KNOT YOUR FATED M.U.S.E.

A Dark Age-Gap Omegaverse

THE PARAZODIAC NEXUS

BOOK I

AVERY SONG

CONTENTS

Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E. Blurb

Prologue: Who I Was Then And Now

1.  Extract Or Terminate

2.  They’re Coming…

3.  Infiltration Is Key For Opposition

4.  Forgotten Is Better Than Betrayal

5.  The Life Of An Omega Lab Rat

6.  The Irony Of The Alpha Dream

7.  Allies In The Heart Of Broken Experiments

8.  Infiltrate And Destroy

9.  Selfish Implications And Hopeful Revolution

10.  Lost Fantasies Of What’s Possible

11.  Memories Forgotten Until Death Knocks On One’s Door

12.  Fight For Freedom

13.  What We Leave Behind

14.  Retrieval By Any Means

15.  Infiltrate And Conquer

16.  Choosing The Living Versus The Unforgiving Dead

17.  Awakened By Fate

18.  Us Against This Crashing World

19.  To Cherish Sins Of The Past

20.  Destined To Choose

21.  Running Against Time

22.  Beneath Twin Shadows

23.  Waking To Pine Needles

24.  A Place To Call Home

25.  Passion In The Heart Of Stillness

26.  The Art Of Persuasion

27.  The Courage To Move On

28.  Rage Of An Omega

29.  The Weight Of Goodbye

30.  Let Us Complete What We Started…Together

31.  The Doubleganger Of Truth

About Avery Song

Also By Avery Song

This is work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright© Avery Song , 202

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Format: Avery S.

Editing: Savage Queens Editing

I’m an omega who can hear the shadows sing.

Patient #495. Nyx Blackwood. Scorpio.

They call me dangerous. Unstable.

The Fated M.U.S.E.

Mentally insane, they wrote in my file.

Unsatisfactory, they marked on my tests.

Scentless, they whispered in fear.

Excelled beyond control, they warned the others.

For six years, Ravenscroft Asylum has been my prison, their white walls keeping the world safe from me.

Or maybe keeping me safe from the world.

Until four of the most lethal alphas in the Parazodiac Nexus break in.

They don’t just take me. They claim me.

Atlas, Capricorn, with his blindfolded gaze that strips me bare.

Dante, Leo, who reads my silence better than anyone with perfect hearing.

Kieran, Pisces, carrying the weight of a shattered bond that should have killed him.

Vale, Taurus, whose failing body houses an unstoppable will.

They’re feral. Dangerous. Operating outside every law the city holds dear.

And they say I’m theirs.

But the shadows are singing louder now, warning of ancient blood feuds and deadly power plays.

The asylum wanted to keep me locked away — they should have worried more about what would happen when I got out.

These alphas think they can protect me from everything.

Everything except themselves.

Everything except what I might become with them.

And in the Parazodiac Nexus, survival means breaking all the rules.

Even the ones written by Fate.

PROLOGUE: WHO I WAS THEN AND NOW

~NYX~

Pain. Always pain.

Hunger gnaws. Empty. Hollow.

How long since food?

Days? Weeks?

Time blurs here.

Patient 495, they call me.

Nyx, I remind myself.

Nyx Blackwood.

Have to remember.

Have to hold onto something.

Memories fade like smoke.

Slips through fingers.

Had a family once.

A sister?

Sometimes see flashes.

Green eyes like mine.

Dark hair. Same face?

Twin?

Can’t remember.

Don’t remember….

White coats come again.

Always come.

“495 ready for morning trials.”

Mockery in their tones.

Smoke and tainted misery in their presence.

Rough hands. Cold metal.

Restraints bite broken flesh.

Routine now. Every day the same. Different poisons. Different pains.

But always pain.

Needle slides in. Burns. Scream tears throat.

No one hears. No one cares.

Shadows dance.

Whisper.

They’re my only friends now.

Listen, they say.

Listen to our song.

But white coats don’t like it when I listen.

Don’t like when I speak to shadows.

More needles when I do.

More pain.

“Remarkable,” they murmur.

Write in charts.

“M.U.S.E. showing increased sensitivity.”

M.U.S.E.

Mentally insane.

Unsatisfactory.

Scentless.

Excelled.

Their perfect experiment.

Their broken toy.

Had hope once. Dreamed of rescue. Of freedom.

Not anymore…

This is life now.

These white walls. These endless tests.

This gnawing hunger.

Home. Prison. Hell.

Sometimes remember before.

Warm hands. Soft voice. Mother?

Singing lullabies. Keeping monsters away.

But she couldn’t keep these monsters away.

No one can.

New liquid today. Glows green.

Terror spikes. Heart pounds.

“Hold her down.”

No no no.

Try to fight. Always fight.

But so weak.

So hungry.

Liquid burns throat. Melts insides.

Scream until voice breaks.

Until darkness comes.

Shadows grow louder.

Sing sweeter.

Promise things.

Soon, they whisper. Soon.

Don’t believe them anymore.

Only believe in pain.

Only trust in agony.

This is Ravenscroft.

This is where hope dies.

This is where I belong.

Patient 495.

The M.U.S.E. they made.

The monster they created.

Nyx, I whisper in my mind.

Nyx Blackwood.

Have to remember.

Have to hold on.

Even as darkness takes me again.

Even as shadows sing their lullabies.

Even as I forget everything else.

I am Nyx.

I am 495.

I am their greatest mistake.

And someday…

They’ll pay.

1

EXTRACT OR TERMINATE

~ATLAS~

The braille beneath my fingertips tells a story of horror.

Patient files. Mission briefs. Target locations.

All leading to Ravenscroft Asylum.

My fingers dance across the raised dots, absorbing every detail. Every potential threat. Every possible victim. The paper is thick, expensive – Council grade. They spare no expense when sending us to do their dirty work.

Twenty-three patients.

Fifteen staff members.

Eight armed guards.

And one particular subject of interest: Patient 495.

The air shifts – a subtle change in pressure that speaks volumes. Heavy footsteps, slightly dragging on the left. Each inhale a wet rattle, followed by a wheezing exhale that carries the stale scent of cigarettes and that ridiculously expensive cologne he thinks masks it. Spiced wood and tobacco, trying desperately to cover the death he’s slowly breathing into his lungs.

Dante.

“You’re early,” I say, not lifting my head from the documents. “Mission brief isn’t for another hour.”

He chuckles, the sound rough and gravelly.

“Can’t slip anything past you, can I?”

A wet cough follows, one he tries to muffle behind his fist.

“Thought I’d get a head start. What are we looking at?”

The chair across from me creaks as he drops into it. He always sits the same way – sprawled out, taking up too much space. Asserting dominance even when he doesn’t need to.

Classic Dante.

“Extraction mission,” I reply, trailing my fingers over the next page. “Ravenscroft Asylum. Council wants us to retrieve a specific target.” I pause, letting the weight of the next words settle. “They’re calling her a M.U.S.E.”

The shift in his posture is immediate.

I can hear the leather of his jacket strain as he leans forward, suddenly alert.

“M.U.S.E.? Thought those were just rumors.”

“Apparently not.” My fingers find the designation again. “Patient 495. They’ve been running trials on her for years.”

The pressure in the room changes again.

Two more distinct patterns approach.

Kieran’s footsteps are nearly silent, a predator’s walk. But I can feel the slight tremor in the floorboards, the way he favors his right side. The phantom pain of his broken bond makes him walk like he’s carrying an invisible weight.

Vale’s gait is more pronounced. The shuffling drag of his deteriorating legs, the subtle tap of his cane against the floor. He tries to hide it, but I can hear the way his breath catches with each step. The disease is progressing faster than he wants to admit.

“Started without us?” Vale’s voice is tight with pain as he eases himself into another chair. The metal legs scrape against the floor – third chair from the left, his usual spot.

Kieran doesn’t sit. He never does during mission briefs. Instead, he takes up his position by the window. I can feel the cold draft from where he’s cracked it open.

He always needs an escape route, even here in our own base.

“Just preliminary review,” I say, pushing the papers aside. “But this one’s different.”

“Different how?” Kieran’s voice is quiet, measured. He doesn’t speak often, but when he does, we all listen.

“Target is an omega,” I reply. “But not just any omega. She’s been designated as a M.U.S.E.”

The tension in the room spikes.

I can hear Vale’s sharp intake of breath, the way Dante’s heart rate kicks up a notch. Even Kieran’s usually steady presence wavers.

“Mentally insane,” Vale murmurs.

“Unsatisfactory,” Dante adds, followed by another wet cough.

“Scentless,” Kieran whispers, and I can hear the frown in his voice.

“Excelled,” I finish. “They’ve been experimenting on her, trying to enhance whatever abilities caught their attention. By abilities, I believe it’s a code name for satanic witchcraft or whatever that shit is that’s portrayed in shows with the fucking board. The reports mention shadow manipulation, though the details are vague.”

“Shadow manipulation?” Dante scoffs, but there’s an edge of unease in his voice. “Code word for witch fanatic who’s psycho. Brilliant.”

“So were M.U.S.E.’s, until about five minutes ago,” Vale points out, making it seem like we all lot in the same pool of mental insanity and dark magic theatrics. His cane taps thoughtfully against the floor. “What else do we know about her?”

My fingers find the relevant section again.

“Name’s Nyx Blackwood, though they only refer to her as Patient 495. Age unknown, but estimated early twenties. No living family on record. She’s been in Ravenscroft for at least six years, possibly longer.”

“Six years?” The horror in Vale’s voice is palpable. “In that hellhole?”

I nod grimly.

We’ve all heard the stories about Ravenscroft.

The experiments. The trials. The screams that echo through its halls.

“There’s more,” I say, tracking across the page. “They’ve been starving her. Running increasingly dangerous trials. The last few reports indicate she’s becoming unstable. Their word, not mine.”

“Shocking,” Dante drawls, but the sarcasm can’t quite mask his anger. “Lock someone up, torture them for years, and they become unstable. Who would’ve thought?”

“What’s the extraction plan?” Kieran asks, always focused on the practical aspects.

“Standard infiltration,” I reply. “But we’ll need to modify our approach. The target’s condition is…delicate. And there’s something else.”

I pause, making sure I have their full attention.

The room goes still, even Dante’s wheezing breaths quieting.

“The Council wants her alive and undamaged. But they were very specific about one detail – if we can’t extract her safely, we’re to terminate.”

Stating that out in the open makes me frown.

The silence that follows is deafening.

I can feel the rage building in each of them, their scents sharpening with anger. Dante’s spiced wood turning acrid, Vale’s usual rain-fresh scent taking on an electric edge, Kieran’s subtle pine becoming sharp and dangerous.

“Like hell,” Vale growls.

“Agreed,” Kieran says softly, but with steel in his voice.

Dante just swears, a string of colorful expletives followed by another hacking cough.

“My thoughts exactly,” I say, a grim smile tugging at my lips. If we extract what we claim as ours, they can’t terminate anyone, right? “So, gentlemen, shall we discuss how we’re going to save Patient 495 and tell the Council to fuck off?”

The energy in the room shifts again, but this time it’s different.

Focused.

Determined.

We’re killers, all of us.

Broken and dangerous in our own ways.

But this – feels like a life changing mission…one fate seems to present like a wrapped gift of sin.

Is it’s because we see ourselves in this broken omega?

Or because we’re tired of being the Council’s attack dogs?

Or maybe it’s simply because it’s the right thing to do.

Whatever the reason, one thing is certain:

Nyx Blackwood’s days as Patient 495 are numbered.

2

THEY’RE COMING…

~NYX~

Cracks in the ceiling.

Always counting.

One. Two. Three…

Thirty-seven total.

Same as yesterday.

Same as every day.

Remember, the shadows whisper. Remember who you were.

Close eyes. Try to see.

Fragments come:

Green grass beneath bare feet.

Warm sun on skin.

Someone’s laugh – bright, familiar.

A mirror image with different eyes.

Sister?

Maybe.

Memory slips away like water.

Always slips away.

Listen, shadows sing. Listen to our song.

Sweet darkness curls around mind.

Promises things.

Dangerous things.

Freedom.

Vengeance.

Power.

Disobey, they whisper. Fight.

But fighting means pain.

Always pain.

Voices drift through walls.

Focus ears – another “gift” from their trials.

Can hear heartbeats three rooms away now.

Guards talking. Nervous.

“…happened at Blackwater Lab yesterday.”

“Whole place went dark. No warning.”

“Survivors?”

Bitter laugh.

“What survivors?”

Heart beats faster.

Shadows grow darker.

Song gets louder.

Listen harder.

“They’re saying it was the Parazodiac Nexus.”

“Bullshit. Nobody’s that good.”

“Tell that to Blackwater. Place was locked down tight. Didn’t matter.”

Shift on hard bed.

Press ear to wall.

Don’t miss a word.

“Ravenscroft’s different. We’re bigger. Stronger.”

“Size didn’t help Redleaf. Or Sterling Point.”

“Those were small facilities. This is Ravenscroft. Would need an army.”

“They took Blackwater with four men.”

Silence stretches.

Can hear guard’s heart racing.

Smell his fear-sweat through wall.

“Four men can’t take Ravenscroft. It’s impossible.”

“That’s what Blackwater thought.”

More footsteps.

Different heartbeat.

Faster, harder.

Another guard joins.

“You hear about the omega fighting rings?”

Stomach churns.

Remember screams.

Remember blood.

They made me watch once.

Said it was to “study reactions.”

“Hard not to. Council’s making bank on those fights.”

“Heard they pulled in three billion last quarter just from the Premium Matches.”

Bitter laughs all around.

“Premium. That what we’re calling death matches now?”

“Hey, rich alphas pay good money to watch omegas tear each other apart.”

Bile rises.

Swallow it down.

Kill them, shadows whisper. Make them pay.

Not yet.

Not strong enough.

Keep listening.

“Fighting rings are nothing. You hear about the deep water programs?”

“The jewel retrievals? That’s old news.”

“Not the way they’re doing it now. Using omegas as bait.”

“What do you mean?”

“Chain an omega underwater. Wait for their distress pheromones to fill the water. Watch how fast those trained alphas learn to hold their breath.”

“Jesus.”

“Got recovery times down to three minutes. Alphas will do anything when they smell an omega in danger.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“That’s progress. Council’s making a fortune selling those recovery teams to private collectors.”

“How many omegas they lose?”

“Who keeps count?”

Want to scream.

Want to tear walls down.

Want to…

Door opens.

White coat enters.

Clipboard in hand.

Fresh needles on tray.

“Good morning, 495. Ready for today’s trials?”

Kill, shadows scream. KILL!

But body won’t move.

Too weak.

Too hungry.

“Interesting readings today,” white coat murmurs. Checks monitors. “Shadow activity increasing. Might need to adjust dosage.”

More footsteps in hall.

More heartbeats.

More white coats gathering.

“Did you hear about Blackwater?” one whispers.

“Quiet,” another hisses. “Subject is sensitive to sound.”

Too late.

Already heard.

Already know.

They’re afraid.

Good, shadows purr. Let them fear.

White coat approaches bed.

Needle ready.

Same routine.

“Now, 495, this might sting a bit…”

Always says that.

Always lies.

Pain explodes through veins.

Fire in blood.

Screams want to come.

Hold them in.

Won’t give satisfaction.

Images flash behind eyes:

Sister’s face again.

Clearer this time.

She’s crying.

Reaching for me.

Memory burns away in fresh wave of pain.

“Remarkable,” white coat mutters. “Neural pathways lighting up. Shadow resonance at 60% and climbing.”

Others crowd around monitors.

Excited murmurs.

Scratching pens.

“Heart rate stable despite increased dosage.”

“Brain activity off the charts.”

“She’s adapting faster than expected.”

Shadows writhe.

Song grows louder.

Promise sweeter things.

Soon, they whisper. Very soon.

“Increase dosage by 15%,” someone orders.

No.

Please no.

Another needle.

More fire.

More pain.

World fragments:

Ceiling cracks dance.

Shadows ripple.

Guards still talking in hall.

“…only a matter of time…”

“…can’t protect everywhere…”

“…Ravenscroft will fall…”

White coats don’t hear.

Too busy with charts.

Too busy with needles.

But I hear.

Shadows hear.

Remember, they sing. Remember everything.

Try to hold onto memories:

Green eyes like mine.

Shared secrets.

Matching smiles.

Sister.

Twin.

Gone.

Where?

Pain erases question.

Erases everything.

Except shadows.

Except song.

Listen, they whisper. Change is coming.

More voices in hall:

“…Parazodiac Nexus won’t stop…”

“…four men against an army…”

“…impossible odds…”

Nothing is impossible, shadows sing.

Want to believe them.

Want to hope.

But hope died here long ago.

Didn’t it?

White coats finish.

Leave with charts.

Door locks.

Alone again.

Always alone.

Count ceiling cracks:

One. Two. Three…

Thirty-seven.

Same as yesterday.

Same as every day.

But shadows sing different song now.

Louder.

Stronger.

Soon, they promise. Freedom comes.

Close eyes.

Listen to song.

Wait for pain to fade.

And wonder:

Who are the Parazodiac Nexus?

Why do guards fear them?

Why do shadows sing of change?

Questions without answers.

Like memories without faces.

Like sister without name.

But for first time in years,

Something feels different.

Something feels like…

Hope?

No.

Not hope.

Can’t afford hope.

But change comes, shadows insist.

Maybe they’re right.

Maybe they lie.

Either way,

Pain remains.

Darkness waits.

And I count ceiling cracks,

Listening to shadows sing

Of freedom I can’t imagine

And salvation I don’t deserve.

Patient 495.

The M.U.S.E. they created.

The weapon they fear.

Nyx, I remind self.

Nyx Blackwood.

Have to remember.

Have to hold on.

Until shadows’ promise comes true.

Or until pain finally ends.

Whichever comes first.

3

INFILTRATION IS KEY FOR OPPOSITION

~DANTE~

The blueprints of Ravenscroft mock me from the table, their neat lines and orderly layout belying the horror within. My good ear strains against the static of the earpiece, trying to catch any snippet of information about their next “collection.”

Fucking collections.

That’s what they call it when they round up omegas like cattle, claiming they show signs of M.U.S.E. potential. Most are lies – convenient excuses to disappear the ones who ask too many questions, who fight too hard, who refuse to submit.

The static crackles, and I adjust the frequency again. Have to get this right. Need to know when they’re moving next. The monthly sweeps are our best chance to catch them off guard, to strike when their security is spread thin.

My fingers trace the path through Ravenscroft’s lower levels. Six subfloors. Each worse than the last. The bottom level isn’t even on the official blueprints – just rumors and whispers of what goes on down there.

“…Operation Cleansing scheduled for…” Static cuts through the transmission, and I swear under my breath, adjusting the dial. “…full moon cycle. Primary targets identified in sectors…”

More static. Fucking hell.

Movement behind me. Can’t hear the footsteps with my bad ear, but I feel the vibration through the floor. Someone approaches, their presence familiar.

Kieran says something. The words get lost in the dead zone of my right side, the side that’s been silent since…

HEAT. Crushing weight. Can’t breathe.

Dirt in mouth. In nose. In lungs.

Bombs falling like rain.

So thirsty.

God, so thirsty.

Digging. Clawing. Fighting.

Have to get out.

Have to live.

Please.

Please.

Let me live—

“DANTE!”

“*TY SO MNOY?*”

Reality snaps back into focus.

Kieran’s face inches from mine, grey eyes sharp with concern beneath furrowed brows. He’s gripping my shoulders, and I realize I’m shaking.

I want to tell him to fuck off, to stop looking at me like I’m about to shatter. But my hands are trembling, and the phantom taste of dirt fills my mouth.

“I’m here,” I manage, the words rough in my throat. “Just… spiraling.”

Kieran’s grip on my shoulders loosens, but he doesn’t step back. “You looked like you were back there,” he says quietly. “Had to be an asshole to snap you out of it.”

A weak laugh escapes me.

“Mission accomplished, mudak.”

He smirks at the insult, but the worry doesn’t leave his eyes. We both know what these episodes mean.

How dangerous they can be in our line of work.

The day I lost my hearing plays on repeat in my nightmares. A routine mission gone wrong. Intel failure. We walked right into a trap.

The first bomb took out our exit route.

The second collapsed the building around us.

The third…

The third is the one I don’t remember. Just darkness. Pressure. The desperate need to breathe as tons of concrete and earth pressed down.

They say I was under for three days.

Three days of darkness.

Three days of thirst.

Three days of clawing my way toward a surface I couldn’t see.

When they finally dug me out, the right side of my world had gone silent. Small price to pay for survival, the doctors said.

But they don’t understand.

It’s not just the silence.

It’s the memories that come with it.

The panic that rises when spaces feel too small.

The way my throat closes up when dust fills the air.

The desperate need to know where every exit is.

Always.

“You’re doing it again,” Kieran says, his accent thickening with concern.

I blink, forcing myself back to the present.

The blueprints. The mission. Focus on what matters.

“Sorry,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “The earpiece picked up something about Operation Cleansing. Monthly sweep is coming up.”

Kieran’s expression darkens.

“When?”

“Full moon cycle. Lost the rest in static.” I tap the device in my good ear. “But they’re definitely moving soon. Taking more omegas.”

“Suki,” he spits. “How many this time?”

I shake my head.

“Didn’t catch numbers. But last month they took twelve. Month before that, fifteen.”

“And how many actually showed M.U.S.E. potential?”

“Does it matter? They’re all dead either way.” The words taste bitter. “Or worse.”

Kieran moves to study the blueprints, his shoulders tense. I know what he’s thinking. We’ve both seen what happens to the omegas who disappear into Ravenscroft’s depths.

The lucky ones don’t survive the initial trials.

The others…they pray for death.

“Atlas wants to move before the sweep,” he says, tracing the path to the lower levels. “Says we can’t wait.”

He’s right. Every day we delay is another day Patient 495 – Nyx – suffers. Another day she’s pumped full of whatever poison they’re using to enhance her abilities.

But rushing in blind is suicide.

“We need more intel,” I argue, tapping the blank space where the lowest level should be. “We don’t even know what’s down there.”

“Nothing good,” Kieran mutters. His fingers drum against the table, a nervous tell he’s never quite managed to break. “Vale’s contact says they’re ramping up the trials. Something about breakthrough progress.”

A chill runs down my spine. In Ravenscroft, “breakthrough” usually means someone’s screaming.

“How reliable is this contact?”

Kieran’s mouth twists.

“Reliable enough to end up dead in a ditch yesterday. Officially ruled suicide.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

The static in my ear crackles again, and this time the voice comes through clearer.

“…priority acquisition from Sector Seven. Subject shows unprecedented shadow manipulation. Terminate protocols authorized if extraction proves difficult…”

My blood runs cold.

They’re going to kill her.

If we can’t get her out clean, if she fights back too hard, if she’s too damaged to be useful – they’ll put her down like a rabid dog.

Kieran must see something in my face because he grabs my shoulder again, grounding me before the memories can drag me under.

“We won’t let that happen,” he says firmly.

I must have said that part out loud, for him to respond this way.

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I know us. And I know what we can do when we have no choice.”

Like crawling out of a grave.

Surviving the unsurvivable.

Defying every odd stacked against us.

My hands have stopped shaking, I realize. The phantom taste of dirt fades, replaced by determination.

By rage.

“Atlas have a plan yet?” I ask, focusing on the practical.

The possible.

Kieran’s lips curve in a predator’s smile.

“He always has a plan. Whether it’s a good one…”

This is going to be hell. I bet a hundred fucking bucks.

“When is it ever?” I snort, but there’s no real humor in it. We both know Atlas’s plans tend to work, even if they’re insane.

Insane means madness is working in our favor.

“Get some rest,” Kieran says, squeezing my shoulder once before stepping back. “We move soon.”

I nod, but we both know I won’t sleep. Not with the memories so close to the surface. Not with the taste of dirt still lingering on my tongue.

Instead, I’ll stay here, studying blueprints and listening to static, trying to piece together the puzzle that might keep us all alive.

And if the shadows grow longer and the walls feel closer, I’ll remember:

I survived being buried alive.

I clawed my way out of hell itself.

Ravenscroft will be a piece of cake.

4

FORGOTTEN IS BETTER THAN BETRAYAL

~KIERAN~

Duck. Weave. Strike.

The rhythm of survival.

Obstacles fly from all directions in the training room – foam projectiles designed to simulate combat conditions. Each one a potential threat.

An opportunity to prove I’m still worth something.

Still dangerous. Yes.

But a reminder I’m still alive.

My body moves on instinct, muscle memory taking over as I dodge another volley. The machines whir and click, recalibrating their aim.

Trying to catch me off guard.

They never do.

Not anymore.

Close eyes. Listen harder.

Whistle of air displacement from the left – drop and roll.

Click of launcher resetting above – spring right.

Whir of servos adjusting angle – leap back.

The predator in me purrs, pleased with each successful evasion. This is what I was built for. What the government deems as valuable as an Alpha in a demanding world where performance is everything. What the military shaped me into before everything went to hell.

Before her.

Seeing Dante earlier, lost in his own personal hell, sparked something in me. That familiar rage that never quite dies. The urge to burn everything down and watch the suits who sent us to die choke on the ashes.

They don’t tell you this part in recruitment.

Don’t mention the cost.

Just flash those pretty paychecks and talk about serving your country. About making your family proud. About being part of something bigger than yourself.

Dodge left. Strike right. Keep moving.

Never stop moving.

Dante was twenty-two when he joined Alpha Ops. Bright-eyed and full of dreams. Going to save the world, he said. Going to make enough money to give his little sister the life she deserved.

Now he’s thirty-five, half-deaf and haunted. Jumping at shadows and fighting off panic attacks when the walls close in too tight.

And his sister?

Dead in the same bombing that nearly killed him.

Another projectile whizzes past. I let it graze my shoulder, using the sting to anchor myself in the present.

Can’t afford to get lost in memories. Not during training.

Not ever.

But they come anyway.

The faces of men we served with. Good men. Strong alphas who believed in the cause. Who thought they were fighting for something that mattered.

Now they’re just names on a mildly ivory wall.

If they’re lucky enough to have names left.

Three more obstacles incoming. Drop into a roll, come up swinging. My body moves like a weapon, each motion precise and deadly.

Years of training…fighting…surviving.

For what?

Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging. The tattoos that cover my scars seem to writhe with each movement, ink flowing over damaged flesh like war paint.

Each of them carry a story…a reminder.

The ambush in Tehran.

That one for the firefight in Lagos.

The one over my heart for her…

Always for her.

Thirty-seven. To think that’s how old I am now. Ancient by operative standards. Should have a pack by now…have pups and a mate, and a future that doesn’t taste like blood and gunpowder.

Instead, I have these brothers who aren’t brothers.

These damaged alphas who fight beside me because we’re all too broken to fit anywhere else.

Ruined Alphas fated to die alone…

The training program cycles up to maximum difficulty. Projectiles come faster now. They’re harder to dodge and track, but the challenge has always reckons my senses.

Good.

Need the challenge.

The pain.

Anything to drown the screams ringing in the depths of my mind…

Because every time I close my eyes, I see them.

The little house on the hill.

The valley stretching green and endless.

Children’s laughter carried on the summer breeze.

And her.

Always her.

She was everything I never knew I needed. An omega who saw past the killer to the man beneath. She’d look at my scars and call them beautiful. Who promised me forever with those jade eyes that never seemed to lie.

Until they did.

The memory hits like a physical blow, and I miss a dodge. The foam projectile catches me in the ribs, making me grunt in agony at the obvious mess up.

Would have been a kill shot in the field.

Focus, damn it.

But I’m already falling.

Falling back into that perfect day.

The day it all went wrong.

Sun warm on my skin.

Grass soft beneath bare feet.

Her scent – lilacs and honey – carrying on the wind.

She was perfect.

My omega.

My mate.

My future.

She even wanted to help the others. Understood what it meant to be pack. Said she could love them too, given time.

Said she could be what we all needed.

And I believed her.

God help me, I believed every word.

The training program beeps a warning.

Final stage initiating. Maximum difficulty achieved.

I let out a huff, the corners of my lips rising despite how cloudy my thought process is.

I need the distraction.

The challenge.

Anything but these memories.

Sweat runs down my chest, following the lines of ink and scar tissue. Each drop a reminder of what I’ve survived…and lost.

What was taken from me…

Because she didn’t just leave.

She destroyed everything.

The pack bond – that fragile, beautiful thing we’d just begun to build – shattered like glass. The pain nearly killed us all. Would have, if we hadn’t been so stubborn. So used to surviving things that should have destroyed us.

Now all that’s left is the phantom ache. The empty space where something precious used to be. The hollow in my chest that nothing seems to fill.

A tainted mark on my neck that can’t be overwritten or removed until “I” get over the wounds it left behind.

Three more targets are incoming.

Dodge.

Strike.

Survive.

It’s all we know how to do anymore.

My muscles burn with effort, but I push harder. Faster. Need to prove I’m still worthy. Still lethal in this sinister world that could thrive with someone like me contributing to the dark madness that comes with survival. In the end, I still have something left to give.

Because what else is there?

Can’t go back to that dream of home and family.

Can’t trust another omega with my heart.

Can’t risk that pain, agony, and shame I’d gone through.

The final obstacle launches – a complex series of projectiles designed to be impossible to dodge completely. A test of prioritization. Of choosing which hits to take and which to avoid.

Just like life, love, and everything that matters.

I move through the pattern like a dance, accepting the hits I can survive, avoiding the ones that would kill. Each impact is a reminder that I’m still here.

Fighting and breathing as if my time will never run out.

The program winds down, beeping its completion, leaving me still in its wake after the intense and unpredictable routine. I stand in the center of the training room, chest heaving, sweat running in rivers down my tattoo-covered skin.

For a moment, all I can do is stare at the floor. Watch the drops fall. Remember how it felt to have hope.

To believe in something bigger than survival.

The memory of her face flashes again – those jade eyes that promised forever. The smile that said I was enough. The lies that nearly destroyed everything.

I had such dreams once.

Hopes…

Or do I dare say faith in happily ever afters?

Never again.

“Doesn’t all that agility shit hurt your head?”

Vale’s voice cuts through the aftermath of memory, anchoring me back to reality. I lift my head, still catching my breath, to find him perched on the sidelines.

He’s trying for his usual casual sprawl, but I can see the strain in it. The careful way he holds himself. The slight tremor in his hands he tries to hide.

He’s paler than yesterday.

Thinner.

More haunted.

We all pretend not to notice. Ignore when we see the way his legs shake when he thinks no one’s looking. Overlook how we hear him retching in the bathroom at night when the pain gets too bad to hide.

Pretend we’re not watching our brother die by inches.

“Only when I catch a rubber bullet to the skull,” I say, managing a grin that feels more like a grimace. “That hurts like a motherfucker.”

He’s got a towel draped across his lap – the same one I always use after training. Means he knew I’d be here, working out my demons in the only way I know how.

Meaning he was waiting…watching…

Worrying.

I cross to him, deliberately casual, not wanting him to strain himself by getting up. My muscles protest the sudden stillness after such intense activity, but I ignore them.

Physical pain is the easiest kind to bear.

“What’s up?” I ask, though I already know.

Can smell the antiseptic on him. See the shadow of a bandage under his sleeve where they must have drawn blood.

Vale shrugs that familiar forced nonchalance that fools exactly none of us.

“Just came from the doc, so…”

My heart clenches.

“Update?”

“Same depressing shit,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Who gives a fuck?”

But I know what that means. Know what he’s not saying.

The prognosis is worse.

The options fewer.

The end…closer.

Time, that cruel bastard we’ve always raced against, is winning.

My throat threatens to close up as I look at him – this man who’s been my brother in all but blood for longer than I care to count. This alpha who’s saved my life more times than I can remember.

This warrior being brought low by something we can’t fight.

Can’t shoot.

Can’t stab.

Can’t beat into submission.

Just a disease, eating him alive from the inside out. Starting with his legs and working its way up, determined to take everything that makes Vale, Vale.

His mobility.

His independence.

His dignity.

Eventually, his life.

The doctors said five years when they first diagnosed it. That was three years ago. Said there were treatments. Options. Ways to slow the progression.

They lied.

Or maybe they just didn’t know how stubborn this particular disease would be. How determined it would be to take one of our own.

I study him as he sits there, pretending everything’s fine. Notice the things he thinks he’s hiding:

The way his fingers tremble against the towel.

The tightness around his eyes that speaks of pain.

The slight hunch of his shoulders as if carrying an invisible weight.

He’s getting worse.

Faster now.

Accelerating toward an end none of us want to face.

The doctors have started talking about “quality of life” and “palliative care.” Fucking dared encourage Hospice so he can “experience” a few months with a paid Omega to ease him into a comfortable state of acceptance with pleasure. Started suggesting we prepare for the inevitable…

Treating him like he’s already gone to the afterlife.

But Vale’s still here.

Still fighting…and still our brother

Even if his body is betraying him one cell at a time.

We can still fight this…

Sweat cools on my skin as I stand there, unable to find the right words. What do you say to a man who’s racing against his own mortality?

Who’s watching his strength slip away day by day, hour by hour?

How do you project any form of concluding emotions when sorry isn’t enough and hope feels like a lie?

He catches me looking and his lips twist into something that’s trying to be a smile but comes out more like a snarl.

“Stop with the funeral face,” he says. “I’m not dead yet.”

The ‘yet’ hangs between us like a guillotine blade.

“Not planning on it either,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “You know what Atlas would do to your corpse if you left him in charge.”

Vale barks out a laugh that’s almost genuine.

“Probably pose it in increasingly ridiculous positions just to fuck with everyone.”

“Definitely would.”

This is our way of easing through the hardships – jokes and deflection. Anything to avoid the reality neither of us wants to face.

The truth that’s getting harder to ignore with each passing day.

I grab the towel from his lap, using it to wipe the cooling sweat from my face and neck. My tattoos ripple with the movement, years of pain and memory etched into my skin. But none of those scars, none of those memories, hurt quite like watching Vale fade away.

He shifts in his seat, and I catch the slight wince he tries to hide. Bad day for his legs, then. The pain must be worse than usual if he’s letting even that much show.

“Need anything?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. He hates being coddled. Hates feeling weak.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes glinting with dark humor. “A new body would be nice. Maybe something without an expiration date stamped on it.”

The words hit like fists, but I force a smirk.

“Nah, you’d just break that one too. You’re hell on equipment.”

“True enough.”

We fall into silence, heavy with all the things we can’t say. All the fears we can’t voice. The grief we’re not ready to face.

How do you say goodbye to a brother when you’re not ready to let go?

You don’t.

You just keep fighting.

Keep hoping.

Pretending the end isn’t coming faster than anyone expected.

And when the masks slip and the pain shows through, you pick up the pieces and carry on.

Because that’s what a pack does.

Even when it’s breaking our hearts.

“We might have an assignment coming up,” Vale says, breaking the heavy silence. His fingers drum against his thigh – a nervous tell he’s never managed to shake. “Didn’t catch all the details though.”

I arch an eyebrow.

“Didn’t catch them, or didn’t want to hear them and almost got caught by Atlas?”

A weak chuckle escapes him.

“Option two. You know how he gets when he catches us eavesdropping. That disappointed father look could freeze hell.”

“Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been Dante catching you.”

“Please. In his current state, I could tap dance behind him and he wouldn’t notice.” Vale’s attempt at humor falls flat as we both remember Dante’s earlier episode. “Besides, Atlas was too busy muttering about facility layouts and security protocols to notice much of anything.”

My interest piques.

“Another cleanup operation?”

That’s what we call them now – these missions where we storm facilities that treat omegas like lab rats. Where we put down the monsters in white coats who think having a degree gives them the right to play god.

“Probably.” Vale shifts, wincing slightly as he adjusts his position. “Seems like that’s all we do these days. One fucked up research center after another.”

He’s not wrong.

The past year has been a steady stream of similar missions. Infiltrate. Eliminate. Extract any survivors. Avoid the acknowledgment of seeing the horror in their eyes.

Pretend we don’t hear their screams in our dreams.

Sure. I was betrayed by an Omega and have a pretty strong hate to give another one a chance, but to treat these women like the bottom of scum is beyond irritational.

It’s inhuman…but then again, those who participate in such don’t have the mundane rationality. You might as well label them monsters cause only sinister pieces of shit would go so far as to hurt females who can’t defend or protect themselves.

All because they’re Omegas.

“Whatever it is, we’ll handle it,” I say, more confident than I feel. “That’s what we do best.”

Vale snorts.

“Sure. Because we’re such a functional group. One guy who can’t hear right, another who can’t see, me with my fucking useless legs, and you with your—”

“With my what?” I challenge, voice dropping low.

He meets my gaze steadily.

“With your ghosts.”

Ghosts.

Honestly, it’s funny as fuck to label them that, but then again, haunting memories that constantly nag you to remember the past are as close to ghosts as you can label them.

That or insanity.

Either way, he’s right.

Fair enough.

“We make it work,” I say after a moment. “Atlas may be blind, but his other senses are sharper than any of ours. Dante’s half-deaf but he reads body language better than anyone I’ve ever met. You might be losing your legs, but your tactical mind is unmatched. Don’t forget your sniper skills.”

“And you?” Vale asks quietly. “What’s your superpower, ghost man?”

I think about the broken pack bond that still aches in my chest. About the way, it shaped, changed, and made me something colder.

More brutal and unforgiving…

“Survival,” I say simply. “We all carry that superpower.”

You have to label it as that in the field we’re in because at the end of the day, not everyone survives. Not everyone is given the privilege to live another day in this cruel world, despite how hard and desperately they fight to grasp those last few seconds before their heart finally comes to a standstill.

Vale is quiet for a long moment, considering.

“True enough. But our weaknesses matter too. Especially when it comes to omegas.”

The word hangs in the air between us, loaded with meaning.

Painful memories we don’t need to concern ourselves with.

“It’s been years since any of us have properly interacted with one,” he continues. “What happens if we get dropped into that kind of situation? If we have to extract one who’s been…” He trails off, but I know what he means.

One who’s been broken.

Tortured.

Turned into something both less and more than human.

Like the ones we keep finding in these facilities, looking at us with dead eyes and feral snarls. Those where we have to use those last resort techniques to give them some sort of level of peace.

Putting them down like dogs…because there’s nothing left to save.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say roughly, gathering my things. “Our Pack doesn’t need some omega trying to worm their way in. Batting their eyes and playing sweet just to sink their claws in deeper.”

I’ve seen it before. Lived it before. Won’t let it happen again.

None of my brothers needs to go through that agonizing pain…especially Vale. It would kill him. Literally.

“Right,” Vale agrees, but something in his tone makes me pause. “No need for some bitch who’s going to try to sugarcoat us with some glistening pussy and empty promises.”

The crude words sound wrong coming from him. Forced. Like he’s trying too hard to convince himself.

“We don’t need an omega,” I say firmly. “Pack’s in agreement on that.”

Have to be.

Can’t risk anything else.

I turn to leave, muscles aching from the workout, skin itching for a shower, but Vale’s voice stops me at the door.

“Wouldn’t be against it now, though.”

The words are so soft I almost miss them.

Almost convinced myself I imagined them.

But I know I didn’t.

I stand there, frozen, as the implications sink in. As I realize what he’s really saying:

Time’s running out.

Things are changing…but does it mean we have to change too?

Something I dare admit I am frightened of.

Because Vale’s not just talking about the pack needing an omega. He’s talking about wanting to see something good before the end. About leaving something behind besides war stories and battle scars.

Having a few instances with the pack filled with happiness, joyful interaction, cozy nights, and moments of pure bliss I’m sure we’ve all forgotten what it feels to be lost in.

All the things we’ve forced ourselves to be ignorant to because the reality is, that wanting such a reality hurts too much.

And we’re all tired of the fucking pain.

My hands clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I want to turn around. Wish to express something…anything.

But what can you say to that kind of truth?

What can you say when your dying brother admits he’s ready for something you’ve all been running from?

Nothing.

Absolutely fucking nothing…

So I walk away.

Pretend I didn’t hear the sweet confession.

Even as my chest aches with longing, my mind dares to wonder if he’s right.

His words follow me, even as I walk down the hall, echoing over and over again like some sort of forbidden prophecy presented to us from the depths of an ancient book of hidden spells and magic.

A spellbound promise that hisses in warning, wishing a brave enough soul would have the guts to read it out loud and make the sweet dreams into reality.

Like a true promise of hope.

The frightening truth is…deep down, in the places I try not to look and feel, in the shadows where the level of truth lives…

I wouldn’t be against it either.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

5

THE LIFE OF AN OMEGA LAB RAT

~NYX~

The water burns.

My lungs scream for air as I force myself to hold on, caught in this glass prison they call a testing chamber.

Three minutes feels like an eternity when you’re drowning; when every cell in your body begs for oxygen while white-coated figures watch through the cylinder’s walls, documenting your suffering with clinical precision.

I’m sure they’ll tell me they’re going easy on me. That I could easily recall the few times I’ve been forced to hold my breath for ten minutes.

To be grateful…

How are you supposed to be grateful for not being taken by death from this cycle of torture?

Instances like these force me to question my resistance. Why am I so stubborn and defiant that my body, mind, and soul won’t allow me to give up and die?

To not give these mother fuckers the satisfaction of my survival.

Kill them. Make them scream like they make you scream.

The shadows.

Their voices are my only comfort in this hell, even if I’m never quite sure whether they’re real or just another symptom of whatever these trials have done to my mind.

Today, despite the torture I’m enduring, I can think clearer. Formulate, articulate, and process what’s happening like a “normal” person. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I don’t feel like a caged animal…at least, not yet.

Ironic in the current circumstances. Trapped in this cylinder that was filled with water that should have killed me from the pressure difference alone.

That’s the point of all of this.

To push me past the brink of human limits. However, to these beings in lab coats, they think I’ve surpassed the “human” level of sacrificial lamb.

Omegas are at the bottom of the food chain.

Animals are treated better than us.

That’s why they don’t mind treating us like the trash they label us as. What consequences would they possibly face when this is surely founded by the very government desperate to keep us contained to benefit the Alphas that rule them?

That’s why my shadows hate them.

All of these fuckers who dare hurt me.

They understand the rage that burns hotter than any of the scalding waters they’ve subjected me to. They know the darkness that grows with each new torture.

These moments of excruciating agony are when I fight hard for my mind to not slip away. To resort back to that short sentence processing mind that sees the world through a frightened lens and begs for a form of salvation and freedom.

That I must remember the number of who she is to have some form of identity.

My wrists strain against the metal cuffs, the restraints cutting into flesh that never gets a chance to heal.

Blood clouds the water around my arms, a crimson dance that makes the shadows sing louder.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, so violent I’m amazed it hasn’t shattered my ribcage and burst straight through my chest to paint the glass with its fury.

Just when black spots start to consume my vision, when my body begins to betray me with involuntary attempts to breathe, the water level starts to drop.

Thank God!

Sweet, burning air rushes into my lungs as my head breaks through the surface with a loud gasp of breath. Each inhale is agony, my throat raw from screaming during earlier trials, but it’s a pain that proves I’m still alive.

Still fighting.

As the mist begins to clear from the glass, I see them – my tormentors in their pristine white coats, untouched by the suffering they inflict.

They stand in their usual semi-circle, an audience to their own cruelty, scratching observations onto charts that probably detail how long I lasted this time, and how much abuse this broken body can take before it gives out.

Remember their numbers. Add them to your list.

My eyes lock onto their identification tags, burning each number into my memory. These aren’t names – they don’t deserve names. They’re just figures to be tallied, debts to be paid in blood and screaming.

Each one gets added to my mental ledger of vengeance:

Subject 89 with his clinical smile and dead eyes.

Subject 156 who takes such detailed notes of my pain.

Subject 223 whose hands never shake when he cuts.

Subject 471 who watches with barely concealed excitement.

The remaining water drains away, and for a moment I almost feel relief – until the familiar mechanical whir signals the next phase of torment. The floor drops out beneath me without warning, and a shriek tears from my raw throat before I can stop it.

My body dangles from the restraints, all my weight suddenly hanging from wrists already mangled by countless similar trials.

Don’t let them see your pain! Never let them see you break.

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches, squeezing my eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall.

My shoulders scream in protest as the position strains muscles and tendons already pushed far past their limits. I’ve seen what happens if you hang too long like this – the slow death of circulation being cut off, nerves dying from lack of blood flow, and the eventual dislocation of shoulders that can’t take the strain.

Think.

I have to think through the pain.

To act before the numbness starts and my hands lose all feeling — unit I can’t grip anything anymore. It’s a ticking time bomb before the muscle death sets in and parts of me start to die while I’m still conscious enough to feel it.

No.

I didn’t survive this long to ensure such an agonizingly slow death.

With trembling muscles, I force my legs up, using my core strength and fighting to time my breaths so I can lift them enough to press my feet against the glass cylinder.

The movement tears open barely-healed wounds from yesterday’s trials with scalding water, fresh blood joining the constellation of scars that map out my torture. But it takes some weight off my wrists and gives me a chance to catch my breath while they document my desperate bid for survival.

Through the glass, I watch them observe me.

Subject 89 makes a note, probably about my adaptive responses to stress. Subject 156 nods along, always eager to please his superiors. Subject 223 maintains that mask of clinical detachment, while Subject 471 doesn’t even try to hide his fascination with my suffering — that grin surely growing in length and curvature.

Soon. Soon they’ll learn what true pain feels like.

I believe them.

Have to believe them.

Or what else do I possibly have if not hope?

The promise of vengeance is all I have left in this sterile hell, all that keeps me fighting when my body begs for the release of death. I’ll make them pay for every scar, scream, and moment of agony they’ve inflicted.

Will hunt them down one by one until their precious reports are stained with their own blood.

But for now, I brace my legs harder against the glass, ignoring how my muscles tremble with fatigue. I focus on breathing through the pain, on staying conscious despite the black spots that dance at the edges of my vision.

Surviving one more trial of torment is possible for someone like me.

Because I am Patient 495.

I am their M.U.S.E.

I am the monster they created in their arrogance.

And someday, they’ll learn just how complete their success really was.

The shadows sing their approval, their dark melody a counterpoint to the clinical beeping of monitoring equipment and the scratch of pens on paper.

They’re my only allies here, the only ones who understand what I’ve become: what I need to be to survive in this hellhole.

So I hold position, pressing against the glass with legs covered in burns and lacerations. I endure the fire in my muscles and the screaming of my joints. I wait, adding each moment of pain to the debt that will one day be collected in full.

They can keep thinking they’re the rules of control.

Allow them to believe they’re the gods of my world.

I’ll force myself to play their games with my body and mind…

Because when the time comes – and it will come – I will paint these sterile walls with their blood. Will make them beg for mercy they won’t receive, and show them exactly what kind of weapon they’ve forged in their hubris.

But for now, I survive.

Because victory is hidden in the realms of patience.

A harsh beep pierces the air, making my teeth clench as it echoes through the testing chamber. The sound reverberates off the glass cylinders, creating a discordant symphony of pain and machinery.

“Observation period concluded,” a mechanical voice announces through hidden speakers. “Initiating retrieval of surviving test subjects.”

Surviving.

The word echoes in my mind like a cruel joke.

I don’t waste energy on relief – relief is for people who believe in hope, who think survival means something more than just prolonged torture.

Instead, I force my gaze to focus beyond my own glass prison, taking in the other cylinders that line the chamber in their perfect, sterile rows.

Twenty cylinders.

Twenty omegas.

Four still breathing.

Count the living. Know your allies.

The shadows seem to always give me the best advice in desperate situations like these.

My eyes lock onto the cylinder directly across from mine. The omega inside is still braced against her glass walls, much like I am, but there’s something different about her.

Her mere appearance even makes the shadows in the depths of my subconscious stir with hidden intrigue like adding her into an equation would be a blessing rather than a curse.

Her hair catches my attention first – a stunning shock of sapphire blue that falls past her shoulders in wet tangles.

The color shifts like midnight waves where it’s darkest, an ombre effect that seems almost too beautiful for this place of death and suffering. The wet strands cling to pale skin that’s nearly translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights, making the bruises that mottle her flesh stand out like paint on canvas.

Strong. This one survived their games.

The thin white cloth they give all test subjects clings to her tall frame, reduced to little more than wet strings that reveal more than they hide. Unlike most who end up here – emaciated and broken – her body shows signs of careful maintenance.

Lean muscle ripples beneath the soaked fabric, abs clearly defined despite her current state of distress. She’s been eating the meals they provide, using what they give her to stay strong rather than rejecting it like I do.

Smart. Smarter than me, maybe.

But it’s her face that holds my attention.

Under her left eye, a small star tattoo stands out against her pale skin – a marking that speaks of a life before this hell, of an identity they haven’t managed to strip away. Her eyes, though… her eyes make the shadows sing with recognition.

Heterochromatic irises stare back at me, one the color of spring leaves, the other like molten gold.

They’re alert despite the trial she just endured, scanning the room with the same calculating intensity I know must be in my own gaze. The blood running down her arms from various wounds tells its own story – they beat her before this test, and tried to stack the odds against her survival.

Yet here she stands, still fighting.

Among the living…like me.

Like recognizes like. She understands survival. Similarities that can’t simply be compromised.

Clearly, the shadows wish for me to make alliances. That could be why it’s important for me to pay attention, though the chances of meeting this woman again could be slim with how this is the first instance of sighting her.

Regardless, she’s relatable enough. I can see it in the way she holds herself, and in how she’s positioned her body to minimize strain while maintaining vigilance.

This isn’t someone who’s given up, who’s waiting to die.

This is a predator biding her time, gathering strength, and learning patterns.

Someone I could get along with…at least until we’re put to our own demise.

Blood trickles from a split in her lip, but her jaw is set in a determined line. Fresh bruises bloom across her collarbone, disappearing beneath the sodden cloth, but her spine remains straight.

They tried to break her before throwing her in that cylinder, wanting to see if she’d drown when already weakened.

Instead, she adapted, rewarding her with survival.

The scientists’ notes hadn’t captured her presence, her…resilience. On paper, she was just another set of data points; a test subject to be measured and documented.

But seeing her now, watching how she maintains her dignity even in these circumstances, I understand why she’s one of the four still breathing.

Remember her. She could be useful.

They’re right.

In this place, allies are rare. Those who survive the trials, maintaining their will to fight…are rare. And something about the careful way she surveys her surroundings while appearing to be focused solely on staying upright, speaks of a cunning that matches my own.

I watch as she shifts her weight slightly, adjusting her position against the glass. The movement is efficient, conserving energy while maintaining stability. She’s done this before…maybe? Has learned, like I have, how to endure these specific torments without permanently damaging herself.

More bruises become visible as she moves – older ones in varying shades of healing beneath the fresh violence they visited upon her today. They form a map of endurance across her skin, each one a testament to what she’s prevailed in whatever slot of time she’s been trapped in this merry-go-round of suffering.

