone liquified moonbeams and decided to pump them into my bloodstream.
Fuck. That.
It takes every ounce of concentration I have, but I manage to bend my elbow. The movement is jerky, uncoordinated, like a broken marionette. But it's enough. My fingers find the tape holding the needle in place and start picking at it.
"Come on, you piece of shit," I mutter, my voice still rough but getting stronger. "Work with me here."
The tape peels away with agonizing slowness. The needle slides out with a wet pop that makes my stomach turn. Clear fluid mixed with blood drips onto the pristine white sheets, and I feel a petty surge of satisfaction at ruining their perfect linens.
My legs are next. They feel like they're made of lead, but I manage to shift them toward the edge of the bed. The restraints, soft leather by the feel of them, give just enough for movement but not enough for escape. Whoever designed these knew what they were doing.
The room comes into better focus as I work. It's massive. Fucking enormous. I could fit my entire room back at the compound in here five times over and still have room left over for a dance floor. The walls are made of some kind of stone. Marble maybe, but not any marble that comes from Earth.
Everything about this room screams wealth, from the crystal chandelier that probably weighs more than I do to the furniture that looks like it was carved by master craftsmen who sold their souls in exchange for the skill.
A chandelier. In a fucking hospital room.
Even the air smells expensive, like vanilla and some exotic spice the Fae probably import from a distant moon.
I refuse to believe this is a standard medical facility. It has to be somewhere important. Somewhere that treats their patients like esteemed royalty. But also prisoners worthy of restraint. Which means this can only be where the Fae bring their omega pets.
Great. I'm at the vet.
I finally manage to swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet dangle above a floor that looks like it was made from a single piece of polished stone. No seams. No imperfections. Just an endless expanse of white shot through with veins of gold.
Now, time for the restraints. I learned how to pick locks before I could write my own name, and the needle I just pulled from my arm makes a pretty decent tool. In a matter of minutes, my right wrist and ankle are free, but that's just one battle out of many.
"Okay, Moreau," I tell myself. "You've been walking your whole life. How hard can it be?"
Turns out, very fucking hard.
The second my feet touch the floor, my legs decide they're made of overcooked spaghetti. The impact of my knees against the stone sends shockwaves through my body, and the collar around my neck seems to pulse with warmth.
"Motherfucker," I gasp, trying to push myself up. My arms shake with the effort, muscles screaming in protest.
The door, which I hadn't even noticed until now because it blends seamlessly into the wall, flies open.
A flood of people in white rush in like a tide.
They surround me before I can even process what's happening, hands reaching, voices overlapping in a symphony of oh-so-professional medical concern.
"She's conscious…"
"Must have removed the IV herself…"
"Her recovery is remarkable, considering the effects of the portal…"
"The suppressants seem to be working…"
They talk about me like I'm not even here. Like I'm some fascinating germ they've discovered under a microscope. Their hands are gentle but firm as they lift me, and I'm too weak to do anything but let them manhandle me back onto the bed.
"Get your fucking hands off me," I manage to snarl, but it comes out more like a wheeze than a threat.
They ignore me completely. Not surprising. I'm just an omega. The precious, fragile little omega who needs to be protected and coddled and discussed in third person like she doesn't have ears or a brain.
One of them, a woman with silver hair styled in an elaborate updo that defies gravity, checks my pupils with a light so bright it makes my brain hurt. "Remarkable," she murmurs. "The resilience is unexpected."
"Unexpected?" A man's voice, smooth as aged whiskey. "She's a wild omega. They're always more robust than the cultivated ones."
Wild omega. Like I'm some kind of feral animal they found in the woods. Which, technically, I guess I am. But still. Rude.
The light disappears, and I blink away the spots dancing in my vision. When they clear, I'm looking at one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen.
He's tall, probably six and a half feet, with white hair that falls to his shoulders in a cascade of silk.
His features are sharp, angular, almost cruel in their perfection.
But it's his eyes that catch me. Purple.
Actual fucking purple, like someone crystallized twilight and shoved it into his eye sockets.
"Hello," he says, and his voice is gentle despite its earlier sharpness. "I'm Dr. Helwood. How are you feeling?"
I stare at him for a moment, trying to process the fact that he's actually talking to me instead of about me. "Like someone set my insides on fire and then tried to put it out with acid. Thanks for asking."
His lips twitch in what I think is amusement.
"An accurate assessment, I'm afraid. Your body has been through quite an ordeal.
First whatever stimulant you were seemingly injected with to trigger your heat, then the portal radiation, and the drugs we had to administer to counteract the effects of both. "
"Where am I?" The words come out harsher than I intended, but I'm too tired to care about manners. Especially around creatures that are better off beheaded, in my personal opinion.
He blinks, and for a second he looks at me like I've sprouted a second head. Or maybe like a flower just asked him for the time. "You're in the Omega Wing of the Valemyre Royal Hospital."
I made it.
Somehow, I actually made it to where I need to be. The relief is so intense it makes me dizzy.
"How?" I manage to ask. "The last thing I remember is—"
"Falling into an unauthorized transport circle?" he finishes, one perfect eyebrow arching. "Yes, that was quite foolish. You're fortunate the receiving end was monitored. You materialized in the middle of the Grand Plaza during the changing of the guard. Caused quite a commotion."