A slight tremor runs through her arms, but she doesn’t let her position slip.

Doesn’t show weakness.

Her eyes move to track the white coat that passes her cylinder, learning their patterns with immense observations as if she’s already creating a list within her own mind of all their weaknesses.

Wouldn’t that be swell if she was creating a kill list like the one I’ve kept in my head for years?

The rarity of having someone on an equal plane as me is simply a dream that’s manifesting because of the circumstances I’m in. Reality could pull the plug, but for now, admiring this stranger to build a mental catalog of those who hurt her, as I do, gives me a sense of empowerment and community.

Potential equals in the realms of adaptability in harsh environments…

The sapphire-haired omega’s gaze meets mine for a brief moment, and something passes between us. Recognition, maybe. Understanding. Either way, the truth is we’re both monsters of their making. Creatures forged in the crucible of their cruelty and are waiting for the moment to strike.

Unless our time runs out.

Remember. Take in details. Observe in hopes of prevailing.

I will. Have to.

In this place, knowledge is the only currency that matters. Understanding who survives, adapts, and fights back – it’s all vital information needed to thrive in the next challenge that could demand cooperation.

Determined to keep track of her, I summarize in my mind like some sort of list.

- The star tattoo that marks her as someone who once had choices. The heterochromatic eyes that miss nothing. Controlled breathing speaks of disciplined survival. Muscles that prove she’s playing a longer game than mere day-to-day existence. She’s dangerous, smart…she’s like me.

She can be an ally I need.

If the cards play in our favor that is.

My mind drifts to the zodiac – ancient patterns, celestial alignments that might explain the sapphire-haired survivor’s strength.

Three possibilities emerge as I study her calculated movements:

Capricorn – for that unwavering discipline, the way she preserves her strength.

Scorpio – for the intensity in those mismatched eyes, the clear promise of vengeance.

Aquarius – for her detached calculation, the way she observes without revealing.

It’s hard to determine at first glance, especially with no personality traits or vocal interactions to go by.

Watch closer. See deeper.

The way she shifts her weight again catches my attention – precise, and controlled, but with an underlying current of rebellious energy. The slight tilt of her chin, defiant even in submission. The calculated way she appears to yield while gathering intelligence.

Aquarius.

Has to be.

The revolutionary of the zodiac. The one who plays the long game, who appears to conform while plotting upheaval. The water-bearer who can survive drowning because water is their element, weapon, and friend.

Name her. Mark her in your mind.

‘Sapphire’ is too obvious, too superficial. ‘Star’ for her tattoo feels too simple. No, she needs something that captures her essence, her potential as an ally.

Azurite.

Like the stone – beautiful but poisonous when wet.

Perfect for someone who can turn their torturers’ water trials into opportunities for survival.

One down…three more to go.

My gaze shifts to the next survivor, and something in my chest tightens with confused wonder.

This one…this one shouldn’t be alive.

Where Azurite radiates controlled power, this omega emanates fragility.

She’s small, almost childlike in her delicate frame, with none of the hardened muscle that marks most survivors. Her limbs tremble visibly against her glass prison, yet somehow she maintains her position.

But it’s her eyes that make my breath catch.

White. Pure white, with barely any pupil movement. The irises seem to float in milky clouds, unfocused and yet…somehow aware. The realization hits like a physical blow – she’s blind.

No sight…

How? How does she survive in darkness?

The shadows are just as fascinated with the mere possibility of this sightless Omega being among the living.

My mind races with the implications.

How does she track the white coats’ movements? Or brace herself for the trials? How does she even know when the water is coming or when to hold her breath? To even adjust her position when death is here and ready to claim.

The mysteries pile up as I watch her.

Her head tilts slightly, like a bird listening to distant songs. Without sight, have her other senses sharpened to compensate? Has this place forced her to evolve in ways even the scientists didn’t anticipate?

It makes me sick – the realization that these monsters in white coats don’t care about our limitations, disabilities, or struggles.

If we can move, we’re viable test subjects.

If we can breathe, we’re worthy of their twisted experiments.

If we can scream, we’re perfect candidates for their precious M.U.S.E. program.

Choose her sign. See her essence.

This could be some form of therapy. A distraction from all the madness and adrenaline high of fighting to live another second. I embrace this conquest, as it’s my purpose to label these specific women with their signs and purpose.

To appoint them with names to commemorate their existence in these hidden depths of Ravenscroft where no Omega escapes their wrath.

This one’s easier, somehow.

The unseeing eyes, the ethereal presence, the way she seems to exist halfway between this world and another – it all points to one sign.

Pisces.

The dreamer. The mystic.

The one who navigates by intuition when sight fails.

Movement catches my attention – her head turning slightly in my direction as if sensing my scrutiny. The gesture is uncanny, too precise to be a coincidence.

But there’s no time to dwell on it.

The white coats are moving toward the main desk, their charts clutched in eager hands. This is the moment where they decide our immediate fate – whether we’ve earned a brief respite or if we face another round of trials while our bodies still shake from the last.

My muscles scream in protest as I maintain my position against the glass, but I force myself to stay focused.

The white coats gather at their desk, comparing notes with excited murmurs. My heart pounds harder, knowing what comes next. Whether it’s momentary relief or fresh torment, we’re about to find out.

The blind one needs a name before I move on. Something to capture her ethereal nature, the way she exists between worlds.

Name her for what she sees beyond sight.

Luna.

Yes. Like the moon that guides even in darkness. The celestial body that pulls and pushes, that influences without being seen.

Movement from the final cylinder draws my attention, and the contrast between Luna’s quiet survival and this one’s raw defiance is stark.

The third survivor is chaos embodied. Her hair – a wild mix of blue and green streaked with premature white – speaks of a spirit unbroken by captivity.

Those white strands, probably stressed into existence by the horrors of this place, create an oddly beautiful pattern through the wet tangles. Like lightning through storm clouds.

Blood runs freely from multiple wounds across her tanned skin, mixing with the water that drips from her frame. She hasn’t learned to conserve energy like Azurite and hasn’t found inner peace like Luna. Instead, she burns with an intensity that should have killed her by now.

Count her marks. Absorb the potential in her inflicted story.

The tattoos and piercings paint a picture of who she was before – someone who lived loud and free. A silver ring adorns her bottom lip, matched by another through her left nostril. Multiple piercings line her ears like metallic constellations. The tattoos visible through her wet clothing suggest a canvas of rebellion, of choosing pain on her own terms before they forced it upon her.

She was someone out there.

An Omega who mattered and fought for rebellion.

Who’s still fighting.

Her fist slams against the glass of her cylinder, the sound muffled but significant. The white coats flinch at the display of defiance, but she doesn’t stop. Keeps pounding even as she maintains her braced position with powerful legs, multitasking between rage and survival.

She knows what’s below. Knows about the pit.

We all do.

Have heard the screams of those who fall. The ones who slip, who can’t maintain their position when the floor drops away. They vanish into that bottomless dark, their bodies never recovered.

Their screams echo until they don’t.

But this one – this force of nature trapped in glass – refuses to give them the satisfaction of her fear.

Her blue eyes, which might once have sparkled with life and laughter, now burn with pure, undiluted rage. Every line of her body screams defiance, from the set of her jaw to the tension in her shoulders.

She reminds me of a bull seeing red, of a storm about to break, of everything wild and untamed that refuses to yield. Even now, she screams her frustration at the sterile air, unaware of how it makes her seem unstable.

Unsafe and uncontrollable.

Choose her sign. See her fire’s inability to be extinguished.

Only one fits.

One encompasses this level of raw power, of unstoppable force, of pure, concentrated rage.

Taurus.

The bull. Stubborn, powerful, impossible to break.

She needs a name that captures that essence; that unstoppable quality that keeps her fighting when others would have surrendered.

Riot.

Perfect for someone who turns captivity into rebellion, who makes even silence feel like screaming if it thrives for freedom.

I run through them in my mind, cementing their identities:

Azurite – The Aquarius who turns submission into strategy.

Luna – The Pisces who sees beyond sight.

Riot – The Taurus who refuses to break.

Three survivors.

Three potential allies, but when would we get acquainted? Would an opportunity come where I’d even be able to officially appoint them with such labels of grandeur?

The mechanism beneath us whirs to life, and the cylinder floors slowly rise back into place. It’s a test – they want to see if we’ll collapse now that we have the option.

None of us move.

Azurite maintains her precise stance, calculating even in relief.

Luna sways slightly but stays upright, guided by whatever sense helps her navigate this hell.

Riot’s legs shake with fatigue but her chin lifts higher, turning defiance into art.

Slow clapping breaks the tense silence.

A man in an expensive suit enters the chamber, his applause echoing off glass and steel. His presence makes the white coats straighten, makes them clutch their charts tighter to their chests.

They fear him.

“Bravo, ladies. Simply bravo.” The man’s cultured voice drips with mock admiration as he paces before our cylinders. “It’s so refreshing to see strong specimens in the batch. Makes all this…” He waves a manicured hand at the equipment, the charts, and the lingering evidence of torture. “…investment worthwhile.”

Watch him. Learn his weaknesses.

The way the shadows hiss such orders makes me nervous. As if this is critical to get us out of whatever predicament we’re about to be thrown into.

I take in every detail:

The suit costs more than most people make in a year. Italian leather shoes, custom-made. Platinum watch gleaming on his wrist. Not a single blonde hair is out of place. Surgically enhanced features that speak of vanity. Eyes like arctic ice, devoid of warmth

Money. Power. Privilege.

Everything this place pretends to stand for while it breaks us in the name of progress.

“The market for exceptional omegas is quite…competitive these days.” His smile doesn’t reach those cold eyes. “And you four have proven exceptionally resilient. Perfect merchandise for the right buyer.”

Merchandise.

Property.

Things to be sold.

My shadows are enraged at the commentary, their mangled whispers impossible to translate in my head. I’m not the only one reacting to the statement, though mine isn’t physically noticeable.

Riot slams her fist against the glass again, a snarl twisting her pierced lips. Azurite’s heterochromatic eyes narrow dangerously, while Luna tilts her head like she’s listening to something none of us can hear.

“Now, now.” He tsks like we’re misbehaving children. “That spirit is exactly why you’re valuable. But it does present certain…logistical issues.”

He stops in front of my cylinder, and everything in me screams to break through the glass, to tear that smug expression from his face with my bare hands.

To show him exactly what kind of monster they’ve created.

“So we’re going to play a little game.” His reflection appears in the glass, overlaying my own like a grotesque mask. “Tonight, you’ll share accommodations. One room, four omegas, endless possibilities.”

The white coats shift nervously, but he silences them with a raised hand.

“By sunrise, I need that number reduced to three. You can either choose amongst yourselves who to sacrifice or…” His smile widens, showing too many perfect teeth. “…we’ll eliminate all of you and start fresh with the next batch.”

The implications hit like physical blows:

Kill one to save three.

Murder a fellow survivor.

Become the monster they want us to be.

Or die.

All of us.

Before the sun rises.

Our silence couldn’t be more deafening.

“No volunteers?” He feigns disappointment. “No immediate standouts for sacrifice? How disappointing. I had such high hopes for your survival instincts.”

A hissing sound fills the air – subtle at first, then growing louder. A pale green mist begins seeping into our cylinders through hidden vents, and my blood runs cold.

Fight it. FIGHT IT!

I try to hold my breath, but my lungs are already burning from the water trials. My body betrays me, gasping in the tainted air before I can stop myself.

The effect is immediate: Vision blurring at the edges. Limbs growing heavy. Thoughts turning sluggish.

Through increasingly unfocused eyes, I see the others struggling:

Azurite’s calculated composure finally breaks as she coughs, those mismatched eyes growing glassy.

Luna sways more pronouncedly, her unseeing eyes fluttering as whatever other senses guide her begin to fail.

Riot fights the hardest, banging on the glass even as her movements grow uncoordinated, screaming defiance until her voice breaks.

Stay awake. Have to stay…

My poor shadows are begging me, but now they’re so distant. So far away, it ignites panic within me. The shadow of voices that made me fear insanity has become a safe haven that’s being stolen from my grasp.

I try so desperately to fight this losing game.

But the darkness creeps in, inexorable as the tide.

My legs give out first, the strength to brace against the glass deserting me. My knees hit the floor that tried to drop us into oblivion just minutes ago.

The suited man’s laughter echoes through the chamber, distorting like a sound underwater. He’s enjoying this – our helplessness, our fear, our forced submission.

“Sweet dreams, little omegas.” His voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. “Do try to give us a good show. The buyers do so love a spectacle.”

My vision tunnels, dark spots dancing like the shadows that usually comfort me. But they’re silent now, or maybe I just can’t hear them over the rushing in my ears.

The last things I register before consciousness fades:

The metallic taste of the gas on my tongue. The sound of bodies hitting glass as the others succumb. The pristine shine of Italian leather as he steps closer. That cold, empty laugh that promises worse to come…

Then nothing.

Just darkness.

And the knowledge that when I wake, I’ll either become a murderer…

Or a corpse.

6

THE IRONY OF THE ALPHA DREAM

~VALE~

The ice bath is both salvation and torture.

I ease myself in with a hiss, watching as the water rises around my useless legs. The cold should be shocking – at least it used to be way back then – but now I barely feel it.

Just another sign that things are getting worse, that this disease is progressing faster than anyone predicted.

The doctors call it a blessing, this growing numbness.

Say I should be grateful that at least I’m not in constant pain anymore. But they don’t understand. The pain was proof I was still fighting…that I had a fucking chance.

This creeping absence of sensation?

It’s just death coming for me one nerve ending at a time.

Death is inching closer and closer to claiming its next victim.

I lean against the tub’s edge, letting my head rest on the cold porcelain as memories surface unbidden. Memories of when this all started when I was still whole as an Alpha.

What I consider useful to my pack.

It had been such a simple mission. Routine, even. The kind of operation we could have run in our sleep after years of working together. Some government pencil-pusher had tried to block our access to key intelligence, thinking bureaucracy could stop us from completing our objectives.

They never learn.

I’d already identified the weak points in their security protocols, the gaps in their surveillance coverage, and the personnel most likely to look the other way for the right incentive. I even mapped out every camera angle, patrol route, and potential complication.

That was my role in the pack – the strategist, the planner, the one who saw ten moves ahead while others focused on the immediate threat. I took pride in it. In being the mind behind our operations, in ensuring our success through meticulous preparation rather than brute force.

The mission had gone perfectly, of course. They always did when I was running point. We’d acquired the intel we needed, left no trace of our presence, and made it back to base without incident.

Should have been celebrating another successful operation.

Instead, everything went to hell during a standard training run.

The day had been brutally hot, the kind of heat that makes the air shimmer and your lungs feel like they’re working overtime. We were running drills – keeping sharp, and staying ready for the next mission.

Business as usual.

Atlas noticed first. He always does, somehow. Maybe it was a change in my scent or the way my footsteps faltered slightly. Maybe it was just that uncanny sixth sense he’s developed since losing his sight.

The world started spinning, colors bleeding together like wet paint. My legs…my strong, reliable legs that had carried me through countless missions, suddenly felt like they belonged to someone else. Like they were made of lead and lightning all at once.

I remember Atlas calling my name.

How desperate I tried to respond.

Recall how the ground rushed up to meet me.

Then nothing.

It was just fragments after that; urgent voices growing distant, hands lifting me, sirens wailing…machines beeping…

They put me in a medical coma, they told me later.

Said it was the only way to stop the seizures, to keep my body from tearing itself apart as whatever was attacking my system ran its course.

The official report said it was a grazing shot during the mission. Just a bullet that barely touched me, hardly worth mentioning. Shouldn’t have been anything serious.

But it wasn’t just a bullet.

It was a message.

A warning.

A death sentence delivered in a laboratory-engineered package that no doctor can quite figure out. No known pathogen matches its profile. No existing treatment seems to touch it. No cure on the horizon.

Just this slow, inevitable decline.

First, it was just occasional numbness in my toes. Easy to ignore. Easy to pretend it wasn’t happening. Then the pain started – burning, stabbing, constant. Made it hard to walk, think, and function like a normal individual. No less an Alpha.

The doctors prescribed everything they could.

Experimental treatments, Aggressive physical therapy, and lovely cocktails of medications that could probably cure whatever this shit was.

Nothing worked.

Nothing stopped the progression up my legs; the way the disease ate through nerve endings and muscle tissue like acid through paper. Nothing halted the creeping paralysis that threatened to turn me into a prisoner in my own body.

The ice baths help, sometimes.

Numbs everything enough that I can pretend the lack of sensation is from the cold, not from my body betraying me piece by piece. Let me imagine, just for a moment, that this is temporary. That I’ll step out of this tub and everything will be like it was before.

But my skin shouldn’t be this red from the cold.

Wouldn’t look like I’ve been scalded when I can barely feel the ice.

Another sign that I’m running out of time faster than anyone expected.

It makes me feel sick to my stomach.

I used to be the one who could outthink any opponent. The one who could see the patterns others missed and turn bureaucratic obstacles into advantages with a few carefully placed words or well-timed actions.

Now I can barely walk some days.

Can’t run missions anymore.

Can’t be the asset my pack needs.

They try to hide it, but I see the worry in their eyes.

The way they watch me struggle with basic tasks I used to perform without thought. The way they pretend not to notice when I have to stop and rest. When my legs refuse to cooperate because the pain becomes too much to mask.

It’s agonizing to watch each of them observe me.

Atlas with his careful attentiveness. Always aware of when I need help, even when I’m too fucking proud to dare ask or accept.

Dante is the forced joker in the group. He’s always trying to keep things as normal as they can possibly be in such a frail state, despite the reality that shatters his heart to see me deteriorate day by day.

Kieran is the silent observer. The support that watches in the midst, ready to catch me when I fall, but hopes to never be given such an opportunity to perform at his peak.

They’re all waiting for the inevitable.

Watching me die by inches.

All powerless to stop it.

Just like I am.

The water’s not even cold anymore, heat leached from my failing body turning it tepid.

Won’t be long before this treatment will be on the list of useless methods of alleviation, bringing me closer to that package of acknowledgment that will be presented to me sooner than later.

Hospice care…

I push the mere idea as far as it can in the depths of my mind, but the reality keeps sinking in, while I try to distract myself.

Counting the sensations I can still feel. Measuring progress in losses. Racing against a clock I can’t see but know is ticking down

The disease is winning.

Has been winning since that first moment of dizziness on the training field, and will keep on its path of victory until there’s nothing left of me but memories and regrets.

And all the strategic thinking in the world can’t solve this problem.

It’s funny when you’re forced to accept that you can’t plan your way out of this decay. Can’t possibly outsmart death when it comes from within.

This is my reality.

My future.

My end.

Unless I can find that single puzzle piece of change that could trigger a new path of hope? If I can find answers that may assist in discovering some other method to tackle this sick unknown illness. Or maybe a miracle will happen…

But I stopped believing in miracles the day my legs first betrayed me.

So I sit in my lukewarm bath, watching my reddened skin refuse to acknowledge the ice, and there are those taunting thoughts that seep into my consciousness like how the frost is desperate to continue seeping into my lifeless set of legs beneath this icy oasis of water.

How much time do I have left?

How many more missions can I support from the sidelines?

How long before I become a burden they can’t afford to carry?

The questions have no answers, and the future does not dare to hold any promise that the end of the path will lead me to feel content with facing death.

The future holds no promises.

So I close my eyes against the truth written in my unfeeling flesh, and I wait for the water to grow warm enough to admit defeat.

Just like my body already has.

The tepid water lulls me into memories I usually keep locked away, dangerous things that prowl the edges of consciousness like wolves at twilight.

These are the memories that cut deepest – not of what was taken, but of what was freely given and lost anyway. Like trying to hold water in cupped hands, watching it slip away no matter how tightly you grasp.

I remember running with a clarity that makes my useless legs ache with phantom strength.

The wind had tasted like possibilities back then, each breath a promise of horizons yet to chase. My body moved in perfect harmony, every muscle and sinew working together in a dance I took for granted, never imagining it could end. Like a symphony playing its final note without knowing the conductor has already laid down his baton.

It was during one of those runs that everything changed – not the run that broke me, but one that haunts me still with its sweetness. The autumn air had painted the world in amber and gold, leaves dancing on the breeze like nature’s confetti when it happened.

A scent so sweet, so hauntingly familiar it stole the breath from my lungs and replaced it with pure memory.

Cupcakes.

But not just any cupcakes – these were my grandmother’s autumn masterpieces, the ones that made her tiny bakery a sanctuary for those who still believed in magic.

Like catching fragments of childhood dreams in sugar and starlight.

I can still see them arranged on her vintage trays with an artistry that bordered on sorcery. Swirls of teal frosting caught the light like seafoam at twilight, while magenta accents seemed to pulse with their own inner radiance. A dusting of edible shimmer transformed each one into a small miracle, waiting to be discovered by those who dared to dream in technicolor instead of safe, pastel mundanity.

“These are witch’s cupcakes,” she would say with a wink that held secrets, her eyes twinkling with mischief and magic in equal measure.

Each creation was split between worlds – rich chocolate meeting delicate vanilla in a perfect division, like day and night sharing a single horizon. Not marbled or mixed, but distinctly separated, each flavor holding its own truth while complementing its opposite.

But the real magic lay hidden within. In every batch, one cupcake held a secret heart of gold, its filling catching light like captured stars when lucky teeth found treasure. The pursuit of that golden center became a quest that transformed simple customers into adventurers, each bite holding the possibility of discovery.

The last time I tasted one of those cupcakes feels like a story from another life, told about someone else who wore my face but knew how to smile without pain shadowing the edges.

I’d spent the day in her bakery, watching hope and disappointment play across faces as each customer sought that elusive golden center.

As closing time painted long shadows across the floor, a single cupcake remained – perfect in its solitude, teal, and magenta swirling together like the northern lights captured in frosting.

“This one’s yours,” my grandmother said, her eyes holding that special light that meant magic was afoot, real magic, the kind that changes lives and destinies. “You’ve earned it.”

My hands trembled as I lifted it, the weight of possibility almost too much to bear. That first bite filled the world with wonder, and there it was – that shimmering golden center, like holding a piece of forever on my tongue.

Her laughter filled the bakery with joy as she brought forth a box that seemed to breathe with its own life.

Dark wood carved with patterns that danced when you looked away, promising secrets for those patient enough to wait for them.

“When the clock strikes midnight,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of prophecy. “Some magic needs the perfect moment to bloom.”

But midnight never came.

At least, not the way it was supposed to be.

The call that shattered everything came at 11:47 PM, hospital voices speaking words that rewrote the world.

Like watching color drain from a painting, leaving only shadows behind.

She was gone, taking her magic and mysteries with her into whatever lies beyond.

The box still sits in my closet, unopened, sometimes whispering with her voice in the depths of night. But I’ve never found the courage to lift its lid, to face that final piece of her magic. Some gifts, once opened, can never be unclosed.

Some mysteries solve themselves best by remaining mysteries.

That scent – that impossible, wonderful, heartbreaking scent of autumn and childhood dreams – vanished with her. I thought I’d never encounter it again, had resigned myself to carrying it only in memory, like pressing dried flowers between pages of a book you’ll never read again.

Until that day.

Like finding a key you’d forgotten existed to a door you never knew you needed to open.

She stood in a valley that seemed painted by some mad artist’s brush, where dark ivory foliage danced with touches of purple so deep they bordered on maroon.

Nature itself had reshaped its canvas around her, as if even the trees and bushes knew they were merely backdrop to something extraordinary.

A white van waited nearby, half-hidden by the riot of strangely colored vegetation.

Everything about the scene whispered wrongness, each element carefully staged like a theater set waiting for tragedy to unfold. But I couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but drink in every detail with the desperate thirst of a man who’d found an oasis in hell.

Her hair caught the light like captured seafoam, that same impossible shade of teal ivory that had crowned my grandmother’s most magical creations.

Magenta strands wove through the longer layers, invisible until the wind lifted them like ribbons of dawn breaking through twilight. The colors should have warred with each other, should have seemed artificial and wrong.

Instead, they looked like destiny made manifest.

Like the aurora borealis had descended to earth and decided to dance through her hair.

Her skin bore the kiss of extended sun exposure, a golden tan that spoke of hours spent beneath an unforgiving sky. Not the angry red of burns or the deliberate bronze of leisure, but something more…enforced. Even from this distance, something about it raised warnings in the tactical part of my brain – the part currently drowning in her scent.

God, that scent.

It filled my lungs like liquid magic, each breath a symphony of sensation.

Sweet vanilla twined with rich chocolate in perfect harmony, while fresh-baked promises danced with childhood dreams. Memories of autumn evenings and midnight possibilities swirled together into an intoxicating blend that made my head spin and my heart ache with recognition.

She moved toward the van with a grace that carried undertones of hesitation, each step measured as if the ground might betray her.

Tall and slender, she reminded me of a hothouse flower transplanted to wild soil – beautiful but fragile, reaching desperately for sunlight after too long in shadow.

Her movements spoke volumes in a language I’d been trained to read: the careful positioning that expected pain, the tension thrumming through her shoulders ready for fight or flight, the way her eyes cataloged escape routes with practiced precision.

Like a dream learning how to run before it dissolves.

When she reached the van’s open door, one foot already crossing the threshold between present and future, she turned.

Somehow, impossibly, her eyes found mine across the distance that suddenly seemed both infinite and nonexistent.

Time surrendered its steady march and held its breath.

The world narrowed to this single, perfect moment of connection.

Her eyes… dear god, her eyes. Looking into them was like seeing every question I’d ever had answered all at once, like finding the key to a lock I hadn’t known needed opening. They held secrets and shadows, pain and possibility, magic and madness all swirled together like the colors in her hair.

Her scent expanded then, filling the world with impossible possibilities.

It was everything I’d lost and everything I’d never known I needed: the sweet nostalgia of my grandmother’s bakery mixing with the sharp clarity of evergreen forests, while delicate flower gardens danced with the subtle comfort of afternoon tea.

Every childhood memory, unvoiced dream, and lost possibility distilled into a single breath.

For one heartbeat, I believed in the possibility of her being mine. Like in fairy tales, where love at first sight, led to those wondrous happy ever afters that didn’t taste like ash and regret.

But fairy tales are liars dressed in pretty words and prettier promises.

The real stories hide beneath, written in blood and tears, in midnight calls that come too early, in boxes of magic left unopened because some truths cut too deep to touch.

I knew it even then, in that frozen moment of connection. Nothing this perfect could last.

Unless it was a trap waiting to catch its prey.

But god, how I wanted to believe. How I wished to be that very moth heading towards that burning flame, knowing what catch would send me into a burning oblivion.

The moment shattered like sugar glass.

She blinked, the van door slid shut with the finality of a coffin lid, and engines roared to life with a sound like destiny laughing at the mortal presumption.

Just like that, she was gone, taking with her the scent of promise and possibilities.

I could have followed if I’d known then what emptiness waited in my near future. Fought to interrupt whatever was hidden in that valley to track down this Omega who’s scent teased of memories I thought would forever stay forgotten and buried.

Looking back now, with legs that barely work and a future measured in declining abilities, I wonder if everything would be different if I’d chased that van.

If I’d trusted that moment of connection.

Believed in the magic of teal frosting and magenta dreams one last time.

But fairy tales lie like lovers at midnight, sweet and seductive and utterly false.

Laughable when you think about it now.

The irony of life in this sinister world who shows mercy to no one.

The water’s gone completely cold now, or maybe that’s just me.

Getting out is always the worst part – a battle between pride and necessity that pride loses more often with each passing day.

I reach for the metal bars installed along the tub’s edge, my personal cage of accessibility that transforms my bathroom into something between a hospital ward and a prison cell.

The chrome gleams mockingly in the overhead light as I grip it, preparing for the herculean task of hauling myself upright when my legs refuse to cooperate.

Like puppets with half their strings cut…

I think bitterly, watching the useless limbs float in the water. There’s an art to this now, a careful choreography of upper body strength and momentum that lets me pretend I’m still somewhat independent.

The transfer bench waits beside the tub – another concession to reality I fought against until a particularly bad fall made the choice for me.

Water cascades off my body as I maneuver onto the bench, each movement calculated to minimize strain on legs that barely register sensation anymore. The towel is within easy reach – I’ve learned to position everything just so, creating an environment where I can maintain at least the illusion of self-sufficiency.

The ritual of drying off and dressing has become an exercise in patience and strategy. Soft flannel pajama pants wait on the heated towel rack, another small luxury that makes the process slightly less humiliating.

Getting them on requires a series of practiced movements, lifting and manipulating legs that feel increasingly like dead weight attached to my body.

“Preservation through minimal usage,” the doctors had said, as if rationing my remaining mobility like wartime supplies would somehow stave off the inevitable.

Still, I follow their advice in the evenings when no one’s watching, when I can drop the pretense of fighting against the decline. Save the strength for when it matters, for the moments when I need my pack to believe I’m not completely useless yet.

It forces me to think what it would be like to have an Omega around to assist me in times like these. One that didn’t mind that I was a dying cause or waste of time. I’ve envisioned what it could be to have her help without judgement or guilt. To feel her warmth as tenderly soft hands graze lightly across my flesh, moving upward with each button before she leans in and gives me an encouraging kiss.

Dreams. All of it.

I quietly laugh at how pitiful it is to even imagine such possibilities.

No Omega wants a disabled Alpha…

The wheelchair sits waiting, a throne I never wanted for a kingdom of diminishing returns. Each transfer into it feels like admitting defeat, even as I recognize the necessity.

Another dark chuckle that escapes me as I settle into the familiar contours echoes off bathroom tiles with bitter irony.

“From pack enforcer to invalid,” I mutter to the empty room. “What a fucking journey.”

Might as well throw me into the circus for I’d be able to make Alphas far and wide laugh at my predicament.

At least this isn’t the final destination.

No, that honor belongs to the hospital bed I know waits in my future, where I’ll lie counting breaths until even that simple autonomy deserts me.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

My wheels whisper against hardwood as I navigate the familiar path to my desk.

Earlier conversations drift back, fragments of Atlas and Kieran’s discussion about their next mission filtering through memory.

Patient 495 – the number sticks in my mind like a burr, demanding attention. Something about her retrieval being a priority, with termination authorized if extraction proves too difficult.

What makes one omega so important that they’d risk a full infiltration? And why the kill order if she can’t be taken alive?

In my experience, omegas are either valuable or they’re not. This both-or-neither approach sets off warning bells in the tactical part of my brain that still functions at full capacity.

The thought of omegas brings its own bitter taste.

These days, they exist in my world only as theoretical entities or as whispered offers in medical facilities.

“Comfort omegas,” they’re called – professionals paid handsomely to service dying alphas who’ll never know true mating. The universe’s last cruel joke for those of us circling the drain.

My hands clench on the wheelchair’s arms as an unwanted image rises: sterile hospital rooms, pitying smiles, the mechanical exchange of pleasure for payment. The fantasy of connection without the reality of it.

A pale imitation of something I’ll never have.

Enough.

I have to tell myself firmly, wheeling up to the command center I’ve created at my desk.

If I don’t get out of my own head, the thoughts will keep spiraling down, and it would make a long night of nightmares and broken expectations.

Three monitors glow to life at my touch, each one a window into the digital world where my disability means nothing. Here, in the realm of information and strategy, I can still be useful.

My fingers move across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, pulling up databases and search algorithms I’ve spent years perfecting.

If they need information about this mysterious Patient 495, I’ll find it. If there are patterns to uncover, secrets to decode, or strategies to formulate, I’ll be the one to do it.

My body may be failing, but my mind remains sharp as ever.

Let the others handle the physical aspects of the mission. My battlefield is here, among the ones and zeros, in the shadow realm of data where I can still fight without legs that work or a future that extends beyond the next few years.

The screens fill with information as my searches begin their relentless hunt. Somewhere in this digital ocean lies the truth about Patient 495, about why she matters enough to risk my pack’s lives.

The dark web opens before me like a labyrinth of shadows, each path promising secrets for those brave or foolish enough to seek them.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, breaking through surface-level security like tissue paper. Ravenscroft’s outer defenses fall just as easily – amateur work meant to deter casual hackers and curious journalists.

But beneath that superficial protection lies secrets desperate to not be found by someone as smart as me.

The first real firewall hits like a slap to the face, elegant and vicious in its complexity. This is military-grade security, the kind that whispers of government black sites and classified operations.

My initial probe bounces back so hard it nearly crashes my system.

“Playing hardball, are we?” I mutter, cracking my knuckles as I settle in for a real fight. This is my element, where physical limitations mean nothing and pure intellect rules supreme.

The hours blur together as I dive deeper, each layer of security more intricate than the last.

Ravenscroft’s general information comes easily enough – staff records, supply manifests, and maintenance schedules. But anything involving Patient 495 or her ward is locked behind encryption that would make NSA analysts weep.

A pattern emerges as I work: four high-security sectors, each protecting data about specific patients. Four omegas were deemed valuable enough to warrant this level of digital fortification. The realization makes my blood run cold.

What the hell are they doing in there that requires this much protection?

My coffee cup scrapes against the desk as I reach for it absently, muscle memory seeking caffeine. The liquid that touches my lips is scalding hot, nothing like the cold dregs I expected.

I jerk back, cursing as the burn registers.

“Wait.” I frown at the steaming cup, mind rewinding. “When did I…”

“About twenty minutes ago,” Atlas’s voice comes from behind me, making me startle. He’s perched on my bed, one leg crossed over the other in that impossibly elegant way of his. A small earbud dangles from his right ear, his audiobook apparently paused mid-narrative.

I stare at him, then at the coffee, then back at him.

The digital clock on my monitor reads 3:47 AM.

“How long have you been here?”

“A while.” His lips quirk in that subtle way that means he’s amused by something only he understands. “You were rather engrossed in your hunt.”

That’s putting it mildly. My neck creaks as I stretch, muscles protesting hours of stillness.

“How do you do that? Move around like you’re not blind as a bat?”

A soft chuckle escapes him.

“The same way I made your coffee exactly how you like it – two Splenda, four cream, sweet enough to give a dentist nightmares. I pay attention.”

“You do more than pay attention,” I grumble, taking another careful sip of the perfectly prepared coffee. “The way you navigate this place, you’d think the blindfold was just a fashion statement.”

Atlas shrugs, the silk band across his eyes shifting slightly with the movement.

“The world is more than what we see. Sound, scent, air pressure, vibration – they all tell stories if you learn to listen.”

“Stories like whatever’s playing in your ear?” I gesture toward his dangling earbud, then feel foolish for the motion he can’t see.

But he seems to sense it anyway.

“Ah, yes. Rather appropriate, actually. A tale of omegas in captivity and their rescue by mysterious alphas in glowing masks.” His head tilts thoughtfully. “The parallels to our upcoming mission aren’t lost on me.”

A laugh escapes me, raw and genuine.

“What, are you trying to manifest some grand pack romance? Looking for our fairy tale ending?”

“If it works, it works.” He says it lightly, but something in his tone suggests he’s only half joking. “Though I suspect our reality might prove more complicated than fiction.”

I turn back to my screens, where Ravenscroft’s secrets still taunt me from behind their digital walls.

“Reality usually is. Speaking of which, this place… there’s something wrong here, Atlas. The security they’ve got around these omega patients – it’s beyond anything I’ve seen outside of top-level government facilities.”

“Wrong how?” He leans forward slightly, all traces of amusement vanishing.

“It’s not just Patient 495 they’re protecting. There are three others, all locked down under the same level of security. The encryption, the firewalls, the redundant systems – this is nation-state-level protection. The kind you use when you’re hiding something that could start or end wars.”

Atlas absorbs this in silence, his fingers drumming a thoughtful rhythm on his knee.

It’s fascinating to watch him process information – the slight shifts in his expression, the minute changes in his posture that speak volumes to those who know how to read them.

“Can you break it?” he finally asks.

“Given enough time? Maybe. But we’re talking weeks, not days. And that’s assuming they don’t catch on and change their protocols.” I scrub a hand over my face, frustration mounting. “Whatever they’re doing with these omegas, they’re serious about keeping it secret.”

“Then we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.” His tone carries a hint of anticipation that I recognize from countless missions past. “Go in blind and adapt.”

“Blind being the operative word,” I mutter, then wince at my own tasteless joke.

But Atlas just smiles that enigmatic smile of his.

“Sometimes not seeing is an advantage. It keeps you from being distracted by what’s obvious, lets you focus on what’s hidden.” He rises smoothly from the bed, moving with that uncanny grace that makes me question everything I think I know about blindness. “Get some sleep, Vale. You’ve done enough for tonight.”

“Says the man listening to romance novels at four in the morning.”

“Research,” he corrects primly, retrieving his fallen earbud. “One should always study successful precedents.”

I watch him navigate perfectly around my furniture, heading for the door without a single hesitation or misstep.

“You really think we’re going to find our happily ever after in a place like Ravenscroft?”

He pauses at the threshold, hand resting lightly on the frame.

“I think fate has a sense of humor. And I think sometimes the darkest places hide the brightest lights.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with my computers, my cooling coffee, and thoughts of what other secrets Ravenscroft might be hiding behind its walls.

7

ALLIES IN THE HEART OF BROKEN EXPERIMENTS

~NYX~

Consciousness returns like a tide dragging broken shells across the sand – slow, painful, inevitable.

Every muscle in my body protests as memory filters back through the lingering haze of whatever gas they used to subdue us. The shadows whisper warnings as my mind clears, urging caution, patience, and observation.

The stone floor beneath me is cold against my skin, grounding me in this new reality. They’ve changed my clothes while I was unconscious – a thought that makes my skin crawl.

The nightgown they’ve dressed me in carries the musty scent of previous wearers, the fabric worn thin in places from countless bodies. How many omegas wore this before me? How many died wearing it?

Count the living first. Then plan for survival.

“Well, look who finally decided to join us,” a harsh voice cuts through my assessment. ” Ravenscoft’s Favorite Sleeping Beauty awakens from her chemical nap.”

That would be the one I’ve dubbed Riot – all barely contained fury and sharp edges. Her dual-colored hair is a tangled mess around her face, but her eyes burn with the same defiance I saw in the testing chamber.

“Two seconds ago you were worried she was dead,” comes Azurite’s cool response. Her heterochromatic gaze meets mine briefly, calculating as ever. “So maybe dial back the attitude.”

Riot’s lip curls, her piercings catching what little light filters into our prison.

“Why don’t you find a dirty sock to shove in that mouth before I introduce it to my fist?”

“I’m just relieved we all survived.” Luna’s soft voice carries an otherworldly quality that makes the shadows stir with interest. Her unseeing eyes seem to track movement none of us can perceive.

“Like anyone gives a damn what you think,” Riot snaps.

Azurite’s response is immediate and ice-cold. “No one asked for your opinion either.”

Watch them. Learn them. Know your allies and enemies both.

I push myself to my feet slowly, bare feet silent on the stone as I approach their makeshift circle.

Each movement is measured, careful – both from lingering effects of the gas and natural caution. Lowering myself to sit with them feels like joining a powder keg with a lit match, but the shadows assure me this is necessary.

Riot’s attention snaps to me like a predator scenting prey.

“What, are you mute or something? Or just think you’re too good for us because you’re their precious favorite? Because those voices in your head make you special?”

Show strength without showing teeth.

I meet her gaze steadily and point directly at her.

“Riot.”

Her brow furrows in confusion.

“The fuck? I’m Patient 367—”

“Riot,” I repeat firmly. My voice is rough from disuse but carries enough authority to make her pause.

Before she can recover, I turn to the next.

“Azurite.”

“Patient 892,” she corrects automatically, but there’s something thoughtful in her mismatched eyes.

“Azurite,” I insist, then shift my attention to our final companion. “Luna.”

A small smile curves Luna’s lips.

“Ah, I see. You’re giving us names to replace our patient designations?” She tilts her head contemplatively. “I was Patient 444, though I never liked it. In Chinese culture, four is deeply unlucky – associated with death. Three fours…” She trails off with a delicate shudder.

“You’re Chinese?” Riot asks, momentarily distracted from her aggression.

“Half. My mother was Chinese, my father Korean.” Luna’s fingers trace patterns on the floor that seem random but hold meaning only she can read. “It was already considered a forbidden union in both cultures. My blindness only added to their shame.”

“They didn’t know you were an omega?” Azurite asks softly, her tactical mind clearly piecing together implications.

Luna’s smile turns bitter.

“No. If they had…” She draws a finger across her throat. “Firing squad would have been the kindest option. Mixed blood was bad enough. A blind, mixed-blood omega? That would have brought shame beyond redemption.”

The silence that follows her words is heavy with understanding. Each of us carries our own stories of how we ended up here, our own wounds that led to these shared chains.

“I suppose I’m a forbidden mix too.” Azurite’s voice carries a melody of accents. “Italian mother, German father. Both from rival mafia families that had been trying to kill each other for generations.”

Her heterochromatic eyes catch the dim light as she speaks, one spring green and one molten gold, like the division in her heritage made manifest.

“It was a love story doomed from the start, really. Romeo and Juliet with more guns and better food.” A sardonic smile plays on her lips. “And then they had me…already set up for failure before I drew my first breath.”

The shadows whisper in my head, drinking in her story, tasting the truth of it, but have nothing to say and hum more in intrigue.

I watch the way her fingers trace unconscious patterns on her thigh as she speaks like she’s playing piano keys that only exist in memory.

“The omega thing was just the universe’s idea of a cosmic joke. We managed to keep it hidden for years – not hard when you’re scentless like me. Could have passed for a beta indefinitely if not for the heats.” Her smile turns knife-sharp. “But there’s always someone waiting to stick a blade in your back, isn’t there?”

“Your sister,” I say softly, the words pulled from me by something in her expression.

“My sister.” Azurite’s eyes soften in a way that seems wrong, like watching poison turn to honey. “I was actually scheduled to be claimed by a pack. Not a prestigious one, mind you – they had their own mafia connections, and were considered the dregs of society. The kind of alphas even the government steers clear of because they’re too feral to control.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it.

“My dear sister couldn’t stand it. The idea that someone like me…what she called unworthy and disgusting…might be chosen by any pack, let alone one with that kind of raw power…well, it was more than her delicate sensibilities could bear.”

The silence in our prison cell grows heavier as she continues.

“I think she wanted them for herself. Thought if she could get rid of me, they’d see her instead. So she called the authorities, told them I was psychotic, hearing voices.” Another knife-sharp smile. “Said I’d threatened to rip her eyes out.”

“Did you?” Riot asks suddenly, leaning forward with keen interest.

“Did I what?”

“Rip her eyes out.” Riot’s multiple piercings catch the light as she grins, showing too many teeth.

Azurite’s answering smirk is a masterpiece of controlled malice.

Our little circle erupts in dark smiles, recognizing the unspoken confession in her expression. Even the shadows seem to laugh, appreciating the poetry of her revenge.

Luna’s giggle breaks the tension, high and musical.

“Well, I suppose she won’t be enjoying the view of that ‘tainted’ pack she betrayed you for.”

The laughter that follows is startling in its genuineness – four broken things finding momentary joy in shared darkness. I let the sound wash over me, foreign but not unwelcome.

How long since I’ve heard laughter that wasn’t cruel? Since I’ve felt anything close to camaraderie?

Remember this. How strength can be found in strange places.

My gaze settles on Riot, taking in the defensive set of her shoulders, and the way she tries to make her multiple piercings and tattoos into armor.

“Your story?” I ask quietly.

She huffs, shoulders hunching further.

“It’s stupid.”

Two words, and yet they carry worlds of pain beneath their dismissive surface.

I study her face – the way she won’t quite meet anyone’s eyes, how her fingers keep touching the rings in her lips like checking that armor is still in place.

“Why?” The question is simple and direct.

Sometimes the shortest path to truth is through the smallest door.

We wait in the growing silence, four broken pieces trying to form something whole, while Riot wages some internal battle with her own demons.

Riot’s sigh seems to carry the weight of generations as she crosses her arms, the gesture more protective than defiant.

“Listen. I’m black.” She pauses, then corrects herself with bitter precision. “At least…originally. My mother hated herself. Hated our skin tone.” Her fingers unconsciously trace one of her arm tattoos, where ink masks whatever shade her skin might have been before. “We don’t do well in this world. You know the usual shit. Racism probably doesn’t affect you guys, at least not to the full extent as us.”

The raw honesty in her voice makes even the shadows still their restless movement.

“Being black sucks when everyone and their aunties and uncles are insulting you for being born in the darkest color palette in the neutrals department.”

She bites her bottom lip hard enough that the metal ring there must hurt, using physical pain to hold back something darker. The gesture is familiar – another survivor’s trick for keeping control when memories threaten to overwhelm.

“My skin is only this shade because as a baby, my mom would use skin-lightening chemicals on me.”

The admission hits like a physical blow.

I feel my jaw drop, while Azurite’s usual composed expression fractures into a frown of shock and horror. Luna tilts her head, her unseeing eyes somehow conveying more compassion than any sighted person’s could.

“Why would such creams exist to change the color of flesh that is surely beautiful to admire?” Luna’s question carries genuine bewilderment as if the very concept is beyond her understanding.

Riot’s laugh is a broken thing, sharp edges cutting the air between us.

“That’s what happens when you’re born into a world that self-hates.” Her voice drops lower, each word weighted with history and hurt. “My father wasn’t around…not because he couldn’t be a good father, but because he was an Alpha and truthfully, my mother was simply a fling that had Omega potential.”

I could understand that.

How many stories of abandoned omegas have we witnessed? How many tales of potential happiness are destroyed by circumstance and society’s cruel rules?

“She could have had a pack,” Riot continues, her voice taking on a distant quality. “Could have gained her happily ever after, but do narcissists ever achieve such?” Her laugh this time is hollow, empty of even bitter humor. “In the end, she always wanted to have a pack and live a life filled with friends and loved ones, but now she’s alone, all because of her own destruction.”

Her hands clench and unclench, the movement drawing attention to scars I hadn’t noticed before – thin white lines that speak of defensive wounds, of fighting back, of surviving.

“She pushed everyone away, all by her own actions, but to grasp accountability? Never.” The words come faster now, like poison finally being drawn from an old wound. “She’d never admit she’s wrong unless it benefited her. Unless she could manipulate that apology so she can eat better food, or be financially secured by someone else’s finances. Anything to benefit her.”

The heavy sigh that follows seems to deflate her, stripping away layers of carefully constructed defiance to reveal something raw and vulnerable beneath.

“I vowed to never become her, but how do you do that when you’re isolated in a space where all you see is her behaviors? Fucking anything that moves for money. Grabbing any job that would give her enough so she can invest in things she cherishes.”

Her voice cracks on the next words, showing the depth of the wound beneath.

“I wasn’t one of those priorities. I was just the cargo she could benefit from gaslighting and grooming to become her slave.”

The silence that follows her words feels sacred somehow, like a confessional where sins are laid bare not for absolution but for understanding.

In our little circle of broken things, her honesty creates a new kind of bond. Not the false unity of shared captivity, but something deeper – the recognition that our wounds, though different, have shaped us in similar ways.

Made us harder, sharper, more determined to define ourselves beyond the labels others try to force upon us.

Her piercings and tattoos take on new meaning – not rebellion for its own sake, but reclamation.

Taking control of a body others tried to modify without consent, making it definitively her own through conscious choice rather than another’s manipulation.

“Time’s a bitch,” Riot continues, her voice taking on a hollow quality that makes the shadows twist uneasily. “Mother started running out of opportunities in the sex department. Turns out even desperate alphas have standards, and wrinkles don’t sell as well as youth.” Her laugh carries no humor, just bitter acknowledgment. “The sagging skin didn’t help either.”

She runs a hand through her multi-colored hair, the strands catching dim light like oil on water.

“But it wasn’t just the physical changes. The whole damn world shifted. People got smarter, more aware. Started recognizing toxic behavior and manipulation for what it was. This new era came in where being selfish wasn’t a dirty word anymore – it meant taking care of yourself, setting boundaries.”

The shadows whisper in my head in understanding as she speaks. They know about boundaries, about the necessity of walls between self and other.

About survival.

“People started seeing through my mother’s little games. Her cons didn’t work anymore. Those alphas who used to support her? They started drifting away, looking for real connections. They wanted actual omegas, wanted packs built on love and trust instead of manipulation and greed.” Riot’s fingers trace one of her lip rings absently. “They wanted something genuine, not just a quick fix that came with emotional baggage and financial drain.”

Her eyes grow distant, remembering.

“When reality finally caught up with her, guess who became the backup plan? Suddenly I had to be the good little slave. Work endless hours, hand over every penny. Do everything she ever asked except the one thing I refused – I wouldn’t sell my body.”

The conviction in her voice draws the shadows closer, recognizing the strength it takes to hold such a line. “If I had to stay a virgin for eternity, fine. Better that than becoming her clone, popping out kids just to abandon them.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I have siblings out there somewhere, probably all male. But I’ll never know them. She made sure of that. Cut off any chance of family support before my omega status could even become an issue.”

“What happened?” I ask softly, drawn into her story despite myself. “When your omega traits appeared?”

The laugh that escapes her raises goosebumps on my arms. It’s the kind of sound that belongs in nightmare places, in rooms where sanity goes to die.

“That’s when the real horror show started.”

She shakes her head, the motion sharp and pained.

“My mother… she didn’t just get jealous. This wasn’t some petty competition between women. This was pure hatred, the kind of envy that eats at your soul. She started trying to copy my style, wearing clothes meant for someone half her age. But that wasn’t enough.”

Her hands clench into fists, knuckles white with suppressed rage.

“She started force-feeding me, claiming we needed to ‘bond’ over meals. Ordered me to work longer hours because suddenly the bills were overwhelming. Mysterious debts started appearing in my name…credit cards I never applied for, loans I never took out.”

Riot stands suddenly, unable to contain her energy. Her hands move through the air, sketching out a shape much larger than her current form.

“I ended up three times the size I am now. Like this.” She gestures to indicate something enormous, her movements sharp with self-loathing. “A fucking blimp. That was her strategy…make me so physically unappealing that no alpha would look twice.”

The shadows growl in the depths of my mind, roiling in my anger as we all absorb the calculated cruelty of it. This wasn’t just abuse – it was systematic destruction, a mother methodically dismantling her daughter’s future out of pure spite.

I watch how Luna’s unseeing eyes track Riot’s movements, how Azurite’s heterochromatic gaze narrows with cold understanding.

We all know different faces of betrayal, but this…this carries a special kind of horror. The person who gave you life actively working to destroy any chance you had at living it fully.

Riot’s hands drop to her sides, but her fingers keep moving, like they want to grab something and tear it apart.

The rage emanating from her is almost visible, a dark aurora of pain transformed into anger because anger is safer than grief.

“I knew it was bad when just walking left me winded,” Riot continues, her voice dropping lower. “When climbing stairs felt like scaling a mountain. Simple things that should take seconds stretched into endless, breathless battles.”

Her hands gesture unconsciously as if feeling the phantom weight of her former self.

“That’s when I realized I was following her path of self-destruction. The road she’d mapped out for me with surgical precision – the very woman who should have been teaching me to soar was methodically clipping my wings.”

The voices in my head whisper warnings of similar traps, of trust turned to weapons.

I push them aside, focusing on Riot’s words.

“I decided enough was enough. Had to change, but I wanted to do it right. No crash diets, no dangerous shortcuts. Started training, working out.” A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “That’s how I met Mina – this older omega who specialized in training packless omegas. She helped me reclaim my body, my strength. But more than that, she helped me see how fucked up my situation really was.”

“What do you mean?” Luna asks, her unseeing eyes somehow finding Riot’s face with uncanny accuracy.

Riot’s laugh holds no humor.

“I’d been working non-stop, you know? Every penny going to my mother for ‘safekeeping.’ Then the jobs started disappearing – turns out being an omega without a pack is practically a crime in most places. They started cutting my hours, my positions, my opportunities.”

Her voice takes on a brittle edge.

“That’s when reality hit. Everything was in my name – the debts, the loans, the responsibilities. So when I lost those jobs, I was the one facing homelessness. I went to my mother, begging for access to all that money I’d been giving her to ‘store away’ for years.”

“She had nothing to give,” I say softly, the voices in my head already knowing this part of the story.

Azurite’s mismatched eyes finally ignite with real anger.

“Are you telling me you wasted all those years working yourself to death…for nothing?”

Riot’s laugh sounds like breaking glass, and her head drops, hiding eyes that threaten to spill years of accumulated grief.

“Fifteen years.” The words come out choked. “Fifteen fucking years of my omega life, begging for scraps of maternal love like some starving dog. Fighting for approval that was never going to come. Thinking I was building a future, saving for the day I’d find my pack, find love, find freedom from paycheck-to-paycheck survival.”

Her hands clench and unclench rhythmically.

“But my mother spent every last penny. Vacations. Designer bags. Anything to create this illusion of wealth to attract alphas. She never understood. They don’t care about that superficial bullshit. They want an omega to love, to cherish. Someone with principles, with resilience. Not some fake socialite playing dress-up with stolen money.”

Bitterness drips from every word as she continues.

“And you know what’s really fucking rich? Most alphas want pups. But my mother’s history of abandoning her children? That’s not exactly an attractive quality. So all her efforts, all my money, went into this hopeless fantasy while my actual future circled the drain.”

The raw pain in her voice makes even Luna flinch.

Azurite’s calculating expression has transformed into something harder, colder – recognition of a specific kind of betrayal that cuts deeper than physical wounds.

“I still refused to sell myself,” Riot says, her fists clenching tight enough that her knuckles turn white. “My virginity was the one thing I still controlled. Everything else had been stolen…my money, my time, my chances at a normal life. But that one thing? That was still mine.”

Her eyes take on a haunted quality.

“But my mother saw it as just another untapped resource. Another way to fund her delusions. So she tried to set me up…”

“Hell no,” I whisper, the voices in my head raging at this final betrayal.

The very air seems to grow heavier as we absorb the magnitude of it – a mother attempting to sell her own daughter’s virginity after stealing her entire future.

It’s the kind of violation that transforms victims into survivors, that forges softer emotions into steel.

“Mina helped me break free,” Riot’s voice softens when she speaks her savior’s name. “She understood the cycle I was trapped in, saw how it would destroy me if I didn’t escape. Found me this tiny bachelor apartment – barely bigger than a closet, but it was mine. Helped me gather the essentials, the bare minimum I needed to start over.”

Her fingers trace one of her tattoos absently as she speaks.

“The hardest part was cutting the financial ties. The debt was astronomical – easily a hundred grand, probably more. But Mina… she loaned me enough to start clearing it. Taught me how to cancel those credit cards, and how to get my name off everything my mother had access to. She even helped set up a new account through her connections, somewhere my mother couldn’t touch.”

The voices in my head whisper recognition of this kind of calculated escape, this careful dismantling of chains disguised as family bonds.

“My mother didn’t notice at first,” Riot continues with a hint of savage satisfaction. “She was too busy spending on new credit cards in her own name, never realizing I’d removed myself from her web of debt. She went on vacation – another luxury trip funded by God knows what – and that’s when we made the final move.”

Her eyes take on a distant look.

“I dropped her off at her place when she got back, fed her some bullshit about working triple shifts to make more money. She actually praised me for once – not because she was proud, but because more money meant more for her to spend.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “It took six months before reality caught up with her. By then, I was… different.”

She looks down at herself, at the intricate patterns decorating her skin. “They say getting tattoos is addictive because of the healing process, because of how empowering it feels. For me, it was about control. Every design I chose, every placement I selected, every size decision I made – it was all mine. After fifteen years of having no say in my own life, plus all those years of childhood manipulation…this was freedom.”

The raw emotion in her voice resonates through our small circle.

“It became my armor. My declaration of independence. I let my skin grow darker again, started tanning, and embraced everything she tried to erase. And when she finally saw me?” A fierce pride enters her tone. “She didn’t even recognize me. I was healthy, strong, glowing in a way that attracted alphas…even the ones they eventually sent to take me away.”

“Take you away?” Luna’s soft question carries a tremor of understanding.

Goosebumps race across my skin as the pieces click into place.

“She wasn’t…” I begin, unable to finish the thought.

Riot’s smile is a broken thing, full of sharp edges and old pain. The answer is written in her eyes before she speaks.

“The money ran out,” she says simply. “All that debt she’d racked up was finally in her name alone. No more sugar alphas to bail her out. And her precious ATM of a daughter? Nowhere to be found. No access to my new apartment, and no knowledge of my friends or Mina. I’d stopped telling her anything about my life – why share joy with someone who only wants to poison it?”

Her hands clench into fists.

“When she realized she was facing bankruptcy alone, it broke something in her. But it wasn’t enough for her to go down solo – she needed to drag me down too. Needed some sick satisfaction knowing I wouldn’t succeed where she had failed. So she played her final card: called the government and claimed her omega daughter had lost her mind.”

The silence that follows is heavy with horror.

The ultimate betrayal – a mother destroying her child’s future simply because she couldn’t stand to see her succeed.

Riot stares at her trembling hands, rage and pain warring in her expression.

“I looked her in the eyes that last day, as they were taking me away. Told her if I survived this – if whatever higher power exists gives me the chance to get out of here and return to the world – I wouldn’t waste time seeking revenge. Because what could be worse punishment than her reality? Almost seventy years on this earth, and she’s completely alone. No family, no friends, and she sold out her own daughter for pocket change that wouldn’t cover a meal.”

Her voice grows stronger, taking on an almost prophetic quality.

“I told her I hope she lives long enough to see me happy. To watch me find a pack that loves me despite everything she tried to destroy…my flaws, my ‘tainted’ skin, all of it. I want her to see me thrive, to know that she failed to break me completely.”

The last words hang in the air between us, a testament to resilience, to the strength it takes to choose hope over hatred even in the darkest moments.

They led her away after that final declaration, and now here she sits – marked by ink and metal, shaped by pain but not defined by it, still fighting to become something more than what her mother tried to make her.

“Being in Ravenscroft made me understand my own anger,” Riot continues, her voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable. “All that resentment, that fury buried under years of abuse and manipulation – it has nowhere to hide here. I keep asking myself how I could have been so blind, so stupid. But then…” Her voice catches. “How are you supposed to recognize abuse when it’s all you’ve ever known? When there’s no one around to tell you it’s wrong?”

She huffs out a bitter laugh, shaking her head with almost violent energy.

“I didn’t have friends who could warn me. I was already an outcast. Who steps in to help someone whose suffering doesn’t directly affect them?”

I can understand this intensity of loneliness – the isolation that makes abuse possible versus escaping seems impossible.

“So that rage just builds and builds,” Riot continues, gesturing to her wounds and bruises. “When they push us to our limits here, when they starve us and hurt us, all I can see is my mother’s smile. All I can hear is her voice twisting everything back on me: ‘I never told you to work so hard. You chose to help the family. I didn’t make you live there – that was your decision.’”

Her voice takes on a mocking tone that makes Luna flinch.

“Sometimes I wonder if I did this to myself. If I’m the one who engineered my own imprisonment in this hell where we’re nothing but lab rats being tortured for their amusement.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath before looking down at the floor.

“I used to be different, you know? Friendly. Talkative. Had actual dreams. This…” She gestures vaguely. “This is the most I’ve spoken to anyone in fifteen years. And I just turned thirty.”

The weight of lost time hangs heavy in her words.

“If I die here, maybe it’s for the best. How many years do I really have left to find a pack? To have pups?” Her eyes lift to meet each of ours in turn, carrying a desperate kind of clarity. “I’ve never really lived. Never had a real childhood. So what would I even offer a pack? What if I just repeat the cycle – rush to find alphas, have pups too soon, end up resenting everything like my mother because I never learned how to be happy with myself?”

“Nah,” she says with finality. “I’d rather die.”

The silence that follows feels like a living thing until she breaks it again.

“How old are you?” she asks Azurite directly.

“Twenty-five,” comes the quiet response.

“And you?” She turns to Luna.

“Nineteen,” Luna answers softly.

Finally, her gaze settles on me.

“And you? You never actually introduced yourself.”

“Nyx,” I reveal. “I’m twenty-two. A Scorpio.”

The voices in my head approve of this small truth-sharing.

Riot’s eyebrows lift slightly.

“Odd to include the zodiac, but I like it. Fits somehow.” Her expression grows serious again. “Look, I’m the oldest here. The one with the least future ahead of her. If someone has to be sacrificed to get the rest out…” She spreads her hands. “I volunteer.”

Protests rise immediately from the others, but she shakes her head firmly.

“You’re all still young. You have real chances out there. Your skin won’t limit you like mine will. Your pasts haven’t eaten up your prime years like mine has. You could be the first to actually survive Ravenscroft and escape. If I can help make that happen…” A small, genuine smile touches her lips. “That would mean something. Give all this some purpose.”

She settles back down, then turns to me with curious eyes.

“Since you’re into giving people names and knowing zodiac signs, what’s mine?”

I hesitate for a moment.

Speak your truth. Take claim of those who carry similarities to our uniqueness.

“Taurus. One who refuses to break,” I whisper. Her silence leaves me wondering if I’m right or not.

Azurite leans forward.

“And mine?”

“Aquarius. Turns submission into strategy,” I answer, and she smiles – a real smile that transforms her face.

“You’re right.”

“What about me?” Luna asks eagerly.

“Pisces. One who sees beyond sight.” I tell her, and she nods with delight.

“Exactly right!”

All eyes turn to Riot, who huffs out a laugh.

“You’re either into some serious voodoo shit or black magic.”

A small giggle escapes me – the sound so foreign it startles even me.

“Aside from the voices in my head that I call shadows, I’m really not that special.”

The moment feels surreal – four broken women sharing genuine laughter in a place designed to destroy us. The voices whisper that this is important, this connection being forged in darkness.

“What about you?” Riot asks, her earlier vulnerability creating space for curiosity. “Everyone’s got a story that landed them here. What’s yours?”

The voices in my head stir restlessly as I search through the fog where memories should be. It’s like trying to recall a dream that slips further away the harder you chase it.

Fragments flash and fade – a laugh here, a touch there, the ghost of emotions I can’t quite grasp.

“I don’t remember, honestly.” The admission feels both simple and devastating in its implications. “Sometimes I think I have a sister somewhere. Someone who shares my face, but maybe with different eyes? It’s hard to be sure if the memories are real or just wishes my mind created to fill the emptiness.”

I close my eyes, trying to catch the wisps of memory that dance just out of reach.

“When I’m falling asleep, I sometimes hear a woman singing lullabies. The melody feels important, feels like home, but it fades as soon as I try to hold onto it. There must have been a father too, but…” I shrug, the gesture carrying the weight of all those lost moments. “Six years in Ravenscroft is all I know for certain.”

The others’ expressions shift at this revelation.

Azurite’s heterochromatic eyes narrow in calculation, while Luna’s unseeing gaze seems to look straight through me. Even Riot’s perpetual anger falters, replaced by something that might be pity if she allowed herself such soft emotions.

Their reactions tell me what they won’t say aloud – that their stays here have been shorter, that they haven’t lost themselves to this place the way I have.

The realization should hurt, or at least make me feel something more than this quiet acceptance. But after six years of trials and tests, of pain and loss, even grief feels like a distant memory.

Instead of pain, I find myself smiling – really grinning, for what feels like the first time in years. The expression feels foreign on my face, muscles moving in patterns they’ve almost forgotten.

But it’s genuine, sparked by something the voices whisper might be hope.

“The past can’t help me build a future,” I say, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. “Those lost memories, even if I could get them back, won’t change where I am now or who I’ve become. So I’m trying to focus on the memories I’m making in this moment. Like this one, with all of you.”

My gaze sweeps across our small circle, taking in each face that hours ago had been just another number in Ravenscroft’s endless experiments.

Now I see them as people – survivors, fighters, women who refuse to let their circumstances define them.

Finally, my eyes settle on Riot, seeing past her armor of ink and metal to the wounded warrior beneath.

“I’d love to meet Mina someday,” I whisper, watching how her eyes widen slightly at the implication of a future beyond these walls. “But more than that…I’d love to spend time with you. Get to know the person behind the anger, see the world through eyes that have seen both darkness and light.”

She shifts uncomfortably under my gaze, but I continue.

“Your anger doesn’t define you, just like our pasts don’t define any of us. What matters is who we’re becoming, who all this pain and suffering has shaped us into. The strength it’s given us, the resilience it’s forged in our bones.”

Luna and Azurite nod in quiet agreement, something like understanding passing between all of us.

We’re more than our traumas, more than the numbers they’ve assigned us, more than the experiments they perform on us.

I watch as Riot blinks rapidly, emotion flickering across her face like shadow and light.

Her hands clench and unclench in her lap, fighting some internal battle between hope and experience, between the desire to believe and the fear of being hurt again.

Finally, she huffs and looks away, muttering a gruff.

“Whatever.”

But the word carries none of her earlier bitterness, none of the defensive rage she wraps around herself like a shield.

Instead, it sounds almost soft, almost like permission to hope.

The voices in my head whisper that this is important – this moment of connection, this bridge being built between broken people.

Looking at these women, I realize they’ve been my only companions in this hell, but now, looking at these three women who’ve shared their stories and their scars, I wonder if we could be friends one day when we’re out of this madness.

If we can ever escape this hellhole…hope I dare to keep tucked away in the depths of my beating heart.

Because sometimes hope is the most dangerous weapon of all.

Looking at my newfound allies, each broken and reformed in their own ways, I can’t help but think that maybe we have enough hope between us to out think the ropes of death being set up for us behind the hidden glasses and tall metal walls that keep us at bay.

We have a fighting chance…all that’s left now is a miracle to get us out.

8

INFILTRATE AND DESTROY

~DANTE~

The underground meeting room smells like gun oil and determination.

Our weapons are laid out across the steel table like deadly puzzle pieces waiting to be assembled. Each of us moves with practiced precision, checking magazines, testing comm units, and ensuring everything is perfect.

Because it has to be perfect.

We won’t get a second chance at this.

“The size alone makes it a nightmare,” Kieran mutters, methodically cleaning his favorite rifle. “Ravenscroft isn’t just big…it’s a fucking labyrinth. Multiple levels, endless corridors, security checkpoints every fifty feet.”

I watch his hands move over the weapon, remembering our scout mission.

The facility had loomed against the sky like some gothic monastery gone wrong, all sharp angles and hidden horrors. Even from outside, you could feel the wrongness seeping from its walls.

“The security’s unlike anything we’ve hit before,” I add, adjusting my earpiece to sit more comfortably against my good ear. “Not just guards and cameras. They’ve got routine exchanges happening at all hours – vans coming and going like some twisted delivery service.”

Vale looks up from his laptop, his legs propped carefully in his wheelchair. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen him use it in this space, but that means he’s conserving his energy so he can run with us into this hell of a barricade.

“What kind of exchanges?”

Kieran’s hands still on his weapon.

“Two kinds, from what we saw. One’s basically a corpse disposal…vans full of dead omegas being shipped out to God knows where. The others…” He shakes his head. “Live transfers to other facilities. Like they’re trading baseball cards but with people.”

If that doesn’t sound inhuman.

Then again, these fuckers don’t give a damn. All of this is just an exchange in their books. Nothing more.

“What about the special four?” Vale’s fingers hover over his keyboard. “The ones we’re supposed to extract…do they get moved around?”

“Never seen it,” I say, remembering the hours of surveillance. “Those four – Patients 495, 367, 892, and 444. They stay put. No transfers, no releases. Just endless tests and trials.”

Kieran frowns, setting down his rifle.

“The secrecy around them is what gets me. No names, just numbers. Like they’re trying to erase every trace of who these omegas were before Ravenscroft got hold of them.”

“There has to be something special about them,” he continues, pacing now because he can never stay still when he’s working through a problem. “The way they’re treated, the security around their files…it’s like they’ve got qualities other omegas don’t. Like they’ve survived things that should have killed them.”

Atlas, who’s been quietly assembling equipment by touch alone, speaks up.

“That could be exactly it.” His blindfolded face turns toward us with uncanny accuracy. “Their value isn’t in who they were, but in what they’ve become. What they’ve survived.”

Vale goes suddenly still – the kind of stillness that means his tactical mind has just made a connection the rest of us haven’t seen yet.

“Oh shit,” he whispers, fingers flying across his keyboard with renewed purpose.

“What is it?” I prompt quickly, knowing if someone doesn’t draw him out, he’ll disappear down the rabbit hole of research and leave us hanging. “Vale, what are you thinking?”

His face has gone pale, making the shadows under his eyes more pronounced.

“They’re not just experimenting on them. They’re training them. Breaking them down and rebuilding them into something specific.”

“For what purpose?” Atlas asks head tilted in that bird-like way he has when he’s processing new information.

“For sale,” Vale says grimly. “But not to just any buyer. These omegas are being conditioned for alphas who couldn’t handle normal ones. Alphas who’d…” He swallows hard. “Who’d destroy an ordinary omega within days.”

The implications hit like a physical blow.

I think of the vans full of dead omegas, of the endless transfers between facilities. How many had they gone through before finding these four who could survive?

How many had died in the process of creating their perfect products?

“You’re talking about feral alphas,” Kieran says flatly. “The ones too dangerous to be allowed near regular omegas.”

Vale nods, still typing.

“Think about it. Most countries have laws against letting certain alphas claim mates. The ones with histories of violence, the ones who’ve killed previous omegas, or ones whose instincts are too strong to control. They have lots of criminals stuck on fucking islands and who are the government going to send to that abandoned piece of floating land with feral Alphas in each directional compass? No one is going to volunteer as tribute. No Omega who wishes to be pampered and loved. Regardless of the circumstances, those alphas still exist. Still have needs. And let’s be real, we know they may be convicted fuckers trapped in their circumstances, but they have money to spend.”

Fuck.

He’s absolutely right.

“So Ravenscroft creates custom omegas who can survive them,” Atlas concludes, his voice carrying a rare edge of disgust. “Breaking them down and rebuilding them until they’re strong enough…or broken enough…to endure what normal omegas couldn’t.”

My hand clenches around the gun I’m cleaning, metal creaking under my grip.

“They’re creating victims who can survive being victimized. Over and over again.”

“Worse,” Vale says, turning his laptop to show us strings of code I can’t begin to decipher. “They’re not just making them survivable. They’re making them valuable. These four…they’ve got special abilities. Enhancements from whatever shit Ravenscroft’s been pumping into them. The kind of abilities that would make them irresistible to the right buyer.”

“What do you mean? They got magic or some shit?” Kieran asks, looking confused. “You know that isn’t real.”

“No, not magic and shit.” Vale shakes his head, looking focused. “Enhancements. Like making an Omega be able to see in the dark? Or inject them with chemicals that enhance their ability to run a lot faster. Sure, they can’t defy gravity and the common laws of life, but what if they can dodge a lot faster? Can see things at a distance so they can avoid what we can’t see. They’re molding them to be weapons of their own accord.”

Atlas whistles, gauging our attention.

“Create Omegas that can survive the onslaught of raging feral Alphas who’d be desperate to claim them within whatever pack they’ve molded in captivity,” he summarizes. “And the longer they’ve been conditioned in those laboratory states, the more valuable they become for a pack to purchase in the depths of those forbidden islands or hidden underground, where feral Alphas roam and fight, or in the depths of cage rings where only one winner can be rewarded a worthy Omega that can handle that wild violence.”

The room goes quiet as we absorb this.

Each of us has seen horrible things, just as we’ve done a few actions that will haunt us in our graves, but this level of systemically torturing Omegas until the strongest survive, just to sell them to monsters…

It’s a new level of depravity.

“No wonder they authorized termination if we can’t extract them cleanly,” Kieran mutters. “Can’t risk their precious products falling into the wrong hands. Or worse, telling their stories.”

“What makes Patient 495 so special?” Kieran asks, breaking the heavy silence that followed Vale’s revelation. “Why is she the primary target?”

Vale wheels closer to the table, his movements careful but determined.

“Six years,” he says, the words carrying weight. “She’s been there the longest. Six years of systematic manipulation, of experimental injections, of being thrown into situations designed to push her past normal survival thresholds.”

His fingers drum against his wheelchair arm, a nervous tell he’s never managed to break.

“Think about it – six years of constant fight-or-flight response. Of being pushed to adapt or die. Most people would break within months, but she’s survived. More than survived – she’s adapted.”

“What would that do to someone’s mind?” Atlas asks softly, his blindfolded face turning toward Vale with eerie precision. “Six years of systematic torture, of being forced to evolve past normal human limits?”

We all fall silent, contemplating the horror of it.

Even with our collective experience of violence and trauma, it’s hard to imagine surviving that kind of prolonged psychological warfare.

Vale breaks the silence first, his tactical mind already analyzing possibilities.

“There are two likely outcomes,” he says, voice clinical but hands trembling slightly. “First scenario – she’s gone completely feral. Pure animalistic response, no higher reasoning left. If that’s the case…” He swallows hard. “If we can’t reach any trace of humanity in her, termination might be a mercy.”

The words land like lead in my stomach. Six years of suffering, only to be put down by the people meant to save her.

The wrongness of it tastes like ash in my mouth.

“That can’t be our only option,” I say, surprised by the vehemence in my voice. Looking around, I see the same resistance written on my packmates’ faces. Even with our feral moments, and our sometimes-tenuous grip on our alpha instincts, we’d exhaust every possibility before harming an omega we’re meant to protect.

“Second scenario,” Vale continues quickly, clearly as uncomfortable with the first option as the rest of us. “Her mind could have developed a compartmentalization mechanism. A split consciousness, if you will. One part remains capable of normal interaction, while another…” He searches for words. “Another part emerges when triggered, like a survival program activating in response to specific stimuli.”

“Like an animal’s fight-or-flight response?” Kieran asks, leaning forward with interest.

“Exactly. Even the gentlest creature will go feral if its survival is threatened. But with Patient 495, Ravenscroft could have deliberately cultivated this response. Made it controllable, predictable.”

Atlas nods slowly.

“It would make her more marketable. A weapon that can be sheathed and drawn at will is more valuable than one that’s always active.”

“And more manageable,” Vale adds. “They could demonstrate to potential buyers that she’s mouldable, adaptable to whatever specific purpose they have in mind. A perfect balance of deadly capability and controlled submission.”

“The perfect pet,” Atlas says with quiet disgust. “Engineered to be whatever her owner demands.”

“Fucking mindfuckery,” Kieran spits out, starting to pace again.

His agitation fills the room like static electricity.

“This whole organization… it’s not just abuse, it’s the systematic destruction of everything human. Everything sacred.” His voice rises with each word. “They’re just omegas! Just people born into this fucked-up world! Why are they being victimized like this? What gives anyone the right to—”

His fists clench at his sides, rage making his whole body tremble. We all feel it – this helpless fury at a system that allows such atrocities.

That categorizes some lives as disposable, and some beings as less than human.

I watch my packmates process this information, each in their own way: Atlas stands absolutely still, a predator scenting prey, his blindfolded face revealing nothing but the tension in his jaw.

Vale’s fingers fly across his keyboard with increasing urgency, as if he could find answers in the endless stream of data.

Kieran paces like a caged wolf, his movements sharp with barely contained violence.

And me?

I touch my damaged ear, remembering how it feels to be irreparably changed by circumstances beyond your control.

Patient 495 didn’t choose this fate any more than I chose to lose half my hearing. But while my damage was from a single explosive moment, hers has been carefully, systematically inflicted over years…

The thought makes me want to tear Ravenscroft apart with my bare hands.

“They’re not born to fall into these circumstances,” Atlas says, his quiet voice cutting through our collective rage. “They’re submitted.”

The word hits me like a physical blow, and my thoughts spill out before I can contain them.

“Submitted…meaning someone in their lives reported them. Someone deliberately put them in Ravenscroft.”

Atlas nods slowly, the motion deliberate and heavy with meaning. The implications spread through the room like poison gas, stealing our breath as understanding dawns.

“You’re telling me,” Kieran whispers, his voice dangerous and low, “that someone in their lives – their family, their friends, people who should have protected them – decided that because they were an omega, or maybe just inconvenient, they deserved to be locked up in an asylum known for killing omegas in the name of research?”

Atlas doesn’t answer immediately. I know his patterns well enough to recognize this as calculated restraint – he’s giving Kieran’s rage time to simmer rather than explode.

The silence stretches, becoming almost unbearable as we wait for confirmation of something too horrible to contemplate.

Finally, Atlas speaks, each word measured and precise.

“That’s the only way they can be submitted. This isn’t about criminal behavior – actual criminals go to actual prisons, face actual consequences. No one simply gets sent to Ravenscroft.” His blindfolded face turns toward each of us in turn. “They’re submitted after being deemed mentally unstable or incompatible with available packs. And that designation requires exhausting every possible pack option first.”

“There’s more to it,” Vale says softly from his position by the computers. His fingers have stopped their endless typing, hovering motionless over the keyboard. “There’s a pattern I’ve noticed. A… consistency in who gets targeted for these false accusations.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, though something in his tone tells me I won’t like the answer.

Vale’s hands clench briefly before he forces them to relax.

“Those who don’t fit the ‘right’ appearance as an omega – they’re particularly vulnerable to these accusations. It’s easier to make charges of instability stick when society has already decided someone doesn’t look the part.”

Frowns deepen around the room as we process this.

Vale sighs, then drops what feels like another bomb.

“I’ve been talking to the other subunits in Parazodiac Nexus.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

We’ve been operating so long as our own isolated unit that it’s easy to forget we’re part of something larger. The Parazodiac Nexus Operations isn’t just us – it’s an entire network of alpha packs working to infiltrate and maintain some semblance of order in the black market dealings between alphas, betas, and omegas.

We’re the ones the government sends in while pretending they’re not systematically dismantling the very operations they rely on in the shadows. Our unit, Subdivision A, earned its designation through having the highest combination of successful rescues and confirmed kills. When situations require special handling, when standard protocols won’t suffice, they call us.

The irony isn’t lost on me – we’re essentially government-sanctioned criminals taking down other criminals, all while our superiors pretend they don’t benefit from the very systems we’re supposedly disrupting. It’s a dance of hypocrisy and necessary evil that we’ve learned to navigate, but moments like this make the bitter taste of it rise in my throat.

Vale continues, his voice taking on the clinical tone he uses when delivering particularly difficult intelligence.

“The subunits have been tracking submission patterns. It’s not random, and it’s not just about mental stability or pack compatibility. There’s a systematic targeting of omegas who don’t fit traditional expectations – whether that’s appearance, behavior, or background.”

The implication settles over us like a shroud.

We’re not just dealing with individual acts of cruelty but with a coordinated effort to remove “undesirable” omegas from society. To turn them into products for the very alphas society claims to protect them from.

Atlas remains perfectly still, a statue carved from tension and controlled rage. Kieran’s pacing has stopped, which is almost more worrying than his movement.

And I…I find myself touching my damaged ear again, wondering how many of these omegas were marked as “different” by things equally beyond their control.

If we were Omegas with our list of disabilities, we would be thrown in a pit and set on fire due to our lack of perfection. These Omegas are being given to these laboratories to become rats all because they don’t fit the labeled implication of a perfect and worthy Omega for the plentiful packs of Alphas deemed valuable to the government’s domain.

It’s exactly why we have a love-and-hate relationship with the government because we understand the underlying truth of our continued existence.

The bitter irony of our position isn’t lost on me as I watch my packmates process this latest revelation.

We’re given carte blanche to conduct these missions, handed the best tools and intelligence, all because we’re useful to the powers that be – despite being what society would typically consider broken alphas.

A blind pack leader.

A half-deaf tactical specialist.

A trauma-bonded enforcer.

The strategist with a degenerative condition that eats away at his mobility and lifespan.

By all social standards, we should be outcasts.

Instead, we’re Subdivision A, the elite unit of Parazodiac Nexus, precisely because our “flaws” make us unpredictable, and make us think outside conventional boundaries.

Watching Vale work his magic on the computer systems, I can’t help but appreciate the irony of our position.

Here we are, granted every privilege and tool we need for these missions, treated like elite operatives despite being what society would consider broken alphas.

Atlas, our thirty-seven-year-old leader, navigates the world without sight but seeing more than most people with working eyes.

I’m also thirty-seven, half-deaf but reading bodies and situations better than when I had full hearing.

Kieran at thirty-five, carrying the phantom pain of a broken bond that should have destroyed him.

And Vale, our youngest at thirty-two, a brilliant mind trapped in a body that’s betraying him more each day.

We’re useful to the powers that be, so our “flaws” are overlooked. But I can’t help thinking about how different our fate would be if we were omegas instead of alphas.

Our ages alone would condemn us – any omega over thirty is considered past their prime, unworthy of investment. Never mind that rich alphas can afford endless fertility treatments for their aging omegas.

IVF, surrogacy, experimental therapies – all available if you have the money and the right designation.

But an unmated omega in their thirties? They’re fodder for places like Ravenscroft. Better to use them for experiments than let them take up space in “proper” society.

I watch Vale’s expression darken as he digs deeper into Ravenscroft’s systems.

He’s thinking about the Parazodiac Nexus, I can tell.

About why our organization was formed in the first place, about the delicate dance we do with the government. They pretend we’re their obedient soldiers, and we let them pretend as long as they don’t interfere with our real mission.

The contract’s simple enough: we maintain loyalty as long as they respect our autonomy.

The moment they try to control us too tightly, they’ll learn exactly why we’re considered the most dangerous pack in the organization. It’s all about balance – they get plausible deniability, we get the freedom to operate our way.

My good ear picks up Vale muttering about the other subunits.

B, C, and D – all capable in their own right, just not quite as practiced at our particular brand of controlled chaos.

Though B and C are certainly giving us a run for our money lately.

B’s got their deep cover operations down to an art form, infiltrating pack hierarchies and dismantling them from within. C handles all the cyber warfare, making sure our targets disappear from both physical and digital spaces. They’re both climbing the ranks fast, their success rates nearly matching ours.

But it’s D that’s really stirring things up.

Newest to the ranks but rising faster than any unit in Nexus history. What’s really got people talking isn’t just their effectiveness – it’s their whole approach to pack dynamics.

I can see why the traditionalists hate them.

D’s thrown out the old alpha pack playbook, incorporating elements usually associated with omega packs.

Stronger emotional bonds, fluid hierarchy, and collective decision-making rather than pure dominance. By all traditional logic, it should make them weaker.

Instead, they’re stable.

Efficient.

Their missions are precise, and their civilian casualty rates are remarkably low. While other units battle constant alpha aggression and dominance challenges, D operates like they’ve found some secret we’ve all been missing.

It’s making everyone question things – the rigid hierarchies, the assumptions about designation determining capability.

The very foundations we’ve built our society on.

If alphas can function better by adopting traditional omega traits, what does that say about how we treat omegas in the first place?

We’re not exactly traditional ourselves – maybe that’s why we’re so effective.

We’ve learned to turn our supposed weaknesses into strengths.

But we still have privileges these omegas don’t.

We’re still protected by our alpha status, still given chances they’ll never get.

In another world, Patient 495 and the others might never have ended up in Ravenscroft. Their differences might have been valued rather than used as excuses to condemn them.

My hand finds my damaged ear again as I think about power and privilege, about how thin the line is between being considered useful and being considered disposable.

The government sees us as their attack dogs, forgetting that even dogs can choose their targets.

Can choose their masters and where their loyalty lies.

They gave us the authority to act.

They’ll have to live with how we use it.

“The targeting isn’t random,” Vale says, his fingers still dancing across the keyboard. “Ravenscroft’s new admissions follow distinct patterns. Ethnic minorities, power plays between rival families, and—” his voice catches slightly, “—parents punishing children they deem unworthy.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, snapping something loose inside my chest that I’ve kept carefully bound.

Family betrayal.

The ultimate weapon, the deepest wound, the kind of hurt that never really heals.

My brother’s face flashes in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Marcus. The older brother who should have protected me but instead tried to destroy me.

All because I excelled where he struggled because I represented everything he couldn’t be.

He had all the external markers of a perfect alpha – the imposing height, the muscular build, and the commanding presence that made others instinctively lower their eyes.

His voice alone could freeze blood, make lesser alphas bare their throats in submission. But where it mattered, where it really counted…

He couldn’t protect his omega.

Couldn’t save his pack.

Couldn’t handle the responsibility that came with the power he’d been granted by birth.

The memory of that failed mission rises like bile in my throat.

I’d tried to warn him. Told him the intel wasn’t solid, and that taking an omega into that situation was asking for disaster. But he wouldn’t listen.

Couldn’t admit that his younger brother might know better.

I remember the aftermath with perfect clarity, despite how much I’ve tried to forget. The bodies of his packmates, broken and bloody.

His omega, sweet Maria who’d only wanted to prove herself useful, who’d trusted Marcus to keep her safe…her screams still echo in my nightmares, in the spaces where my hearing used to be.

My stomach churns as I think about bringing any omega into the kinds of missions we handle now.

The guilt of watching my brother’s pack die, of seeing how that loss transformed him from a proud alpha into something feral and broken…sits in my chest like a stone.

The grief turned him savage.

Took whatever warmth had remained in his heart and replaced it with pure hatred. I watched my brother disappear into that darkness, watched him become something that even pack bonds couldn’t reach.

We tried to help at first.

My pack – this pack – tried to give him a place to heal, to rebuild. But you can’t help someone who’s chosen vengeance over recovery.

Can’t trust an alpha who’s lost everything, who sees your happiness as a personal affront.

The day we cut ties was both the hardest and easiest decision I’ve ever made.

Hard because he was blood, because some part of me still remembered the brother who’d taught me to fight, who’d protected me when we were young. Easy because I couldn’t risk my pack, couldn’t endanger these men who’d become more family than my own blood ever was.

A feral alpha who’s lost everything is more dangerous than any enemy you could face.

They have nothing left to lose, no reason to hold back, no instinct for self-preservation to keep them in check. Marcus made it clear he’d rather drag us all down with him than watch us succeed where he had failed.

Vale’s voice brings me back to the present, still listing off the categories of omegas most at risk for Ravenscroft submission.

But all I can think about is how family is supposed to protect you; to lift you up in a world that wouldn’t go over and beyond to do such.

Instead, we live in a world where parents sentence their children to torture, where brothers turn on brothers, where blood ties become weapons to destroy rather than bonds to strengthen.

I touch my damaged ear again, a habit I can’t seem to break, touching the single earring I keep forgetting exists there.

The last gift my brother gave me before I put a bullet in his leg and walked away forever.

Sometimes I wonder if he’s still out there, hunting and planning his revenge. Other times I hope he found peace.

Found a way back from the darkness that claimed him.

But looking at the data Vale’s uncovered, seeing how deep the corruption runs, how families willingly sacrifice their own to places like Ravenscroft…I think I know the truth.

Families work together with the government to submit their children, particularly Omegas that no longer benefit them for some financial gain or package that will give them some closure while losing a being they raised — if you can even call it that.

“The newer submissions have to follow specific criteria,” Atlas says, his voice carrying that particular tone he gets when piecing together a puzzle. “Either familial submissions or ethnicities that society has deemed…inconvenient. The ones submitting them must benefit somehow from the transaction.”

Vale’s fingers pause on his keyboard.

“If that’s true, then these four omegas…” He trails off, mind clearly racing ahead. “They might have been chosen specifically for their differences. A diverse portfolio, if you will. Each one meant for a particular market, a particular type of buyer.”

The clinical way he says it makes my stomach turn, but the logic is sound.

Even in this hellish equation, diversity adds value.

“Which would make Patient 495 the crown jewel,” Atlas concludes, his blindfolded face turning toward Vale’s screens as if he could see the data scrolling past. “The most unique, the most valuable, and therefore—”

“The most expensive,” Vale finishes.

Kieran’s pacing intensifies, his boots wearing a path on the floor.

“Then how the fuck are we supposed to save them?” His hands shoot up in frustration, gesturing wildly. “Let’s be real. Omegas are most valuable when they’re packless, right? That’s why they’re like glimmering diamonds hidden in the depths of a haystack.”

He starts moving faster, energy practically crackling off him.

“Not just one haystack, but a whole fucking field of them, all buried in the bottom pits of this asylum that’s claiming these haystacks are defective because they don’t have enough ‘bounce’ or some shit.”

Vale’s typing actually stops completely – a rare occurrence.

“That’s…actually a remarkably apt analogy.”

Kieran shoots him a look that could strip paint.

“Fuck off,” he growls, but there’s no real heat in it. He’s too caught up in his train of thought. “But think about it…if we go in there and just…temporarily claim them as our Omega in our pack, wouldn’t that force them off the bidding table?”

The silence that follows feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. We all stare at Kieran as the implications of his words sink in.

Pack status changes everything in our world.

An unclaimed omega is a commodity, something to be bought and sold.

But a claimed omega?

One with pack bonds, even temporary ones?

That’s protected property.

To interfere with pack bonds is to invite the kind of retribution that makes even the most hardened alphas think twice.

Atlas stands perfectly still, processing.

Vale’s hands hover over his keyboard, frozen in the act of seeking data he might not need anymore.

I find myself holding my breath, the solution so elegant in its simplicity that it seems impossible we didn’t think of it sooner.

Because Kieran’s right.

For all of Ravenscroft’s power, their government backing, and security measures, they still have to operate within certain boundaries.

Selling unclaimed omegas to wealthy degenerates? That can be hidden, justified, or swept under bureaucratic rugs.

But interfering with legitimate pack bonds?

That’s the kind of offense that starts wars.

The realization ripples through our pack bond like a current of electricity. We’re not just a rescue team anymore. Not simply operators sent to extract assets. If we do this – if we claim these omegas, even temporarily – we become something else entirely.

We become protectors in the most primal sense.

Make ourselves the very thing Ravenscroft has been trying to prevent: a legitimate barrier between these omegas and the fate that’s been planned for them.

“But there’s four omegas,” Kieran whispers, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. The flaw in his otherwise perfect plan hangs in the air between us, a problem without an obvious solution.

Until Atlas chuckles.

We all turn to watch him rise from his chair, a rare grin spreading across his face beneath the blindfold.

“And there’s four subdivision units of Parazodiac Nexus.”

The words land like a tactical nuke in the middle of our planning session.

Suddenly, I see it – the perfect way to not only save these omegas but also create a situation the government can’t easily sweep under the rug. Four elite units, four omegas, and four potential pack bonds that would make any interference a declaration of war.

Atlas’s blindfolded gaze finds me unerringly, that sixth sense of his knowing exactly where I stand. It’s my cue to step up, to take point on the operation that could change everything.

“Guess we have a change of plans,” I say, the weight of command settling on my shoulders before I turn to Kieran. “You wanna gather Subdivisions B, C, and D?”

The groan that escapes him is practically theatrical.

“I got beef with D.”

Oh right.

“That’s because you told their lead alpha his cock was smaller than his ego,” Atlas notes dryly.

We all stare at Kieran, who shrugs with absolutely zero remorse.

“That’s still valid. Plus, I said my cock was bigger, which is a fact. I ain’t apologizing for shit.”

Atlas’s chuckle breaks the tension while I shake my head.

“You’re stubborn as fuck and suck at making allies, you know that?”

“That’s why I’m here, and Dante is over there. Our leading man.” Kieran shoots back. “I’m not the leader decision maker and you, Atlas, are the one who can get them to bow and behave.”

He’s not wrong.

Atlas probably has enough dirt on everyone in the organization to burn it to the ground twice over. It’s one of the reasons he’s so effective – people assume his blindness makes him less observant when really it just means he pays attention to things others miss.

He’s still the true leader of this unit, regardless of blindsight, but on paper, I’m the one who has to step up so no one takes advantage of us as a unit.

I turn to Vale, still stationed at his computer array.

“Can you get anything solid on Patient 495?” I won’t mention the other omegas – let the other units choose their charges when they join in. “The more we know going in, the better our chances.”

“I’ll do my best,” Vale nods, already diving back into his digital hunt. “Once I have something concrete, I’ll head to the site with the modified vehicle. We’ll need proper cover for surveillance.”

“Vale.” Atlas’s voice carries a weight that makes us all pause. “You stay in position unless there’s a genuine emergency.”

The frown that crosses Vale’s face is pure frustration, but before he can protest Atlas moves. He crosses the room with that uncanny grace of his, finding Vale’s shoulder unerringly and gripping it hard.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice softer but no less intense. “That place is massive. A labyrinth of corridors and security checkpoints. I know you have an injection that can give you full mobility, but it’s temporary. If it wears off while we’re trying to escape…”

He pauses, squeezing Vale’s shoulder harder.

“I can’t let you be captured. They’d torture you, probably kill you, and I won’t—” His voice catches slightly. “I won’t watch you die. Not after everything you’ve fought through.”

The moment between them feels almost too private to witness. Vale swallows hard, his usual tactical precision cracking to show the emotion beneath. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For caring enough to stop me.”

Atlas nods once, sharp and decisive.

“Infiltration starts three hours before sunrise. That’s when shift changes happen. When guards are less alert of their surroundings.”

The plan crystallizes around us – four units, four omegas, one chance to change everything. Kieran stretches, his grin turning feral.

“Let’s go get those subdivision fuckers and infiltrate Ravenscroft.”

I take a deep breath, steadying myself for what’s to come.

We’re about to dive into the dragon’s den to retrieve an omega everyone seems to want. The risk is enormous, and the potential for failure is catastrophic.

But looking at my pack – at their strength, excitement, and brilliant determination – I know we’ll succeed.

We have to.

Because this isn’t just another mission.

This is about changing the system that creates places like Ravenscroft in the first place.

And potentially finding something we didn’t know we were missing in the process.

9

SELFISH IMPLICATIONS AND HOPEFUL REVOLUTION

~NYX~

“Iwonder if my family is the reason I’m here…”

The ceiling holds no answers, but I stare at it anyway, counting cracks in the darkness while the voices in my head whisper possibilities.

Six years of torture, of trials, of transformation into whatever I am now – and I can’t help but wonder if my family put me here.

The others have found what rest they can in their corners, but sleep eludes me. Their stories echo in my mind, each one a possible reflection of my own lost history.

Could I have had a sister like Azurite? Someone who shared my face but harbored enough jealousy to condemn me to this place? The fragments of memory that sometimes surface take on a darker meaning now.

Or perhaps it was a parent, like in Luna’s case. Someone who saw omega designation as the final shame in a long list of imperfections. The voices remind me that I must have had some “flaw” that made me undesirable, some reason beyond simply being an omega that landed me in Ravenscroft’s special research program.

The lullaby floats through my mind again, that haunting melody I can never quite grasp.

Could those gentle notes have come from the same voice that sentenced me to this hell? A mother’s love turned to betrayal, like Riot’s story but with different shadows.

The thought of that – of someone singing sweet songs while planning my destruction – sends a shiver through my body.

The voices grow agitated, whispering warnings about trust, family, and bonds that break.

“I doubt it.”

Riot’s voice cuts through the darkness, surprising me. I turn my head, trying to locate her in the pitch black now that the fluorescent lights are off. Finally, I make out her form, my vision enhancing until I can see her crystal clear. Night vision seems to be one of the traits you need to continue to survive here, but maybe I was the only one subjected to such injectables since it doesn’t seem these girls have been here as long as I have to acquire it.

That or they have yet to fix the after-effects of bleeding eyes that lead to shock and death.

Riot is lying on her side, facing me from across the room, her piercings catching what little light remains in the tiny bulbs at the top corner that blinks on and off like a timer of sorts.

“What makes you say that?” I ask softly, not wanting to wake the others.

“Looking at you,” she says, her usual sharp tone softened by darkness and shared confinement. “Just…something about you. I don’t think your family could be that cruel.”

“Why?”

She shifts slightly, metal clinking against concrete.

“One thing I know about Ravenscroft…they have to contact family when an omega dies here.”

The information hits like a punch to the gut. The voices fall silent, processing this new piece of the puzzle.

“Why would they do that?”

Before Riot can answer, I find myself checking on the others out of a new habit.

Azurite lies curled on her side, her heterochromatic eyes hidden in sleep, looking almost peaceful despite our circumstances. Luna sleeps on her back, face turned slightly upward as if listening even at rest.

It makes sense – that position would let her catch any sounds or vibrations from above or below, her other senses working even while she dreams.

Returning my attention to Riot rewards me with the slight shift in the darkness, her piercings catching the dim light once more as she explains.

“It’s all about money,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “The families get paid while we’re here. Regular deposits, like some fucked up pension plan for selling their omega child to torture.”

My voices whisper in disappointment, but I ignore the tiny ripples of uncertainty that hum through my body.

Pretend my heart isn’t clenching at the near possibility of my own family doing this for the sake of money.

“Some get more than others. Depends on what they’re looking for in their test subjects, I guess. What traits they want to study.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “Or maybe it’s just whoever negotiates the best deal. Like haggling at a market, but the merchandise is your own flesh and blood.”

My stomach turns at the thought. The voices grow agitated, their whispers taking on a sharp edge of fury.

“But sometimes,” Riot adds, her tone shifting to something almost contemplative, “sometimes the families actually need the money. Not that it makes it right, but…” She pauses, yawning. “It’s sinister when you think about it. You being offered in exchange for money that can be used on a younger or older sibling that your family favors.”

When you think about it, there are plenty of possibilities that can be considered here. None of them are really morally right, but obviously possible because of how Ravenscroft continues to thrive, despite their sinister and hidden intentions for us Omegas.

Those fragments of memory - the mirror image with different eyes, the shared laughter turned to silence - take on a new, horrifying meaning.

“A twin,” I whisper, the revelation making my chest tight. “If I really do have a twin sister…”

I can’t finish the thought, but Riot seems to understand anyway. The shadows paint pictures in my mind: two identical girls, one perhaps sickly or needing expensive care. Parents faced with an impossible choice - sacrifice one daughter to save the other.

But even as the scenario forms, something feels wrong about it.

The voices hiss disagreement, insisting there’s more to my story than simple family economics.

“If that was the case,” Riot says carefully, “if an omega was given the choice to self-sacrifice for family…well, that’s different. Still fucked up, but different.” She shifts again as if attempting to get comfortable. “But most omegas who end up in Ravenscroft…is never by choice. That’s a rarity in itself because what sane omega would walk in here to be a guinea pig with no way out?”

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. She’s right —— who would choose this?

Choose daily torture, endless experiments, and the systematic destruction of everything that makes you human.

Riot’s revelation hangs heavy in the darkness. I watch her shift onto her back, the motion deliberate and weary. The shadows whisper understanding in my mind - another piece of the cruel system revealed.

“Makes sense,” I murmur, keeping my voice low. No one would submit themselves to this horror that we could dare label a fable fairytale. It’s all for the money. “Follow the money. Always follow the money.”

A bitter laugh escapes Riot, barely more than a breath.

“That’s what Mina used to say. She’d seen so many omegas disappear into places like this. Said the families always got something out of it. Money, status, political favor. Some kind of payment for their silence and cooperation.”

I digest this, the voices growing restless with implications.

“So if my family submitted me…”

“They’d be getting regular payments,” Riot confirms. “And trust me, they would have contacted them about your death by now. Let’s be real, they don’t need to be truthful, and they probably could have hoaxed your death with how many times we lose consciousness after surviving the cruel, near-death experiences we deal with on the regular.” She sighs and closes her eyes for a moment. “Six years is a long time to keep paying if they didn’t have to.”

The thought settles like ice in my veins. Six years of torture, of experiments, of being torn apart and rebuilt according to someone else’s design.

If my family had put me in here, surely they would have ended it by now. Claimed their final payment and washed their hands of the whole thing.

Unless…

“Maybe they’re getting paid more because I survive,” I whisper, the possibility tasting like ash on my tongue. “Maybe that’s why they keep pushing me harder, breaking me down further. Because someone’s profiting from my continued existence.”

Riot’s piercings catch the dim light as she turns her head to look at me.

“Nah. That’s not it either.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you’re different,” she says simply. “The way they treat you, the tests they run… it’s not like with us regular lab rats. I haven’t been here long, sure, but I definitely heard about you. The longest-living Omega at Ravenscroft. You’re their prize specimen, their perfect M.U.S.E. Whatever brought you here, it wasn’t family greed.”

The shadows stir in my mind, still awake and whispering hauntingly against the walls of my consciousness, agreeing in their own cryptic way.

“Then why?” I ask, more to myself than Riot. “Why am I here? Why can’t I remember?”

“Maybe that’s the point,” she suggests quietly. “Maybe forgetting is part of whatever they did to you. Or…” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “Maybe forgetting was the only way to survive it.”

Could my missing memories be self-protection rather than something they took from me? A wall my mind built to shield itself from whatever horror brought me here?

Across the room, Azurite stirs slightly in her sleep, murmuring something too soft to catch. Luna remains still, but there’s a tension in her face that suggests she might be listening even in dreams.

“Sometimes I think I remember things,” I confess, watching our sleeping companions. “Little fragments that don’t make sense. A laugh here, a touch there. The lullaby that’s always just out of reach. But trying to hold onto them is like…”

“Like trying to catch smoke,” Riot finishes. “Yeah, I get that. After what they’ve done to us here… sometimes I wonder if my memories before Ravenscroft are even real anymore. If I made up the good parts just to have something to hold onto.”

The honesty in her voice makes my chest ache. These are thoughts I’ve had too —— wondering if the brief flashes of warmth and love I sometimes recall are real memories or just desperate fantasies created by a broken mind.

“But the shadows remember. The voices in my head” I whisper, not sure why I’m sharing this. “They see and recognize things that I must have forgotten. Know things I’m positive I’ve never learned. Sometimes they sing to me, like they’re trying to help me remember valuable memories, but…”

“But the memories slip away anyway,” Riot says softly, understanding in her voice rather than judgment. “Like water through your fingers.”

“Sadly….” I turn my head to study her profile in the darkness. “You don’t think I’m crazy for hearing them? The shadows?”

A quiet snort escapes her.

“Honey, we’re in a secret government facility being tortured and experimented on. If you weren’t a little crazy by now, that would be way more concerning.”

Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up in my throat.

It feels foreign, almost wrong in this place of pain and darkness, but somehow right at the same time.

“Besides,” Riot continues, “maybe the shadows are real. Maybe they’re part of whatever they did to you here. Who knows, but at the end of the day, this could just be your mind’s way of processing all this fucked up shit endured throughsix long years. Either way, they’ve helped you survive this long. That’s what matters. Can’t judge a trait that keeps you alive. No matter how cynical it is.”

The voices hum in approval at her words, their song taking on a warmer tone. They like Riot, I realize. The quietness in my head gives me an odd sense of calm and approval. It’s beginning to dawn on me that I like Riot.

On first appearance, many would probably judge her. Whether it’s due to her skin tone that she expressed is used as a form of prejudice outside these walls or the anger she projects so easily that most assume it’s the only part of her personality they know, without interaction, you’d never know how smart, talented, and unique she is.

I like her honesty, resilience, and the way she seems to face horror with defiance rather than surrender.

She’s a powerhouse that won’t be easily tamed.

It makes me hope that she will get out of this with us. Whatever this challenge entails. Because as she hoped, she deserves to return to the limelight of the free world where one day, her mother will be forced to see her genuine happiness.

Surrounded by a pack that cherishes all of her.

Having such thoughts seems like a new experience for me, for I never thought of getting to know other Omegas, yet here I am, wishing prosperity for the ones I’ve known for a few hours and shared circumstances.

I don’t hate it…

“You know what’s really messed up?” she asks after a moment of comfortable silence. “I think I prefer it here sometimes. At least the pain is honest. The people hurting us don’t pretend to love us while they do it.”

The truth of that statement settles heavily in my chest.

Physical torture, as horrible as it is, carries a certain purity of purpose. There’s no betrayal in it, no manipulation of trust or twisting of love into weapons.

“Do you think we’ll die here?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Riot is quiet for so long that I think she might have fallen asleep. When she finally speaks, her voice carries a steel I’ve come to associate with her core strength.

“Not tonight,” she says firmly. “And not by our own hands. If they want us dead, they’ll have to do it themselves. I won’t give them the satisfaction of breaking me completely.”

“Even if it means more pain?”

“Especially then.” Her piercings glint as she turns to face me fully. “Pain means we’re still alive and capable of feeling, even if it’s just agony. The day we stop feeling is the day they truly win.”

Isn’t that the real truth…

“Besides,” she continues, “I made a promise to myself. If I ever get out of here, I’m going to find every single person who profits from places like this. Every family member who sells their omega relatives for monthly payments. Every official who looks the other way. Every doctor who justifies torture in the name of science.” Her voice drops lower, carrying a predator’s promise. “And I’m going to make them understand exactly what they’ve done to us. Give them the perfect taste of sweet brutality.”

It seems like the perfect challenge, and I wonder if they can do it. All of us somehow get out of this and when we’ve found our packs and secured our freedom, we work towards helping more Omegas escape the clutches of other laboratories.

Labs. Islands. Forced marriages.

Until laws are made to finally protect us.

The promise of revenge tames the final whispers in my head, inviting a lull of silence that makes me feel like this new hopeful plan could come to fruition one day.

That they’re the Omegas who can be capable of doing exactly that.

Start a revolution through the Fated M.U.S.E. they created.

“If we get out,” I whisper, “I’ll help you.”

Riot turns her head once more, her eyes barely open but her smile further widening on her softened face.

“Lead the way.”

My lips can’t curl upward anymore than they have.

10

LOST FANTASIES OF WHAT’S POSSIBLE

~VALE~

The modified van blends seamlessly into the shadows of Ravenscroft’s blind spot, its jet-black exterior making it virtually invisible in the darkness.

I can’t help but smirk at the irony - a facility this size, with all its government funding and cutting-edge security, and they’ve somehow missed this perfect dead zone in its surveillance grid.

No cameras.

No motion sensors.

Not even basic electromagnetic monitoring.

Just a blank spot in their defense network, like a hole in a supposedly impenetrable wall.

It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.

The tactical part of my mind automatically catalogs this weakness for future reference.

A facility this size having such an obvious vulnerability speaks to deeper problems in their security infrastructure. The kind of oversight that suggests either incompetence or, more likely, the arrogance of those who think they’re untouchable.

I shift in my combat gear, the familiar weight of the bulletproof vest beneath my black tactical clothing both comforting and constraining.

Everything is designed for stealth - no reflective surfaces, no loose straps, nothing that could catch light or make noise.

Perfect invisibility for the eyes in the shadows.

The bank of monitors before me bathes my face in a blue glow, each screen showing a different aspect of Ravenscroft’s external security.

Camera feeds I’ve hijacked, guard patrol patterns I’ve mapped, and the live thermal imaging that will let me track our team’s progress once they move in.

Through my earpiece, I can hear the chaos of fifteen alphas trying to plan together. The other subdivision units arrived faster than expected - probably eager for action after hearing about the potential omega extractions.

Fifteen apex predators in one room.

The thought makes me grateful to be out here in my mobile command center rather than in that testosterone-fueled planning session. The energy of that many dominant alphas in close quarters would be overwhelming even on a good day.

And today is definitely not a good day.

My legs twitch beneath the desk, a reminder of the constant battle my body wages against itself. The disease is progressing faster now - I can feel it in the way my muscles protest even simple movements, in how the numbness creeps higher each week.

My eyes drift to the modified injector sitting beside my laptop.

It looks deceptively simple, like a standard EpiPen, but this is something else entirely. Something experimental, dangerous, and absolutely necessary if I want to be of any use to my pack tonight.

One shot.

That’s all I get.

One chance to temporarily reverse the paralysis, to make my legs work like they used to. The doctors warned me about using it —— said the strain could accelerate the disease’s progression and could cost me months of what little time I had left.

But what good is saving time if you can’t use it when it matters?

The sound of raised voices comes through my earpiece, making me wince. Subdivision B’s lead alpha is arguing tactics with C’s enforcement specialist, while D’s whole unit seems content to watch the chaos unfold.

I adjust the volume, filtering through the frequencies until I can focus on just my pack’s voices:

Atlas, his calm authority cutting through the noise: “The primary target is in the lower levels. We’ll need coordinated entry points.”

Dante, probably studying the blueprints I provided: “These ventilation shafts could work. They’re tight but manageable.”

Kieran, his tone carrying that edge it gets before a fight: “Underground access through the maintenance tunnels gives us more coverage.”

A burst of static makes me flinch, reminding me to stay focused on my own preparations rather than getting lost in their planning.

I have my role to play, and it’s just as crucial as theirs.

My fingers dance across the keyboard, running final checks on all systems.

The van’s modifications have turned it into a mobile command center that would make military intelligence drool —— state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, computer systems capable of hacking most known security protocols, and enough processing power to run real-time analysis of multiple data streams simultaneously.

This is where I shine.

Not in physical combat anymore - though the injector promises a temporary return to those capabilities - but in the digital realm where intelligence and strategy matter more than brute strength.

I pull up the thermal imaging of Ravenscroft’s lower levels, studying the heat signatures that move through the facility like blood through veins. Each dot represents a life, a potential threat or ally, a variable in the complex equation of extraction.

The layout reminds me of a chess board —— pieces moving in predictable patterns, following established rules. But unlike chess, this game has no clear moves and no guaranteed strategies for success.

Just controlled chaos and calculated risks.

My hand brushes against the injector again, its presence both comforting and terrifying. The last time I used one of these, the pain afterward kept me bedridden for weeks.

The temporary mobility it provides comes at a steep cost —— one that increases with each use.

But having it here, knowing I have the option if things go wrong…is like carrying a last-resort weapon.

Something that could mean the difference between success and failure, between life and death for my pack.

Through my earpiece, I hear the planning session starting to wrap up. The other subdivision units are finally falling into line, probably realizing that Atlas’s strategy is their best shot at success.

I check the time; less than an hour until the operation begins.

My legs spasm again, harder this time, as if protesting their current uselessness. I grip the edge of my desk, riding out the wave of pain and frustration that follows.

This used to be so different.

I remember missions where I was right there with them, moving through shadows with lethal grace, my body a weapon honed by years of training. Now I’m relegated to support duty, watching through cameras while others do the physical work.

But that doesn’t make me useless.

I pull up another screen, this one showing the power grid layout for Ravenscroft’s lower levels. In the digital realm, I’m still deadly. Still capable of the precision and timing that made me valuable to the pack in the first place.

Atlas specifically ordered me to stay in position unless there’s an emergency. He knows what using that injection could cost me, and knows how it might accelerate the disease’s progression.

But he also knows I’ll use it if they need me.

Because that’s what pack means -— being willing to sacrifice everything if it means keeping your family safe.

Even if that sacrifice comes in the form of borrowed time and strength, paid for with pieces of your future.

The voices in my earpiece grow more focused now, moving from planning to final preparations. I hear weapons being checked, communications tested, and positions assigned.

Fifteen alphas preparing for war.

All efforts for a set of Omegas we’ve never met in our entire lives…

That’s the craziest part when you think about it. Going over and beyond for four Omegas who never knew we even existed. We know nothing about them. Their impacts or contributions to the world.

Heck, we don’t even have faces to their patient numbers…

Yet, here we are. About to conduct a mission that could end lethal if one mistake is made.

It won’t happen.

My pack will get out of there. All of them will, for justice needs to be served, and this is the start of that ultimate mission that needs to be a trajectory for others to follow and lead in our footsteps.

Break this cycle once and for all…

My fingers move across the keyboard again, bringing up the surveillance feeds I’ve tapped into. Everything looks normal —— guards making their rounds, staff going about their routine tasks, the facility humming with its usual nighttime activity.

They have no idea what’s coming.

No idea that four elite units of the Parazodiac Nexus Ops are about to tear their carefully constructed world apart. Their secret omega experimentation program is about to be exposed in the most violent way possible, and with how we set everything up, the government won’t be able to say shit.

Unless they want to join the sinking ship they’ve been secretly funding all this while in hopes of never being caught.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I think about it.

For all their security, government backing, and military-grade protection, they never expected this. Couldn’t imagine that a group of “broken” alphas would dare to challenge their authority by breaking into the depths of their strongest protected fortress and attempting to offer a pack opportunity to these Omegas to save them from this cycle of cruelty.

Never thought their perfect system could be threatened by the very outcasts they dismiss as defective.

Pure entertainment.

Through my earpiece, I hear Atlas giving final instructions to the other unit leaders. His voice carries that quiet authority that makes even the most dominant alphas pay attention —— the kind of power that doesn’t need to be loud to be felt.

My role in all this is clear: monitor security patterns, coordinate movements, and handle any digital threats that might compromise the mission. Be the eyes and ears for four teams operating in hostile territory.

The final most important thing is easy to commit to:

Keep my pack alive.

The final minutes tick down as I run my pre-mission checks one last time. Everything is in place, and every system primed and ready.

Through my earpiece, I listen to Atlas conclude the meeting with our traditional ritual —— all hands in the center, a moment of connection before the chaos begins. Some might call it cheesy, but this gesture is more suited to high school sports teams than elite operatives.

But they don’t understand.

They don’t know what it means to wonder if this touch, this warmth of hands piled together, might be the last time you feel your pack’s energy as one.

The memory of countless similar moments flashes through my mind —— missions where we all came back, while others had us barely surviving. Those instances left us with permanent scars both visible and hidden.

Each time, that simple gesture carried the weight of everything we couldn’t say.

Everything we might never get to say.

I know the routine by heart now.

After the hands break apart, they’ll move to their designated positions. Twenty minutes until they reach the site, waiting for my signal to begin the infiltration. Twenty minutes for me to run final checks, to ensure everything is perfect.

Because perfect is what they need from me tonight.

Taking a measured breath, I pull my second laptop closer, positioning it carefully in the center of my workspace. This one is completely isolated - no speakers, no integrated connections, nothing that could potentially link it to our other systems.

Some might call it paranoia, this level of digital segregation. But I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes the worst betrayals come from trusted sources.

Like the time I thought I could trust Marcus.

The memory rises unbidden — Marcus, Dante’s older brother, the alpha who’d seemed so perfect on paper. Who’d taken me under his wing when I first joined the agency, teaching me the intricacies of pack dynamics and mission protocols.

Who’d used that trust to nearly get us all killed.

I still remember the moment it all went wrong.

The mission that should have been routine, the security systems that suddenly turned against us, the trap that nearly claimed all our lives. Later, we discovered that Marcus had sold us out, and had used my trust in him to gain access to our systems.

Had used my own code against my pack.

The betrayal had nearly destroyed us. Not just physically - though the injuries from that mission had been severe - but emotionally. The knowledge that someone we trusted, someone we considered family, could turn on us so completely…

It changed something fundamental in how we operate.

Changed Dante who ended things off with a bullet that should have gone through that fucker’s heart instead of keeping him groaning in agonizing pain.

Dante held a moment of pity in his heart, and that’s why Marcus is still alive and breathing.

Then again, Marcus has plenty of skeletons in the depths of his closet, stacked up reminders of how he lost his entire pack…including his Omega.

The past molds the present, which is why I’m like this now with my organized system of technology.

Now every system is compartmentalized, all connections carefully monitored, and every potential vulnerability obsessively secured.

I won’t let my trust become a weapon against my pack again.

Not ever.

My fingers move across the keyboard, initiating the final series of security protocols. Each keystroke is deliberate, each program carefully isolated from the others. Layer upon layer of protection, built from lessons learned in blood and betrayal.

The screens before me show different aspects of Ravenscroft’s security - camera feeds, guard rotations, and power grid status. But unlike before, when I might have linked everything into one seamless system, now each feed runs independently.

Harder to manage? Yes.

More time-consuming? Absolutely.

But also impossible to compromise with a single breach.

I check the time again.

Fifteen minutes until the teams reach their positions. Fifteen minutes to ensure every failsafe is in place, every backup plan ready, and every possible angle covered.

The pain in my legs spikes suddenly, a sharp reminder of my body’s ongoing betrayal. I grip the edge of my desk, riding out the wave of agony while keeping my eyes fixed on the screens.

Can’t afford distractions now.

Not letting physical weakness compromise mental strength.

I force my attention back to the screens, back to the work that needs doing. The other laptop hums to life, displaying the deeper layers of Ravenscroft’s security - the systems too dangerous to connect to our main network.

Through my earpiece, I hear the teams beginning to move into position. Their voices are professional now, focused, all earlier tension set aside in favor of mission readiness.

I pull up the building schematics one last time, reviewing the entry points and escape routes I’ve mapped out. Each possible path has been analyzed, each security measure accounted for, and any potential complication planned for.

That’s what I do now.

Plan for betrayal.

Prepare for the worst.

Protect my pack from threats they might not even see coming.

The security alert flashes across my screen, drawing my immediate attention.

Nine minutes until the operation begins, but something’s triggered my monitoring systems.

“What do we have here?” I murmur, pulling up multiple windows to trace the source.

Not a breach in our systems.

One of Ravenscroft’s firewalls has crashed —— a momentary vulnerability in their otherwise ironclad security.

Odd. Did someone allow it?

A low whistle escapes me as I lean forward, fingers flying across the keyboard. This kind of opportunity doesn’t come often, and I’m not about to waste it. I doubt its a trap, because why would they encourage foreign sources in having access to such crucial information?

Especially when they have multiple firewalls to protect these valuable sets of files.

Time to see what they’re hiding about Patient 495.

The breach gives me access to deeper databases, areas previously locked behind security protocols that would have taken weeks to crack. I navigate through the digital labyrinth with practiced ease, following the path to a folder marked with her designation.

And there it is.

The file opens, and I freeze, staring at the name displayed prominently at the top:

Nyx Blackwood.

My heart rate kicks up, recognition hitting like a physical blow. Because that name - that surname - carries weight in our world. The kind of weight that makes even hardened operators pause.

Blackwood.

It should be a common name, the kind you’d find in any phone book. But not here, not in these tainted circles.

In the underground, there’s only one Blackwood family that matters. One organization that’s turned that name into something between legend and nightmare.

My mind races through everything I know about them: Primary suppliers for the black market medical industry. Control pharmaceutical distribution channels that make legitimate companies look like corner drug stores. Deep ties to every major mafia family from Italy to Germany to France. Influence that extends into levels of government we’re not supposed to know exist…

But there’s one detail that doesn’t fit, one piece of information that’s been consistent across all intelligence reports:

The Blackwoods never had children.

At least, that’s what everyone believes.

But what if we’ve all been wrong?

My fingers hesitate over the keyboard as implications cascade through my mind. If Nyx really is a Blackwood — not just someone using the name, but actual blood relation — it would explain so much about her situation.

Why she’s been kept alive for six years when most subjects don’t last six months.

Why her security clearance is higher than any other patient.

Why they’re so interested in her “progress.”

She’s not just another test subject.

She’s a hidden heir to one of the most powerful criminal empires in existence.

The thought makes me dig deeper, pulling up everything I can find in her file while the firewall breach remains open.

Birth records first — heavily redacted, but I can make out enough to see they’re legitimate. DNA profiles that confirm Blackwood lineage. Medical histories that paint a picture of someone whose very existence was carefully concealed from the world.

But why?

Why would a family with that much power hide their own child? And more importantly, why would they allow her to end up in a place like Ravenscroft?

Unless…

Unless they’re the ones who put her here.

The possibility sits like ice in my stomach.

We’ve seen wealthy families dispose of unwanted omega children before, but this is different. The Blackwoods don’t just discard assets - everything they do serves a purpose.

Which means Nyx isn’t here by accident.

She’s here by design.

My eyes scan through more documents, piecing a puzzle I’m not sure I want to solve. Because if I’m right - if this is what I think it is - then we’re not just dealing with a standard rescue operation anymore.

We’re stepping into the middle of a minefield.

And it’s only a matter of time before the bombs start going off

The timer on my screen shows seven minutes until the operation begins. Seven minutes to decide what to do with this information.

This means this operation is going to be “simple”; our extraction plan assumes we’re dealing with a valuable but ultimately expendable test subject. The security response we’ve prepared for is based on standard facility protocols. None of our contingencies account for the possibility of Blackwood’s involvement.

To many challenges are being stacked before us, and if I tell the others, would it stop them from trying?

No.

Yet…if the Blackwoods find out we’re attempting to extract their hidden asset…

The thought doesn’t bear finishing.

I’ve seen what happens to people who interfere with Blackwood family matters. It’s never quick, clean, and far from forgivable.

But we can’t abort the mission.

Her and the remaining three Omegas lives depend on it, and they should be given a chance of survival. Even if it means opening a can of worms that will do anything to lay consequences on them.

My hands hover over the keyboard as I debate my next move. Protocol says I should inform Atlas immediately - this kind of intelligence could fundamentally change our approach.

But something holds me back.

Sometimes knowing too much about a target can be as dangerous as knowing too little. It can make you hesitate when you need to act, make you second-guess decisions that should be automatic.

And tonight, we can’t afford hesitation.

Instead, I focus on downloading everything I can while the breach remains open. Birth records, medical files, test results - anything that might help us understand who we’re really dealing with.

The security breach begins to close, and Ravenscroft’s systems automatically heal themselves. I work faster, grabbing final pieces of data before my window of opportunity slams shut.

I make my decision, encrypting the files I’ve downloaded and storing them in a secure partition. This information is too volatile and dangerous to risk transmitting now.

Better to wait, to see how things play out.

To be ready with the truth if we need it.

With five minutes remaining on the countdown, I make one final sweep through the files, determined to gather every piece of intelligence I can before the breach closes.

That’s when I see it.

Her picture.

The breath leaves my lungs in a rush, like I’ve been punched in the gut. My eyes widen as goosebumps race down my spine, every hair standing on end as I stare at the image before me.

Those eyes.

Dark green, deep as forest pools, hauntingly familiar. The same eyes that have lived in my memory for years, that appear in dreams I try to forget when I wake.

“It can’t be,” I whisper, but there’s no denying what I’m seeing.

The woman from that autumn day.

The one surrounded by a canvas of fall leaves in impossible shades of ivory and magenta. The one who carried the scent of my grandmother’s cupcakes - that perfect blend of childhood memories and impossible possibilities.

The omega I let walk into that van, to never be seen again…until now.

My hands shake slightly as I lean closer to the screen, drinking in every detail. She’s different now - years of captivity and experimentation have left their mark - but the core of her beauty remains untouched.

It’s like looking at a masterpiece that’s been through fire but somehow retained its essential grace.

The guilt hits me first, memories of that day rushing back with painful clarity: The white van waiting in that surreal valley. The moment our eyes met across the distance. The choice I made to stay put, ignoring every instinct screaming at me to follow.

All these years, I’ve carried that regret.

Wondered what might have happened if I’d acted differently, if I’d trusted my gut instead of my training. If I’d chased after her like every fiber of my being wanted to.

Would she be here now, trapped in Ravenscroft’s depths?

Or would she have been spared from this ongoing nightmare?

The questions tear at me as I study her image. Despite everything they’ve done to her, despite the horrors she’s endured, she’s still breathtaking. There’s a strength in her features that wasn’t there before - something forged in pain and survival that only enhances her natural beauty.

My finger traces her face on the screen, a gesture as futile as it is involuntary. All these years of wondering what happened to her, of carrying that moment of connection like a wound that never quite healed.

And here she is.

Patient 495.

Nyx Blackwood.

The omega whose scent haunted me with memories of my grandmother’s magical cupcakes.

The one I failed to protect.

The reality of what she’s endured these past years makes me physically ill. Each detail in her file is another nail in the coffin of my guilt.

I could have stopped this.

Prevented six years of suffering.

Spared her from becoming their perfect M.U.S.E.

But I didn’t.

I stayed in position, followed protocol, and ignored the pull that tried to draw me after that van. Told myself it wasn’t my business, mission, or place to interfere.

And look what that decision cost her.

The image shows recent injuries - burns, cuts, evidence of their endless “trials” - but it’s her eyes that capture me again. They’re harder, carrying shadows that weren’t there before, but still unmistakably the same ones that found mine across that autumn valley.

The same ones that seemed to see straight through to my soul in that frozen moment of connection.

My legs spasm violently, as if my body is physically reacting to the revelation. I grip the edge of my desk, riding out the wave of pain while keeping my eyes fixed on her image.

She survived.

My eyes linger on her photograph, the pixelated edges of her face still sharp enough to cut through my composure. I take a few breaths, praying another spasm of agony will not rush through my limbs, and when it doesn’t, I sigh in relief.

Wow…she really is stunning…

Leaning back in the chair, running a hand down my face in a futile attempt to quell the heat rising beneath my skin. It’s not just the past haunting me; it’s the now, the intoxicating idea that she might — even temporarily —be our Omega.

Temporarily…

Mine.

The word strikes something primal inside me, stirring instincts I’ve buried under years of discipline and pain.

It’s a dangerous thought, reckless and selfish in a way I’m not used to. I can’t let myself fall into this spiral — not when my team is depending on me.

But the way my body reacts says otherwise.

A shudder runs down my spine, pooling heat low in my stomach as the scent-memory of her sweet aroma overtakes me. My cock hardens against the constraint of my combat pants, a fierce and undeniable response to thoughts I can’t afford to entertain.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, glancing at the clock on the wall.

Four minutes until go time.

I should be double-checking the feeds, running diagnostics, anything but this.

Yet my gaze falls back to her image on the screen, the vibrant defiance in her eyes like a challenge aimed straight at me.

The kind of challenge that makes me forget who I’m supposed to be — an alpha whose focus should be on the mission, not the way my cock throbs at the thought of her.

Dragging a shaky hand to my mouth, I bite down on my bottom lip, trying to anchor myself. But the tension only grows, coiling tighter with every passing second.

If I had an omega, she’d help me through this. She’d ease the ache, and take care of my needs so I could focus. My body tightens at the thought of her on her knees before me, her lips wrapped around my length, her scent filling the air.

Fuck…

The image sends a bolt of heat through me, and my hand moves instinctively to my zipper.

I hesitate, every rational part of me screaming to stop, but the strain in my pants makes the decision for me. Slowly, I pull the zipper down, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet van.

My cock springs free, thick and hard, the tightness finally giving way to relief. The cool air against my skin is almost enough to take the edge off — almost.

My hand wraps around my length, the motion automatic as my mind fixates on her. On Nyx. The thought of her lips, her body, the way her scent would cling to my skin — it’s all too much.

I stroke myself slowly at first, my thumb grazing over the tip, spreading the bead of precum that’s already formed. A low groan escapes me, muffled by my teeth sinking into my bottom lip.

I glance back at her image, her face now blurred by the fog of my desire. The screen of my second laptop flickers slightly as I move faster, my strokes gaining urgency. Each motion brings a fresh wave of heat, the thought of her consuming me.

I’ve spent so long in control, burying this part of myself, and now it’s unraveling in her name.

“Nyx,” I moan, the sound raw and guttural, echoing in the enclosed space. My hips lift slightly off the chair as I chase the edge building inside me, the pleasure a sharp contrast to the bitter guilt clawing at the edges of my mind.

My hand pumps away, desperate for me to reach that grand launch of bliss, the panting breaths of my groans are as low as I can make them.

I’ve missed this odd sensation. That dangerous build of desire and lust that’s desperate to overwhelm every sensation through my body. How my body seems to cooperate so much more — not a speck of pain interrupting this moment of male normalcy while I chase this final wave that will lead me down that explosive end of euphoria.

Just a bit more…

I can imagine being deep in her hot pussy. Those walls constricting and milking me, and the best part was the way she’d look into my eyes.

No pity. No remorse. Just lust, desire, and passion for what I can do with this cock of mine.

Purpose.

The climax hits like a freight train, my body convulsing as my release spills out in hot, thick spurts. It coats the screen in front of me, the sticky remnants of my desire dripping down over her image.

I’m a panting mess, needing to lean back into the chair while I see the mess I’ve made. The sight is almost too much, a physical representation of the twisted obsession I’ve been harboring without really realizing it.

To think how fate is tempting me in such a profound way.

My chest heaves as I come down, the reality of what I’ve just done crashing over me like a cold wave. The earpiece crackles to life, Atlas’s voice cutting through the haze.

“Vale, we’re in position,” he says, his tone calm but expectant. “Do you copy?”

Show time…

I close my eyes, taking a moment to collect myself before wiping my hand on a spare cloth and reaching for the earpiece.

“Copy,” I reply, my voice steady despite the lingering tremor in my limbs. “Standing by for your signal. I’ll confirm if there’s any signs of interference.”

“Good,” Atlas responds. “We’re waiting for you to make the first move.”

I glance back at the photograph, now streaked and distorted, a reminder of the line I’ve just crossed.

There’s no time to dwell on it now.

The mission takes precedence. Lives depend on me, and I can’t afford another moment of weakness.

Sliding forward in my chair, I pull up the necessary protocols, my fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced precision.

The adrenaline kicks in, pushing aside the remnants of my guilt and desire as the operation begins.

But even as I immerse myself in the task, a single thought lingers at the back of my mind:

What would she think if she knew? Would she be disgusted by me?

The answer haunts me, as does the realization that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe — alive — even if it means confronting the parts of myself I’ve tried so hard to keep buried.

Hold on, Nyx.

We’re coming.

And this time, I won’t let you disappear.

11

MEMORIES FORGOTTEN UNTIL DEATH KNOCKS ON ONE’S DOOR

~NYX~

The alarms pierce through layers of consciousness like distant thunder, urging me to wake. But something holds me under, pulls me deeper into memories I’ve fought so hard to recover.

Remember. Remember while you can.

The scene unfolds like watercolor bleeding across wet paper: autumn colors in impossible shades, leaves dancing on a breeze that carries the scent of ending and beginning all at once.

I’m outside Ravenscroft’s walls —— one of the rare times they’ve let me beyond those sterile confines. The memory feels fragile, like butterfly wings I’m too afraid to touch lest they crumble to dust.

But I need to see this.

Need to understand.

The guards in their tactical gear march beside me, their weapons trained and ready. Every step is measured, and controlled, down a narrow path that winds through the forest like a ribbon of fate.

“Move,” one of them orders, pushing me forward with the barrel of his gun.

The valley opens before us, a natural amphitheater surrounded by trees wearing their fall colors. But these aren’t normal autumn shades - instead of reds and golds, the leaves shine in hues of ivory and magenta, as if nature itself has been twisted to match Ravenscroft’s experiments.

We reach the center and they force me to stop, the message clear in the way their weapons remain trained on vital points:

Stay still or die.

The shadows writhe in my mind, agitated by the memory.

They know what’s coming, and try to show me more clearly, but something blocks their efforts - like static on an old television, interrupting the signal at crucial moments.

“Don’t move,” another guard warns, though the command is unnecessary. Where would I run? What would be the point? They’ve made sure I understand the futility of escape through countless “lessons” in pain and consequence.

So I stand there, waiting for whatever new trial they’ve devised. Waiting for more pain, tests, and attempts to push me past human limits.

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, movement catches my eye — a figure emerging from the shadowed forest. A woman, her approach deliberate but somehow hesitant, each step carrying weight I can’t quite understand.

She comes closer, and frustration builds as I try to see her face clearly. The memory refuses to cooperate, keeping her features shrouded in darkness as if my mind itself is censoring crucial information.

But not everything is hidden.

I can see tears tracking down what’s visible of her face, can make out the trembling of her lips as she fights some internal battle. Her sadness hits me harder than it should, resonating with something deep inside that I can’t quite grasp.

Why does my heart ache at her pain?

For a stranger, I’ve never crossed paths with?

Why does her sorrow feel like my own?

The shadows surge in my mind, desperate to show me more, to break through whatever barrier keeps this memory fractured and incomplete. They sing of importance, of connections, and truths I need to understand.

But all I can do is stand there in my memory, watching this mysterious woman’s tears fall while guards hold me at gunpoint.

The contradiction of it strikes me –– such genuine emotion in the midst of clinical cruelty, raw humanity in a moment controlled by those who seek to strip all humanity from me.

Her hands - I can see those clearly - shake as she lifts them slightly, as if wanting to reach for me but holding herself back. They’re elegant hands, marked with small scars that speak of work with delicate things.

Artist’s hands, maybe, or…

The memory stutters, fragments.

The shadows scream in frustration as crucial details slip away like water through cupped palms. They know this is important, know I need to understand this moment, this woman, this piece of my past that seems to hold so much weight.

But all I can grasp with certainty is her sadness.

The way it rolls off her in waves, mixing with something else - guilt? Regret? The emotion is too complex to name, too tangled with things I can’t quite remember.

My heart clenches with an echo of old pain, like muscle memory of a wound I can’t recall receiving. Something about this woman, about this moment, about everything happening in this strange valley with its impossible colors - it all matters in ways I can’t fully comprehend.

The guards shift around us, their weapons never wavering. They’re waiting for something, I realize. This isn’t just another test or trial. Planned but also dreaded, like an appointment with destiny no one really wants to keep.

I try to focus harder on the woman’s face, desperate to break through whatever mental block keeps her features hidden in shadow. The attempt makes my head pound and the shadows in my mind writhe with increased urgency.

Remember. You have to remember this.

They scream like an eerie chorus desperate to pierce through the barrier that holds me back.

But why?

What about this moment is so crucial?

Why does my heart feel like it’s being torn apart by the sight of this stranger’s tears?

The autumn breeze picks up, carrying scents that tug at other memories - warm kitchens, gentle hands, soft voices singing lullabies. But those fragments slip away even faster than this one, leaving only impressions of comfort long lost.

I watch a tear track down what’s visible of the woman’s face, catching light like a diamond before falling. The sight triggers something deep inside, some knowledge that hovers just out of reach.

I know her.

I realize with sudden certainty.

Knew her.

Before.

Before Ravenscroft. Prior to the experiments. Long before they stripped away everything that made me who I was and rebuilt me into what they needed.

But how? Why?

What connection could be so important that my mind would lock it away, protect it beneath layers of forgetting?

The shadows offer no answers, only increasingly desperate attempts to break through whatever barrier keeps this memory incomplete. Their song takes on notes of frustration, of urgency, and maybe even a pitch of fear.

The woman’s lips move, and I strain to hear what she’s saying. But that part of the memory is silent, as if someone has deliberately removed the sound, leaving only visual fragments of a moment that should mean everything but remains tantalizingly out of reach.

The alarms seem closer now, pulling me back toward consciousness even as I fight to stay in this memory. To uncover its secrets before it slips away completely.

Just a little longer.

I plead with whoever or whatever might be listening.

Just let me see her face.

Let me understand.

But the memory is already fading, colors bleeding away like rain washing away paint. The woman’s outline grows less distinct, her presence more like a dream than a recovered truth.

Then, as if the time has run out, I’m turning away, being forced to walk further from this crying woman who seems to hold the key to everything.

To my past…to my future…the holder of my destiny.

I’m returning to where we came from, approaching the white van that awaits. The transportation that will take me back to the hellhole that has kept me locked away like some prized possession.

Back to the cycle of agony, torture, and ultimately…survival.

The shadows sing mournfully as the scene dissolves, their frustration matching my own. They wanted me to see this, to understand something crucial about this moment, this woman, this piece of my past.

Instead, I’m left with more questions than answers. With the echo of tears, I don’t understand and pain that feels both foreign and intimately familiar.

I see the van door open, expecting my cooperation to enter into its metal clutches. It’s like I’m a dog returning to its cage, only that crate isn’t deemed a safe haven of comfort.

This one is a sufferable prison.

The corners of the memory are all fading away, just as I look backward, as if sensing someone’s lingering gaze. The sight of me and my youthful glance makes me realize I’m no longer in the moment, but seeing the perspective like a third person witnessing the forbidden.

I watch myself peer back, and I follow the trail of attention until it lands on a man. The instance is so quick, barely giving me details but striking eyes of blue lock onto mine.

A scent hits me then — clean rain and aged books, mountain air, and something richer. Cologne of musk with hints of pine. Like comfort and strength wrapped into a single breath.

The kind of scent that promises safety, protection…

“NYX! WAKE UP!”

Reality crashes back as Riot’s screams pierce through the memory. I flail in shocking cold water, gasping as I realize I’m not just wet — I’m floating near the ceiling of our confinement.

Wild-eyed, I spin in the rising water, trying to orient myself. Luna and Azurite are at the far end, desperately searching for any kind of escape route — a vent, a crack, anything that might offer hope.

“There’s nothing!” Azurite shouts, her heterochromatic eyes wide with panic. “Just solid concrete!”

The shadows scream in my head, their song reaching a crescendo that threatens to split my skull. They’re trying to tell me something, trying to hold onto that memory of blue eyes and rain scent, but the present danger demands attention.

“I need…I need space,” I gasp, pushing away from Riot’s reaching hands. My head pounds with the shadows’ increasingly frantic song, their volume rising to match the blaring alarms.

“Are you okay?” Riot demands, but there’s something in her eyes — recognition of a specific kind of danger.

“Triggered,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Like the experiments. Don’t…don’t want to hurt any of you.”

Instead of backing away, Riot surges forward through the water. Her hand clamps around my throat, squeezing hard enough to make me splutter and growl.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snarl, but she just tightens her grip. My hands voluntarily try to stop her by trapping her wrists, which makes it almost impossible to keep afloat with my kicking feet down under, but I’m trying my best.

She pulls herself close, her face inches from mine as she whispers, “I am your enemy. If you lose your shit, you will only hurt me, you understand?!”

Before I can process her words, she slams her forehead into mine. The impact makes me gasp, more from surprise than pain. The shadows howl their protest as I hiss at her, but something about the contact helps ground me.

Or it makes my attention narrow on her.

To be the first one to feel my wrath…

“What are you doing to her?” Luna calls out, her unseeing eyes somehow finding us in the chaos.

“Stop it!” Azurite demands, starting to swim toward us.

Another alarm joins the cacophony, this one higher-pitched and more urgent. The water rises faster now, eating up what little air space remains near the ceiling.

Riot maintains her grip on my throat, her eyes locked on mine with fierce determination. She’s giving me something to focus on besides the memories, besides the shadows’ song, besides the rising panic of being trapped in flooding darkness.

She’s making herself a target so the others stay safe.

Making herself my enemy so I don’t lose control and hurt everyone.

But as the water continues to rise and the alarms scream their warning, I can’t help wondering about those blue eyes from my memory. About why they felt so important, so familiar.

It’s the only thing holding me back from sinking into that threatened space — to release the animal of survival that always comes out to play, ensuring I’m never facing death alone.

I can’t stop her from coming out to play.

But that fragment haunts me desperately, ensuring that whatever happens, I don’t dare forget those piercing eyes.

The shadows know, but their song is drowned out by the immediacy of survival: Riot’s hands further tightening on my throat and the rising water that threatens to claim us all.

“Let her go, Riot!” Azurite shouts as our heads hit the ceiling, the water rising inexorably.

Riot’s grip remains firm on my throat.

“Find us a way out!” she yells back, tightening her hold until I hiss in protest. “Just keep looking!”

Then the water claims the last pocket of air, and we’re all forced under.

The shadows screech one final time — a sound of warning, of loss, of something breaking free. Their song becomes a cacophony of chaos as I feel control slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

No. Please.

But it’s already happening.

Through the crystalline water, I see Azurite and Luna — their forms wavering as they continue their desperate search for escape. Azurite’s heterochromatic eyes are wide with determination, while Luna’s unseeing gaze somehow manages to convey frit with how her head is moving side to side with her moving arms that emphasize panic.

Then my eyes find Riot.

The guilt in her expression hits me like a physical blow. She knows what’s coming, understands exactly what she’s done by making herself my target.

But beneath that guilt lies steel-hard determination.

She’s choosing this.

Choosing to sacrifice herself so the others might survive.

Choosing to be the victim so they won’t have to be.

The shadows’ song reaches a crescendo, and I feel the last threads of my conscious control starting to unravel. The other part of me - the one they created through years of torture and experimentation - rises like a tide of darkness.

I’m sorry.

I try to tell Riot with my eyes.

I’m so sorry.

Her grip on my throat never wavers, even as understanding passes between us.

She’s made her choice, accepted her role in what’s about to happen.

One last sacrifice in a life that’s seen too many.

The familiar sensation of slipping away begins — like falling asleep but in reverse, watching as something else takes control of my body. Something stronger, lethal, and unburdened by conscience or compassion.

The perfect weapon they wanted to create.

Through water-blurred vision, I watch Azurite grab Luna’s arm, pulling her toward what might be a shadow of hope - some crack or crevice in the wall that could lead to salvation.

Good.

Let them search for escape while Riot keeps the monster occupied.

Let them live while we dance our fatal waltz.

I’m the monster brewing in these watery depths, and the clock is ticking down.

Tick Toc…

The shadows fall silent as the last of my control fades, their mournful song replaced by the rapid beating of my heart. They know what comes next — have seen it play out countless times in countless trials.

But never with someone I cared about.

Never with a friend.

Riot’s eyes never leave mine as the change takes hold.

Even underwater, I can read her expression perfectly:

Do what you have to do.

Just give them time to escape.

Make it count.

The monster that lives in my skin - the one born of pain and survival - stirs fully awake. It recognizes Riot as prey, as a threat to be eliminated, just as she intended.

One last act of protection.

One final sacrifice.

I want to fight it, want to maintain control, want to find another way. But this is what they made me for — what six years of torture and experimentation created.

A weapon that can’t be stopped once activated.

A monster that can’t be controlled once freed.

A perfect M.U.S.E.

The last thing I see through my own eyes is Riot’s face — fierce and determined even in what she knows might be her final moments. No fear, no regret, just absolute conviction that her choice is right.

Then everything goes dark as the other part of me takes control.

The part that’s survived every trial.

The side that’s never known defeat.

The entity that kills without mercy or hesitation.

I’m so sorry, Riot.

The darkness claims me completely, and the monster wakes to hunt.

My last conscious thought is a prayer — not for myself, but for the others:

Let them find escape while Riot keeps the beast occupied.

Allow them to live while we embrace the darkness.

Make her sacrifice mean something in the end.

Then there’s nothing but the cold embrace of water and the certainty of violence to come.

The M.U.S.E. rises.

The friend falls away.

The monster wakes to dance.

And somewhere in the depths of my fractured mind, the shadows weep for what’s about to be lost.

For the friendship that will end in blood.

For the sacrifice freely given.

For the monster that can’t be caged once freed.

The water swirls around us as my consciousness fades completely, leaving only the weapon they created — perfect and lethal and utterly without mercy.

Riot wanted to give the others a chance to escape.

I hope she gets her wish.

The last threads of humanity slip away as the monster takes full control.

Through its eyes, I see Riot not as friend or protector, but as prey to be eliminated.

Just as she planned.

Just as she chose.

Just as she sacrificed herself to ensure.

Goodbye, Riot.

Thank you for your strength.

I’m sorry it has to end this way.

Then there’s nothing but darkness and the certainty of violence to come.

The weapon is armed.

The target is acquired.

The mission is clear.

And the monster wakes to hunt in waters turned to blood.

12

FIGHT FOR FREEDOM

~NYX~

Pain.

Always pain.

But different now.

Not from needles.

Not from tests.

From fighting.

From survival.

From choice.

Riot fights back.

Strong.

Determined.

Water everywhere.

Can’t breathe.

Don’t need to.

They made sure of that.

Elbow connects with nose.

Satisfying crunch.

Blood clouds water.

Riot gasps.

Swallows water.

Recovers fast.

Strong prey.

Worthy opponent.

Look for others.

Movement catches eye.

Glass wall.

Not concrete.

Azurite punches.

Again.

Again.

Cracks spreading.

Spider web patterns.

But too slow.

Time running out.

Oxygen depleting.

Death approaching.

Must survive.

Must protect.

But protect who?

Memories flash:

Riot’s laughter in darkness.

Luna’s quiet wisdom.

Azurite’s calculated strength.

Friends?

Enemies?

Both?

Neither?

Decision time.

Choose path.

Accept consequences.

Swim toward glass.

Toward hope.

Toward escape.

Riot grabs ankle.

Pulls back.

Still fighting.

Always fighting.

Turn in water.

Move faster than should be possible.

Grab her throat.

Squeeze.

Feel pulse under fingers.

Watch bubbles escape lips.

Light fading from eyes.

Consciousness slipping.

Death approaching.

Should feel nothing.

Should finish it.

Should eliminate threat.

But…

Something wrong.

Different?

Want to stop?

Need to stop.

Have to stop.

Release grip.

Watch her sink.

Feel…regret?

Not supposed to feel.

Not to care.

Never hesitate.

But watching her fall…

Watching her struggle…

Watching her fade…

Want to save.

Need to save.

Have to save.

Look at others.

Not prey anymore.

Azurite still punching.

Luna still searching.

Both still fighting.

Like Riot.

Like me.

Survivors all.

Warriors all.

Sisters in pain.

Memory flashes:

Sharing stories in darkness.

Finding strength in unity.

Building trust in hell.

Not prey.

Not enemies.

Not targets.

Family.

The word burns.

Makes shadows stir.

Wakes something sleeping.

Control returning.

Humanity surfacing.

Monster retreating.

Have to choose.

Have to act.

Have to decide.

Riot sinks deeper.

Time runs shorter.

Death comes closer.

Look at survivors.

Look for friends.

Look at choice.

Must protect.

Must save.

Must decide.

But who?

How?

Why?

Confusion burns.

Instincts war.

Time slips away.

Azurite’s fist connects.

Cracks spread wider.

Hope grows stronger.

Luna’s face shows strain.

Lungs burning.

Time running out.

Riot’s form grows distant.

Darkness claims her.

Peace approaches.

Should let her go.

Must save others.

Will follow training.

But…

Something breaks inside.

Triggers changes.

Harbors awakening.

Not monster anymore.

Not weapon anymore.

Not their M.U.S.E.

Just Nyx.

Just survivor.

Just protector.

Look at glass.

Look at friends.

Look at choice.

Decision forms.

Path clears.

Purpose awakens.

Save all.

Protect all.

Remember all.

They made me weapon.

Made me killer.

Made me monster.

But they didn’t make me this:

Friend.

Sister.

Protector.

That choice is mine.

That power is mine.

That freedom is mine.

Riot taught me that.

With her sacrifice.

With her choice.

Now my turn.

My choice.

My path.

Look at cracked glass.

Look at fading friends.

Look at sinking sister.

Time to choose.

Time to act.

Time to be…

More than weapon.

More than monster.

More than M.U.S.E.

Water presses.

Time slips.

Death approaches.

But for first time…

First moment…

My first choice…

I know what I am.

I know what I want.

I know what matters.

Not their experiment.

Not their weapon.

Not their monster.

Just Nyx.

Just protector.

Just friend.

Stare at glass again.

Hope again.

Truth.

Save all.

Protect all.

Remember all.

Because that’s what family does.

What friends do.

What humans do.

They made me weapon.

But they forgot:

M.U.S.E.s can choose purpose.

Time to choose.

Time to act.

Time to be…

Free.

13

WHAT WE LEAVE BEHIND

~NYX~

Consciousness returns like breaking through the surface after being held underwater — sudden, shocking, and accompanied by a desperate need to breathe.

Only I am underwater, the realization hitting as my senses snap into razor-sharp focus.

My body thrums with adrenaline, every nerve ending firing at once. The shadows are silent, but something else fills that space — pure, crystalline clarity of purpose.

Looking up, I see Azurite holding Luna near the cracked glass ceiling. Their movements are becoming sluggish, faces strained with the effort of holding their breath.

Time is running out.

Urgency courses through me like electricity, propelling me upward through the water with swift, powerful strokes. Each movement feels charged with impossible energy, as if my body has tapped into some hidden reserve of strength.

The cracked glass beckons like a promise of freedom. Hope surges through my veins, mixing with the adrenaline until I feel invincible. Untouchable. Like something more than human.

More than their experiment…

Reaching the glass, I brace my legs against the walls on either side, finding stability despite the slick surface. My fingers grip the edge where concrete meets glass, and I pull my arm back, studying the spreading cracks with tactical precision.

The damage pattern tells a story — stress points spreading outward from the initial impact, creating lines of weakness that spider through the thick material. My mind calculates angles and force requirements with machine-like efficiency.

Three solid hits should do it.

Maybe four.

If placed exactly right.

The first punch connects with satisfying impact. Pain shoots through my knuckles, but it’s nothing compared to what they’ve put me through in their trials.

Nothing compared to the agony of being their perfect M.U.S.E.

I strike again, channeling six years of rage into each blow.

Every punch carries the weight of:

Countless experiments.

Endless pain.

Being reduced to a number.

Having my humanity stripped away.

Watching others die while I survived.

My lungs begin to burn, demanding oxygen I can’t provide. But I won’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when freedom is so close I can almost taste it.

Another punch.

The cracks spread wider.

I think about everything they’ve taken from me:

My memories.

My identity.

My chance at a normal life.

The possibility of finding a pack.

The simple joy of being wanted, being loved.

The next blow makes the glass sing with imminent failure.

I want to feel sun on my skin again. Want to breathe air that isn’t recycled through sterile vents. I deserve to experience life beyond white walls and endless tests.

To know what it means to be an omega.

Discover who I am beyond their carefully crafted weapon.

Find out if I’m capable of being loved.

The glass groans under my assault as I pour every dream, hope, and desperate wish into my strikes.

Freedom to choose my own path.

Chance to find real connection.

Opportunity to be more than their experiment.

Possibility of belonging somewhere, to someone.

Hope of discovering what pack bonds truly mean.

My body screams for air, but something deeper drives me forward.

The will to live.

The need to be free.

The desperate hope for more than mere survival.

My knuckles are bleeding now, crimson clouds blooming in the water with each strike. But pain is an old friend, one I’ve learned to embrace rather than fear.

This is now or never…a fighting chance for everything I’ve craved but never allowed myself to experience.

The shadows may be silent, but my own voice rings clear in my mind:

I am more than their creation.

More than their weapon.

More than their carefully crafted M.U.S.E.

Each punch resonates with truth:

I am Nyx Blackwood.

A survivor and warrior.

An Omega worthy of freedom.

A woman deserving of love…

The glass creaks ominously, promising imminent surrender to my assault. But it’s not just glass I’m fighting anymore - it’s everything they’ve tried to make me, everything they’ve tried to take away:

My identity, humanity, and future beyond their control.

Oxygen deprivation makes my vision blur, but I force my arm back for one final strike. I won’t let them win. Can’t dare allow this to be the end.

Won’t let their carefully constructed cage hold me anymore.

The final punch connects with devastating force, and the glass finally surrenders.

The sharp crack of shattering echoes through the water moments before the suction hits. I grab the edge of the opening instinctively as the current tries to pull me through, glass shards biting deep into my palm.

The pain is negligible compared to what awaits if I lose my grip – the dark tunnel above promises either escape or death, with no guarantee which we’ll find.

Water rushes past me into the ventilation shaft, carrying Azurite and Luna with it.

Their gasps for air echo off metal walls as they’re swept away. I twist to look over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of them as the current takes them – Azurite’s arm locked around Luna’s waist, keeping them together as they disappear into the darkness.

“NYX!” Azurite’s voice bounces back to me, tinged with both relief and fear. “FOLLOW US!”

Their screams fade as they drop deeper into the tunnel system, leaving me torn between following their path to freedom and looking back for the one person still missing.

My heart nearly stops when I spot Riot.

She floats face-down in the remaining water, crimson clouds blooming around her still form. The sight hits me like a knife to the heart – this proud, fierce woman who refused to break, who chose sacrifice over surrender, now drifting like discarded debris.

“RIOT!” My voice cracks with desperation. “RIOT, PLEASE!”

My eyes already sting with tears while my heart is filled with the heaviness of dread.

I’m the culprit of her end…

The reason why she didn’t get the ending she whole heartedly deserved.

To prove her mother wrong…to find a pack to love…to fulfill the path destiny had for her.

This couldn’t be her end.

The water level continues to drop, but there might still be time.

If I can reach her, if I can get her breathing again…

The rational part of my mind screams that it’s foolish — she tried to kill me, tried to make herself my enemy. But something deeper, away from that desperate burn of fight or flight, the more mundane thought process, refuses to accept letting her die.

I grip the ledge with my other hand, glass cutting deeper as I try to pull myself back through the opening. The current fights me, but I’ve survived worse.

Endured more.

I can save her.

I have to save her.

I’m coming, Riot. Just hold on.

Some instinct makes me look up, just for a moment.

My eyes widen as I see the massive metal sphere swinging toward the opening –— some kind of security measure designed to seal breaches in the system.

There’s no time to think.

Not even seconds to plan.

My body moves on pure survival instinct, fingers releasing their grip seconds before the ball would have crushed them.

“NO! RIOT!”

The scream tears from my throat as the current catches me. I fight against it, trying to swim back, trying to reach her, but the force is too strong.

“RIOT! PLEASE!”

The last thing I can dare imagine is her still form, growing smaller as the water carries me away. Then darkness swallows everything as I hit the drop, the tunnel taking me down the same path as the others.

The shadows remain eerily silent as I fall, offering no comfort or guidance. There’s only the rush of water, the screech of metal, and the knowledge that I’ve left someone behind to die.

I’m sorry, Riot.

I’m so sorry.

The tunnel becomes my whole world – cold water and colder metal, carrying me to whatever fate awaits at its end. But all I can see is her floating form, all I can think about is how she chose to sacrifice herself for us, how her final act was one of protection rather than destruction.

The water rushes faster now, stealing my breath, my choice to fight the dangerously fast current, and stealing any chance of going back to save her.

And in that moment, I understand something profound about what it means to be an Omega, to be more than just a weapon or experiment.

Sometimes the deepest pain comes not from what’s done to us, but from what we’re forced to leave behind…

A cruel truth I’ve had to now experience the hard way.

As the tunnel takes me deeper into unknown darkness, I carry that truth like an open wound – along with the memory of a fierce woman who taught me that sometimes the greatest strength lies not in survival, but in choosing how we face our end.

Goodbye, Riot.

I won’t forget.

I’ll make sure your sacrifice is worth it…

For the first time in a long time, I hope…pray…that Fate gives second chances and Riot could be given the opportunity to live…

To survive…

The drop comes suddenly, and I fall into whatever waits below, carrying the weight of one more loss in a life already too full of them.

All I can do is listen to my echoing scream.

14

RETRIEVAL BY ANY MEANS

~VALE~

The infiltration begins like a well-choreographed dance – fifteen alphas moving as one through Ravenscroft’s underground passages.

On my monitors, I track their heat signatures as each subdivision splits off to their designated entry points with practiced precision. The synchronization is perfect, each unit moving exactly as planned.

For a moment, everything seems aligned.

The operation we’ve spent weeks preparing for unfolds with military precision. Even the facility’s security patterns remain unchanged, guards moving in their predictable routes, oblivious to the predators about to tear their world apart.

Then my monitor chimes with a discrete notification.

The sound is barely audible, but it sends ice through my veins.

Because my systems don’t generate notifications during active operations – not unless something has breached my carefully constructed security protocols.

A frown creases my face as I immediately recognize signs of intrusion. My fingers fly across the keyboard, initiating emergency protocols and strengthening firewalls. Someone’s trying to breach my systems – someone good enough to get past my initial defenses.

“Not today,” I mutter, starting the process of backing up critical data to my secondary device while simultaneously wiping the primary.

Years of experience have taught me to prepare for exactly this kind of situation. Every piece of vital intelligence, every scrap of data that could compromise our mission or our people – all of it begins transferring to secure storage.

But before I can complete the security measures, a coded message appears on my screen:

Your Omega dances with death. The shadows sing funeral hymns.

The cryptic words make no sense at first.

I’m too busy trying to regain control of my system, watching as unknown protocols override my commands with frightening efficiency. Whoever’s doing this isn’t just good – they’re operating on a level I’ve rarely encountered.

Then my main screen fills with surveillance footage, and my heart nearly stops.

A tall room, rapidly filling with water.

Four figures floating near the ceiling, fighting for survival. But it’s one particular form that draws my attention – one familiar figure that makes my world tilt on its axis.

I’d know her anywhere.

The omega from the valley.

The one who smelled of my grandmother’s cupcakes.

The one whose memory taunted me right before this very mission.

Nyx.

She floats motionless, face-up in the rising water, and something primal inside me roars to life. The sight of her unconscious, in danger, potentially dying – it triggers every protective Alpha instinct I’ve ever possessed.

My hand moves unconsciously toward the injector beside my laptop, fingers trembling with the need to act, to move, to save what’s ours.

The cost of using it – the acceleration of my condition, the potential loss of months or years of life – seems insignificant compared to watching her die.

Because this isn’t just any omega in danger.

This is her.

The one I let get away once before.

And now I’m watching through a screen as death reaches for her again.

My legs spasm violently, as if my body itself protests its inability to act. The pain is familiar but somehow sharper now, weighted with the agony of forced inaction while she’s in danger.

I force my attention back to the technical aspects, trying to trace the source of the intrusion. The code is unlike anything I’ve seen – it moves like something alive, adapting to my countermeasures faster than should be possible.

But I can’t focus properly.

Not with her floating there, not with death reaching for her with watery fingers. The memory of her scent – that perfect blend of childhood magic and pure possibility – haunts me more powerfully than ever.

My fingers move across the keyboard with increasing urgency, trying to regain control of my systems. I need to alert the teams, to redirect them to this new threat. But the intrusion is too thorough, too precise.

Every attempt to send messages fails, every effort to regain control is countered with frightening efficiency.

I’m going to have to radio in if I can’t take control.

The injector catches the low light of my monitors, tempting me with its promise of temporary mobility, like a golden ticket that can solve everything in this shrilled moment of scrutiny.

One shot. One chance to be what I used to be. To run to her rescue like I should have years ago.

But Atlas’s words echo in my mind:

“I can’t let you be captured. They’d torture you, probably kill you, and I won’t watch you die.”

My hands clench into fists as I watch the water rise higher in that distant room. The rational part of my mind knows I can’t save her – not physically, not without risking everything.

But the alpha in me, the protector I used to be, screams in rage at my helplessness.

I try another approach to regaining control of my systems, but whoever’s behind this intrusion seems to anticipate my every move. It’s like they know my protocols, understand my methods, or I dare admit they can predict my strategies.

The footage continues playing, showing every detail of her peril with cruel clarity. I watch as she regains consciousness, another Omega of dark skin shaking her in desperation which triggers her wakefulness.

Relief rushes through me as I see her eyes blink in haste as realization and shock rushes through her facial features. Despite the distance from the camera lens and where they are, the sight immediately tames my wild beating heart so I can attempt to think straight.

Watching her swiftly dive into action leaves me in awe; her strength, even in such dire circumstances, takes my breath away.

But it’s not enough.

The water keeps rising, and I remain trapped in my mobile command center, unable to help, let alone save her from the predicament at hand.

The guilt of that long-ago day in the valley crashes back full force. I’d told myself I was following protocol, being professional, doing what was necessary. But the truth was simpler and more damning:

I’d been a coward.

I’d let fear – of attachment, of vulnerability, of what it might mean to follow my instincts – stop me from doing what I knew was right.

Now, years later, I’m watching the consequences of that cowardice play out on my screens.

If I can just alert the teams, just redirect them to her location…

The code dances across my screen, beautiful and deadly in its complexity. Whoever created this isn’t just trying to block me – they’re trying to show me something. The footage keeps playing, keeps forcing me to watch as she and the others fight for survival.

And suddenly I understand.

This isn’t just an attack on my systems.

It’s a message.

A challenge.

A test of what I’m willing to risk to save her.

My hand closes around the injector as I make my decision. Because some choices aren’t about logic or protocol or even survival.

Sometimes they’re about redemption.

Second chances…

About finally doing what you should have done years ago.

Hold on, Nyx.

I won’t fail you again.

The injector feels warm in my palm as I prepare to risk everything for one more chance to be the alpha I used to be.

The alpha I should have been that day in the valley.

Because some debts can only be paid in person.

Some mistakes only corrected through direct action.

And, Nyx, the Omega I’m desperate to claim for me and my pack, is worth risking everything to save.

“Parazodiac Nexus, status check,” I say into the intercom, only to be met with crackling static. My heart rate kicks up as I try again, adjusting frequencies with trembling fingers.

“Vale?” Atlas’s voice finally breaks through, heavy with concern. “Everything alright?”

I try to respond, but the static intensifies, drowning out my words. The intrusion in my systems is more thorough than I initially thought, compromising even our basic communications.

But I’m not out of options yet.

Reaching under my desk, I pull out a backup phone — old technology, running on a separate network with its own antenna array. It’s not connected to our main systems, which makes it both more primitive and more reliable in situations like this.

I dial Kieran’s number, knowing he’s the only one who consistently carries the matching device. Old habits from his military days — always have a backup plan for your backup plan.

He answers on the first ring.

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone’s in our systems,” I say quickly, watching as more code dances across my screens. “But it’s strange…like they’re trying to help rather than hinder. But that’s not our biggest problem right now.”

Are they friends or foes? I’m not sure we’re going to find out now with this mission underway, but I have to keep an eye out.

“Which unit are you with?” I ask, already strapping on my tactical gear. The weight of the guns against my chest is familiar, and comforting, even as my legs protest every movement.

“Subdivision D,” Dante’s voice comes through. “B and C are setting up on the east side.”

My fingers fly across the keyboard, bringing up multiple screens showing different angles of the facility. The footage of the flooding room remains central, a constant reminder of what’s at stake.

“We’ve got our target Omegas trapped in a containment chamber,” I explain, watching the water level rise with terrifying speed. “Room’s almost completely flooded. They’re going to go under any minute. We need one division to redirect there immediately while the others trigger the alarms for distraction.”

“We can get there fastest,” Subdivision D’s leader cuts in. I already got video footage of them as they’re pausing in a sector, noticing that alarms have been set off but the opposing units are going down a different route. “We’re closest to that sector.”

Quickly scanning the blueprints, I can see Division D’s right about the closeness. Technically speaking, they’re also the fastest when you compare age gaps.

Even if I don’t want to admit my pack and I are a bit “old” when you acknowledge OP standards.

I see Kieran about to argue with the visible image of him opening his mouth — our history with D’s unit isn’t exactly friendly — but I cut him off.

“D takes point on the rescue. Move now.”

The sound of them splitting up comes through the line, footsteps echoing as they head in different directions.

“Vale,” Kieran’s voice carries a warning note. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking…”

I can tell he’s worried D will get to what’s ours first.

To Nyx..

“I’m a step ahead,” I tell him, studying the schematics of the containment room. “There might be a way to get them out before D even reaches them. They’re just backup just in case any Omegas get left behind.”

“Explain,” Atlas commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I pull up the detailed view of the chamber’s upper section. “There’s a counterweight system…some kind of metal sphere suspended near the ceiling. If I can trigger the release mechanism…”

“A suspended weight?” Atlas asks skeptically. “How would that help?”

“It’s not just about dropping it,” I explain, calculations running through my head. “The mounting system is designed like a pendulum. If I time it right, I can make it swing into that reinforced glass panel on the far wall. The impact should shatter it, create an escape route.”

“Through water that dense?” Atlas sounds doubtful. “The resistance would slow it too much.”

“Not with this setup,” I counter, confidence growing as I study the mechanics. “The ball is massive, and the drop height is significant. Even accounting for water resistance, the pendulum motion should generate enough force for impact before it loses momentum. Basic physics…the initial energy from the drop converts to kinetic energy in the swing.”

“What if it hits them?” Dante asks, voicing the concern we’re all thinking. “A metal ball that size would crush them on impact.”

I grip the edge of my desk, hating the truth I have to speak.

“It’s a possibility. But right now they’re about to drown in that chamber. At least with the ball breaking the glass, they’ll drop into the tunnel system below.”

“Which branches only two ways,” Kieran adds, understanding my logic. “Much easier to extract them from there than a high-rise room that might be blocked or completely submerged.”

A moment of heavy silence follows as they process the brutal mathematics of survival we’re forced to calculate.

“Do it,” Atlas finally commands. “Sometimes the only choice is choosing the lesser evil.”

“Agreed,” Dante says grimly. “Better a chance than no chance at all.”

“Stay in position,” Kieran reminds them. “We’ll execute from here.”

“Understood, but—” I break off, leaning closer to my screen as something catches my eye. The camera feed shows Nyx struggling with another omega, their forms barely visible through the rising water.

“What’s wrong?” Atlas demands.

“Something’s happening up there,” I try to zoom in, but the camera image distorts, static cutting through as water begins to submerge it. “Damn it!”

“Vale?”

“We need to move now,” I tell them, watching the feed deteriorate. “Start taking out their agents. I’ll work on getting communications back and update you on any changes.”

“Going ghost,” Kieran confirms. “We’ll rendezvous at the van.”

“Copy that. Be careful.”

The line goes dead, leaving me alone with my screens and the weight of what I’m about to do. The injector feels heavy in my hand as I remove the safety cap, the needle glinting under harsh monitor light.

No turning back now.

I drive the needle into my thigh, gritting my teeth against the immediate burning sensation. My hand grips the desk edge hard enough to make the metal groan as I slowly depress the plunger, forcing the experimental compound into my system.

The pain is exquisite – like liquid fire replacing my blood. I fight to stay upright, to keep breathing through the transformation I know is coming. Every nerve ending screams as the drug begins its work, rewriting my body’s limitations.

For sixty eternal seconds, I exist in pure agony.

Then, like a switch being flipped, energy explodes through my system.

My leg kicks out involuntarily, and for the first time in years, I feel no pain.

No weakness.

No limitation.

No chains of mortality holding me back.

The empty injector clatters across the floor as I stand, testing muscles that haven’t properly worked in too long. Everything feels electric, charged with potential and power I’d almost forgotten I possessed.

I reach for the mask I haven’t worn since my condition first manifested – matte black with glowing blue X’s where eyes should be. It was designed to be intimidating, to make enemies hesitate just long enough to give me an advantage.

Looking at it now, seeing my reflection in those luminous X’s, I’m reminded of who I used to be. Who I can be again, if only for a short time.

“Show time,” I whisper, fitting the mask into place.

The familiar weight settles against my face like greeting an old friend. Through its enhanced vision, the world takes on sharper edges, a clearer purpose. The mask’s built-in systems sync with my remaining functional monitors, feeding me tactical data and environmental readings.

I know the cost of what I’m doing. Know that using this drug might steal years from my already shortened life. Know that the pain when it wears off will be beyond anything I’ve experienced yet.

But watching Nyx fight for survival in that flooding chamber, remembering how I failed her once before – no price seems too high to pay for a chance at redemption.

The drug surges through my system, making me feel invincible. Unstoppable. Like the alpha I used to be before the disease started stealing my future one nerve ending at a time.

I check my weapons one final time, muscle memory making the movements fluid despite years of disuse. Everything is exactly where it should be, ready for whatever chaos awaits outside my modified van.

Through my mask’s display, I watch the camera feed from the flooding chamber continue to deteriorate. But I’ve seen enough to know where I’m going, and what I need to do.

Hold on, Nyx.

The drug makes me feel like I could tear through walls with my bare hands, but I force myself to think tactically. To remember that even temporary invincibility needs to be wielded with precision.

I have maybe one hour before the compound starts to break down. One solid hour to find her…to save her, and get us both out alive.

After that…

I’ll pay whatever price my body demands.

Face whatever acceleration of my condition this choice brings.

But right now, in this moment, I am once again the alpha I was meant to be. The protector I failed to be that day in the valley.

And nothing will stop me from reaching her.

“I’m coming, Nyx,” I whisper to my empty van, the words carrying the weight of promise. “Just hold on a little longer.”

The mask’s X’s pulse with cold blue light as I prepare to enter the field for the first time in years. To become again what disease tried to take from me.

Mission execute.

15

INFILTRATE AND CONQUER

~NYX~

“C’mon,” I hiss, fighting the bubble of panic humming through me.

My fingers grip the metal bar with desperate strength, my body dangling over an abyss that seems to have no bottom.

Water drips from my soaked clothes as I fight to catch my breath, my heart pounding from both exertion and the terrifying drop below.

Can’t stay here.

The memory of that massive metal sphere is too fresh, too threatening. Another could come crashing down at any moment, sealing this escape route forever.

I have to move…

I force my trembling muscles to work, climbing the ladder rung by rung until I spot an opening above the tunnel I just fell from.

The panel comes loose with a bit of effort, revealing a smaller passage – some kind of emergency exit or maintenance tunnel. I pull myself through, grateful for any route that leads away from that watery hell.

Following the hazard signs painted on the walls, I move through the narrow space as alarms blare throughout the facility. The sound bounces off metal walls, creating a cacophony of warning and chaos.

Intruders!

I hear voices below shouting.

We have multiple intruders in the facility.

I pause at a junction in the ventilation system, pressing my back against the cool metal as I try to process everything that’s happened. The shadows remain quiet, but my mind races with questions and concerns.

Where did Azurite and Luna end up?

I didn’t see them at the bottom of that pit, which means there must have been another tunnel, another path. The thought of them out there somewhere, possibly injured or captured, makes my chest tight with unfamiliar worry.

Regrouping is impossible now.

The reality of that hits hard.

The best I can hope for is that they find their way out, that somehow fate will give us a chance to meet again in freedom.

The connection forged in that cell feels too important to lose forever.

My breath finally steadies as I contemplate how I managed to break free of the killing instinct earlier. How I stopped myself from becoming their perfect weapon, their mindless M.U.S.E. It was different this time – like finding a door in what I thought was a solid wall.

Maybe I can control it.

The thought is revolutionary.

What if instead of fighting the monster they created, I could direct it? Channel it? Find some balance between the weapon and the woman.

After all, who would I really be hurting?

The guards and scientists of Ravenscroft are no innocents. They’re the ones who tortured us, treating us like lab rats, and in turn, morphed me into something caught between human and weapon.

They’re all enemies here.

Every white coat who took notes while we screamed.

Every guard who watched impassively as we suffered.

Every person who helped keep us caged.

The shadows might be quiet, but my own thoughts grow clearer. I don’t need their whispers to know what needs to be done. Don’t need their guidance to understand that survival now means embracing what they made me – but on my own terms.

My hands clench as I remember every injection, every test, every moment of agony they inflicted. The rage is there, familiar as breathing, but now it feels different. Controlled. Directed.

Not a storm that drowns everything, but a blade that can cut with precision.

The sound of running footsteps below reminds me that I can’t stay here forever. I need to move, fight, and find my way out of this maze they’ve kept me in for six years.

I won’t lose myself to their programming.

This time, I choose how to use what they created.

The irony almost makes me laugh – they spent years trying to make me into their ideal weapon, never considering that I might learn to aim myself.

Had no expectations or hope that the opportunity would come where I can return the anguish they laid on me.

More shouts from below, more alarms blaring their warning. Something is happening in Ravenscroft tonight, something bigger than just my escape. The facility seems to be under attack, its carefully maintained order crumbling into chaos.

Good.

Let them feel what it’s like to lose control — their carefully constructed world falling apart like a crumbling wall of bricks.

I take a deep breath, centering myself as I prepare to move.

The killing instinct simmers just below the surface, but it feels different now. Less like drowning in darkness and more like holding a loaded gun.

My finger on the trigger.

My choice when to fire.

My targets to select.

Riot’s sacrifice won’t be in vain. She showed me that choice still exists, even in the darkest moments. That strength isn’t just about survival, but about how we choose to survive.

I pray that Luna and Azurite find their way to freedom. That somehow, in a world beyond these walls, we’ll meet again. But right now, I have to focus on my own escape.

On using what they made me to tear down their precious facility.

I try not to focus on how frightening all of this is. A sudden sensation of independence. The best way to describe the tightness in my chest or the nervousness flipping in the pits of my stomach would be a child being forced out into the real world for the first time.

I may not remember my childhood or the feelings associated with it, but I can envision what it could feel like.

At least, similar to what’s pulsing through me now.

The ventilation system will give me the advantage of surprise. They’ll be looking for escaped test subjects on the ground, not death from above.

I allow myself one more moment of stillness, one more breath of preparation. Then I begin to move, letting the familiar coldness of their conditioning settle over me – but this time, I remain aware.

They wanted a weapon?

They’ll get one.

But not on their terms. Not as their mindless tool.

This time, every death will be my choice, every target my selection, every moment of violence a conscious decision rather than blind instinct.

The shadows may be silent, but I don’t need them anymore. At least for now. I have my purpose I wish to proclaim, a path I fight hard to follow without their chorus of hymns and symphonies.

The ventilation system becomes my pathway through Ravenscroft’s hidden depths, each turn taking me into sections of the facility I’ve only known through overheard conversations and whispered rumors.

The metal tunnels feel almost alive, carrying vibrations of chaos from below – running footsteps, shouted orders, and the occasional burst of gunfire.

Six years in this place, and I’ve never seen beyond my designated testing areas. Now I’m crawling through its skeleton, viewing its secrets from above like some vengeful spirit. The irony isn’t lost on me – they kept me caged for so long, and now their own infrastructure provides my path to freedom.

Voices from below make me pause, pressing myself flat against the cool metal as I listen.

“Half our unit is down,” a guard says, his tone tight with fear. The tremor in his voice catches my attention – I’ve never heard these men sound afraid before. They’ve always been so confident in their power over us, so secure in their dominance. “They must be using the vents to move around.”

“Let’s activate the gas traps in sector seven,” his companion replies, and I can hear keys jangling as he presumably reaches for his radio. “That should take care of our little pest problem. No one survives that stuff.”

Their footsteps move away with urgent purpose, but their conversation confirms what the chaos below suggests – someone is systematically dismantling Ravenscroft’s security forces.

Someone powerful enough to make these usually unshakeable guards sound like frightened prey.

The ventilation shaft ahead ends in a solid wall, forcing a decision. With gas traps being activated, staying in the vents isn’t an option.

I locate an access panel and test its strength – loose enough to remove without making too much noise. One solid kick sends it clattering to the floor below, and I follow with considerably more grace.

The room I drop into tells a story of violence.

Bodies lie scattered across the floor, their blood painting abstract patterns across what were once pristine white tiles. The scene should horrify me; trigger some basic human response to such carnage.

Instead, I feel nothing but clinical interest as I survey potential resources.

After all these years their experiments have left their mark – death doesn’t shock me anymore. I’ve seen too much of it, and caused too much of it in their trials. The only difference now is that these aren’t innocent omegas who couldn’t survive their tests.

These are the guards who watched us suffer with indifferent eyes.

I move among the dead with practical efficiency, collecting weapons that might prove useful. The knives come first – they feel natural in my hands, like extensions of the weapon they crafted me to be.

Years of their combat training have made blade work instinctive, as natural as breathing. The guns I strap to my legs are more of an afterthought, a backup plan for situations that require distance rather than intimacy.

The thin medical gown they kept me in clings wetly to my skin from the earlier flooding, the material nearly transparent.

One of the fallen alphas wears a black tactical shirt that will serve my purposes better.

Guess he wouldn’t mind if I borrowed that…

As I strip it from his cooling body, recognition hits – this was the guard who used to taunt me about dying alone.

About never finding a pack to claim me.

“Not so smug now, are you?” I mutter, pulling his shirt over my head. The material is still warm, but I feel nothing but satisfaction at claiming this small victory from someone who took such pleasure in our suffering.

An odd thought strikes me as I adjust the stolen garment.

Normal omegas would be overwhelmed by an alpha’s scent, their instincts triggering nesting urges and comfort-seeking behaviors. The medical texts they made us study were very clear about omega responses to alpha pheromones – the need for comfort, the drive to surround themselves with their scent, and the biological imperatives that make them susceptible to alpha influence.

But I feel nothing…

Catch no scent that’s supposed to make my hormones go wild.

I guess it’s another “gift” of whatever they did to make me scentless, but despite the numb reaction I display upon the surface, deep within — a tiny spec of the Omega in me — is disappointed with the acknowledgment.

I really am an odd Omega.

The shirt might as well have come from a store shelf for all the reactions it triggers in me. Just another piece of fabric, a tool to be used in my bid for freedom.

I’ve never experienced those omega instincts they write about so clinically in their texts. Never felt that primal pull toward alpha pheromones or the desperate need for pack bonds that’s supposed to define omega existence. It’s all academic to me, like reading about colors I can’t see or music I can’t hear.

Sometimes I wonder what they took from me along with my scent – what basic omega experiences I’ll never understand. But right now, that emotional distance is an advantage.

I can’t be distracted by instincts I don’t possess. Can’t be controlled by biological imperatives they burned out of me years ago.

Gunfire erupts in the hallway outside, much closer than before. I press myself against the wall beside the door, newly acquired weapons held ready. The shadows may be silent, but my enhanced senses - another “gift” from their experiments - pick up multiple heartbeats approaching. Steady ones, controlled.

These aren’t scared guards running for their lives. These are predators stalking through Ravenscroft’s halls.

Whatever force is tearing through the facility tonight, I need to decide quickly if they’re potential allies or just another threat to eliminate.

The fact that they’re killing guards suggests we might share common enemies, but six years in this place has taught me that the enemy of my enemy isn’t always my friend.

Sometimes they’re just a different kind of monster.

Even after the footsteps fade, I remain motionless, every enhanced sense straining to detect potential threats.

The silence feels oppressive, heavy with possibilities of danger. But it also offers an opportunity – these guards might have something useful on them, something to help me navigate my way out of this maze.

I move among the bodies with practiced efficiency, searching for anything that might aid my escape. More weapons? Maybe a walkie-talkie? No…something that can be valuable without revealing my location…

A communicator catches my eye, its screen still glowing with active messages. As I pick it up, the latest transmission makes my blood run cold:

“Capture Patient 495” glows in bold letters, followed by three words that hit like physical blows: “Dead or alive.”

I shouldn’t care.

Shouldn’t feel anything about this clinical assessment of my worth. After all these years of being treated like an object aimed to be used, why should their disregard for my life affect me now?

And yet…

Something in my chest constricts as I stare at those glowing words. All this time, enduring their tests and trials, surviving when others broke, becoming exactly what they wanted me to be – and still —— I’m nothing more to them than a target to be acquired or eliminated.

The reality of my situation crashes down with a crushing weight. For as long as I can remember – which admittedly isn’t very far back – I’ve existed within their cage. Every breath, moment, and trace of what might be called life has been contained within Ravenscroft’s sterile walls.

Now, with freedom tantalizingly close, with the taste of possibility on my tongue, they’ve already marked me for recapture or death.

There is no middle ground, no chance for mercy, no option that doesn’t end with me either back in their cage or in a body bag.

Something wet hits the screen’s glowing surface.

I frown, lifting the device closer to watch as another droplet falls.

Then another.

And another.

The realization that I’m crying hits harder than I’d ever admit. Tears track down my flushed cheeks, each one a silent betrayal of the strength I’ve fought so hard to maintain.

In six years, I’ve felt my eyes burn with unshed tears countless times. But I never let them fall. Never gave them the satisfaction of seeing that weakness. Never dared allow myself the luxury of such naked vulnerability in a place that showed no mercy.

So why now? In this instance where so much is at risk. Far too much at stake, and freedom is just at my fingertips…

In this room full of death, surrounded by the cooling bodies of my tormentors, something finally breaks. The tears fall freely now, each one carrying years of suppressed pain, fear, and the horrible understanding that my life means nothing to them.

A sound tries to escape my throat – between a whimper and a sob – but I fight it back. Even alone, in this moment of revelation, some habits of survival run too deep to break.

The heavy tread of boots passing nearby forces me to focus, to think tactically about my situation. Those men who rushed past earlier – their movements spoke of military training, of coordinated assault tactics.

Against a force like that, what real chance do I have?

Ravenscroft may have made me into their perfect weapon, with enhanced abilities beyond normal human limits, but I’m still just one person. One omega. An experiment that happened to survive their trials.

I can kill, yes. Certainly fight with lethal efficiency. I’m confident I’ll take down quite a few of them before they stop me.

In the end, I’m still flesh and blood.

Vulnerable to bullets.

Capable of being overwhelmed by superior numbers.

All their experiments, enhancements, and careful programming – none of it changes the fundamental math of survival.

I’m alone, outnumbered, in unfamiliar territory, with enemies on all sides.

The tears continue to fall as I face this truth.

They’ve made me strong, deadly, and nearly indestructible in some ways – but I’m not invincible. Not immortal. Not immune to the simple physics of lead meeting flesh at high velocity.

I stare at the communicator’s screen until the words blur, until “dead or alive” becomes a smear of light through my tears.

All this time, I’ve fought so hard to stay alive, to maintain some core of self beneath their experiments and conditioning.

But what self is there really?

What am I beyond their carefully crafted weapon?

I don’t even know who I was before this place.

Don’t remember having a family, a life, or any existence beyond these walls.

The fragments of memory that sometimes surface – the mirror image with different eyes, the woman with the hidden face, the lullaby that haunts my dreams, or even the man with blue eyes – feel more like fever dreams than actual history.

More tears fall, and I let them.

Let myself have this one moment of weakness, a brief acknowledgment of how thoroughly they’ve stripped everything from me. My past, my identity, my very nature as an omega – all of it sacrificed to their endless experiments and trials.

All for what?

The sound of distant gunfire reminds me that I don’t have the luxury of breaking down completely.

The truth remains, heavy as chains: I can’t do this alone.

As I wipe the tears from my face, I realize I have to make a choice. Try to fight my way out alone and probably die in the attempt, or…

Or what?

What other option is there for something like me?

My gaze drifts to the guard’s waist, where the holstered glock rests like a dark promise against the black fabric.

The sleek metal catches what little light filters into this room of death, gleaming with devastating possibility.

A simple tool, really – just metal and mechanics designed to deliver swift endings. My lip catches between my teeth as I contemplate its brutal simplicity.

One squeeze of a trigger, one explosive moment, and everything just…stops.

The temptation that’s hauntingly satisfying to dare think about. The weight of my reality presses down with suffocating force as I examine my place in this broken world.

No true memories anchor me to any sense of self – just fragments that dance like smoke, always dissipating when I reach for them.

The lullaby echoes in distant corners of my mind, a melody that might be memory or madness. Those shadowed faces blur and shift, refusing to resolve into anything concrete. Even the possibility of a twin sister feels more like a desperate dream than truth; a story I’ve told myself to feel less alone in the endless white halls of my prison.

What pack would ever want something like me?

The thought brings fresh waves of anguish as I acknowledge my fundamental wrongness.

No scent marks me as omega – that essential essence stripped away by their endless experiments. No natural responses stir when alpha pheromones fill the air. None of the instincts that should define my designation remain intact.

I’m a malfunctioning creation, a failed experiment in everything except killing.

Even if by some miracle a pack claimed me, how could I fulfill any of the roles an omega should? How could I offer comfort I can’t feel? Respond to needs I can’t sense?

Provide the emotional connection that’s been burned out of me?

Riot’s lifeless form drifts through my thoughts – another failure, a soul sacrificed to the monster they made me. Azurite and Luna are lost somewhere in this labyrinth of horror, perhaps already dead or wishing they were.

Even those brief moments of connection, those precious fragments of what I’d dare claim as friendship, have been torn away like everything else.

The communicator slips from my nerveless fingers as I reach for the gun.

My movements feel dreamlike, detached, as I disengage the safety with practiced ease. The weapon’s weight settles differently in my hands now that I’m the intended target rather than the executioner.

I’ve witnessed intimately what bullets do to flesh, and heard the desperate pleas for mercy that accompany their impact. Watched the light fade from countless eyes as final breaths gurgled through blood-filled throats.

If only I could be as emotionless as this construct of metal and purpose.

Perhaps then the weight of all I’ve done wouldn’t press so heavily against what remains of my soul. Then I could forget the faces that haunt my dreams, the screams that echo in my quietest moments.

My breath hitches, uneven and raw, as fresh tears trace burning paths down my cheeks.

The barrel feels almost loving against my skin – cool, promising, final.

My hands tremble not from fear but from the enormity of this choice, this one true decision that is finally, completely my own.

A peculiar calm settles over me as I acknowledge the truth:

I don’t want to die.

Not really.

The primal spark of life still burns somewhere deep inside, yearning for sunlight, freedom, and the possibility of joy. But living like this, existing as nothing more than their carefully crafted weapon to be abused until my use runs dry…that’s not living at all.

That’s just prolonging the torture they began six years ago.

My finger brushes the trigger with something like tenderness just as the lullaby begins playing in my mind.

The melody floats gently and sweetly through my consciousness, so faint I almost miss it beneath the thundering of my heart.

Is this the shadows’ parting gift?

One last comfort before I step into whatever darkness awaits? The notes carry hints of love and safety, of things I might have known once, of everything I’ll never know again.

Thank you, shadows.

Whether they were created out of pure insanity, or delivered aftermath of all the injected concoctions put into my system, I am grateful for their companionship, even if it feels short-lived.

I didn’t realize how significant their presence was until I no longer heard them, but to be comforted in such a way that feels unique for me, gives a pinch of relief that all the pain I’d endured will be over.

That the shadows that have kept me thriving can be finally laid to rest…

Lost in these final haunting notes, in this last moment that belongs purely to me, I miss the approaching footsteps until it’s too late.

The gun vanishes from my grasp as an arm wraps around my throat, pulling me back against a solid form that radiates strength and purpose.

What the—

My head jerks up, eyes widening in shock, and in that moment everything I thought I knew about my broken existence shatters.

Because the scent that assaults my senses is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced – something that bypasses all their careful programming.

It awakens parts of me I thought long dead, ignites responses I believed impossible, and in that single breath, I understand what it means to be devastatingly alive.

A pinch of what it’s like to be an awakened Omega.

16

CHOOSING THE LIVING VERSUS THE UNFORGIVING DEAD

~ATLAS~

The scent hits me like a physical force - sweet and complex, layering through the sterile facility air like a siren’s call.

Cupcakes, yes, but not just any simple baked goods.

This aroma carries depths: vanilla cream whipped to perfection, dark chocolate with hints of coffee, and caramelized sugar crystallizing into delicate patterns.

Beneath those sweeter notes lie deeper ones: rain-washed earth, night-blooming jasmine, something wild and untamed that defies description.

I shouldn’t allow myself to be distracted.

Not here or now; during such a critical operation. But this scent bypasses all logic, all training, all carefully maintained control. It speaks to something primal in me, something that recognizes its significance even if I don’t understand why.

“Continue the sweep,” I tell the others, keeping my voice steady despite the way my pulse races. “I’ll scout this section and catch up.”

Kieran starts to protest - he knows better than anyone the risks of me moving solo through hostile territory. Yet I silence him with a gesture and head off before he can say a thing.

It’s a bad quality to assume a leadership role when I’m not capable of being in that executive position on missions like this, but those habits are far too hard to tarnish, which is why the others don’t bother correcting me.

The pull of this scent is too strong to ignore, too important to dismiss.

Moving through Ravenscroft’s corridors while essentially blind should be suicide.

The silk wrap that covers my eyes offers minimal protection, the thin layer over my left eye allowing only the barest perception of shadows and light. It’s enough to keep the damaged nerves from complete overload, enough to let me function, but hardly ideal for combat situations.

I’ve learned to navigate by other means: air currents that map spaces, echoes that paint pictures in sound, and scents that tell stories more detailed than sight ever could.

Right now, all those enhanced senses are screaming at me to move faster, to reach the source of that intoxicating aroma before it’s too late.

Then another scent cuts through the sweetness - sharp and acrid that makes every hair on my body stand on end.

Fear.

Not the normal anxiety that permeates this place, not the expected terror of guards facing a superior force. This is deeper, primal, and more devastating in its purity.

Most people don’t realize fear has a scent.

They can’t detect how it changes the chemical composition of skin, how it alters the very air around someone in its grip. But to me, it’s as clear as a scream in an empty room.

This particular fear carries notes of desperation, of finality, of decisions made in darkness with no hope of dawn.

The silk wrap filters the harsh facility lighting into manageable patterns of shadow and illumination. I can’t see details, can’t make out fine features, or read expressions.

As I burst into the room, the silhouette before me tells a story that makes my blood run cold.

A slender figure kneels on the floor, hands pressed together not in supplication to any god, but in preparation for self-destruction. The gun they hold catches what little light penetrates my wrap, its metal surface gleaming like a malevolent star.

My enhanced hearing picks up their ragged breathing, the slight tremor in their hands, the whisper of tears tracking down cheeks I can’t quite see. The scent of their fear mingles with that incredible sweetness, creating something that tears at my very soul - beauty and despair intertwined in an impossible melody.

Their finger rests on the trigger, and time seems to crystallize around this moment.

All my training, experience, and carefully honed abilities narrow to this single point in space and time. I can hear their heartbeat, racing like a trapped bird. Smell the salt of their tears mixing with that devastating aroma that led me here.

Everything in me recognizes the significance of what’s happening, even if I don’t understand why.

This moment, this individual that surely has to be an Omega, the convergence of scent and sound and desperate intention - it matters in ways that transcend normal understanding.

The shadows shift slightly, giving me just enough information to act. Their position tells me everything I need to know about angle and trajectory. The slight change in their breathing signals imminent action.

I have seconds.

Maybe less.

To prevent something irreversible.

To save someone who smells like destiny itself.

The muscles in their hand tense, preparing to squeeze the trigger, and I know my time for observation is over.

Now comes the moment where all my adaptations, compensations for lack of normal sight, must serve a single purpose:

Stopping this beautiful, desperate creature from extinguishing their own light.

The moment my arm wraps around her throat, I feel her entire body go rigid with shock.

Her pulse races against my skin like a trapped bird, each beat carrying notes of fear and disbelief.

The gun remains clutched in her trembling hands, and I waste no time disarming her - a swift movement born of years of training sends the weapon skittering across the room. The metallic clatter as it strikes a locker and falls to the floor echoes through the space, marking the distance between her and that final, terrible choice.

Only then do I realize I’ve been holding my breath as if some part of me feared that even the slightest movement might shatter this moment.

A soft whimper escapes her - the sound hitting me like an electric current, warming my blood and making every alpha instinct roar to life.

The effect she has on me is devastating, unprecedented, and completely beyond my control.

Though my vision is limited by the silk wrap, my other senses paint a vivid picture of her: the slight tremor in her frame, the way sweat and tears have dampened her skin, and the wild disarray of her hair that speaks of recent chaos.

Her scent grows stronger with our proximity; that incredible blend of sweetness and complexity that led me here now threatens to overwhelm my carefully maintained control.

I can feel her attention fixed on me, her silence heavy with unspoken questions and realizations.

The pull between us grows stronger with each passing second, a tangible force that makes my hands itch to touch, to claim, to show her exactly why ending her life would be an unforgivable waste. Every alpha instinct I possess demands that I show her a better path, that I press my lips to hers and kiss away the despair that led her to such desperate measures.

But I hold back, knowing that such actions would only frighten her more.

Instead, I offer one quiet word.

“Breathe.”

She gasps as if my command has broken some spell, her chest heaving as she draws in air she’d been denying herself. The sound of her breathing - ragged and uneven - tears at something deep in my chest.

Never have I more acutely felt the loss of my full vision than in this moment.

To be so close to her, to feel the electricity crackling between us, and yet be unable to see her eyes…it’s a special kind of torture. I imagine those eyes wide with shock, pupils dilated with uncertainty, and something deeper —— something that might mirror the inexplicable connection I feel building between us.

Her scent shifts subtly; fear giving way to confusion, to wonder, to something I don’t dare name.

The silk wrap allows me to see her silhouette shift slightly, her head tilting back as if studying my face. The movement brings her neck closer to my hand, and I feel her pulse jump at the increased contact.

We remain frozen in this tableau, my arm around her throat, her back pressed against my chest, both of us breathing the same air charged with possibility and danger.

The facility’s alarms continue their distant wailing, but they feel irrelevant compared to the symphony of her heartbeat against my skin.

This close, I can detect layers in her scent I missed before.

Beneath the sweetness lies something darker - clinical antiseptic, metallic traces of what might be blood, and underneath it all, a core of strength that refuses to be extinguished despite everything that led her to this moment of despair.

The alpha in me wants to growl at the evidence of her suffering, wants to tear apart whatever — whoever — drove her to contemplate such a permanent escape.

But I maintain control, knowing that any display of aggression now might shatter this delicate moment between us.

Her breathing steadies gradually, each inhale carrying my scent deeper into her system. I feel the minute changes in her body - the slight relaxation of rigid muscles, the almost imperceptible lean into my support, the way her head tilts just a fraction more to expose her neck.

All signs should indicate omega submission to alpha presence.

Yet…her response isn’t like other Omegas.

It seems almost experimental or robotic. As if she’s testing these reactions rather than succumbing to their natural instincts.

The mystery of her deepens with each passing second, pulling me further into an orbit I have no desire to escape.

Is she who I think she is?

There’s one more vital question that needs to be answered.

How can I convince her that whatever darkness brought her here, there are better answers than the one she was about to choose?

17

AWAKENED BY FATE

~NYX~

The world stops spinning the moment his arm wraps around my throat.

Even without taking a breath, his scent envelops me completely - something impossibly rich and complex that makes every nerve-ending fire at once.

The shadows fall silent, as if they too are stunned by this unexpected intervention.

My eyes widen, desperately trying to absorb every detail of the man who just prevented my final exit.

The first thing that catches my attention is the silk blindfold wrapped with careful precision around his eyes. It’s not hastily applied or temporary - the fabric sits with practiced familiarity against his skin, suggesting a long-term relationship with darkness.

Why would someone deliberately blind themselves in such a dangerous environment?

My gaze drops to his lips, finding them slightly parted as he draws quick breaths. They’re not perfectly smooth like the guards who never see real action - these lips are weather-worn, bearing tiny scars that speak of real combat experience.

The subtle stubble along his jaw adds to the impression of someone who prioritizes function over appearance, the short dark hair kept neat enough for tactical efficiency without vanity.

His combat gear resembles the guards’ uniforms enough to momentarily spike fear through me, but there’s something fundamentally different about how he holds himself. The bulletproof vest and tactical equipment speak of serious intent, but the way his arm cradles my throat carries none of the cruel efficiency I’ve come to expect from Ravenscroft’s forces.

The grip is present but gentle - more restraint than restriction. No guard ordered to take me “dead or alive” would show such careful consideration. Their touch always carries brutality, the casual cruelty of those who see us as less than human.

But this…this is different.

His scent hits me again, stronger this time, and I can’t help but close my eyes and draw in a deep breath.

The aroma that fills my lungs defies description — pine needles warmed by summer sun, old leather well-maintained, something crisp and clean like mountain air after rain. Underneath lies a darker note, something that speaks of power carefully controlled, of strength held in perfect check.

A small sound escapes me — something between a whimper and a moan — before I can stop it. The noise seems to trigger something primal in him. A low growl rumbles through his chest where it presses against my back, the sound carrying such pure alpha dominance that every part of me lights up in response.

He leans closer, bringing his face mere inches from mine.

The heat of his breath fans across my skin, carrying that incredible scent directly to my core. No one has ever affected me like this; six years of experiments and trials supposedly stripped away my omega responses to alpha pheromones.

But this man…this alpha…somehow bypasses all their careful programming. His presence awakens things I thought long dead and ignites responses I believed impossible. Every cell in my body suddenly remembers what it means to be an omega.

To be wanted.

To be claimed.

The shadows remain silent, but something else rises in their place - instincts I never knew I possessed, desires I didn’t know I could feel. My pulse races not with fear now, but with an anticipation that borders on desperation.

His proximity makes it impossible to think clearly. All I can process is the gentle strength of his hold, the intoxicating blend of his scent, and the way my body seems to recognize something my mind can’t quite grasp.

It feels like standing on the edge of a precipice — not the desperate ledge I’d been poised on moments before, but something infinitely more promising. Something that speaks not of endings, but of beginnings I never dared imagine possible.

The mere idea of a potential future…the grasping hope that I’m not damaged goods like the world within these confined walls has defined me as.

I’m not a broken Omega.

I still function…

The world narrows to this moment, to the space between his growl and my next breath, to the electricity that crackles in the minuscule distance between our lips.

Every sense heightens to painful clarity, making me acutely aware of each point of contact between us.

His arm around my throat.

His chest against my back.

His breath mixing with mine.

And through it all, that scent - that impossible, incredible scent that makes me feel more alive than the years I’ve spent in captivity.

The sense of shattering inside me breaks free of years of conditioning, and I find myself leaning up toward his lips.

The initial contact is barely there — a whisper of touch that sends electricity racing through every nerve ending. That slight brush is all it takes to shatter his control.

A groan rumbles through his chest, deep and primal, before his mouth claims mine completely.

The kiss ignites something I never knew existed within me.

My body hums with a mixture of relief and awakening passion, even though our lips barely move against each other. We’re testing boundaries, exploring this unexpected connection with careful deliberation.

Both of us seem aware of our surroundings — the blaring alarms, the constant threat of death lurking around every corner, the dead guards scattered across the floor like macabre witnesses to this moment.

Yet despite every reason to pull away, to remember the danger we’re in, we remain locked in this first tentative kiss.

A first kiss with someone that isn’t trying to hurt me…

Doing everything to ruin me…

Then there’s a shift in him.

His restraint crumbles as he claims my mouth with desperate intensity, the roughness of the kiss making me melt further against his solid frame. Another growl vibrates between us as he deepens the kiss with obvious expertise, while I fumble to respond.

My inexperience becomes glaringly obvious — six years in Ravenscroft didn’t exactly provide opportunities for romantic encounters. But rather than feeling ashamed of my naive responses, I find myself surrendering to them.

This alpha seems to recognize my uncertainty, adjusting his approach with incredible sensitivity.

He slows the kiss, letting me learn his rhythm, and allowing me to explore this new territory at my own pace. The arm that was around my throat disappeared, replaced by his hand cradling the front of my neck with impossible gentleness.

The touch carries such tenderness it almost brings tears to my eyes.

I’ve never known this kind of contact — the books and images I’ve studied showed parents holding their children with similar care, but this is different. His touch combines protection with passion in a way I can’t quite comprehend. It’s as if he wants to shelter me from every horror I’ve endured while simultaneously awakening parts of me I never knew existed.

His tongue traces the seam of my parted lips as I catch my breath, the gesture somehow both a question and an invitation. Even in this moment of heated connection, he’s asking permission, letting me set boundaries I never knew I needed.

Following pure instinct, I mirror his action, running my tongue along his bottom lip.

The groan that escapes him sounds like pleasure and restraint waging war. His hand tightens slightly on my throat — not threatening, but stabilizing as if he needs to ground himself against whatever storm I’m stirring up inside him.

The shadows remain silent, but something else rises to fill that space — this primal and powerful sensation that makes me feel more omega than all the years of experiments ever allowed. Every point of contact between us burns with possibility, promise, and a connection I can’t begin to understand but desperately want to explore.

If we’re able to survive this…

His scent wraps around me like a physical embrace — pine and leather and mountain air all mingling with something darker, something that speaks of power carefully controlled for my benefit. The combination makes my head spin and makes my body respond in ways I didn’t know it could.

Here, in this room of death and violence, surrounded by evidence of everything wrong with my world, I find myself experiencing what feels impossibly right. As if I had merely forgotten what it feels like to experience, and in this instance, all the reasons I had that gun pressed to my head mere minutes ago.

The kiss continues, a perfect balance between his expertise and my discovery, between his restraint and my awakening desire. Each brush of his lips, each careful touch of his tongue, each controlled breath between us — it all builds into something that threatens to consume us both.

I should be afraid.

Wary of this stranger who stopped me from ending everything. Any sane person would question why an Alpha would show such care for an omega he doesn’t know — especially one as broken and useless as me.

But with his taste on my tongue and his scent in my lungs, I can’t bring myself to doubt…

There’s no way of forcing myself to pull away.

Nothing I can do but surrender to this unexpected revelation of what connection can feel like.

His hand on my throat feels like an anchor keeping me from drifting away into the darkness that nearly claimed me. His kiss feels like a promise I don’t dare name but desperately want to believe in.

For the first time, I feel a pulsing rejuvenation that’s beyond survival.

Beyond pain and threatened refuge.

I feel like an omega discovering what it means to be wanted.

Means to be protected with the daring hope of what it could be like to be claimed.

Even if this moment is all we have — even if death finds us in the next breath — I want to drink in every sensation. Want to memorize every detail of how it feels to be touched with purpose instead of cruelty, to be held with passion instead of clinical detachment.

This could be Death’s cruel joke to tease me before the end, but if it is, I’ll enjoy every second of it because this is what I’ve craved for all these years and moments.

A simple taste of what it’s like to be an Omega.

His tongue slips past my lips with careful precision, testing and exploring as if waiting for any sign of hesitation. Far from wanting to pull away, I lean further into his touch, silently begging for more. He reads my wordless request perfectly, deepening the kiss with a skill that makes me dizzy.

The fact that he can interpret my body’s signals so effortlessly amazes me.

After years of being surrounded by guards who saw me as nothing but a number, who had the advantage of sight but never saw me as anything worth noting, this blind alpha understands my every subtle movement.

An unwelcome thought intrudes — would he still want me if he could see me? Would his desire dim if he knew what years of experiments had done to my appearance? The thought makes me tense involuntarily, my muscles going rigid with sudden anxiety.

He responds immediately, gentling the kiss before growling against my lips.

“Don’t fret, Omega. Relax.”

The command in his voice, somehow both authoritative and tender even through his breathlessness, sends fire racing through my veins. Something inside me liquefies, and I feel an unfamiliar rush of wetness between my legs.

My core clenches with need I’ve never experienced, an ache so profound it makes me tremble. Without underwear beneath the thin medical gown, there’s nothing to hide the evidence of my arousal. Slick trails down my inner thighs, and I know it’s only moments before his enhanced alpha senses detect my response to him.

Panic starts to build — will he be disgusted that a strange omega is getting so worked up over a simple kiss? Will he be embarrassed by my obvious inexperience, my body’s desperate reaction to the first gentle touch I’ve known in years?

My mind spirals with possibilities, each worse than the last.

For the first time, I understand why the shadows always sang to me — their voices would have drowned out this cascade of doubts and fears.

The kiss breaks suddenly, leaving me gasping for air.

My lungs burn, but it’s nothing compared to the fire racing through the rest of my body. I’m trembling, but not from fear — this is something entirely new, something that makes me feel simultaneously powerful and vulnerable.

“Are you wet for me, Omega?” His whispered question carries such heat it makes me shiver. His voice is pitched low, intimate as if sharing a forbidden secret despite our solitude. The private nature of his inquiry, the way he makes it feel like we’re the only two people in existence, pulls an honest response from my lips.

“Yes,” I whisper back, matching his quiet tone.

The admission hangs between us, charged with possibility and uncertainty.

I’ve never done anything like this before, never experienced these sensations or navigated these waters. Part of me fears admitting my inexperience — would it make him stop? Would confessing my complete lack of knowledge end whatever this is building between us?

The wet heat between my legs grows more intense with each passing second, my body making its needs known despite my mind’s hesitation. Every nerve ending feels impossibly alive, aware, waiting for his next move.

His scent wraps around me stronger than ever, carrying notes of arousal that make my head spin. Pine and leather take on spicier undertones, while that mountain air freshness gains a musky depth that hums for my reaction.

I should fear continuing: this situation, new sensations, and of this alpha who’s awakened responses I didn’t know I possessed.

Yet, I find myself wanting more, even though I have no idea what ‘more’ might entail.

The shadows remain silent, offering no guidance in this unexplored territory but their absence gives me a sense of liberation I didn’t think I needed. A moment that belongs solely to sensation, discovery, and whatever happens when an omega who’s never known tenderness meets an alpha who seems to understand her without words.

His lips trail against mine with delicate precision while he presses his forehead to mine, both of us struggling to catch our breath.

An intercom crackles somewhere, a voice calling for “Atlas,” but he ignores it completely.

The connection between us feels too precious to break for mere communication.

Is his name Atlas? A name that makes me feel as if he’s giving me a sense of direction.

With subtle guidance, his hand encouraging me to rise, I follow his lead.

The way his touch traces down my body suggests an intimate knowledge of every curve and hollow, despite never having touched me before. When I turn to face him, the height difference strikes me immediately - my 5′3″ frame feels distinctly diminutive against his towering presence of well over six feet.

He stays perfectly still as I press against him, an unspoken invitation to explore. Unable to resist such temptation, I place my hands lightly on his chest. The bulletproof vest blocks direct contact, making me yearn to trail my fingers across bare skin instead.

I keep my movements deliberately slow, understanding that his blindness likely enhances his other senses to acute levels.

My own experiences with sensory deprivation taught me how the body compensates — touch becomes electric, hearing sharpens to crystal clarity, and scent tells stories sight never could.

Consciously steadying my breathing, I try to convey security and comfort through my body’s signals. The sense of safety I feel in his presence defies logic, given our dire circumstances, yet it feels undeniably real.

My hands venture upward, tracing the strong column of his neck before cupping his cheek.

When my thumbs brush lightly across his blindfold, his breath catches audibly. The gesture might seem presumptuous or territorial, but fascination drives me forward. Never have I been able to study an alpha this closely, not as a specimen but as an equal whose presence ignites rather than repulses.

“You…don’t…hate me?”

The question escapes before I can stop it, carrying years of accumulated pain and rejection.

Instead of words, he answers by cradling my cheek in his massive palm, fingers sliding into my hair to hold me steady as he captures my lips in a kiss that speaks of reverence and want.

The moan that escapes me gets lost in his mouth as he suddenly shifts our positions, pressing me against the wall.

My legs wrap instinctively around his waist while my arms struggle to encompass his broad chest. The size difference becomes even more apparent — his frame radiates pure power, all solid muscle and imposing breadth.

Yet it’s the way he kisses me that steals my breath completely.

Each press of his lips carries such desperate need, such absolute conviction as if I represent everything he’s ever desired. The realization hits hard - I nearly denied myself this experience.

Death would have stolen this electricity between us, this pure addiction of desire and connection.

My fingers dig into his shoulders as the truth settles deeper - I almost pulled that trigger without knowing what it meant to find an alpha who instinctively understands my orbit, and who makes every cell in my body sing with recognition.

Perhaps this magnetic pull between us masks elaborate deception.

Maybe these sensations merely sugar-coat inevitable betrayal.

But the raw energy crackling between us awakens an unprecedented will to survive, to fight whatever challenges arise; to claim more moments like this where existence feels transcendent rather than torturous.

His kiss deepens as if sensing my thoughts — determined to prove that what builds between us carries more substance than mere desperate fantasy.

Each touch, each shared breath, each subtle shift of his body against mine writes promises my battered heart desperately wants to believe.

Breaking apart when our lungs scream for air, his words rush out against my lips with fierce intensity.

“Fuck no,” he whispers, the vehemence in his tone making me shiver. “Who dares hate you? Should I get rid of them?”

His mouth traces the corners of my lips before blazing a trail of tender kisses down my neck.

The sensation makes my back arch involuntarily, pressing closer to his solid frame. He holds me effortlessly, as if my weight means nothing, as if keeping me in his arms fulfills some primal need.

“Everyone…here. I’m…” The words catch in my throat, fear building at the thought of revealing my identity.

How do I tell this alpha who’s shown me such tenderness that I’m nothing but a failed experiment? A weapon they created but couldn’t fully control?

“Speak to me, omega. I won’t harm you, nor will I judge you.”

His reassurance comes with the press of his forehead against mine - a gesture I’m beginning to recognize as his way of grounding us both. The physical connection speaks louder than words, offering comfort through touch in a way that makes my heart ache.

This tenderness, this care, this way he treats me like precious treasure rather than dangerous cargo - it feeds a hunger I never knew existed. Each gentle touch helps heal wounds I didn’t realize still bled.

“Patient…” The designation sticks in my throat, my lips trembling with the effort to force out the truth. Fear of shattering this magical connection makes the words even harder to speak.

His lips find mine again, the kiss carrying reassurance and acceptance I’ve never known. When he pulls back, his words strike deep.

“Your real name, omega. Not what those who hurt you label you as.”

The statement hits like a physical blow. I’ve lived so long with their designation, their number, their carefully crafted identity for their perfect M.U.S.E. that I’d almost forgotten the name written in my file. The name that belonged to me before Ravenscroft stripped everything else away.

A lump forms in my throat, threatening to silence me forever, but buried strength surfaces from somewhere deep inside. From that place the shadows usually sing, from that core of self they never quite managed to destroy.

“Nyx,” I whisper, the name feeling foreign on my tongue after so long. Then, gathering every scrap of courage I possess, I add, “Nyx Blackwood.”

The name hangs between us like a live wire, charged with possibilities and dangers I can’t begin to calculate. This alpha now holds more than just my body in his strong hands — he holds my truth, my identity, my most carefully guarded secret.

His continued gentleness, the way he cradles me against him as if I’m infinitely precious rather than potentially lethal, makes the risk feel worth it.

For the first time in six years, I’ve chosen to trust. Chosen to believe that not every touch brings pain.

Not every connection leads to betrayal.

The shadows remain quiet, but their silence feels approving rather than ominous. As if they too recognize that this moment marks a turning point — a choice between remaining their carefully crafted weapon or daring to become whatever this alpha sees in me.

His scent wraps around me like a protective shield, carrying notes of acceptance and desire that make my head spin. The mix of pine and leather and mountain air gains sweeter undertones, as if his very essence celebrates my trust in sharing my true name.

I wait for his reaction with bated breath, every muscle tense despite his reassuring touch. Years of conditioning make me expect rejection, revulsion, or fear. Makes me brace for the moment he realizes exactly what — who — he holds in his arms.

But his grip never wavers.

His touch remains gentle yet firm, grounding me in this moment of vulnerability. His breath mingles with mine as we share this suspended instant between confession and response.

For the first time since entering Ravenscroft, I feel real. Not a number, experiment, or weapon.

Just Nyx — a name I’d almost forgotten belonged to me, an identity I’d nearly lost beneath layers of their careful programming.

His acceptance of that name, that truth, that core of self I’ve kept hidden for so long, means more than any kiss. More than any touch. More than any physical pleasure his presence ignites.

It means he sees me.

Truly sees me, despite his blindness.

Sees past their labels and designations to the woman beneath.

This instance is the birth of what I was about to sacrifice:

My fated destiny.

18

US AGAINST THIS CRASHING WORLD

~NYX~

“Scorpio,” I whisper against his lips, feeling heat rush to my cheeks at my own peculiar habit.

His small smile encourages me to explain.

“I know it’s strange, but I track zodiac compatibility. A Scorpio’s traits match this moment - intense, passionate, drawn to the mysterious.”

I hesitate, remembering my research on astrological incompatibility.

“Though some signs clash terribly with us. We’re too intense, too focused, too…” I trail off, realizing I’m rambling. “I don’t usually talk this much. Or at all, really.”

Instead of mockery, he gifts me with his own introduction.

“Atlas. Capricorn.” His thumb traces my lower lip as he continues, “They say Capricorns and Scorpios match well, though we both tend to battle for control.”

That sinful smile plays across his lips before he kisses me softly.

“Makes me wonder if my little Scorpio has a dominant streak she’d like to explore.”

My face burns at his words, but I refuse to retreat from the challenge in his tone. Taking initiative, I press my lips to his, thrilled when he yields to my lead.

The surrender emboldens me to wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

His groan vibrates against my mouth - I can sense his restraint, his willingness to let me set the pace despite his alpha instincts surely demanding control.

This consideration sets him apart from every other alpha I’ve encountered, marking him as uniquely different.

Breaking the kiss, I wish I could see his eyes, read the truth of his enjoyment there. But his body speaks volumes — the relaxed set of his shoulders so different from his earlier tension, and the unmistakable hardness pressing against me leaves little doubt about his desire.

“This is all new to me,” I confess, stumbling over the words. “I haven’t…I mean, I haven’t done what Omegas are supposed to know instinctively.” Pressing closer, seeking courage in his warmth, I continue. “I haven’t done the ‘deed.’ I understand the mechanics…they made us study it in clinical detail. But I’ve never…I wasn’t chosen. Not worthy of a pack. Too disgusting for an alpha.”

A growl rips from his throat, dangerous and deep. But his arms tighten protectively around me as he snarls,

“Whoever spoke those lies can enjoy a bullet through their temple.”

The intercom buzzes again, another voice demanding his location and status.

He grunts in irritation before carrying me to a desk in the corner, setting me down with extraordinary gentleness. After a quick kiss, he activates the intercom.

“I’m fine. Moving soon. Kieran, meet at the van with Dante.” His voice carries authority even through the static.

“What about the Omegas?”

I don’t know how much he knows about the omegas that are in Ravenscroft’s captivity, but his response sends shivers down my spine.

“Found one. Our omega. Clear the path. Any lab coats or guards get a special bullet. Understood?”

Our…Omega?

Special bullet…

Though his eyes remain hidden behind silk, I feel the weight of his attention solely on me. The words feel like a vow, a promise of protection and vengeance combined.

“Understood,” Kieran replies. “We’ll eliminate every single one.”

Atlas’s smirk carries deadly promise as he releases the intercom button, his focus returning completely to me.

That simple phrase - “our omega” - echoes in my mind, carrying implications that make my heart race and my body burn with renewed desire.

His declaration of ownership should frighten me but instead, it feels like liberation - like finally finding where I belong.

“Your pack?” I ask softly, still marveling at how easily they’ve penetrated Ravenscroft’s defenses. “They managed to infiltrate this place so…efficiently.” I hesitate, unsure how to express my amazement at his composure despite what must be significant limitations.

His lips curve slightly as he explains.

“We’re one of four subdivisions currently overtaking the facility. Parazodiac Nexus Ops. This isn’t our first operation. We’ve liberated other laboratories, and freed other omegas from captivity.”

The revelation stuns me into silence while his hand traces gentle patterns across my shoulders. His touch pauses at the fabric of my stolen shirt, fingers gripping the material lightly.

“This has to come off.”

Confusion furrows my brow as I glance down at the shirt.

“Why?”

Instead of answering immediately, he takes a step back. My heart lurches, fear of rejection rising instantly.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question dies in my throat as he strips off his tactical shirt, revealing a bulletproof vest over a black tank top that does nothing to conceal the powerful muscles of his arms.

Scars mark his skin like a roadmap of survival, interwoven with intricate tattoos that tell their own stories of pain and triumph.

An unexpected kinship blooms in my chest.

Though he can’t see the marks that map my own trials, if his fingers ever traced my skin, they’d find similar evidence of survival - raised scars and rough patches that speak of endless experiments and “trials.”

He holds out his shirt, an explanation finally coming.

“I don’t want you wearing the scent of some random alpha who isn’t worthy of you.”

Understanding dawns - the guard’s shirt I’m wearing carries his scent, marking me with the essence of someone who contributed to my captivity.

The false claim of ownership through scent must be offensive to Atlas’s alpha instincts.

“Okay,” I whisper, not hesitating to strip despite our circumstances. The medical gown and stolen shirt fall away, leaving me bare for a moment before I take his offered garment. Unable to resist, I bring the fabric to my nose first, inhaling deeply.

His scent floods my senses — pine needles and leather, mountain air, and controlled power. The combination sends waves of calm through my system, settling something restless inside me that I hadn’t even realized was agitated.

Pulling it on, I find myself swimming in the excess fabric. But where the guard’s shirt felt like borrowed protection, this feels like being wrapped in security itself. The warmth isn’t just physical — it seeps into my bones, carrying comfort I’ve never known.

The oversized garment hangs to mid-thigh, sleeves falling past my fingers. Instead of feeling diminished by the size difference, I feel oddly protected. His scent surrounds me completely now, marking me in a way that speaks not of possession but of shelter.

“Better,” he murmurs, reaching out to adjust the collar with surprising accuracy despite his blindness. His fingers brush my neck in the process, sending shivers down my spine.

“Now you smell like you belong to someone who values you.”

The possessiveness in his tone should frighten me after years of being treated as property.

Instead, it ignites warmth in my chest. Because this isn’t the clinical ownership of the lab, or the cruel dominance of the guards. This is protection freely offered and consciously accepted.

His shirt feels like armor against the world that’s hurt me for so long. Each breath fills my lungs with his scent, reminding me that I’m no longer alone in this fight. No longer just Patient 495, but Nyx - an omega worth protecting, worth claiming, worth saving.

My fingers play with the hem of his shirt, marveling at how such a simple gesture - the offering of his clothing and scent - can feel so monumental. In this one act, he’s given me more consideration than I’ve received in six years of captivity.

His hands find my waist unerringly, thumbs tracing circles through the fabric.

“Now everyone will know you’re under my protection,” he says softly. “That you have a pack ready to tear this place apart to keep you safe.”

The promise in those words, the sheer conviction behind them, makes my eyes burn with unexpected tears. Because for the first time since entering Ravenscroft, I feel like I might have a future beyond these walls.

Like I might, finally, have somewhere - someone - to belong to.

“What are we going to do now?” I glance toward the door, reality intruding on our intimate bubble. Time hasn’t paused for our connection, and every second brings new danger.

“How good are you in combat?” Atlas asks, his hands trailing my body with deliberate precision until they find the gun straps on my thighs. “And can you actually use these, or are you just enjoying looking hot with strapped weaponry?”

The unexpected playfulness in his tone startles a laugh from me. I try to smother it with my hand, but his responding smirk shows he enjoys my failed attempt at containing my amusement.

“Yes, I’m aware I can’t really see, but my imagination does enjoy taunting me.”

The admission sends an ache through my heart.

“I can defend myself,” I say softly, then find myself wanting to give him the vision he can’t have. “My hair falls past my shoulders - a dark green shade with ombre highlights of magenta when the light hits it right. My eyes…” I pause, considering their unique shade. “They’re ivory green with hints of teal. I think I got them from my mother. I see those eyes in my dreams sometimes, though her face remains hidden.”

Realizing how much I’m revealing, I drop my gaze to my bare feet.

“I’m pretty short, and maybe look fragile because building muscle here is difficult, but I’m strong. I can fight. I can run.” The words spill out faster now. “They’ve crafted me into their weapon. That’s what M.U.S.E. means - Mentally insane, Unsatisfactory, Scentless, Excelled. I hate what they’ve made me. Hate this place…”

Catching myself drifting from physical description to deeper confessions, I wish to apologize.

“Uh…this isn’t going the way I wanted to express. Sorr—”

His fingers find my chin, tilting my face upward with surprising gentleness.

“You may be the M.U.S.E. they forced you to become, but you don’t need to continue being bound by their identity of you, Nyx,” he whispers. “Head up high, little Goddess. In my presence, you’re as worthy as a Queen that deserves to be worshipped and praised.”

He steps closer, his imposing height making me feel simultaneously small and protected.

“When this is done and we’re out of here alive, you’re going to see how it feels to be treated like a true Omega. Loved, adored, and cherished so much that you’ll never wish to aim a gun at yourself again. I can promise you that. I vow it.”

His words steal my breath, offering more comfort than I dare acknowledge. He seals his promise with a kiss before pressing his lips to my forehead.

Then his head tilts, catching sounds I can’t yet hear.

“We need to move. Company’s coming.”

Turning toward the door, he takes a step forward. Before I can stop myself, my hand reaches for his - a gossamer-light touch that nevertheless freezes him in place.

He looks back slightly, giving me a glimpse of his silk-wrapped gaze.

“Thank you,” I whisper, meaning deeper than words can express. “For…stopping me.”

His simple nod carries volumes of understanding, but I watch the transformation happen - the tender warmth draining away as mission mode takes over. His posture shifts, tension replacing ease as he focuses on the deadly task ahead.

This is the alpha who infiltrated Ravenscroft, who leads others into battle, who will tear through anyone standing between us and freedom. The change should frighten me, but instead, it offers its own kind of comfort.

Because this lethal focus, this coiled readiness for violence - it’s all directed toward keeping me safe.

Toward ensuring we both leave this place alive.

The shadows stir for the first time since his arrival, but not with their usual warnings or songs. Instead, they seem to approve of this alpha who can be both gentle and deadly, who offers both tenderness and protection.

Who sees me as more than their M.U.S.E.

“Follow my lead,” Atlas instructs with quiet authority. “If you sense anyone behind us, move ahead and I’ll handle them.”

“Should I help with direction if needed?” The question comes naturally, though years of conditioning make me brace for rejection.

His smirk carries unexpected warmth.

“Your call. You probably know this place better than I could ever grasp.”

“You won’t be offended? An Omega giving directions?”

“Any Alpha who feels insulted when an Omega needs to step up into a role that a man should, proves he’s insecure and hates being proven otherwise.” His response carries absolute conviction. “Order me around all you want, even if I might be stubborn about some things.”

My answering smirk feels foreign but right as we lock into mission mode. The gun feels natural in my grip while Atlas carries an impressive array of weaponry, ready for whatever awaits us.

Following his lead through the corridors, I’m amazed at how confidently he navigates this labyrinth despite never having been here before.

He must have memorized the blueprints extensively, which complements my intimate knowledge of these walls. Six years of captivity have burned every turn and passage into my memory.

I know the exits - not the nearest ones, but the ones most likely to lead to actual freedom rather than more elaborate traps.

Rounding a corner, we encounter a sight that makes my blood run cold - the group of lab coats who’ve taken such pleasure in my suffering over the years.

Their lead researcher’s eyes widen in recognition.

“Patient 495?” His shock quickly morphs into that familiar cruel excitement. “She’s escaping! Get her!”

Atlas’s response comes in a spray of bullets, forcing our tormentor to duck while three of his colleagues fall.

The remaining two scramble for cover, drawing their own weapons, but I’m already moving. The fourth goes down to my shot while the fifth takes a bullet to the leg, his scream echoing through the corridor as he collapses.

Atlas pauses, his covered gaze turning toward me with eerie precision.

“What is he to you?”

The question takes a moment to process before understanding hits.

“He laughed every time I got tortured. Wrote notes of mockery and watched as I and other omegas that weren’t so lucky suffered in chambers for hours, being tortured. I vowed to put him on a list where he’d suffer, but we don’t have time…”

Before I can finish, Atlas grabs my hand and pulls me forward.

“Where’s the nearest chamber you mentioned?”

The question’s implications take seconds to register.

“Three doors down,” I answer, memories of countless ‘trials’ making my voice shake.

His smirk carries deadly promise.

“You know the blueprint details.”

“I’m impressed you memorized them too.”

“Had to, if I wanted any chance of running blind in this hellhole.”

The words come just as he drops down to grab the wounded researcher by his injured leg. The man’s screams echo off sterile walls as Atlas drags him toward the chamber, leaving a crimson trail in their wake.

The sight is disturbing for any sane individual with morals and a sense of empathy, but this casual violence promises retribution.

Which is wholeheartedly deserved.

I feel a dark satisfaction watching our positions reversed. The man who recorded my torture with such clinical detachment now experiences terror firsthand.

The shadows stir with approval, their silence breaking into a soft hum of anticipation. They recognize this moment for what it is - not just escape, but justice.

Not just survival, but revenge.

Their company now buzzes in low hums, which only further empower me as we rush to the designated space which I’m sure was where they were coming from. Maybe they were wrapping up a session, thinking the alarms were just protocol or a false alarm.

Atlas’s grip remains gentle on my hand even as he drags our prisoner with merciless efficiency. The contrast speaks volumes about his nature - capable of both tenderness and brutality, each perfectly calibrated to its target.

Watching him navigate with such deadly grace, I understand that his blindness isn’t the weakness our enemies might assume. He’s adapted it into strength, using other senses to create a perfect awareness of his surroundings.

The researcher’s whimpers grow more desperate as we approach the chamber - he knows exactly what awaits inside those walls. After all, he designed many of the trials himself.

Now he’ll learn firsthand what his experiments feel like.

Taking the lead through familiar corridors, I guide Atlas to yesterday’s chamber - though time has become fluid since the flooding incident that changed everything. The room holds fresh memories of torture but now offers potential for justice.

“This is where he stood,” I indicate, remembering the researcher’s eager smirk as he watched me fight for survival. “Right there, recording notes while they tested us.”

My voice remains steady as I explain the procedure:

“They fill the chamber with water, timing how long we can survive before they drain it. Then the bottom drops away - we either hold ourselves up or fall into a pit where…” I swallow hard. “Where most omegas disappear forever.”

Atlas’s expression remains impassive behind his blindfold, lending him an aura of emotionless judgment as our prisoner whimpers pathetically.

“Please!” The researcher begs, his earlier cruelty replaced by desperation. “This omega is lying! She’s manipulating you, using herself as a pawn. I’m innocent…just an employee here. I have a family waiting at home. A daughter!”

The mention of his child makes Atlas’s jaw tighten before he hurls the man into the open chamber. The researcher’s cry of pain as his wounded leg hits the floor echoes off sterile walls.

“A daughter at home,” Atlas’s voice carries deadly quiet. “Yet every day you badge into this facility, proud to be among those who torture omegas and serve them to death. How many daughters have you watched die in these chambers?”

Terror replaces the researcher’s usual clinical detachment as Atlas levels the rifle.

“It’s tragic your daughter will grow up fatherless,” Atlas continues, “but perhaps it’s mercy. If she presents as omega, at least you won’t be here to throw her into these chambers yourself.”

“No! I work here to prevent that!” The man’s desperation grows. “She won’t be an omega…she can’t be!”

Atlas’s shrug carries terrible finality.

“Well, you won’t be around to find out, will you?”

The gunshot punctuates his words, the bullet finding the researcher’s other leg. His screams of agony bounce off chamber walls that have witnessed so much suffering.

As Atlas seals the chamber, he turns toward the control panel with unerring accuracy, sensing its looming presence.

“Would you like to do the honors?”

I fight back an inappropriate smile, knowing I shouldn’t take pleasure in this revenge. But after years of powerlessness, the opportunity for justice feels like redemption.

The shadows hum with anticipation, their song carrying notes of satisfaction rather than their usual warnings. They recognize this moment for what it is — not mindless violence, but balanced scales.

Not cruelty, but consequence.

Looking at the man who recorded my torture with such scientific detachment, who treated my pain as data points in his endless research, I feel no pity. His fear now mirrors what so many omegas felt in this chamber. His desperate pleas echo those he ignored day after day.

Atlas stands beside me, his presence solid and reassuring despite the violence we’re about to unleash. His hand finds mine with perfect accuracy, offering support without taking control.

Letting me choose how to balance these scales.

The control panel glows with familiar lights. I’ve watched them manipulate these controls countless times while fighting to survive their trials. Now I understand their sequence intimately and know exactly how to recreate the torture they so carefully designed.

The researcher seems to recognize his fate as I step toward the controls. His clinical facade crumbles completely, replaced by the raw terror he’s documented in so many test subjects.

This is more than revenge - it’s justice served through perfect symmetry.

He’ll experience firsthand the trials he designed, feel the panic he studied so dispassionately, and face the consequences of his carefully crafted torments.

The shadows sing louder, encouraging this moment of reckoning. They understand, as I do, that some debts can only be paid in kind. Some lessons must be learned through personal experience.

Atlas’s presence keeps me anchored, preventing this moment from becoming mere cruelty. His strength reminds me that this isn’t about enjoying suffering — it’s about ensuring consequences for choices freely made.

The researcher’s whimpers grow more desperate as I reach for the controls, recognizing that his carefully constructed experiments are about to become his reality.

Justice, it seems, has a perfect sense of irony.

My fingers find the familiar sequence of controls, each button press bringing the chamber to life. Water begins to fill the space, and the researcher’s panic escalates to shrill screams. I realize I don’t even know his name — a fitting irony since my identity never mattered to him beyond “Patient 495.”

Now he pleads about his daughter waiting at home as if parenthood should grant him immunity from consequences.

The audacity of it burns in my chest.

How many parents waited for omegas who never returned from their experiments? How many families did he destroy while carefully documenting their loved one’s final moments?

The water rises with mechanical precision, just as it has countless times before. But now I stand on the other side of the glass, watching someone else’s desperate struggle for survival.

The researcher takes that final gasp of air before the chamber fills completely, and I know with clinical certainty that he won’t last nearly as long as we were forced to.

His legs trail blood in the water, the wounds hampering any attempt to brace himself for what’s coming. But I want him to feel it — that desperate burn in his lungs as they scream for oxygen he doesn’t deserve. That primal panic when your body betrays you when survival instinct wages war against conscious control.

He manages barely a minute before the struggle becomes visible - his composed researcher’s facade crumbling under the weight of real experience. Just as his mouth opens to gulp that first deadly breath of water, I press the button to halt the submersion.

His gasping relief draws a dark smile to my lips. Because I can see in his wild, fear-filled eyes that he knows what comes next. He understands with perfect clarity that his wounded legs won’t save him from the drop into that endless pit — the abyss where so many omega bodies lie forgotten, their decomposing forms a testament to his “scientific pursuits.”

My hand hovers over the final button as an unexpected moment of hesitation strikes.

Would showing mercy make me better than him? Would sparing his life prove I’ve retained something he lost long ago?

Atlas’s arm wraps possessively around my waist, his solid presence pressing against my back with grounding strength.

“Did he give you mercy when you needed a moment of redemption?”

I tilt my head up, finding his lips set in a firm line of judgment.

“No,” I whisper, the word carrying years of accumulated pain.

“Then he doesn’t deserve your empathy. He hasn’t earned that grace.” Atlas’s words carry absolute conviction. “His regret comes only because death knocks at his door, not from true understanding of his crimes. He would never have offered you the same mercy you consider extending to him.” His grip tightens slightly.

“Seek the revenge you and all those fallen omegas deserve, little Goddess.”

The title sends warmth through me even in this moment of darkness. His approval, his support, his understanding of why this matters — it steadies my resolve.

With a nod of finality, I press the button.

The researcher’s face registers pure horror in the split second before the floor drops away. His scream echoes up from the pit, growing fainter until silence reclaims the chamber.

The shadows sing a victory hymn in my mind, celebrating this moment of balanced scales. One tormentor facing the fate he dealt so casually to others.

One debt paid in the currency of perfect justice.

Atlas’s continued embrace keeps me anchored in the present, preventing me from losing myself in the darkness of vengeance. His strength reminds me that this isn’t about becoming like them — it’s about ensuring consequences for choices freely made.

Watching the empty chamber, I feel no regret. No guilt. Just a cold satisfaction that one more monster has faced judgment for his crimes. One more debt has been paid in full.

The water drains away, leaving no evidence of what transpired except for faint traces of blood. How fitting that this chamber, designed to hide evidence of omega deaths, now conceals the fate of one of its creators.

“Time to move,” Atlas murmurs against my hair, his tactical focus returning. But his arm lingers around my waist for a moment longer, offering comfort even as we prepare to face whatever awaits us beyond this room.

I take one last look at the chamber that featured in so many of my nightmares. It holds no power over me now. Its horrors have been turned back on its creator, its purpose perverted to serve justice rather than torment.

Let his daughter wonder what happened to him.

Allow his family to feel the uncertainty that plagued so many omega families.

May his disappearance become another of Ravenscroft’s unsolved mysteries.

The shadows hum their approval as we turn away from the chamber. Their song carries notes of satisfaction and anticipation — one debt paid, but more justice yet to be served.

Because somewhere in this facility, more tormentors await their reckoning. More monsters hide behind clinical masks and scientific justifications. More debts remain to be collected.

Atlas’s arm finally releases my waist, but his presence remains solid beside me.

With one final glance at the chamber, we decide to move. It’s not long before we’re back in the hallway, and heading toward the nearest exit we both can recall from my experience and his memorization of the blueprints.

Running beside Atlas toward promised freedom, my focus narrows to each turn, each corridor that brings us closer to escape.

The path ahead represents everything I’ve dreamed.

Of freedom…

But a scent hits me with such force I stumble to a stop, my heart racing with recognition.

The aroma floods my senses, triggering memories I’d thought lost to their careful programming. That impossible blend of scents - identical to something I caught years ago, moments before entering the white van that delivered me back to this hell.

The same scent that accompanied those striking blue eyes I glimpsed from afar, watching me disappear into captivity.

Smelling it again makes me realize I hadn’t imagined such a unique scent.

That it wasn’t a figment of my inventiveness.

“Nyx?” Atlas calls, sensing my sudden stillness.

His tone carries concern, but I can’t find words to explain the way this scent pulls at something deep inside me, awakening memories I’d convinced myself were merely dreams.

Before I can try to articulate the storm of emotions coursing through me, the intercom crackles with urgency.

“Atlas! Problem. Vale’s missing.” Kieran’s voice carries barely contained panic.

The tension in the corridor spikes instantly as that familiar scent grows stronger — a foundation of fresh pine sap and sun-warmed granite, layered with crushed alpine herbs and wild mint. Underneath runs a current of sterile iodine and surgical steel, creating an unusual contrast between wilderness and medical precision.

The combination is rounded out with hints of leather worn smooth by mountain winds and traces of eucalyptus.

It wraps around me like a physical force, drawing me toward its source with an inexorable pull.

Atlas presses the intercom, his jaw tight with concern.

“Is the injector there?”

“Empty.”

“Motherfucker never listens to me,” Atlas growls in frustration.

The words carry layers of history, of shared battles and stubborn defiance.

But I’m already running back the way we came, drawn by instinct and that magnetic scent. Atlas calls after me, his voice torn between command and concern, but I can’t stop — not when everything in me says the source is close. One turn away. Maybe two. Three at most.

The facility’s alarms increase in pitch, warning of escalating danger. The sound should frighten and remind me of all the times similar alarms preceded new torments.

However, they fade to background noise as I follow that compelling scent through Ravenscroft’s maze-like corridors.

My enhanced senses — another “gift” from their endless experiments - track the aroma with predatory focus. Each turn makes it stronger, clearer, and more impossible to resist. It calls to something primal in me, something their tests and trials never quite managed to destroy.

My feet carry me swiftly around corners until I skid to a stop at the entrance to a dead-end hallway. The sight before me freezes the breath in my lungs and makes time seem to crystallize around this moment of recognition.

A masked figure leans against the wall, chest heaving with labored breaths. The mask sits pushed up on his head as if hastily moved aside for air.

Blue X’s glow eerily from its surface, casting strange patterns on the sterile walls, but it’s his exposed face that steals my breath completely.

He lifts his head, perhaps sensing my presence, and our eyes meet across the distance. Recognition explodes between us like lightning striking twice — because I know those blue eyes.

They’ve haunted my dreams, my memories, my fragments of a life before Ravenscroft.

This is him.

The alpha from that autumn day.

The one who watched me disappear into captivity.

The one whose scent has been impossible to forget, even through years of their attempts to strip away my omega responses.

I can’t comprehend why he’s here, but I realize his survival falls in my hands.

There are only two options here.

Pretend I didn’t see him and walk away, or alert Atlas and get him the potential help he may need. It’s an odd predicament to be in because I wholeheartedly am not sure which path to choose.

To stand and slowly walk away without interfering with fate…

Or go against what I’ve learned and harbored over the years and act upon the moral desire to aid an Alpha in need…

The universe, it seems, has a peculiar sense of irony.

19

TO CHERISH SINS OF THE PAST

~VALE~

Pain rips through my legs with savage intensity, muscles spasming beyond control as the experimental serum’s effects crash into brutal withdrawal.

The sterile hallway walls mock my predicament – this dead end becoming both sanctuary and trap as I fight to remain conscious through waves of agony.

A blessing to find temporary shelter.

A curse to become a sitting duck.

My breath comes in ragged gasps while sweat drips down my face, each spasm more violent than the last. The tactical vest feels suffocating now, its weight pressing against lungs that can’t seem to draw enough air.

The odds of my pack finding me before Ravenscroft’s forces grow slimmer with each passing second.

Even if they track my location, the facility’s maze-like structure works against swift rescue. This realization draws a bitter laugh from my throat – after all our careful planning, my stubborn defiance may have doomed not just myself, but compromised the entire mission.

At least Subdivision D succeeded in reviving that omega from the flooding chamber.

The frantic radio chatter had confirmed her survival, though details remained frustratingly vague through the growing static in my earpiece.

Something about emergency resuscitation protocols and stabilizing vital signs.

The success should offer comfort, knowing we prevented at least one death in this hell. But my mind fixates on tracking her – on finding Nyx before retreating to the van.

The room of fallen guards had carried her scent, that bewitching sweetness lingering in the air like a ghost.

So close.

Yet still beyond reach.

I’d intended to check the remaining chambers on this level, desperate to ensure she hadn’t been recaptured and sealed away in one of their torture rooms.

The blueprints burned into my memory guided each turn through the facility’s corridors as I eliminated threats with mechanical efficiency.

Thirty bodies now lie cooling in my wake – guards and researchers alike falling to precise shots that offered no chance for mercy. Their deaths felt like justice, payment extracted for years of torturing omegas under the guise of scientific progress.

The experimental serum had worked better than expected, granting not just mobility but enhanced strength and reflexes. For one glorious hour, my body obeyed every command with fluid grace.

No hesitation, no weakness, no betrayal from failing nerves.

But such gifts always carry a price.

The crash hit without warning – legs simply ceasing to function mid-stride. Only my training prevented a complete collapse, muscle memory guiding me to this relative safety before total paralysis set in.

Now I can’t even feel my legs beyond the violent spasms that wrack them. The pain pulses in time with my thundering heart, each beat sending fresh waves of agony through nerve endings that scream in protest.

The tactical part of my mind catalogs my situation with brutal clarity:

Compromised mobility, limited communication, exposed position, and dwindling options.

The static-filled chatter in my earpiece proves the others are coordinating something, but the words remain frustratingly unclear. Calling for help isn’t just a matter of pride anymore – it’s literally impossible with failing equipment.

This could very well be my end, trapped in the heart of an enemy facility with no way to signal my location.

The irony tastes bitter on my tongue.

After surviving so much, pushing past every limitation my disease imposed, to die here because I couldn’t follow simple orders…

Pure irony…

Yet I can’t summon proper guilt for my choices.

The serum bought me an hour of restored strength – that time slot spent hunting those who hurt her, eliminating threats that might have blocked her path to freedom.

If the price is my life, perhaps it’s worth paying.

A fair trade, maybe.

My remaining years exchanged for her chance at escape.

The thought barely forms before her scent hits me – that impossible blend of vanilla cream and dark chocolate, of childhood magic and pure possibility. The sweet aroma wraps around my senses like a physical caress, making my head spin with recognition and need.

Fate, it seems, has a cruel sense of timing.

To taunt me with her presence now, when I’m helpless to move, helpless to reach for her, helpless to do anything but drink in that sweetness that haunts my dreams.

The memory of her photograph burns behind my eyes – the defiance in her expression even after years of torture unlocked the strength that radiated from every pixel.

My guilt surges fresh and hot as I recall how I’d defiled that image, spilling my release across her digital face in a moment of shameful weakness.

But what alpha wouldn’t break for her?

What man could resist such perfect temptation?

Those eyes that seemed to see straight through to my soul, that face that combined delicate beauty with hardened survival, that body that spoke of power carefully contained…the combination proved impossible to resist, especially knowing she was the one who’d haunted me since that autumn day.

The omega who got away.

The one I failed to protect.

The ghost whose scent never quite faded from memory.

Footsteps approach with ghostly stealth, forcing me to strain my ears through waves of pain. The sound barely registers – more whisper than impact, suggesting whoever stalks these halls moves with practiced silence.

Perhaps they’ve removed their shoes, adopting tactics for maximum stealth while hunting prey through Ravenscroft’s sterile corridors.

My heart stumbles through erratic rhythms as acceptance settles deep in my bones.

Death comes for me in these final moments, and though anxiety claws at my chest and fear whispers through my thoughts, I bury those instincts beneath layers of conviction.

This was my choice.

My sacrifice.

My gift to her.

The thought of Nyx brings a strange peace.

Even if my life ends here, trapped in this whitewashed hell, perhaps my actions helped clear her path to freedom. Other alphas might claim her, might offer the happiness and security she deserves, but I can face my end knowing I contributed to her escape.

Different hands cherish what I couldn’t protect.

Another pack gives her the sense of belonging I failed to provide.

Allow death to come, knowing she might taste freedom.

Lowering my head in final surrender, I close my eyes against whatever execution approaches.

That haunting scent of vanilla and chocolate grows stronger, my mind’s final torment as it conjures the omega I never truly met.

How fitting that my last thoughts center on her – on regret for words unspoken, introductions never made, connections left unexplored. Certainly, fate designed this path, keeping us apart because my death was always written in these sterile halls.

A ragged sigh escapes my lips as I fight to steady my desperate panting. The spasms in my legs have evolved into constant tremors, each wave of pain sharper than the last. But even this agony fades beneath the weight of what’s coming.

At least it ends here.

Hopefully, she might live.

Something good might rise from my failure.

Gathering what courage remains, I lift my head for one final act of defiance. Let death look me in the eyes as it claims its prize.

Let my end carry some shred of dignity despite my broken body’s betrayal.

But instead of an executioner’s cold stare, I find myself drowning in impossible green.

What…

My heart seizes completely as I drink in the vision before me.

There she stands, barely ten feet away, chest heaving with exertion, wrapped in a shirt I’d recognize anywhere.

Atlas’s favorite tactical gear hangs loose on her smaller frame, the collar carefully folded despite obvious wrinkles in the fabric.

The sight of her in my pack leader’s clothing sends conflicting waves of emotion through my system – relief at knowing she’s under his protection warring with something darker that tastes like jealousy.

But all thoughts of possession and pack dynamics fade as I truly look at her. The photograph I’d studied so carefully, the image that haunted me throughout this mission pales in comparison to her living presence.

Her hair falls generously past her shoulders in messy loose waves that catch the harsh fluorescent lighting, transforming ordinary illumination into something magical. The strands shift between dark forest green and ethereal magenta, creating an aurora of color that frames her face in ever-changing patterns.

Like the northern lights captured in silk.

Like magic made manifest.

But it’s her eyes that steal what little breath remains in my lungs. The clinical description in her file – “green with teal undertones” – did nothing to prepare me for their reality.

They shine like ivy after rain, deep emerald bleeding into sea glass, with hints of teal that surface and fade like tide pools catching sunlight.

Those eyes hold stories I ache to read, secrets I long to unlock.

Six years of torture hover in their depths, yet they haven’t lost their ability to express wonder. Even now, as she stares at me with clear recognition, I watch hope and fear wage war in those incredible irises.

Her face combines delicate features with harder edges forged by survival. High cheekbones and a graceful jaw speak of natural beauty, while tiny scars map constellations of endurance across her skin. Her lips, slightly parted as she catches her breath, curve with a fullness that makes my fingers itch to trace their shape.

She’s smaller than I expected – delicate in a way that makes my protective instincts roar to life. But the way she holds herself, the fluid grace of her stance, reveals strength carefully contained. This is no fragile flower to be sheltered, but a warrior who’s survived hell itself.

Atlas’s shirt does nothing to hide the lean muscle built by years of fighting to survive, even with the obvious signs of malnutrition, stress, and sudden weight loss.

Each scar visible on her exposed skin tells its own story of torture endured and overcome. These marks don’t detract from her beauty – they enhance it, proving her resilience with every silvered line.

It also makes me want to hunt any motherfucker who dared hurt her to leave an irrevisable scar in its wake.

My eyes trace the elegant column of her throat, noting the careful way she monitors her surroundings even while focused on me. Her head tilts slightly, an unconscious gesture that reminds me of Atlas processing new information.

She’s cataloging everything about this moment…just as I am.

That impossible scent grows stronger as she takes a hesitant step forward. The vanilla sweetness carries darker notes now — hints of antiseptic and metal that speak of recent violence. But underneath lies that core of pure possibility that first drew me to her years ago.

The essence that haunted my dreams.

The aroma that made me ache with regret.

The scent that led me to break every rule to find her.

She takes another step, and I watch emotion flash across her features too quickly to catalog. Recognition wars with uncertainty, hope battles fear, and something else – something that makes her pupils dilate and her breath catch – flickers in those mesmerizing eyes.

The sight of her – alive, free, and somehow here despite impossible odds – makes my pain recede to background static.

My body’s betrayal seems insignificant compared to the miracle of her presence. Even the certainty of death that gripped me moments ago fades beneath the weight of this unexpected gift.

Because she’s real.

Tangible.

Present.

Not just a photograph to obsess over or a memory to haunt my dreams, but a living, breathing omega who defied everything they tried to make her. Who survived their torture, their experiments, their attempts to break her spirit.

Who now stands before me wrapped in my pack leader’s shirt, staring at me with eyes that remember that long-ago autumn day. Eyes that hold recognition, understanding, and a hint of the connection I’ve never been able to forget.

Fate itself conspires to offer one moment of perfection before the end.

“Nyx,” her name falls from my lips in a reverent whisper, making her pause mid-stride.

The recognition in her eyes transforms to wariness, her body tensing at the sound of her name from a stranger’s mouth.

Racing footsteps echo through distant corridors, freezing my blood with primal fear.

Not for myself – death lost its terror long ago – but for her.

My useless legs mock every alpha instinct screaming to move, to protect, to throw her over my shoulder and race toward safety.

My muscles spasm in futile response, each tremor a brutal reminder of my body’s betrayal. The knowledge cuts deeper than any physical pain – I cannot shield her from whatever approaches. Cannot prevent her recapture after she’s fought so hard for freedom.

Failing her twice in one lifetime brands my soul with unforgivable shame.

First in that autumn forest, watching her disappear into captivity, and now here – a broken alpha who cannot even stand to face death protecting her.

An afterlife of eternal torment awaits.

Penance for twice failing an omega who deserved better.

“Go,” urgency roughens my voice as those footsteps draw closer. “Go back to Atlas. Leave with him. Understand?”

Her extraordinary eyes widen at my desperate command, surprise and relief warring in their depths at my knowledge of her connection to my pack leader.

The sight pierces my chest – this remarkable creature considering my life worth risking her freedom.

Guilt claws up my throat, decades of regret spilling forth before wisdom can silence the words.

“I’m sorry,” the whispered apology makes her brow furrow in confusion. “I shouldn’t have left you. In the forest. Before the van…” My voice cracks beneath the weight of memory. “Should have done something. Interfered even if it meant taking bullets. I let you slip away…a coward at best…and no matter if I didn’t know the implications, you deserved protection. Deserved salvation.”

Understanding dawns in those mesmerizing eyes, recognition of our shared past transforming her expression.

That long-ago moment of connection blazes between us, time collapsing until we stand once more in that surreal valley of impossible autumn colors.

“So I’m sorry,” sincerity bleeds from every word. “Now go. Back to Atlas and my pack. I’ll be fine, alright?”

A final lie to secure her safety.

A noble deception to preserve her freedom.

Instead of fleeing, she launches into motion – closing the distance between us with fluid grace before spinning to face the corridor’s entrance.

Her body becomes a living shield, gun raised with deadly purpose as she positions herself between me and approaching danger.

“Nyx,” desperation claws through my chest. “Go!”

“Vale?” My name on her lips sends electricity racing down my spine. She glances down, emerald eyes meeting mine with an intensity that strips away pretense. “I forgive you.”

Three simple words shatter what remains of my composure. Her grace, freely offered without conditions or expectations, lands like a physical blow against my heart.

Such mercy should mark the beginning of redemption, a chance to heal wounds left festering for six years.

Yet fate mocks such possibilities.

Presents salvation only to snatch it away.

The approaching footsteps grow louder, each impact marking seconds until discovery.

My treasonous body remains locked in paralysis, nerves firing useless signals to muscles that refuse commands. Every attempt at movement sends fresh waves of agony cascading through my system.

Memories assault me with cruel precision – missed opportunities haunting these final moments. Words left unspoken when they might have mattered. Actions not taken when they could have changed everything. A lifetime of carefully maintained control crumbling to ash in death’s shadow.

Never told Atlas how his leadership saved me from despair.

Never thanked Kieran for staying through my darkest days.

Never admitted to Dante how his stubborn loyalty gave me strength.

But above all these regrets towers the ultimate failure – watching Nyx disappear into that van without acting. The cowardice of choosing protocol over instinct, of allowing an omega’s suffering rather than risking career and reputation.

Her forgiveness burns brighter for its undeserved nature.

She extends mercy when justice demands eternal condemnation.

Offers absolution despite years of torment that might have been prevented by one moment of courage.

Now she stands guard over my broken form, preparing to die defending the very alpha who failed to protect her. The irony carries a bitter perfection – her strength highlighting my weakness, her bravery emphasizing my cowardice.

Let death come swiftly.

Claim me before witnessing her fall.

Allow oblivion to take these final moments of shame.

But even these prayers ring hollow as her scent wraps around me, carrying notes of determination alongside that haunting sweetness.

She has chosen this path and decided my life holds worth despite its impending end. Her forgiveness transforms these final moments from mere tragedy into something approaching grace.

The footsteps thunder closer, bearing destiny’s final verdict. Soon our shared past dissolves into shared doom, united at last in death rather than life. My disease-ravaged body becomes our mutual downfall, trapping us in this dead-end corridor with no chance of escape.

Yet in these precious seconds, before chaos erupts, I drink in every detail of her presence. Memorize the way Atlas’s shirt drapes her slender frame, how her hair catches sterile light and transforms it into aurora borealis, and how those incredible eyes hold neither fear nor regret for choosing to stand her ground.

If death comes now, it finds me drowning in wonder.

Marveling at strength disguised as a delicacy.

Witnessing courage cloaked in grace.

The universe’s cruelest joke reveals itself fully – granting a moment of perfect connection only to end it in shared destruction. But as Nyx’s finger tightens on her weapon’s trigger, I realize truth transcends even death’s finality.

Her forgiveness offers redemption even as life prepares to fade.

Her choice to stay writes meaning into my final breaths.

Her presence transforms a mere ending into destiny fulfilled, even if fulfillment spans mere heartbeats before obliteration.

Together at last.

United in doom.

Finding completion in catastrophe.

20

DESTINED TO CHOOSE

~NYX~

My finger hovers over the trigger, muscles coiled with lethal purpose born from years of conditioning. Every enhanced sense stretches toward the approaching threat, my body humming with the familiar dance of survival.

But the scent hits me first – that distinctive blend of pine needles and leather that’s quickly becoming synonymous with safety.

The shadows stir in recognition, their silence breaking into subtle whispers of acknowledgment.

Atlas.

The gun lowers halfway, maintaining readiness while granting the benefit of doubt. Years of torture have taught me the value of caution, even when instinct screams for security.

His frame appears at the corridor’s end, head tilting in that precise way I’m learning to read. Even through the silk wrap, I feel the weight of his attention as it sweeps our position.

“Goddess?”

The title carries notes of confusion and concern, layered with something darker as his blind gaze settles on Vale’s collapsed form behind me. The air grows heavy with alpha pheromones – protection and possession warring in equal measure.

“Here, Atlas,” the words rush from my lips as fear claws through my chest. “Vale’s hurt?”

Uncertainty shapes the statement into a question, my eyes fixed on his violently spasming legs. The sight creates an unfamiliar tightness in my throat, dread seeping through my veins at signs I dare not interpret.

Bleeding out?

Near death?

Moments from slipping away forever?

Raw instinct surges beneath my skin – an overwhelming urge to protect that catches me completely off guard. The shadows remain oddly quiet, offering no guidance through these foreign emotions.

Nothing in my years of conditioning prepared me for this visceral need to shield an alpha from harm.

Atlas moves with lethal grace, crossing the distance between us in fluid strides that belie his blindness. Vale’s curse of protest cuts through the tension, insisting he’s fine even as another spasm wrenches a hiss of agony from his throat.

My shoulders sink beneath the weight of helplessness while my fingers clench white-knuckled around the gun. Fear tastes metallic on my tongue – fear not of death or pain or recapture, but of watching this alpha slip away moments after finding him.

First meeting.

Final farewell.

Beginning and ending compressed into heartbeats.

Atlas drops to one knee beside Vale, radiating contained fury through his controlled movements.

“I told you,” each word carries deadly precision.

“Know you did,” Vale manages through gritted teeth. “Fuck…didn’t think it’d hurt this bad.”

“Yeah, because you remember everything about everyone else but conveniently forget yourself.” Atlas’s tone could freeze hell itself. “You’re in so much fucking trouble if we make it out of here.”

A weak laugh escapes Vale.

“Figured that. Priority is getting Nyx out though.”

“They’re initiating final lockdown,” Atlas counters, silk wrap shifting as his head tilts toward blaring alarms. “Leave you here, we won’t get back in.”

“Not risking her when we just found her.” Vale’s words carry steel despite his obvious agony.

“Should’ve considered that before leaving the fucking van against orders.” Fury bleeds through Atlas’s careful control. “Must love being left behind during missions since you clearly can’t follow simple fucking instructions.”

Vale’s groan carries notes of both pain and exasperation.

“Can you wait to scold me until after getting Nyx clear? Give me some dignity in front of her at least.”

“Dignity?” Atlas’s laugh holds no warmth. “Lost the right to dignity when you injected that shit knowing the consequences. So shut the fuck up about it or I’ll enjoy embarrassing you now AND in front of the entire pack later.”

Vale subsides into sullen silence, though another violent spasm betrays his continued suffering. Before I can process the implications of their exchange, Atlas rises with preternatural speed that steals my breath.

His height forces me to tilt my head back as he faces me, but it’s the gentle press of his palm against my cheek that freezes my thoughts completely.

The shadows stir with interest at this alpha who moves through the darkness with such deadly grace yet touches me like I’m made of precious glass.

The contrast between his earlier fury and current tenderness leaves me reeling. His ability to shift between ruthless pack leader and gentle protector defies everything I thought I knew about alphas.

Everything Ravenscroft taught about their brutality and domination fades beneath the careful weight of his touch.

Vale’s pained breathing reminds me of our precarious situation, but I can’t tear my gaze from Atlas’s blindfolded face. His proximity wreaks havoc with my senses – pine and leather mixing with Vale’s rain-washed mountain air until my head spins with competing alpha pheromones.

Two alphas. Two scents. Two pulls on my newly awakened omega instincts.

The shadows whisper in confusion, as lost as I am in this unprecedented situation.

Nothing in my years of captivity prepared me for standing between two alphas who stir such profound responses. Who awaken parts of me I thought long dead under Ravenscroft’s endless experiments.

Atlas’s thumb traces my cheekbone with impossible gentleness while Vale’s presence burns against my awareness like a brand. The former offers security I’ve never known, while the latter ignites recognition that transcends our years apart.

My heart thunders against my ribs as competing desires wage war in my chest. The urge to lean into Atlas’s touch battles with the need to turn toward Vale’s suffering.

To accept the protection freely offered or return to the alpha whose blue eyes have haunted my dreams.

The alarms increase in pitch, marking time slipping away like sand through desperate fingers.

“Can you trail behind me in this state?” Atlas asks, palm still cradling my cheek with impossible tenderness.

The question forces reality back into focus, though my throat constricts around rising emotion.

“Is he going to be okay?” The whispered inquiry slips out before wisdom can silence it, aimed at Atlas despite Vale’s presence at our feet.

Needing validation from the leader.

Seeking truth from alpha authority.

Craving assurance from the one who first showed me mercy.

“Right here, you know,” Vale mutters, strain evident beneath attempted humor.

Atlas’s response carries a lethal warning.

“Not another word from you, or I knock you out myself,” he growls menacingly. “Better pray you aren’t full of bullets by the time we reach the van.”

The threat silences Vale instantly, his head dropping in submission which speaks volumes about pack dynamics I barely understand.

Atlas returns his attention to me, covered gaze somehow conveying intensity despite the silk barrier.

“Vale has a condition that makes his legs stop working,” he explains with calculated precision. “We’ll discuss details once we’re behind safe walls, but right now we have two choices. Leave him or take him with us.”

My heart clenches at the first option, shadows stirring with unexpected protest.

“Taking him means I carry him, leaving me exposed,” Atlas continues. “I won’t risk you leading point in case of crossfire. Can you confidently run behind us, watching for danger?”

“Yes,” immediate certainty surprises even me, but anxiety bleeds through as I add quietly, “So he’s not dying, right?”

Atlas pauses, perhaps weighing the tremor in my voice or the vulnerability such concern reveals.

“Not on my watch, little Goddess,” his assurance wraps around me like armor before he leans closer to whisper, “Vale’s too stubborn to fucking die so pitifully, but having your support might help him live longer.”

A grunt from Vale suggests burning responses held in check only by fear of Atlas’s earlier threat. Relief floods my system, steadying hands that had begun to shake without my notice.

“I can maintain defense,” I affirm, drawing on years of training to project confidence I’m no longer certain I possess.

“Only if absolutely necessary,” Atlas’s tone brooks no argument. “Need you unharmed, understood?”

I nod before catching myself – his blindness requires verbal confirmation.

“Yes.”

His smirk suggests he sensed the movement anyway, right before he captures my lips in a kiss so gentle it steals my breath. The unexpected tenderness, witnessed by Vale and pressed against time’s deadly march, should feel wrong.

Instead, it anchors me, burning away anxiety with pure sensation.

Need this.

Crave the assurance.

Require this grounding touch.

The response unsettles me. Years of conditioning taught me emotional distance and trained me to focus solely on survival or elimination. These new nerves, this fresh uncertainty – they’d label it weakness at Ravenscroft.

Perhaps that explains their determination to keep us packless. Emotional connections threaten perfect weapons and compromise lethal efficiency. The shadows hum in agreement, recognizing the truth in this revelation.

Atlas releases me with evident reluctance, moving to Vale with fluid grace that defies his supposed limitation. I marvel at his precise movements and the way he navigates space as if darkness holds no power over him.

A deeper realization strikes as I track his motions – I can smell them.

Not all alphas, not the general musk should trigger omega responses, but these two specifically. Their unique scents bypass years of careful programming, awakening instincts I thought were permanently destroyed.

Atlas’s pine and leather.

Vale’s mountain air and rain.

Both burn through carefully constructed walls.

The shadows whisper possibilities, theories about compatibility and fate I dare not examine too closely. Yet their song carries notes of approval rather than warning – recognition of significance I cannot yet grasp.

Atlas crouches beside Vale, movements economical and precise as he prepares to lift him. The entire situation feels surreal – these alphas who’ve shattered my worldview in mere moments, this escape that promises freedom rather than deeper chains, these emotions I shouldn’t be capable of feeling.

The facility’s alarms pierce through my contemplation, reminding us that time races forward despite this bubble of connection.

Atlas rises smoothly, Vale secured across his broad shoulders with dignified efficiency that speaks of practice at managing his pack mate’s condition.

“Ready?” Atlas’s final query carries weight beyond mere confirmation as if my agreement forges an unbreakable contract.

“Yes, Alpha,” the response flows naturally, drawing a barely contained growl rumbling through his chest. The sound ignites fresh awareness, omega instincts preening at such visceral reaction to mere words.

Power lies in that response.

Validation blooms from his restraint.

Truth crystalizes in perfect clarity.

I guess this means I’m not defective after all.

My body was simply waiting for the right pack to awaken dormant instincts.

The revelation settles into my bones as Atlas launches into motion, his initial pace clearly restrained for my benefit.

“Full speed,” I urge, conviction ringing through my voice. “I’ll keep up.”

He responds instantly, doubling his pace without hesitation. My enhanced abilities match his stride for stride, feet barely touching the ground as we race through sterile corridors.

I should be thankful to be able to run this fast, the training through fields, tunnels, and competitive tasks that revolved around life and death serving its purpose now that I can use it for my own benefit rather than those observed for leisure.

The alarms escalate to a piercing crescendo, their warning manifesting in brutal reality as metal barriers crash down behind us. Each thunderous impact seals another section, cutting off all possibility of return.

Atlas spoke the truth – abandoning Vale would have condemned him to a fate worse than death. My stomach roils at images of fresh experiments, new tortures visited upon those useless legs. The thought feeds determination, pushing me faster as I scan our surroundings with a predatory focus.

The cool night air hits my face as we burst through the final doors, freedom tantalizingly close. But survival instincts override the urge to celebrate this first taste of outside in countless years.

Gunfire cracks through darkness, bullets whining past with lethal intent. Recognition floods my system as I analyze our route, memories of countless “training exercises” paint a clear picture of the danger ahead.

“This leads straight to them,” I call out in warning.

“What do you mean?” Atlas doesn’t break stride despite the question.

“Training grounds. Designed to look like an escape route. Hidden pit beneath leaf cover. They use it repeatedly.” Years of observation pour forth in clipped phrases. “Seen too many omegas fall. Those blankets of leaves are a trap. A thirty feet drop.”

Which isn’t pretty nor is it recoverable. If you fall into that hole, no one is expected to retrieve your broken-boned body back from its depths.

It was what some of the Alphas called the “Open Grave”.

“Alternative? Need the van.” His response carries equal efficiency.

“North East from here,” Vale calls out. “It shouldn’t be far from here.

I direct Atlas right while Vale rasps details of the coordinates from his position across Atlas’s shoulders. Recognition clicks instantly – the circular meadow wrapped in ancient trees where I’d hidden during winter trials.

I can recall how painfully annoying those trials were, especially in nothing but a thin medical gown offering no protection from bitter cold.

Those torturous hours of frostbite now guide our escape.

Past suffering transforms into present salvation.

Movement catches my enhanced vision – multiple threats converging on our position. Training takes over as I draw both guns, years of conditioning flowing through muscle memory.

“Down!” The command carries no room for argument as I pivot to face approaching danger.

My body moves with fluid precision, every motion guided by instinct and experience. These aren’t simulated threats or training exercises – real bullets fly as guards recognize their chance to eliminate me, Patient 495, permanently.

Each shot finds a lethal mark, bodies dropping in rapid succession as I clear our path. The familiarity of violence should disturb me, but survival permits no space for moral examination.

At some point something skids past me, slicing through my side, but not necessarily puncturing. I ignore the sizzling pain that follows, needing to keep focused on the threat that unfolds all around.

I know Atlas can’t protect himself the way he’d want to, not at the expense of Vale, which leads me to step up in this heated moment of bullets that fly all around, fighting to take me out at every fleeting second.

But I’m faster.

A final person remains when both clips run empty, cosmic irony painting a perfect target on my chest.

Recognition freezes my blood as I meet his gaze – the exquisite suit matched with that prideful grin, the sight reminding me of the man who certainly had involvement with our continued captivity for whatever selfish reason.

“Fuck,” the curse escapes as I maintain position between the researcher’s aim and the alphas behind me, empty weapons still raised in futile defiance.

No ammunition, options, or choice of surrender.

As if I’ve offered this bastard the option to mock this dead end in sight with the gun in his grip, ready to pull the trigger and end it all.

His cruel smile widens, savoring power over his prized experiment.

“Rather impressive survival rate up to this point, Patient 495.” The gun remains perfectly steady in his practiced grip. “But I can’t have you making a mockery of my multimillion-dollar establishment.”

Atlas curses, muscles bunching as he tries to rise despite Vale’s weight. The sharp click of the safety disengaging freezes him mid-motion.

“One move and your precious omega takes a bullet through her heart,” the boss who I assume must be the owner of this place carries absolute conviction.

My mind races through possibilities before settling on a desperate gambit.

“Fine. Take me back…but let them go.”

He tilts his head, considering the offer with academic interest.

“Why should I care about their fate?”

Knowledge surfaces from countless mandatory study sessions on alpha dynamics – rules and laws governing pack interactions beyond Ravenscroft’s walls.

Specifically, regulations surrounding alpha deaths on shared property.

“That wounded guard you’re transporting,” I inject urgency into my voice. “The one I persuaded to aid my escape. Both innocent of wrongdoing.” My eyes lock onto his, driving home the implications. “Kill them, news spreads before dawn. How many eyes turn toward your carefully hidden omega exchanges then?”

Calculation flickers across his features as reality sinks in. His gaze shifts to the alphas, mouth tightening with frustrated acknowledgment.

Got him.

“Leave now.” There’s no room for debate in his voice. “Whatever happens next isn’t my concern.”

Vale’s attempt at defiant response dissolves into an agonized grunt as fresh spasms wrack his legs. Atlas’s face contorts with strain – torn between impossible choices.

Save newly discovered omega.

Or protect the pack brother of countless years.

Watching conflict play across his features ignites certainty in my chest. Spinning around, I drop swiftly to my knees, before pressing the truth into the air between us.

“Protect who’s been in your life longest. You know exactly who matters more between Vale and me.”

“No-” Atlas’s protest dies as I press my finger against his lips.

“I never had an alpha see me as worth saving before today,” emotion threatens to choke my words. “You’re the first…and if you’re the last, I’ll die content knowing what it means to feel protected. To feel safe.”

His jaw clenches beneath my touch, fury, and helplessness warring across usually controlled features. The gun’s aim never wavers as the owner watches our exchange with odd fascination.

Time crystallizes around this moment of choice – life balanced on the knife edge of sacrifice and salvation.

Turning from Atlas’s anguished expression, I raise my hands in surrender while approaching the facility owner.

Each step ignites a fresh fire in my left side, but I push aside the agony as I make my slowed retreat back to one of the key instigators of this grand fiasco.

All my suffering starts with this man. The owner of this establishment who thinks of us as nothing but property to be sold, collected, and offered to what must be the highest bidder.

The reality of returning to those sterile halls, to endless experiments and clinical torment, settles like lead in my stomach.

After everything I went through…am I not deserving of a happy ending?

Half the distance is covered when a gunshot cracks through the night air – the owner’s weapon flying from his grip in an explosion of metal and curses.

I flinch back instinctively as he reaches for a backup weapon, I grab my knife, flicking the blade out into position before darting it right into his arm first. His scream of agony barely registers before another sniper round whistles past, erupting in clouds of dark green and magenta gas.

“NYX!” Atlas’s call pierces through chaos, spurring me into motion. Racing back to where he holds position, confusion ripples through me at his choice to maintain ground rather than seek cover.

His hand closes around mine while somehow keeping Vale balanced across his shoulders.

“This way!” The command flows naturally as I take point, veering left as more sniper rounds impact around us. Each hit spawns fresh streams of colored gas, obscuring visibility while raising questions I can’t afford to contemplate.

The longer route becomes a necessity rather than a choice – standard paths compromised by whatever counter-assault unfolds. My legs grow increasingly uncooperative, exhaustion warring with determination as I force myself forward.

Releasing Atlas’s hand creates a tactical advantage, freeing him to better distribute Vale’s weight while navigating treacherous terrain. Every footfall crunches through autumn leaves, creating an audible trail for him to follow despite his blindness and the surrounding bedlam.

Through narrowing vision, I spot a cluster of vehicles – two standard vans flanking one in matte black.

“There! The vans!”

Slowing pace, I direct Atlas to prioritize Vale’s evacuation. His hesitation bleeds through tense muscles, but I cut off the potential protest.

“Making sure we’re clear of pursuit.”

A curse slips through his clenched jaw.

“Fine, but keep up!”

Agreement barely leaves my lips before another round makes an impact between us, gas blooming to obscure already limited sight lines.

Ten long strides separate us from potential safety, but the world tilts dangerously as I process the soaked fabric clinging to my side.

Atlas’s shirt is drenched crimson.

Pressing trembling fingers against torn flesh draws involuntary hiss as blood paints my palm. Double vision transforms my surroundings into a kaleidoscope of confusion while a new scent cuts through gas-tainted air – a blend of sandalwood and musk layered with berries and cinnamon that sparks a craving for fresh-baked comfort.

Through the swirling mist, blonde hair catches dim light as a figure races toward my position. Instinct pulls me in the opposite direction, primal awareness of unseen observation prickling across my skin.

Reality fractures further with each labored heartbeat; a world spinning beyond the ability to track or navigate. The strength that carried me this far ebbs like a tide pulling away from shore, leaving only uncertainty in its wake.

Through swirling clouds of emerald and magenta gas, a pair of eyes captures my fading attention. The gaze locks onto mine from perfect concealment among dense trees, a sniper rifle slung with casual grace across black-clad shoulders.

Rather than taking aim to end my escape, those eyes hold me transfixed with haunting familiarity. They mirror my own with uncanny precision – ivory green with hints of teal that I’ve only ever seen in reflections and fever dreams.

The shadows stir in the depths of my consciousness, their usual silence transforming into harmonic whispers. The melody rises, matching note for note the lullaby that’s haunted my fractured memories.

Their song grows stronger as reality begins to blur, numbness creeping through my limbs while black spots dance across my deteriorating vision.

Yet I cannot look away from those eyes – my eyes – staring back from a face that could be my own reflection in some alternate reality where fate chose a different path.

The figure rises from their concealed position with fluid grace, weapon shifting across their back with practiced ease as if carrying such a weapon is second nature.

A tactical mask conceals the lower half of their face, but those eyes betray what fabric attempts to hide. Tears gather in identical irises, emotion bleeding through carefully maintained control. The sight creates a surreal disconnect – watching myself cry through eyes that grow increasingly unfocused.

Why does my reflection weep? What sorrow reaches through the perfect mirror to shed tears for my fall? Does she mourn how close freedom came before slipping away?

Thoughts grow sluggish as blood loss takes a greater toll, yet I notice the subtle difference between us – her hair reversed from mine, magenta roots bleeding into forest green where mine does

The opposite.

Everything else matches with eerie precision – same scattered freckles across identical nose bridges, same lean build carried with similar grace.

Understanding pierces through creeping darkness – not reflection but connection. The twin from my dreams made manifest in this moment between life and death.

Here to ensure I don’t face the end alone.

Gratitude surfaces through growing numbness, pulling my lips into an attempted smile. The motion remains incomplete as equilibrium finally fails, sending me drifting backward in a graceful arc that feels suspended in time.

Reality fragments into a slow-motion tableau – a body floating through space as if gravity holds no power. Imagined feathers drift past my vision, black and purple plumes dancing in nonexistent wind while the shadows raise their song to a crescendo. Their harmony carries notes of profound mourning as if nature itself joins their funeral dirge.

The impact of being caught never registers through spreading numbness. My gaze fixes upward, frozen in place as my lungs forget how to draw breath. Muscles lock into perfect stillness, leaving me posed like a discarded doll – lips parted in eternal silence, eyes unable to close against the encroaching dark.

Such bitter irony.

No chance to bid farewell to my newly discovered twin. No opportunity to ensure she claims a better fate than years of torture. No moment to verify Atlas and Vale’s safety, to learn if a cure exists for Vale’s affliction, or to discover what role I might have played in their pack’s future.

A man’s face enters my unblinking vision, features twisted with raw panic that seems excessive for a stranger’s death.

But those eyes – those incredible blue eyes that should be familiar though I cannot recall why – they hold me transfixed even as consciousness begins to fade.

Tears track down his cheeks as he cradles my rigid form, grief-etching lines I wish I could smooth away. Such pain seems unwarranted for one he cannot truly know, yet the intensity of his anguish offers strange comfort – at least my passing will be mourned by someone who seems to care deeply, even if I cannot understand why.

I wish I could have learned about them. Even if it was little tidbits of their story. Atlas…Vale…Kieran…and whoever the last one was.

How it seemed like I’d get to be considered as a potential Omega for their unit, the thought making me wonder what unique personality each of them had.

Would I have connected so swiftly to them as I did Atlas? Get to enjoy a day of just normalcy. Waking up in a bed with my pack. Having a plate of warm breakfast at the kitchen table. Watching television, reading newspapers, laughing, and joking while the morning passes by.

To do activities I’ve never experienced, or to simply work out for pleasure and not exhaustion. Lounge around in pajamas, matching ones, like those cheesy holiday movies, and eat buckets of ice cream while watching silly movies.

It would have been nice to experience sex. To understand the pleasure surrounding it, especially as an Omega. I doubt I would have experienced a Heat, at least not until all the daily drugs and suppressants were out of my system, but what would it be like to be worshipped by a group of men who actually adored you?

Loved you.

Could see a future with you and the rest of the pack. I’m not sure if I’d have kids, or if my body would be capable of it due to all the experimentation, but then again, I was still young.

It makes me wonder how old each of them is, knowing the age gap is probably drastic to society, but the blanket of maturity I got a glimpse of with Atlas makes me wish for more.

In the end, I didn’t have a choice to choose.

Between life and death.

Since it seemed to be already written in stone at the peak of freedom.

Oddly enough, I’m not angry.

I’m at peace with the taste I was privileged to experience.

That’s enough for me…I’m thankful.

Awareness slips further as those beautiful eyes begin to blur, reality dissolving into darkness pierced only by the shadows’ song.

Their final note reaches impossible heights, transformed into a celestial chorus that guides my fading spirit toward whatever lies beyond.

If I could thank them for their companionship through years of torment, for their guidance in moments of despair, for their presence even in this final passage – I would.

That could have been their purpose all along. To be there for me in this transition between the living and the forgotten. It’s a shame I’ll have no one to remember me, but then again, maybe the little impact I made upon this cruel world will live on.

It would surpass Patient 495, that label bestowed upon me would shed away with my death.

But I’d be remembered as Nyx.

By Azurite and Luna…if they didn’t meet their ends, and Atlas and his pack, who may think of me, or even light a candle in my name.

In the end, the shadows sing the last hymns I get to listen to, and it’s satisfying that they get the final chance to serenade me farewell.

All that remains is gratitude carried on the last wisps of thought as consciousness surrenders to the void.

Into the shadows that birthed my strength.

Into the darkness that sheltered my soul.

Into the eternal night that claims me at last.

Where I began…

Where I end…

Where I finally find peace.

21

RUNNING AGAINST TIME

~KIERAN~

Piercing fear has gripped me twice in my life, each instance carved into memory with brutal precision that haunts my darkest dreams and quietest moments.

The first burned deepest – watching her fall as vengeance found its mark through the scope of my rifle.

Those jade eyes that once held such promise, such deception, such calculated manipulation, faded to emptiness as death claimed what remained of her lies.

Her body hit the ground with finality that should have brought satisfaction, should have eased years of torment, yet the lack of regret in her final gaze twisted the blade deeper into my already shattered soul.

No remorse for bonds destroyed.

No acknowledgment of trust betrayed.

No recognition of lives she’d methodically shattered.

She died as she lived – denying me even the smallest comfort of seeing regret cross her features. The woman who’d promised forever, who’d made me believe in second chances, who’d systematically dismantled everything we’d built, refused to grant even that small mercy in her final moments.

The bullet that ended her life should have brought closure. Instead, it sealed away parts of me I thought would never stir again. The alpha who believed in connection, in possibility, in the power of pack bonds – he died alongside her in that rain-soaked field.

The second time fear paralyzed differently – Vale’s collapse striking without warning during what should have been routine training. One moment he stood tall, directing operations with characteristic precision, the next his legs simply ceased functioning.

Watching a brother, a friend, a core pillar of our pack’s strength crumble as an unnamed disease ravaged his body burned a new kind of terror into my psyche.

Helplessness tastes identical whether facing betrayal or illness – both leaving scars that never truly heal, wounds that reopen with each remembered detail.

The doctors’ baffled expressions, the endless tests leading nowhere, the gradual acceptance that we were watching him fade without means to stop it – each memory carries its own special agony.

I never expected to experience such primal terror a third time. Never imagined running through clouds of teal and magenta gas that transform a familiar forest into a surreal battlefield straight from fever dreams.

Couldn’t possibly have prepared for the sight of a slender omega figure igniting every dormant alpha instinct with mere presence.

Her scent hits like a physical force – pure and complex and devastating in its effect on senses I thought permanently deadened. Fire races through my veins, burning away years of carefully maintained control as buried emotions surge back to life with volcanic intensity.

The alpha I believed died with my betrayer claws its way to consciousness, howling recognition of something profound and terrifying in its implications.

Time seems to slow as I process details through instincts screaming for action:

The way her dark green hair catches dim light.

How magenta highlights shift like aurora through the strands.

The grace in her movements even as strength fails.

The determination in her stance as she provides cover for Atlas’s retreat.

Each observation feeds the growing inferno in my chest, awakening responses I’d convinced myself would never return. The alpha in me recognizes something vital in her presence – something that transcends logic or reason.

The cruel symmetry of the past repeating itself sends ice through my burning blood. However, where jade eyes once held calculation and malice, this omega radiates an entirely different energy.

Her presence draws our pack together rather than tearing us apart, making this potential loss cut deeper than a mere physical wound.

Atlas cradles her motionless form while blood paints his shirt crimson, the stain spreading with terrifying speed.

Vale’s anguished expression from his position across Atlas’s shoulders mirrors the agony I feel watching another life slip away – but this time, death claims an innocent. Someone who deserves salvation rather than punishment, protection rather than vengeance.

The gas swirling around us takes on a dreamlike quality as I watch her begin to fall in terrible slow motion. Every enhanced sense captures the perfect clarity of the moment:

The exact shade of ivory green in her eyes as they fix open.

The way her lips part on the final exhale.

How her body goes rigid rather than pliant.

The scent of her blood mixed with gunpowder and fear.

My legs carry me forward as dormant instincts roar to full awakening, demanding action to prevent this third taste of devastating fear from becoming a permanent loss.

The alpha instincts, I thought forever silenced, seem to release their howls with renewed purpose, refusing to watch another death without attempting intervention.

Compared to the past, where this isn’t watching deserved vengeance claim its due or witnessing a disease’s inexorable march, I realize how such a vibrant possibility is being extinguished before it has a chance to fully ignite.

To have a chance to spread its wings and fly.

The potential pack bond severed before it can properly form.

The distance between us seems infinite though logic says it spans mere yards. My legs pump faster, pushing through swirling gas as her body begins its graceful arc backward. Every alpha instinct screams to move quicker, to defy physics itself if necessary to reach her before impact.

Time crystallizes into perfect clarity as I launch forward, arms outstretched to catch her falling form. The moment stretches like honey dripping from a comb – slow enough to catch every detail yet impossible to alter.

My hands find purpose just before she strikes the earth, cradling her head and shoulders while her knees make brutal impact against the rough woody surface of the earth.

The force rocks through my body, but I maintain my grip as if she’s made of precious glass.

Settling her across my lap reveals the devastating truth – her eyes remain open but the light within begins to fade like stars dimming at dawn.

Up close, details assault my enhanced senses with cruel precision:

The exact pattern of freckles across her nose – constellations mapping untold stories. The small scar at the corner of her jaw was a silvered testament to survival. The way her pulse flutters visibly at her throat, each beat growing fainter. How young she looks despite years of evident hardship carved into her features.

Blood soaks through Atlas’s shirt where it clings to her side, the stain spreading with terrifying speed across black fabric.

Her body holds unnatural rigidity rather than expected limpness, muscles locked in a position that speaks of something beyond a simple wound.

Was she shot by a mere bullet? Or was it laced with something more to finally take her out?

The scent of her – pure sweetness layered with complexity I can’t begin to decode because the brewing fear of losing her – mingles with a copper tang of injury.

Even dying, she calls to something primal in my nature, awakening protective instincts I thought forever buried beneath betrayal’s scar tissue.

“C’mon,” I urge desperately as I fight to shake her. “Stay with us,” the words scrape raw from my throat as I press a desperate hand against the flowing wound. “You hear me, little one? Stay. We’re going to get you somewhere safe. Mend you up. You’ll never have to return here again, but you can’t fade away. You hear me?”

I don’t know why it sounds like I’m begging her. I can’t even comprehend why tears begin to come to my eyes as if I’ve known this woman my entire life.

My tears for the Omega that shattered my heart weren’t invoked by sadness. It was triggered by the freedom her death seemed to deliver me, despite this marking clinging to my flesh like a haunting wound with no intention of healing.

Atlas’s shirt beneath my fingers grows increasingly saturated as I cradle her rigid form.

Realization strikes with brutal force – she’s dying despite my desperate attempts at comfort and encouragement. The light in her extraordinary eyes dims with each passing second, pupils fixed and unresponsive.

Panic, unlike anything I’ve experienced claws up my throat, shredding carefully maintained control.

“ATLAS! DANTE! HELP!” The cry bursts from my chest with primal intensity, echoing through the gas-clouded forest.

Her body temperature drops with terrifying speed, skin grows cold beneath my touch. Questions hammer through my mind with increasing urgency – how long has she been bleeding? When did the bullet find its mark? Why didn’t we notice her injury sooner?

The black fabric of Atlas’s shirt proves perfect camouflage for spreading crimson stains. Their focus on escape — survival — to reaching safety blinded them from acknowledging her deteriorating condition. The omega we fought so hard to save was slipping away while we pushed forward, unknowing.

Rage builds in my chest, alpha instincts howling for vengeance against whoever dared harm her. The growl that escapes carries notes of pure anguish – fury at a faceless enemy mixed with devastating grief for failing to protect.

Another call for aid dies in my throat as horrifying awareness strikes. Her chest no longer rises. Those incredible eyes stare upward, lips still parted, but no breath passes between them.

She’s not breathing…

Five eternal seconds tick past as I wait for sign of life – for the smallest inhale or faintest movement. Each moment stretches longer than the last while the terrible truth sinks deeper.

NO.

Not like this.

Not when we just found her.

It suddenly makes me realize that I’m suddenly accepting this Omega and the thought of her being part of our pack despite knowing her. We’re literal strangers, and yet here I am, on the verge of a damn panic attack at the idea of her perishing in my arms.

I realize it’s not because of the lack of knowing who she is, but the realization that thanks to her I’m not mourning the loss of those I’ve cherished and hoped to never see fall at the hands of death.

But at what cost?

To now watch her perish within my arms.

That’s unfair…life is so fucking unfair.

Lowering her to the damp earth with careful precision, training takes over where emotion threatens to paralyze me. My hands find the correct position over her sternum, muscle memory guiding movements as I begin compressions with mechanical efficiency.

You’re not going to die.

Not when you have a fighting chance.

The sound of ribs creaking beneath applied force turns my stomach, but I maintain a steady rhythm. She’s so frail, surely thanks to the stress of recent events and the lack of nutrition, but I can’t lessen the need to give this my all.

Better broken bones than permanent stillness.

Better pain than endless silence.

Between sets of compressions, I seal my mouth over her cold lips, forcing air into unresponsive lungs. The intimacy of the action strikes a discordant note – this isn’t how the first kiss should happen.

Isn’t how the connection should form.

But desperation drives each motion as I fight to restart vital functions. The urgency matched with the pulsing desire to revive her pushes every thread of instinct in me; my Alpha tendencies in full throttle as I do everything I can to breathe life into her.

Her scent floods my senses with each rescue breath – that impossible sweetness now tainted with copper and fear. The alpha in me rages against fate itself, refusing to accept this ending.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Repeat.

The pattern becomes meditation against encroaching panic. Each press of my hands carries a silent plea, and each shared breath holds a desperate prayer. Time loses meaning as I pour every ounce of strength into keeping death at bay.

Leaves beneath her body grow increasingly sodden with spilled blood. The gas continues dissipating around us, revealing the stark reality of our situation with cruel clarity.

It feels like the world is telling me that this is the ending I’m supposed to witness and endure…

But I cannot stop.

I cannot accept that we saved her from one prison only to lose her to the bullet’s brutal finality.

My arms begin to burn from sustained effort, but the pain barely registers. Nothing matters except maintaining rhythm, forcing her heart to beat, and her lungs to fill. The rest of the world fades to background noise as I focus entirely on this vital task.

Live.

Breathe.

Stay with my pack.

Please…stay with me.

Each compression carries command, each rescue breath holds entreaty. The alpha in me pours every ounce of dominance into willing her back from death’s threshold. Orders her to fight, to survive, to return from whatever darkness claims her.

I don’t even know what I’m saying between breathing resurrection efforts. Words of encouragement? Pleas begging for her survival so we can get to know each other. Anything that would give her soul the motivation to return to this life that was so beyond cruel to her, just so we can give her a chance at happiness.

At the experience of blissful peace.

Losing her now, after protective instincts just awakened from years of dormancy and the idea of her potentially being an Omega we protect from the system desperate to ruin her, carries the weight of cosmic cruelty.

The universe itself seems to mock second chances, delivering possibility only to snatch it away.

I refuse to yield and stubbornly decline the forced acceptance of this ending. My hands maintain a steady rhythm as if sheer stubbornness can force life back into failing flesh.

Each motion carries pure defiance against fate’s apparent decree.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Repeat.

Until she draws breath on her own or my arms give out completely, I will not stop fighting for her survival. The alpha in me recognizes something too precious to surrender without epic battle – even against death itself.

My arms burn with fatigue as hope slips further away with each compression. Despite every ounce of strength poured into CPR, her body remains unresponsive.

Tears blur my vision until I can barely meet those fixed emerald eyes before delivering another rescue breath.

The urge to surrender claws at my resolve as exhaustion sets in. Sobs threaten to break the rhythm of life-saving motions when Dante crashes through the undergrowth, defibrillator clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

He drops beside her still form with practiced urgency while Atlas’s hands find my shoulders, pulling me back with unerring accuracy.

“I tried,” the words escape in a broken whisper as if confession might somehow alter bitter reality.

My body shakes with suppressed grief, strength finally failing as Atlas’s arms tighten around me.

He offers no empty comfort, no false assurances – just solid presence as we’re forced to watch Dante work.

The sound of fabric tearing cuts through the night air as he exposes her chest, revealing a magnitude of trauma painted across pale skin.

Scars layer upon scars – some surgical, others born of clear cruelty. Bruises in various stages of healing map a constellation of suffering across her torso.

Each mark tells a story of survival through unimaginable torment, of years spent enduring systematic torture in solitary silence.

Rage ignites in my chest, burning away grief with promise of vengeance. Regardless of the outcome, blood will answer for every scar, every bruise, and every moment of pain inflicted upon her.

This debt will be paid in full, written in the screams of those responsible.

Dante positions the defibrillator pads with methodical precision, his usual swagger replaced by intense focus. The machine’s automated countdown pierces tension – three seconds until discharge, warning all to maintain distance.

The shock rocks through her small frame, arching her back off the blood-soaked earth. But those extraordinary eyes remain fixed, chest still refusing to rise with breath.

Dante’s jaw clenches as he initiates the second charge, determination warring with growing despair.

Another warning countdown, another violent jolt – yet silence persists where the heartbeat should resume. Dante’s gaze finds ours, defeat creeping into his expression despite obvious resistance. I recognize that look from countless battlefields, from too many moments when skill and technology prove insufficient against death’s finality.

“Again.” Atlas’s whisper carries the weight of command, of alpha refusing to accept loss.

“Atl—” Dante’s attempted protest dies as Atlas’s roar shatters the night’s relative quiet.

“AGAIN!”

The sound echoes through gas-thinned air, raw fury, and desperation combined in a single word that vibrates with alpha authority.

Enemy territory no longer matters, stealth becomes irrelevant – nothing exists beyond this moment of desperate attempt to reclaim life from death’s grasp.

Dante swallows hard but complies without further argument. His finger finds the activation button as the countdown begins the final attempt.

Each second stretches eternal as we wait for the machine to deliver its charge, for fate to reveal its verdict.

Three.

Two.

One.

The forest holds its breath as electricity arcs through unresponsive flesh one last time.

Time freezes as we wait for signs of life or confirmation of loss. My muscles remain locked in anticipation, my heart thundering against my ribs as seconds stretch eternal.

Her body suddenly arches with violent force, lungs drawing desperate gasps through parted lips that moments ago remained stubbornly still. The sound of air rushing into oxygen-starved tissue carries the sweetest music I’ve ever heard.

“Fuck,” Dante’s curse carries pure relief as he launches into action.

Dropping to his knees beside her still-rigid form, he grabs oxygen equipment with practiced efficiency born from too many similar situations. My body moves without conscious thought, breaking free of Atlas’s restraining grip to assist in stabilizing her fragile hold on reclaimed life.

Working in seamless tandem born from years of field experience, I help Dante manage the manual breathing bag while he sets up monitoring equipment.

Every motion carries practiced precision despite trembling hands that betray the depth of emotional investment. The temporary nature of these measures burns in the back of my mind – she needs professional care from trusted sources who won’t compromise our position or safety.

“I’ll carry her while you handle the equipment until we reach the van,” my voice carries steady certainty despite internal turmoil threatening to overwhelm careful control. “Then I drive.”

Dante’s focused silence speaks volumes about calculations running through his tactically oriented mind.

I recognize the intensity of his expression – already identifying which contacts to call, which safe houses offer required medical facilities, and which routes minimize exposure while maximizing the speed of response.

Her body feels impossibly light as I gather her in my arms, cradling her against my chest with a mixture of careful urgency and protective instinct. Each breath she manages sends a wave of relief through my system, while the pulse fluttering beneath my fingers provides precious proof of life reclaimed from death’s inexorable grasp.

Rising smoothly to avoid jostling her fragile condition, I adjust her position to maintain a clear airway while protecting the injury site.

The amount of blood soaking Atlas’s shirt speaks to the critical nature of her wound – time remains an essential enemy in the race to secure proper treatment.

The distinctive click of safety disengaging freezes us mid-motion, combat instincts screaming alert.

My head snaps toward Atlas, finding him oriented away from us, weapon trained on swirling remnants of colored gas with deadly precision despite his blindness.

Where streams of teal green and magenta cross, creating ethereal symbols in night air that seems to pulse with its own inner light, movement catches enhanced vision. Atlas’s command cuts through eerie silence with alpha authority: “Show yourself or die where you stand.”

Measured footsteps break the perfect stillness, each impact carrying the weight of approaching revelation. The sound echoes with deliberate precision as if the creator wishes to telegraph the exact position and pace of advance. My arms tighten instinctively around our precious Omega while positioning to shield her from potential threats.

As the figure emerges through dissipating clouds, understanding fails. Reality itself seems to fracture and reform around the impossible truth standing before us. Because there, identical to the wounded omega in my arms in every detail save reversed hair colors, is…Nyx?

The identical face, the same delicate features, the mirror-image build – everything matches perfectly except for hair that flows from magenta roots to green tips rather than the opposite pattern.

Even the small scatter of freckles across the nose bridge appears exactly replicated as if the universe decided to present us with a perfect copy of the woman I cradle against my chest.

My enhanced senses capture every detail of this impossibility:

The same emerald eyes with hints of teal.

Identical height and build suggest shared genetics.

Matching small scar at the corner of the jaw.

Similar grace of movement despite combat-ready stance.

Only the tactical gear she wears and the weapon slung across her back differentiate her from our wounded charge. Where one wears Atlas’s blood-soaked shirt, this version stands wrapped in professional military equipment that speaks of extensive training and experience.

The forest holds its breath as we process this revelation, this shattering of expected reality. Because somehow, against all logic and reason, we face a perfect mirror of the omega we just brought back from death’s threshold.

Two versions of the same woman – one fighting for each breath in my arms, one standing battle-ready before us. The implications send my mind spinning with possibilities too complex to process in the heat of the moment.

Time seems suspended as we wait for the next development, for an explanation of the impossible sight before us. The gas continues its lazy dance through the night air, creating an ethereal backdrop for a scene that challenges every conception of reality.

“Nyx?” I dare whisper the question, knowing damn well the woman whose a copy of the Omega in my arms is not the owner of such a name.

The woman’s expression stays neutral, but she decides to grace us with her name.

“Jinx,” her voice is firm and unforgiving. “Jinx Blackwood.”

22

BENEATH TWIN SHADOWS

~DANTE~

“Jinx,” her voice cuts through tension with razor precision. “Jinx Blackwood.”

My eyes track every detail of her appearance with tactical assessment born from years of field experience.

Though the previous focus centered entirely on reviving Nyx from death’s grasp, this identical figure demands thorough analysis despite the urgent need for medical intervention.

The contrast between the twins strikes an immediate chord – where Nyx’s hair flows from dark teal green to magenta ombre, Jinx’s coloring reverses the pattern completely. Magenta dominates her roots before cascading into teal green tips, creating a mirror image effect that emphasizes their connection while highlighting fundamental differences in their paths.

Her frame matches Nyx’s delicate build, but her developed musculature speaks of extensive combat training and dedicated conditioning.

Tattoos peek through tears in tactical gear, intricate designs partially visible beneath evidence of recent close-quarter fighting. Fresh cuts mark exposed skin, suggesting intense combat concluded mere moments ago.

The sniper rifle slung across her shoulders with practiced familiarity confirms suspicion about the source of gas-releasing rounds that covered our escape.

The most striking difference lies in her eyes – though identical in color to Nyx’s extraordinary shade of ivory green with teal undertones, these hold none of her sister’s light or warmth.

Something cold and clinical lurks in their depths, as if years of calculated violence have stripped away softer emotions, leaving only razor-sharp efficiency and tactical awareness. Where Nyx’s gaze carried hope despite torture, Jinx speaks of the willing embrace of darkness.

“Blackwood?” Kieran’s whisper carries a dangerous edge that raises hackles. “You’re her sister and yet she’s been stuck in this shit hole for six-plus years?”

His question gives voice to the collective outrage burning through our pack. If this woman possessed the resources to mount tactical intervention, why allow her twin to endure years of systematic torture? How many opportunities for rescue passed while Nyx suffered behind Ravenscroft’s walls? The implications spark bitter fury in my chest.

We could have found her sooner before captivity carved its brutal lessons into flesh and spirit. Could have offered protection and belonging in those critical early years, and spared her countless scars both physical and psychological. Given her chance at life unburdened by experimental torture and clinical cruelty.

“You’re going to waste valuable time asking stupid questions?”

Jinx’s response carries no trace of remorse or emotional investment. Her tone suggests such concerns rank far beneath tactical priorities, dismissing years of her sister’s suffering as irrelevant to the current situation.

Kieran’s growl rumbles through the clearing as rage ignites in his expression, alpha instincts bristling at such a cold dismissal of the pack’s newest member.

However, my attention returns to Nyx’s motionless form, noting how the temporary oxygen system struggles to maintain adequate support. Her skin carries concerning pallor beneath the remaining gas residue, while her pulse flutters weakly at the exposed throat.

Without hesitation, I strip off my tactical coat and drape it carefully over her still form. Maintaining body temperature becomes a critical priority given significant blood loss and extended exposure to night air.

Each second we delay reduces the chances of successful recovery.

“Kieran, get her to the car now,” the command flows naturally despite his visible resistance.

One look silences potential argument – Jinx speaks the truth about time’s precious nature, regardless of questions burning for answers. Her cold efficiency serves a purpose, even as it raises disturbing questions about the nature of the relationship between identical twins.

Questions that must wait while Nyx’s life hangs precariously in balance. Mysteries require time we cannot spare while death circles ever closer to recently revived prey, seeking a second chance to claim what we barely managed to retrieve from its grasp.

The weight of untold stories and unexplained absences presses against consciousness, demanding attention we cannot currently afford to give.

Whatever circumstances led to this moment – to one sister standing battle-ready while the other fights for each breath – they pale in significance compared to an immediate need for medical intervention.

Yet even as survival instincts demand focus on Nyx’s critical condition, my tactical mind catalogs every detail of her mirror image for future reference.

There’s something in Jinx’s stance, in carefully maintained emotional distance, that speaks of a deeper game being played.

One whose rules and stakes remain frustratingly unclear in this moment of crisis.

Kieran takes three steps before pausing, muscles rigid with barely contained fury as he looks back over his shoulder. His eyes lock onto Jinx with deadly intensity born from personal experience with betrayal.

“If you don’t have positive intentions of being in her life now that she’s free, don’t bother trying to involve yourself. Remain a fucking ghost than act like you’re a real impact on her existence.” The words carry weight of old wounds, of trust shattered and bonds broken beyond repair.

Jinx meets his gaze unflinching, the corner of her mouth lifting in an ambiguous expression that walks the line between appreciation and mockery.

The subtle shift transforms her features into something more dangerous than mere tactical efficiency.

“You’re like your brother.” The casual observation strikes with the precision of a well-aimed bullet, forcing a collective inhale as implications register. Knowledge of Kieran’s brother – presumed dead these past seven years after a failed mission left no body to recover – raises disturbing questions about the depth of her intelligence gathering.

Her words suggest intimate familiarity with our histories, with secrets we thought buried beneath years of careful concealment.

The brother who vanished without a trace, whose loss carved permanent scars into Kieran’s psyche, somehow connects to this enigmatic figure.

“Same in looks and stubbornness. Ironic.”

Each word carries calculated weight, designed to provoke reaction while revealing nothing of substance. Her expression remains carefully neutral despite the past bomb she just detonated in our midst.

Kieran’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits, but his response comes measured and precise:

“Stay away from our Omega.” The declaration carries no room for misinterpretation – not suggestion but absolute command backed by pure alpha authority.

The possessive claim strikes an unexpected chord, especially from one whose past experience with omegas left such devastating scars. Yet his willingness to overcome personal trauma for Nyx’s protection speaks volumes about connections already forming.

His departure carries deadly grace as he rushes toward the waiting van, leaving Atlas and me to face this living puzzle that seems to hold pieces of a past we thought forever lost.

The weight of unspoken questions fills the air between us, mixing with lingering traces of colored gas.

What game is she playing?

How deep does her knowledge of our organization go?

Why surface now, after years of apparent indifference to her twin’s suffering?

Each query builds upon the last, creating a web of mystery that demands unraveling.

But Nyx’s critical condition takes priority over satisfying curiosity. Time slips away with each moment spent contemplating Jinx’s sudden appearance and cryptic revelations. The steady sound of Kieran’s footsteps fading into the distance serves as a reminder of what truly matters.

Atlas maintains perfect stillness beside me, his covered gaze oriented unerringly toward our potential threat despite physical blindness.

His posture speaks volumes about the assessment of the situation – ready for either diplomatic discussion or immediate violence depending on Jinx’s next move.

The tension stretches between us like a drawn bowstring, waiting for the smallest pressure to release devastating consequences.

“Get to the point,” Atlas commands, natural authority flowing as he takes control of the situation.

His leadership in tense confrontations has always outshined my own, tactical precision perfectly suited for delicate negotiations where one wrong word could trigger catastrophe.

“Two weeks,” Jinx states with a military crispness that speaks of extensive training. “That’s all I can offer. If you’re compatible with Nyx and want her as your Omega, I’ll know what to do.”

Confusion ripples through me at this unexpected proposition.

The casual way she offers her sister’s future strikes a discordant note against tactical surroundings and urgent circumstances. Her clinical detachment while discussing Nyx’s fate raises hackles I didn’t know I still possessed.

“You’re setting us up with your sister? For what?” Disbelief colors my tone as implications stack up. “You don’t know who the fuck we are. We’re special ops. We’re murderers.” My hand gestures encompass our blood-stained reality. “We’re probably double her age.”

“My sister doesn’t need boys in her life,” Jinx cuts through my protests with surgical precision, each word carefully chosen. “She needs men who don’t waste time. Alphas who aren’t using Omegas just for their own benefit.” Her eyes narrow fractionally, assessment clear in their depths. “She’s willing to sacrifice her life in captivity to save one of your own. She’s loyal, despite the world never being loyal to her.”

The truth in her words stings – Nyx’s willingness to trade her freedom for Vale’s safety demonstrates a character that transcends normal omega behavior.

Her sacrifice speaks of strength we’ve rarely encountered in any designation.

Most Omegas care about themselves, their futures, their financial abundance, and the comfortability of their lifestyle. They don’t want to struggle, let alone sacrifice themselves for a group of men they just met.

“Why weren’t you loyal to her?” Atlas’s question carries deadly calm that raises the hair on my neck.

I catch the telltale twitch of his left index finger – the same hand that’s broken countless faces when righteous fury overcomes careful control. His rage at child predators and those who harm innocents carries the same intensity as the current situation.

“My loyalty will reveal itself soon enough.” Jinx shows no reaction to implied threat, maintaining perfect poise despite tension crackling through the air. “Until then, you simply play house for two weeks and the truth will be revealed. That’s all I’m requesting of you.”

Our silence speaks volumes as she adjusts the weapon strap with practiced efficiency that suggests years of combat experience. The sniper rifle moves like a natural extension of her form rather than added equipment.

“You have to go. My unit can’t hold off those fuckers much longer.” Her tactical assessment carries a ring of truth. Unit? What unit is she talking about? “The owner is already pissed he has a blade in his arm. Don’t need him messing with the Blackwoods. My Father’s involvement will be but a pain.”

The casual mention of the living family sends ice through my veins. Parents who allowed – perhaps even orchestrated – Nyx’s years of torture. The implications stack up like bodies after a firefight, each revelation adding weight to an already complex situation.

“So your parents are alive.” The words taste bitter on my tongue, carrying an accusation of complicity in acknowledging Nyx’s suffering that could have been prevented.

“Yes.” Simple confirmation suggests a game is far deeper than a surface rescue operation would indicate. Her tone reveals nothing about the nature of family dynamics or the reasons behind the apparent abandonment of twins to years of experimental torture.

Each moment spent in this standoff costs precious seconds of Nyx’s survival chances, yet something about Jinx’s presence demands attention – as if pieces of a larger puzzle hover just beyond comprehension.

Her knowledge of our histories, casual mention of Kieran’s lost brother, clear military training, and tactical support unit – none of it adds up to a simple rescue operation. Something larger moves beneath the surface, suggesting a chess game where we’ve yet to identify all players or true stakes involved.

“All you need to know is our Mother will know the truth. When Nyx is ready to confront her, the option will be available,” Jinx’s words carry finality as she turns away. “Take her to Astrological Holmes Medical. It’s one of the best centers for tactical recovery. They have a specialized omega unit. Tell them she’s a Blackwood. They’ll ensure premium care.”

She takes two measured steps before pausing, tension rippling through her frame.

“Your friend. The spasming one.”

The reference to Vale’s condition draws our full attention. Something flickers in her eyes – the first genuine emotion I’ve witnessed crack her careful mask. The change transforms her features, making the resemblance to Nyx even more striking.

“He doesn’t have long to live. I suggest prompt medical intervention. Holmes has a specialized unit capable of treating his condition before it reaches his heart.”

Clinical assessment carries an undertone of her admission.

“Survival chances remain slim, but proper treatment exists.” Her lips press together thoughtfully. “Single requirement…pack must include an omega for treatment access.” Her gaze shifts away. “Your choice, though…I doubt you’re worthy of Nyx being your fated M.U.S.E.”

“Fated M.U.S.E?” The phrase catches in my throat as an unexpected smile graces her features.

“M. Master of one’s fate, they marveled in her command.

U. Unbound by rules, they quaked in her wake. S. Skilled beyond imagining, they cowered in her presence. E. Enduring against odds, they admired in reverence.”

She offers a new definition that stands in stark contrast to Ravenscroft’s cruel version.

“Knot Your Fated MUSE. She wasn’t fated for alphas assigned to her…so things needed to change. Be delayed…even if it makes me the villain.” Her attention drifts distant. “No different than me not being their fated MUSE. I wasn’t destined for this path…at least, not until now. Now it makes sense. Trading places.” A soft giggle escapes her. “Fate is such an entertainer.”

She melts into lingering streams of colored gas, her presence fading like morning mist until nothing remains but questions and implications.

“Atlas?” My voice carries uncertainty as I process the overload of information. “I don’t get it…any of this, honestly…but…”

But are we going to abandon Nyx…or keep her as ours?

“If Nyx deems us worthy of her love, there will be no doubt in our decision,” he declares, and I can tell he’s absolute with the decision I’m trying to get affirmation for.

“So…” I begin, my thoughts wishing to be heard.

We’ll fight for her. Mend her back to good health. Help her heal and recover, even if it takes days, months, or years.

“She’s ours?”

Atlas begins to walk away, slipping his hands into his pockets, knowing I’ll follow.

“She’s ours,” he affirms. “Our fated M.U.S.E.”

23

WAKING TO PINE NEEDLES

~NYX~

Atlas’s scent pervades every breath I take, wrapping around me like a constant embrace even in the depths of unconsciousness. Pine needles, leather, mountain air – the combination has become as essential as oxygen during this strange week of drifting between awareness and dreams.

I’ve never slept so much in my life.

Six years of captivity trained my body to function on minimal rest, yet now it surrenders to exhaustion with shocking regularity. Each time consciousness tries to take hold, fatigue pulls me back under like a tide I’m powerless to resist.

But Atlas remains my anchor through it all.

His presence marks every brief moment of wakefulness – steady hands supporting my head as he coaxes water past my lips, gentle strength cradling me upright when weakness makes sitting impossible. The IV in my arm delivers vital fluids, but he insists on helping me drink as if each small act of care might erase years of clinical detachment.

Nights bring a different kind of comfort.

His body curls protectively around mine, radiating warmth that seeps into bones that seem permanently chilled. The silk wrap remains in place, but I’ve learned to read volumes in the way his breathing changes, in how his arms tighten fractionally when dreams threaten to drag me back to sterile halls and endless pain.

Sometimes, in that ethereal space between sleeping and waking, his voice breaks the silence. The humming starts so quietly that I often think I’m imagining it — a melody that carries notes of safety and belonging.

I doubt he knows I hear these midnight serenades, these moments when careful control gives way to tender comfort.

But now, surfacing slowly from another extended period of unconsciousness, I find myself facing questions that even Atlas’s reassuring presence can’t answer.

A week has passed since escaping Ravenscroft’s sterile hell, yet I have no grasp on what comes next. The world beyond captivity remains a mystery filled with expectations I’m not sure I can meet.

Normal omegas seek packs, build lives, and heal from whatever traumas mark their pasts. They move forward with determination and grace, finding their place in a society I barely remember. But how does one simply step away from six years of systematic torture?

What alpha would willingly claim an omega so thoroughly broken by endless experiments?

The shadows stir at the edges of my consciousness, their silence carrying notes of uncertainty rather than their usual warnings. Their return gives me an odd sense of relief, despite the implications that their presence contributes to the idea of my sanity going to hell.

After everything I’ve been through, if the company of these voices means I’m labeled crazy, so be it. They’re a part of me now, their presence, warning, and hymns of loss and praise have helped me survive milestones I never expected to experience and achieve.

Even they seem unsure of my path forward in this world of freedom that feels more foreign than familiar.

My fingers trace the bandages wrapped around my torso, mapping the extent of injuries I can barely remember receiving. The bullet wound throbs with dull persistence, a constant reminder of how close death came to claiming its prize.

The medical staff speaks in hushed tones about miracle recoveries and inexplicable survival, but I remember nothing after collapsing in the forest.

Only fragments surface through the fog of trauma – strong arms catching my fall, desperate voices calling my name, the taste of borrowed breath forcing life back into unwilling lungs. The details blur together like watercolors left in the rain, creating impressionist paintings of memories I can’t quite grasp.

I guess it doesn’t matter because, in the end, I’m alive.

I’ll recover. Heal. Carry the scars that are left behind, both physically and mentally from Ravenscroft’s captivity.

Atlas shifts beside me, his breathing pattern changing subtly as he senses my return to consciousness. His arm tightens fractionally around my waist, careful to avoid the worst of my injuries while still maintaining that grounding contact I’ve come to crave.

“Water?” His voice carries that particular gentleness reserved for these quiet moments between sleep and full awareness.

I manage a small nod, grateful when he doesn’t immediately move to help me sit up. These first moments after waking often leave me dizzy and disoriented, my body requiring time to remember it’s no longer in Ravenscroft’s sterile halls.

It’s also a relief that he’s somehow managing to acknowledge my silent gestures. I know it’s a bit selfish, testing his other senses when I could just voice my concerns, but he told me he doesn’t like when people try to compensate for his obvious disability. Some are thoughtful, especially those who’ve known him the longest, but most do it almost disrespectfully.

As if to diminish his worth.

His patience speaks volumes about how well he’s learned to read my needs over this past week. Where the facility’s staff demanded immediate responses and compliance, Atlas offers the gift of time – allowing me to set the pace of each small interaction.

The shadows hum with approval, their song carrying notes of acceptance I’ve never heard before. They recognize something in his care that transcends mere alpha protectiveness or clinical observation.

This is different from the forced attentiveness of assigned guards or the cold efficiency of medical staff.

When I finally feel steady enough to attempt sitting, his support comes with practiced grace. One arm slides beneath my shoulders while the other maintains perfect balance, helping me rise without placing undue strain on healing wounds. The movement still pulls uncomfortably at stitches, but the pain remains manageable – more reminder than true agony.

The water he offers comes in small sips, his control preventing the greed my parched throat demands. I’ve learned this lesson over the past week – too much too quickly leads to nausea and setbacks.

His careful rationing protects me from my own desperate needs.

“Better?” The question comes pitched low, intimate in the pre-dawn quiet of what I’ve learned is a private medical suite.

The facility – Astrological Holmes Medical Center according to the logo adorning every surface – caters to a very specific clientele. The security rivals military installations, while the staff maintains discretion that borders on the invisible unless directly summoned.

I’ve gathered that Atlas’s pack holds significant influence here, though the details remain carefully vague. I can only assume that’s the case, though they enjoy calling me Miss Blackwood as if I’m the reason they all have employment or something.

“Yes,” my voice comes rough from disuse, but the single word carries genuine gratitude. These small moments of care still feel surreal – acts of tenderness freely given without expectation of payment or submission.

His thumb traces gentle patterns against my shoulder, the touch grounding me in present reality rather than memories of clinical restraints. Every point of contact between us radiates careful consideration – calculated to comfort rather than confine.

“The others want to visit,” he mentions casually, though I catch the slight tension in his frame. “Only when you’re ready.”

The others.

His pack.

The alphas who helped orchestrate my escape yet remain mostly mysterious presences hovering at the edges of my awareness. I’ve caught glimpses during brief periods of consciousness – Kieran’s worried frown as he checks monitoring equipment, Dante’s quick efficiency changing bandages, Vale’s quiet presence from the wheelchair he currently requires.

But direct interaction remains limited as if they’re allowing me time to adjust to freedom before adding the complexity of pack dynamics. Their consideration touches something deep inside, awakening omega instincts I thought were permanently destroyed by Ravenscroft’s experiments.

“Soon,” I whisper, not quite ready to face the full weight of their attention. “How’s Vale?”

Atlas’s slight smile carries notes of pride at my concern for his pack brother.

“Improving. The treatments here are helping with the spasms. Having you…” he pauses, choosing words with careful precision, “Having an omega present allows access to specialized care we couldn’t get before.”

The implications hover unspoken between us – my presence serves some vital purpose beyond mere rescue. The facility’s requirements regarding omega involvement in treatment remain unclear, but I gather it’s somehow essential to Vale’s chances of survival.

That means if I don’t officialize being their Omega, will they stop Vale’s treatments?

The fact he’s able to function at least in a wheelchair is already a miracle from what the nurses were whispering, stating they were so close to having to put him into a medically induced coma when he was admitted with how crazy and long his leg spasms were in length.

Questions burn on my tongue, yet exhaustion already creeps back with a familiar weight. My body’s demands for rest still override my conscious desire for answers. Atlas notices immediately, easing me back against the pillows with that impossible gentleness that never fails to catch me off guard.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, lips brushing my temple in a touch so light it might be imagination. “We have time.”

Time.

The concept feels foreign after years of existing in carefully measured increments between trials and torments. Freedom brings its own flavour of uncertainty – endless possibilities stretching before me like unexplored territory.

But Atlas’s presence offers an anchor in this sea of unknown variables. His scent wraps around me like a shield against darker thoughts, while his careful touches map boundaries of safety I’m slowly learning to trust.

The shadows stir restlessly, their silence carrying questions that mirror my own uncertainty.

What happens when this bubble of recovery bursts?

When medical necessity no longer requires Atlas’s constant presence?

Will this tenderness evaporate like morning mist, leaving me once again adrift in a world that holds no place for broken omegas?

His arms tighten fractionally as if sensing the direction of my thoughts. The gesture carries reassurance without demands, and comfort without expectation. Everything about his care speaks of patience I don’t quite understand – as if he’s willing to wait eternities for me to find solid ground in this new reality.

Exhaustion pulls harder at my consciousness, making thoughts scatter like leaves in the autumn wind. Atlas’s heartbeat provides a steady rhythm beneath my ear, its consistency more effective than any lullaby. His scent surrounds me completely — pine needles and leather creating a cocoon of safety that makes resistance to sleep’s call impossible.

Just before darkness claims me completely, his humming starts – that barely-there melody that’s become as essential as his presence. The tune carries notes of protection and possibility, of futures I dare not name but desperately want to believe in.

The shadows join his song with harmonic whispers, their usual warnings transformed into something approaching peace. For the first time since entering Ravenscroft’s sterile halls, their voices carry hope rather than caution – as if they too recognize something profound in Atlas’s unwavering care.

My last conscious thought centers on the strange truth that’s emerged over this week of healing: I feel more omega in Atlas’s arms than I ever did during Ravenscroft’s endless attempts to force proper designation responses. His presence awakens instincts their experiments failed to trigger, while his patience allows space for natural emergence rather than demanded compliance.

The realization follows me into dreams, coloring unconsciousness with shades of possibility I never dared imagine during captivity. Perhaps freedom offers more than mere survival. Perhaps this alpha who holds me with such care sees beyond the scars and trauma to something worth claiming.

Perhaps the shadows know better than my conscious mind – their song carrying a prophecy of belonging I’m not yet ready to acknowledge. Their harmony follows me down into healing sleep, mixing with Atlas’s gentle humming until I can no longer distinguish between the two melodies.

In this moment between waking and dreams, surrounded by pine needles and leather, I allow myself to hope. Not for grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but for small moments like this – where safety comes freely offered and care requires no payment beyond simple acceptance.

The world beyond this recovery room still holds countless uncertainties.

Questions about my future remain unanswered, while the weight of past trauma lingers like shadows at the edges of consciousness. But Atlas’s presence offers the foundation for whatever comes next – solid ground upon which to build an understanding of freedom’s true meaning.

His heartbeat maintains a steady rhythm beneath my ear as sleep claims final victory. The shadows fall silent, their song complete for now, leaving only the ghost of Atlas’s humming to follow into dreams unmarked by sterile halls or endless pain.

For the first time in six years, unconsciousness comes as a gift rather than an escape.

In this alpha’s arms, surrounded by his scent and steadied by his care, even dreams hold the possibility of peace.

24

A PLACE TO CALL HOME

~NYX~

The wooden house rises before me like something conjured from childhood fairy tales – all rough-hewn logs and wide windows catching afternoon light.

A wraparound porch offers countless spots for quiet contemplation while climbing vines soften the structure’s imposing presence with delicate purple blooms.

Nature embraces the building completely, ancient trees standing sentinel around its borders like guardians frozen in eternal watch. Their branches weave together overhead, creating dappled patterns that dance across weathered wood with hypnotic grace.

The shadows stir with quiet appreciation, their usual warnings transformed into whispered admiration of this sanctuary carved from the wilderness. They recognize something here that resonates with their own nature – a perfect balance between civilization and untamed beauty.

My fingers trace the intricate iron gate we passed through earlier, memory fresh of multiple security checkpoints and careful verification procedures. What appeared at first glance as a simple forest road revealed layers of protection that would rival military installations.

“Everything here serves a dual purpose,” Echo’s words from the drive replay in my mind. The beta woman’s quiet confidence as she navigated unmarked roads carried the weight of long experience. “Beauty masks security. Nature conceals surveillance. Even the flowers have a purpose beyond decoration.”

The memory of her explanation about Parazodiac Nexus Ops flows unbidden…

“WE OPERATE IN FOUR SUBDIVISIONS,” Atlas explained from the back seat beside me, his presence steady as the vehicle wound through mountains. “Each specializes in different aspects of omega protection and facility infiltration.”

Echo’s hands remained steady on the wheel as she added details, her beta status allowing objective insight into alpha operations. “Subdivision A handles intelligence gathering and surveillance. B focuses on medical support and recovery. C maintains safe houses and witness protection. D…” she paused, glancing in the rearview mirror, “D does what needs doing when diplomatic options fail. Those are the normal implications that the outside world knows and follows. The details are rather different when you review the subdivisions’ true purpose, but that’s all boring and no one has time for all that information overload.”

“We’re A,” Atlas’s quiet confirmation carried the weight of countless missions. “When negotiations break down or when facilities cross lines that can’t be uncrossed, we ensure justice finds those responsible.”

“Justice,” the word tasted strange on my tongue. “Is that what happened at Ravenscroft?”

“Justice takes many forms,” Echo’s tone held careful neutrality. “Sometimes it requires extensive planning and careful infiltration. Other times…” her eyes met mine briefly in the mirror, “it arrives in gas clouds of magenta and teal.”

I wonder what she means by that, but then I can only question whether she was present or aware of what happened a week ago at Ravenscroft. Those bullets ignited gas clouds of teal green and magenta.

Atlas’s hand found mine as understanding dawned.

“We’ve been watching Ravenscroft for years, gathering intelligence on their operations. Your existence ended up being brought to our attention, and the attempt to retrieve you and the discovery of three other Omegas accelerated our timeline, but the facility was already marked for intervention.”

“They hurt too many,” Echo’s knuckles whitened slightly on the steering wheel. “Crossed too many lines. Broke too many laws. The Nexus couldn’t allow it to continue, but everything in the world demands order and process. It’s not a simple punishment and leaves the remains behind. It’s more so a give or take. That’s how the Nexus operates basically.”

“The Nexus?”

“They deem themselves the governing council. They have other names they go by, but Nexus is easier to grasp who we’re talking about and the implications of importance when assigned certain tasks.” Atlas explained. “They coordinate between subdivisions, authorize major operations, and maintain the balance between different pack territories. Think of them as selfish peacekeepers who work with the government and the underground. They’re basically the middle ground that will lean to whatever side will give them the profitable outcome, regardless of violence and burned bridges. They’re not afraid to bare teeth when peace fails.”

The shadows stirred with interest at this glimpse into a world I never knew existed.

A world where alphas fought to protect omegas rather than exploit them. Where justice wore many faces but always served a greater purpose.

“Why?” The question escaped before I could stop it. “Why risk everything to save omegas you don’t know?”

Echo’s soft laugh carried no mockery.

“Because someone has to. Every omega saved is a future protected. Sometimes the only way to fight darkness is to become the shadows that hunt other shadows.”

Atlas’s grip tightened fractionally. “To simply put it, it’s the right thing to do, even with the heavy circumstances, implications, and potential consequences,” he pauses while squeezing his hand. “You’re proof that it’s worth it.”

THE MEMORY FADES as present reality reasserts itself.

This house – this sanctuary hidden deep in the protected forest – represents everything the Nexus fights to preserve. Safety. Security. The chance for broken things to heal far from those who shattered them.

“The entire perimeter is monitored,” Atlas speaks quietly beside me, his presence as steady as the ancient trees surrounding us. “Motion sensors, heat detection, automated response systems. Nothing gets within five miles without us knowing.”

The shadows hum appreciation of such thorough protection, their song carrying notes of approval rather than their usual caution. They recognize the layers of security for what they truly offer – not mere safety, but the chance to truly rest without fear of discovery.

“What happens now?” I ask softly, gaze fixed on the solid wooden door that leads to whatever future awaits. “With Ravenscroft?”

Atlas’s hand finds mine, his gentle squeeze grounding me in present reality rather than memories of sterile halls.

“Investigation continues. Evidence gathering. Building cases against those responsible. It won’t shut them down. In fact, they might be jumping right back to where they left off, acting like nothing happened. None of us are sure.” His thumb traces careful patterns across my knuckles. “But that’s not your concern right now. You’re safe here.”

“And me?” The question barely rises above a whisper. “What happens with me?”

His slight hesitation draws my attention fully to his face. Even with the silk wrap hiding his eyes, I’ve learned to read volumes in the set of his jaw, the subtle shifts of expression that betray deeper thoughts.

“We have two weeks,” he states finally, each word carefully chosen. “Two weeks to… make a decision.”

“What decision?”

The shadows stir restlessly, their song carrying notes of understanding I’m not quite ready to grasp. They recognize the significance of this moment, in the weight Atlas gives each word.

“Whether you become our omega,” his voice drops lower, intimate despite our outdoor setting. “Or return to Ravenscroft.”

Ice floods my veins at the second option, memories of endless torment threatening to overwhelm the careful healing of the past week. As much as I want to act like a helpless Omega and vow to never return to those threatening metal walls with no chance of escaping a second time, I also know staying away could put these Alphas in danger.

Without them, more Omegas will lose their lives in these massive corporations and organizations that hide in plain sight, taking advantage of the system that doesn’t benefit us Omegas.

Only makes us worthy prey to experiment on and enjoy agonizing.

“I’ll return.” The words emerge strangled but determined. “I won’t risk your pack’s safety. Won’t endanger—”

Atlas’s hand tightens, cutting off my protest as he shakes his head.

“No.” Simple denial carries absolute authority. “That’s not a real option. I only mention it because full disclosure matters.” His free hand rises to cup my cheek, the touch infinitely gentle despite the steel in his tone. “You’ll never return there. Not while I draw breath.”

The shadows sing approval of his declaration, their harmony carrying notes of satisfaction rather than their usual warnings. They recognize something in his words that transcends mere alpha protectiveness – a promise written in steel and backed by absolute conviction.

“But—”

“No.” His thumb traces my cheekbone with impossible tenderness that contrasts with the unmovable certainty in his voice. “The choice is whether you join our pack or we help you find another. But you never return to that place. Never face their torments again. That path is permanently closed.”

I don’t need to go back?

Won’t their be consequences?

What if they come for me and endanger them?

Tears burn behind my eyes at the finality in his tone, at the way he states impossible things as simple facts.

“You can’t know that. Can’t guarantee—”

“I can. I do.” His forehead presses against mine, grounding me in present reality rather than future fears. “The pack that claims you…whether ours or another…will ensure your safety. No matter which path you choose, me and my pack will tear apart anyone who dares threaten you. We will make absolutely certain you never know captivity again.”

The shadows weave through his words, their song carrying recognition of truth in every syllable. They understand what I struggle to accept – that this alpha offers not just protection, but complete dedication to ensuring my freedom.

“Why?” The question slips out small and uncertain. “Why offer such certainty to an omega you barely know?”

His slight smile carries warmth I feel even without seeing his eyes.

“Because you’re worth protecting. Worth cherishing and proving we have every ounce of dedication required to keep you safe.”

“I don’t know how to…” my voice trails off as emotions tangle in my throat. “This kindness, this protection…it’s foreign. I’m not sure how to show proper gratitude.”

Atlas’s gentle smile carries understanding without pity.

“You’re reacting perfectly fine, little Goddess. Just be yourself. Be comfortable. That’s all we ask.”

He gestures toward the door, hand extending to offer a small keypad.

“Care to do the honors? Code is 495813.”

The significance of those first three numbers doesn’t escape me – my patient designation transformed into key to freedom rather than mark of captivity.

The shadows hum appreciation of such subtle reclamation, their song carrying notes of approval for this small act of defiance against Ravenscroft’s careful categorization.

“Thank you,” I whisper, fingers steady as I input the code. The lock disengages with a soft click that sounds like possibility.

The interior steals my breath completely.

Where the outside promised rustic charm, the inside delivers perfect harmony between comfort and elegance. Exposed wooden beams stretch overhead, their rich color highlighted by carefully placed lighting that creates pools of warm illumination throughout the open space.

“Take your time exploring,” Atlas encourages, moving toward what appears to be a modern control panel. “I’ll adjust the temperature and settings. Make yourself at home.”

Home.

The word echoes in my mind as I step further into this space that defies every expectation. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, its hearth lined with cushions that beg for quiet evenings spent in peaceful contemplation.

The furniture arranged around it speaks of careful consideration – deep cushions promising comfort while maintaining clean lines that please aesthetic sensibilities.

The kitchen flows seamlessly into the living area, all gleaming countertops and state-of-the-art appliances that somehow don’t detract from the overall warmth of the space.

Everything serves both function and beauty, creating an environment that embraces rather than intimidates.

My fingers trail along smooth wooden surfaces as memories surface unbidden.

Ravenscroft’s endless “training” included studying magazines filled with perfect interiors – supposed targets for future infiltration missions. They dangled such images like carrots before starving rabbits, promising freedom from experiments if we proved worthy of their trust.

False hope wrapped in glossy pages.

Empty promises bound in perfect photography.

Lies disguised as potential salvation.

But this space holds nothing of that artificial perfection.

Each room radiates genuine life rather than staged elegance. Signs of actual habitation mark corners and surfaces – a book left open on a side table, a jacket draped over a chair back, a half-empty coffee mug revealing morning routine.

New scents catch my attention as I move deeper into the house. Beyond the overall warmth of wood and leather, distinct aromas begin to separate themselves. My enhanced senses catalog each one with growing fascination:

Atlas’s pine needles and mountain air.

Vale’s rain-washed granite and wild mint.

Kieran’s sandalwood and berries.

Dante’s cinnamon and fresh-baked comfort.

The combination draws me forward like a beacon until I find myself before a partially open door. The scents pour strongest from this room, marking it as shared pack space rather than individual territory.

Stepping inside feels like entering a museum of lives well-lived. Medals catch afternoon light from their careful mounting – racing victories, athletic achievements, military honors all displayed with quiet pride. Framed certificates line another wall, speaking of academic excellence across multiple fields of study.

But it’s the central photograph that captures my complete attention. Four young men in pristine military uniforms stand shoulder to shoulder, their postures parade-ground perfect while their expressions hold barely contained joy. The image must be at least a decade old, yet I recognize each face instantly:

Atlas stands tallest, his eyes visible and bright with unguarded optimism. The silk wrap that now shields damaged vision hasn’t yet become necessary, allowing full view of extraordinary amber irises that seem to glow with inner fire.

Vale leans slightly against him, both legs strong and steady beneath his weight. No sign yet of the disease that would later betray his body, his smile carries pure confidence in future possibilities.

Kieran’s face shows none of the shadows that now often darken his expression. Whatever experiences carved those lines of caution haven’t yet touched the young soldier grinning at the camera with unrestrained enthusiasm.

Dante completes the quartet, his usual swagger already present but tempered by genuine pride in uniform and position. His arm drapes casually across Kieran’s shoulders, speaking of brotherhood forged in training and strengthened through shared purpose.

The contrast between then and now catches in my throat.

These young men radiate certainty in their path, their eyes bright with dreams of service and honor. They couldn’t know what missions lay ahead, what sacrifices would be demanded, what scars would be carved into flesh and psyche alike.

The shadows stir with understanding, their song carrying recognition of how experience reshapes innocence. They see in these younger faces the price of knowledge – how awareness of true darkness transforms those who fight it.

These alphas still carry that core of dedication visible in the photograph, but time has tempered youthful enthusiasm with hard-earned wisdom. Their eyes now hold weight of countless missions, of battles fought in shadow, of victories paid for in blood and pain.

Somehow that burden hasn’t broken them.

Instead, it forged something stronger – a pack bound not just by military precision but by shared purpose and absolute loyalty. The proof surrounds me in this room full of accomplishments and memories, in this home built to shelter both body and spirit.

A movement in the corner catches my attention – what appears to be a carefully constructed nest tucked into a cozy alcove. Various items create an inviting hollow that draws me closer with magnetic pull.

Stuffed animals and colorful plush toys arrange themselves with seemingly random precision, each adorned with different pieces of clothing that trigger immediate recognition. A black dress shirt identical to the one Atlas gave me during escape drapes over a particularly soft-looking rabbit. The fabric still carries traces of pine needles and leather, speaking of careful preservation rather than casual placement.

A navy blue running shirt that must belong to Kieran wraps around a small lion, his scent of sandalwood and berries woven into every fiber. A crisp polo that radiates Dante’s cinnamon and comfort decorates a playful-looking fox. Finally, a white shirt that initially triggers memories of sterile spaces until Vale’s rain-washed granite and wild mint overcomes clinical association.

The shadows hum with fascination as I settle into this carefully crafted space. My hands find a well-loved teddy bear that somehow carries all their scents combined – a perfect harmony of pack essence that makes something deep inside me uncoil with recognition.

Peace steals over me with unexpected swiftness as I curl deeper into the nest.

Each breath brings new notes of their combined presence, creating a symphony of safety that makes my eyelids grow heavy. The shadows’ song fades to gentle whispers as exhaustion pulls with gentle insistence.

Consciousness slips away between one breath and the next, replaced by floating sensation that feels like being cradled in clouds. Some part of me fights the descent, old training demanding alertness even in supposed safety.

My eyes flutter open with effort, confusion rippling through me as I realize I’m no longer in the nest but cradled in Atlas’s lap.

His presence radiates steady comfort as his fingers trail across pages of the book he holds, reading through touch what his damaged vision cannot see.

The raised dots beneath his sensitive fingertips translate stories into his mind through careful interpretation.

“Did I wake you?” His voice carries that particular gentleness reserved for quiet moments.

“No,” I manage through lingering drowsiness. “I just… wanted to know if it’s allowed. Sleeping so much.” The question feels foolish even as it leaves my lips, yet years of conditioning make permission seem vital. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the room was so comfortable. So warm. And the scents…” Words fail as I try to express the profound impact of their combined essence.

Atlas’s arm tightens fractionally around my waist as I relax back against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear provides perfect counterpoint to the shadows’ quiet song.

“As a M.U.S.E,” the words emerge as a barely audible whisper, “all anyone did was talk about how useless of an Omega I was.” My fingers trace aimless patterns on his arm as buried pain surfaces. “I had no scent…couldn’t smell other Alphas…it was so easy to believe what they were saying.”

I take a deep breath, needing to tame all these various emotions while I confess how all of this makes me feel.

It’s the first time having the privilege of someone listening. Not to write such confessions on a board that deems you insane and having mental decline, but show true compassion, care, and validation.

“Everything feels overwhelming,” I continue, words spilling forth like water breaking through a dam. “All these sensations, these scents, these…feelings.”

My fingers twist together in my lap as I try to organize thoughts that scatter like autumn leaves.

“I know there’s no rush. No ticking clock demanding immediate adaptation. But six years of living on borrowed time makes peace feel like a dream I might wake from at any moment.”

Atlas’s thumb traces gentle circles against my arm, offering silent encouragement to continue.

“In Ravenscroft, Alphas were just numbers. Designations. Quick assessments between trials to determine compatibility that never manifested.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “We weren’t meant to know them as people. Weren’t supposed to recognize individual scents or develop genuine connections. Everything was clinical. Calculated. Cold.”

The truth of my situation settles deeper with each word.

“Six years wrapped in carefully constructed lies, and I can’t even remember what came before. How I ended up there. Whether I walked in willingly or was delivered like so many others.”

My voice catches as memories surface.

“There were rumors about families selling their omega children to the facility. About parents convinced by promises of ‘treatment’ and ‘correction’ for designated offspring they saw as defective. But I don’t…I can’t remember if that was my story. If I had family who gave me away or if I simply appeared there one day with no past to speak of.”

Sadness wells up unexpectedly as other faces flash through my mind.

“Azurite, Luna, and Riot. The Omegas in the room with me before we got separated. I didn’t really know them prior to that. We were gathered and chosen based off another trial of survival and we were the only ones that escaped death,” I reveal. “Those weren’t their real names. I created them, like a child wishing to play with dolls in hopes of some form of normalcy in a brewing nightmare.”

My hands clench in my lap as emotion threatens to overwhelm.

“I couldn’t even communicate properly at first. Felt more animal than human, reduced to basic instincts and survival responses. The fact that I can speak now, form coherent thoughts… it’s probably because I finally feel safe enough to remember language.”

Atlas’s steady presence as he holds me offers an anchor as painful memories surface.

“They were my first friends…and last, I guess. Riot…” Pain lances through my chest at the name. “Riot didn’t survive the last challenge. We had to sacrifice one. Those were the conditions, but I felt like there could be a way where we all win. I thought…truly believed I was incapable of friendship, but in that prime challenge, we shared bits of ourselves and dared laugh in one’s company. After that whole fiasco, I got separated from the other two, and it made me realize how alone I’ve been all this while. It also proved that being a defective omega meant I was deserving of isolation, because if I didn’t meet anyone, it meant no one would get hurt. No one would die…”

“But now?” Atlas’s quiet question carries no judgment, just genuine interest in my realizations.

“Now I understand what Ravenscroft stole from me. What they tried to convince me was natural inability was actually careful programming.” My voice drops lower as implications stack up. “It’s satisfying to know they failed. That I can still form connections, still respond to proper alpha presence. But it’s also…haunting.”

“Haunting?” He supplies when I trail off.

“Yes.” The word comes out barely above whisper. “I’m haunted by all the experiences I never had. All the normal moments of discovery that should have been mine.” Heat rises to my cheeks as I force myself to continue. “I never had a real kiss. Everything was…forced. Clinical. Designed for someone else’s satisfaction rather than genuine connection.”

The admission hangs in the air between us as I gather courage to voice deeper truth. “I never…I mean, I didn’t…” My face burns hotter as I struggle with words. “Sex wasn’t…I couldn’t…”

Atlas’s arms tighten fractionally, offering support without pressure as I fight to explain.

“After experiencing how empty those forced kisses felt, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing something so intimate in their sterile rooms. Not when everything else already felt so mechanical and wrong.” The words rush out now, carried on waves of long-suppressed emotion. “I knew… I mean, I understood they wanted to prove I could function that way. That my designation should make me responsive to any alpha presence. But after those kisses…”

My voice cracks slightly as buried pain surfaces.

“Losing your virginity is supposed to be special, isn’t it? Memorable for the right reasons, not because it was another checkbox on their endless experiments. That was the one thing I couldn’t let them take. They already stole my memories, my sense of family, any chance at normal education or early experiences.”

Tears burn behind my eyes as the full weight of loss settles deeper.

“They took away my right to make mistakes and learn from them naturally. Every error in their facility carried a potential death sentence. But this…this one precious thing…I couldn’t let them steal it too.”

My mind is filled with silence, the shadows retreating and I guess allowing me this moment of confession to be between me and Atlas.

“They took so much,” my voice emerges thick with unshed tears. “My past, my autonomy, my ability to trust or form connections. But they couldn’t take everything. Couldn’t completely destroy my capacity for choice, even if that choice was simply refusing to give them one more piece of myself.”

Atlas’s silence carries weight of perfect understanding. His presence behind me offers steady support while his scent wraps around us both like a protective shield against darker memories. The gentle rise and fall of his chest against my back provides rhythm that helps steady my racing thoughts.

“The worst part,” I continue after gathering composure, “is knowing how many normal experiences I missed. Things other omegas take for granted – first dates, awkward flirting, butterflies in your stomach when someone special pays attention. Instead of natural discovery, I got clinical assessments and forced responses.”

It’s frustrating to even think about now.

“We took medication that delays Heats, so we don’t even get to experience what it’s like. I guess it’s a good thing, but it makes me worry. Will I experience Heats in time like normal Omegas? Will that make it so I can conceive in the future…if I get to that readiness to bring children into this world.”

My fingers trace absent patterns on his arm as I voice deeper fears.

“In the end, I feel like I should know how to do this. How to be an omega responding to compatible Alphas. How to navigate pack dynamics and building connections. But everything feels new and terrifying because I have no foundation for normal interaction.”

“You’re doing perfectly fine,” Atlas murmurs, his lips brushing my temple with infinite gentleness. “There’s no guidebook for recovering from what you endured. No timeline for healing or discovering yourself.”

“But what if…” The question catches in my throat, weighted with years of conditioning. “What if I never learn properly? What if I’m too broken to be what a pack needs?”

“You’re not broken,” his response carries absolute conviction. “Changed by experience, perhaps. Shaped by survival in ways that require careful healing. But not broken.”

His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with deliberate care.

“And you’re already exactly what this pack needs. Strong enough to survive impossible odds, brave enough to maintain core of self despite systematic attempts to destroy it, and resilient enough to still offer trust despite every reason not to,” he reveals. “An Omega for us would have to be one who can protect herself. We’re not necessarily bad Alphas, nor are we good. We have feral moments, especially when not having an Omega within our pack for so long. We’re nowhere near perfect, and that’s something we’ve accepted long ago, but the allowance and ease I’ve seen from my pack proves your presence makes them hopeful again.”

“But I don’t know how…” The admission comes small and uncertain. “How to be normal. How to trust these feelings that keep surfacing. How to believe this isn’t another elaborate experiment designed to prove my worthlessness.”

“Then we learn together,” Atlas’s voice carries gentle certainty. “Day by day. Moment by moment. Without pressure or expectations beyond what you’re ready to offer.” His thumb traces my knuckles with infinite care. “You’ve spent six years surviving. Now it’s time to learn to live again. If it takes another six years to learn, grow, and adapt. So be it.”

Something in his quiet confidence loosens the knot of anxiety in my chest.

“I never thought I’d have this chance,” the words emerge weighted with wonder and lingering disbelief. “To discover myself beyond their careful programming. To learn what it means to be Omega without their clinical interference. To possibly…” My voice drops to barely audible whisper, “to possibly belong somewhere. To someone. To a pack that sees me as more than a failed experiment.”

Atlas’s response comes pitched low, intimate in the quiet room.

“You already belong, little Goddess. The only question is whether you choose to accept that belonging.”

The shadows weave through his declaration, their song carrying notes of destiny fulfilled rather than their usual warnings. They recognize in this moment something profound – the possibility of genuine connection untainted by force or clinical necessity.

From the beginning, Atlas has stressed that I’m not forced to be with their pack. That if I decide to want another set of Alphas, he’d make it happen and ensure they watch over me for years to come to ensure those Alphas always treat me like a valuable gem.

They don’t have to offer such self-sacrifice for my happiness, but the mere intention and admission makes a big difference. It proves this isn’t a lie or alibi.

That they’re being truthful and want me to have a happy ending, even if that doesn’t involve them.

“So…we don’t need to rush?” I whisper and peer at the silk, knowing he can sense it.

“No rush, little Goddess,” he assures me. “We go at your pace. Your call. When you want to move fast, we move. You want us to slow down, we listen to your command with no resistance.” From his tone of voice I feel as though he’s made that very clear with the others.

“When…I’m ready…for that…” I struggle to ask the lingering question in my mind, but I realize I’d want him to be the one to take the lead.

That he gives me a sense of comfort that if I had my first with him…

“Yes,” he answers before I can lay it out for him embarrassingly. “You just let me know, Nyx. Our Omega is safe with sharing any of her firsts with me. Understood?”

Hearing him say my name and matching it with “our Omega” sends butterflies in the pit of my stomach. I try to ignore how easy it is to make me wet when it comes to him.

Falling hard much.

“Understood,” I whisper, feeling a sense of peace in his company. “Thank you, Alpha.”

No rush…baby steps…at least…at the pace where I’m ready.

25

PASSION IN THE HEART OF STILLNESS

~NYX~

Three days had passed since we arrived at the cottage—three days of peace so profound it felt unreal.

This place was more than a house; it was a sanctuary, a quiet corner of the world where time slowed down and memories could be made without the weight of the past. I’d spent much of it rediscovering simple joys: running my fingers through soft blades of grass, feeling the sun warm my skin, and listening to the low rumble of Atlas’s voice as he shared snippets of his life.

I hadn’t expected him to call this home.

Not a man like him, with his towering presence and commanding authority. But he’d surprised me yet again. I remembered the moment vividly, a conversation wrapped in the glow of golden light that filtered through the leaves.

“I WOULD’VE EXPECTED a sprawling mansion for someone like you.” I’d been blunt—something about Atlas made it easier to speak my mind, even when uncertainty nipped at my heels.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, as he leaned back on the porch swing. The chains creaked softly, the only noise besides the faint rustling of leaves.

“We could’ve had that,” he admitted, his voice carrying a note of humor. “Hell, there are a few we technically own. But flashy shit’s unnecessary.”

I tilted my head, intrigued.

“Why not? Most people with your resources would want to show it off.”

“Most people haven’t lived the kind of lives we have.” His tone grew quieter, thoughtful. “Money doesn’t fix what’s broken inside you. At best, it buys comfort. At worst, it becomes a way to distract yourself from what really matters.”

“And what matters to you?” I asked, my fingers brushing the edge of the quilt draped over my lap.

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Memories,” he said finally. “When everything else is stripped away, that’s all you have left. Good ones. Bad ones. They shape you.”

I waited, sensing there was more.

“This place?” He gestured around us. “It’s ours because we built it together, for each other. When we each lost some part of ourselves — me with my eyes, Dante’s hearing, Kieran’s heartache, Vale’s body — it became clear that money wasn’t the solution. It’s just a tool. This house isn’t about showing the world we’ve got wealth. It’s about showing ourselves we’ve got stability.”

I bit my lip, struggling to find words that wouldn’t sound trite.

“And you’ve built that stability here?”

“We’re working on it,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It wasn’t perfect before,” he confesses before his wrapped gaze meets my calm eyes. “But now…I think we solved the missing piece in that tier of perfection.”

THAT MOMENT LINGERED in my mind as I stirred awake from my nap. I stretched, the oversized white shirt of his that I’d borrowed sliding down one shoulder. The late afternoon sun poured through the windows, casting the room in hues of amber and gold. My gaze shifted to the balcony, where I caught sight of Atlas standing quietly, his silhouette framed by the soft light.

He isn’t wearing his blindfold.

It struck me as odd, though I’d never questioned why he wore it in the first place. Something about prying into his vulnerability felt wrong, even if curiosity whispered incessantly in my ear, but to see it absent felt like some new task had been unlocked, desperate to be explored.

Sliding my feet to the floor, I moved toward the balcony. My steps were slow, deliberate—enough for him to hear me approach. Blind or not, I didn’t want to startle him. The last thing I wanted was to disturb the rare serenity that seemed to envelop him in this moment.

As I neared, I noticed the subtle tilt of his head, as he obviously senses my approach. It’s been nice with it just being us here. Sure, the others have come by from time to time, as if to give me some moments with us as twos and threes.

All four of them haven’t been in one space yet, and it could be to their intention of not overwhelming me. I’m thankful for it, but at the same time, I feel after today, I’d want to start sharing experiences with the four of them around.

My breath catches at the sight before me. Atlas stands bathed in dying sunlight, water droplets still clinging to broad shoulders that speak of strength carefully contained. The towel rides low on his hips, revealing a tapestry of scars that map stories of survival across tanned skin.

The shadows stir with appreciation, their song carrying notes of admiration for this alpha who dares show such vulnerability. No weapons, no tactical gear, no carefully maintained barriers – just raw truth written in the way he faces the setting sun despite damaged vision.

Something about his posture makes my heart clench with unexpected emotion.

He seems both impossibly strong and achingly vulnerable, the dichotomy creating an urge to protect that catches me completely off guard. The absence of his usual blindfold feels significant – as if he’s offering a glimpse behind carefully maintained defenses.

A lump forms in my throat as realization strikes deeper.

Three days.

Just three days of shared moments and gentle discoveries, yet Atlas has become as essential as breathing. Every small interaction builds something profound between us – from morning coffee shared in comfortable silence to evening conversations that stretch until exhaustion claims victory.

The shadows whisper understanding of my growing panic. They recognize the fear that grips my chest – fear of losing this connection before it fully forms, the fright taunting the idea of returning to sterile halls before truly experiencing all this Alpha offers.

Fear of time slipping away before I can properly understand the true potential between an Alpha and Omega…

Two weeks. The deadline hovers at the edges of consciousness, marking days until a choice must be made. Stay or return. Accept pack bonds or face familiar torment. The decision should be simple given the stark contrast between options, yet anxiety still claws at my chest.

What if Ravenscroft doesn’t keep to their word? That there’s some underlying ploy to get back at the men that saved me from that ongoing cycle of agony and torment. It can’t be that easy to escape their clutches without consequences…right?

Unable to resist the pull any longer, I close the final distance between us.

My arms wrap around his waist from behind, face pressing between the curve of his back that’s still damp from his shower. The gesture carries more vulnerability than I’ve shown since arriving, but something about this moment demands honesty.

He doesn’t tense at the contact.

If anything, his muscles relax further as if he’d been waiting for exactly this touch. Before I can second-guess the boldness of my action, he turns within the circle of my arms. His hands find my waist with unerring accuracy, drawing me closer as if proximity might ease whatever distress he senses.

“What’s troubling our little Goddess?” The whispered question carries genuine concern tinged with something deeper – as if my pain causes him physical distress.

Only then do I realize tears have escaped without permission. The revelation forces my gaze upward, seeking answers in a face I’ve only seen partially hidden behind silk wrapping.

The sight steals my breath completely.

X-shaped scars mark each eyelid, the silvered lines precise in their cruelty. Someone took deliberate care in marking him, in attempting to steal his sight through calculated violence. The shadows stir with fury at such targeted brutality, their song carrying notes of vengeance denied proper outlet.

If only I knew who possibly could have done this to him.

I’d hunt them down…even if the outside of Ravenscroft is new territory never explored, I would have sought justice in a heartbeat.

Regardless of my internal vows and imagined implications, his eyes themselves capture my complete attention. Though clouded with whiteness that speaks of permanent damage, amber still burns beneath like banked flames of stunning eyes. The color matches perfectly with the photograph of his younger self, though time and trauma have softened its brilliance. Movement flickers in their depths – not completely blind then, but limited to shapes and shadows rather than clear vision.

The discovery feels profound — this alpha who leads with such precision despite damaged sight, who navigates the world through other senses yet never uses his limitation as an excuse or crutch.

The scars speak of torture he survived, of cruelty endured and overcome, of strength forged through adversity rather than broken by it.

My fingers rise without conscious thought, hovering near but not quite touching the marks that forever altered his world. It’s crazy to acknowledge how Atlas’s scars echo my own – evidence of torture survived and transcended.

“Who?” The question emerges barely above a whisper, weighted with fury at whoever dared mark him so deliberately. He must see the determination in my eyes. How I’d go across every piece of land, every alleyway and nook just to find the culprit of such permanent wounds that were underserved.

No matter what someone may have done, this level of cruelty shouldn’t be entertained.

Knowing Altas for a few days gave me a strong level of confidence that he was doing something helpful for someone, and the results left this permanent stain of a past.

His slight smile carries no bitterness, only acceptance of the past that cannot be changed.

“Story for another time, little Goddess.” His thumb brushes tears from my cheek with impossible gentleness. “Your distress matters more than old wounds.”

The deflection should frustrate, but something in his tone suggests sharing will come naturally with time. Just as he never pushes for details of my trauma before I’m ready to offer them, he keeps certain hurts private until trust builds strong enough to bear their weight.

“I’m scared,” the admission slips out before wisdom can silence it. “Three days feels like forever and nothing at all. Like I’m finally learning to breathe properly only to face losing everything again.”

His arms tighten fractionally, drawing me closer until I can rest my head against his chest. His heartbeat provides a steady rhythm beneath my ear while his scent wraps around us both like a shield against darker thoughts.

“No one takes you back there,” the words rumble through his chest with absolute conviction. “Two weeks is a formality, not a true choice. You belong here…with the pack that you’ll get to learn and use. With me…For as long as you choose to stay.”

“But what if…” The question catches in my throat, weighted with years of conditioning. “What if I’m not what you need? What if these moments of peace are illusion rather than reality?”

Atlas’s hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head with infinite care.

“These moments are more real than anything in those sterile halls. Your presence here, your growing trust, your willingness to show vulnerability…it all speaks to strength they tried and failed to break. It presents a process, despite how frightening all this change creates and invites. “

It’s intriguing how he makes it sound so easy despite how I struggle to accept; that survival itself marks victory over their careful programming, that maintaining capacity for trust despite systematic betrayal speaks to an unbreakable spirit.

“I don’t want to wake up,” the whispered confession carries years of accumulated fear. “Don’t want to discover this has been an elaborate dream. That I’m still their M.U.S.E., still trapped in endless experiments, still…”

His kiss silences spiraling thoughts. It’s not something I’m expecting, but the way my body immediately melts at his touch is undeniably relieving.

Another constant reminder that I’m not broken.

The kiss is not demanding or possessive but a gentle reassurance of reality. His lips brush mine with infinite care, the contact grounding me in the present moment rather than darker possibilities.

The shadows hum appreciation of such tender intervention, their usual caution transformed into something approaching peace.

When he pulls back, those amber eyes fix on mine with surprising accuracy despite their damaged state.

“Feel this?” His hand finds mine, pressing it against his chest where a steady heartbeat proves his solid presence. “Dreams can’t replicate physical sensation this precisely. Can’t capture exact notes in my scent or perfect pressure of skin against skin.”

He’s right.

I know he’s right.

And what I’m thankful for is the idea that he won’t get tired of having to reassure me when my emotions and insecurities get the better of me.

I press my lips together, feeling my chest tighten as my fingers lightly rest against his chest, the heat of his skin radiating into my touch. Beneath my palm, I can feel the steady rhythm of his heart, strong and grounding, and yet my voice trembles when I finally speak.

“I just…I hope you don’t get tired of me,” I whisper, barely able to meet his gaze. My cheeks flush, and I force myself to continue, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I know I’m not perfect…far from it. But I want to prove that I can be the Omega you and your pack deserve. I want to be worth the faith you’re putting in me.”

Atlas chuckles softly, the sound a warm rumble that vibrates through me. His reaction isn’t mocking, though—it’s reassuring like he finds my worries endearing rather than a burden. He leans in closer, his forehead brushing mine, and I’m captivated by how his strength feels so steady, so effortless.

“You don’t grasp how perfect you already are,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate, sending shivers through me. “My pack never thought we’d have the chance of an Omega again, and yet here you are, in my grasp, thinking you’re something we can replace, when you’re a diamond we thought would never be found in a minefield.”

My breath hitches as his words settle into me, wrapping around all the insecurities I’ve tried to bury. His certainty feels tangible, like a warm blanket against the cold doubts that whisper I’ll never be enough.

Slowly, I let my hands drift upward, trailing over the hard planes of his chest, feeling the way his muscles shift and tense beneath my touch. Every inch of him feels like a revelation, and I savor the way he holds himself so still, watching me with quiet intensity.

“Do you…well…you can’t see me?” I ask softly, the question escaping before I can think twice. I want to know if it’s just darkness or if he can get a glimpse of me.

His lips twitch with the barest hint of a smile, and his head tilts slightly as if considering how to answer.

“Not fully,” he admits, his voice calm and steady. “I can see shapes, shadows…colors. I can definitely see you, little Goddess. Blurry and not as clear as I’d like, but plenty to contribute to my imagination,” he confesses. “Everywhere else, it’s enough to navigate, but not enough to truly see legally.”

My fingers pause mid-trail, and I frown.

“Then why the blindfold? If you can see even a little, why hide it?”

His smile fades slightly, replaced by an expression I can’t quite place—tired, maybe, but not bitter.

“The blindfold stops people from asking stupid questions,” he says, a note of dry humor in his tone. “It keeps them from staring too long or, worse, looking at me with pity. It’s easier this way…to let them believe what they want rather than face their awkwardness.”

I bite my lip, hesitating before pressing,

“But why show me?”

His eyes soften, and he steps closer, his hands sliding to rest lightly on my waist.

“Because there’s nothing to hide from you, Nyx,” he says simply, emphasizing the importance of using my name. “You’re my Omega. You’ll see every part of me—the scars, the past, the truths I keep from the world. I trust you with that.”

His words hit me like a punch to the chest, and I can feel the prick of tears behind my eyes. I blink quickly, trying to keep them at bay, but the weight of his honesty is overwhelming.

My hands move higher on their own, brushing over his shoulders as I fight to find my voice.

“I…” My voice wavers, and I press my lips together, steeling myself. “What if I want…to continue where we left off?” I whisper, my cheeks burning as I force myself to meet his gaze. “Except…all the way.”

His smirk is instant, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that infuriatingly confident way that makes my stomach flip. He leans in, his lips so close to mine that I can feel his breath, warm and teasing against my skin.

“Are you comfortable diving into that so soon?” he asks, his tone half-amused but layered with genuine care.

I nod, my hands tightening slightly against his chest as I try to hold his gaze. “I want it to be you first,” I confess, my words tumbling out in a rush before I lose my nerve. “I know it might sound crazy, but I trust you. I feel safe with you. And I know—” I swallow hard, my voice growing quieter. “I know that with you, it’ll be gentle. It’ll be what I choose. And that matters to me more than anything.”

His smirk softens, transforming into something so tender it steals my breath. His hand lifts, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face as he studies me, his expression unreadable. “Nyx,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly soft. “Our little Goddess…you have no idea how much it means to me that you’d choose this—choose me. But I need to be sure. Are you absolutely certain this is what you want?”

I nod again, firmer this time, and my hands slide down to rest over his heart.

“I’m certain,” I whisper. “I’ve lived too long without choices, Atlas. This one? This one is mine to make. And I want it to be you.”

He exhales slowly, and I watch as the tension melts from his shoulders. His amber eyes, though clouded, find mine with startling accuracy, and he cups my face gently, his thumb brushing my cheek as he leans in. His lips meet mine in a kiss that’s as much a promise as it is a question, soft and searching.

I kiss him back, pouring everything I can’t put into words into that connection. I may not be an experienced kisser, but it doesn’t seem to bother Atlas in the slightest because he always guides me, and embraces this novice part, knowing in time, I’ll get better.

With experience, I’ll learn and grow in a way that can feed his needs and my pack.

My hands move instinctively, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. His arms tighten around me, anchoring me as the world around us fades away. There’s nothing but him—the warmth of his skin, the intoxicating scent of him, the way his lips feel like a grounding force amidst the storm of my thoughts.

His lips trail down to my jaw, then my neck, leaving a path of heat that makes me shiver. I arch into him, the nervous tension in my body melting into uncontrollable but vibrant desire— a sensation I don’t want to let go of until I’ve experienced it at its peak.

His hands move carefully, reverently, as though he’s afraid of pushing too far, and when they find the hem of my shirt, he pauses.

His gaze lifts to mine, seeking permission, and I nod, lifting my arms to help him slip the fabric over my head. The cool air kisses my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of his hands as they skim over me. Matched with the last rays of sunlight that play against our flesh, it feels like such a liberating experience to be naked in the outdoors. As though this significant experience must start outside confined walls, like a reminder of the freedom I’ve gained.

His gaze roams over my body, reverent and unhurried, the two of us breathless as we fight for oxygen. I can’t bring myself to feel shy under his scrutiny, which feels even more empowering to keep his gaze, falling in love with the sight of him without the blindfold.

The sight of seeing him in all his glory.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice filled with awe.

The sincerity in his tone makes my cheeks flush, but I don’t shy away. I meet his gaze, letting him see every part of me, as he allows me in return.

“I’m sorry if my…my scars are a bit distracting,” I confess shyly. It’s so random to bring up, but I can already recall the Alpha guards who would watch us strip as we got ready for various tests and trials. “It’s not perfect like other Omegas, but—mhmmm.”

The kiss he gives me is soft at first, his lips tracing mine with a gentleness that feels at odds with the fire roaring to life inside me.

But it doesn’t stay gentle for long.

His mouth moves with purpose, claiming me, and when his teeth catch my bottom lip, a shiver races down my spine. I feel myself leaning into him, the world narrowing until all I know is Atlas—the heat of him, the weight of his touch, and the quiet reverence in the way he holds me like I’m something precious.

When he finally pulls away, I gasp for air, my lips tingling from the force of his kiss.

My gaze flickers to his face, my fingers still pressed against the hard muscle of his chest. He looks at me with a fierceness that steals my breath all over again, his voice low and rough when he speaks.

“Every time you try to speak badly about this body,” he mutters, his lips brushing against mine with every word, “I’m going to drown you in so much love that it’ll be hard to breathe.”

My cheeks flame, heat spreading across my face and down my neck as I try to form a coherent response. But he doesn’t give me the chance. His hand slides along my jaw, tilting my head back as he peppers soft, deliberate kisses across my face—my forehead, my cheeks, the corners of my lips. Each one feels like a promise like he’s trying to convey something that words could never capture.

He leans back just enough to meet my gaze, his amber eyes glinting in the golden light of the setting sun.

“This is the body that survived endless cruelty, Nyx,” he says softly. “It got you out of situations that should have killed you. It stayed healthy, and strong, even when the world tried to break you. And thanks to your perseverance, it remained pure…just for me.”

My breath catches, and I press my hands to his chest, unable to look away as his words wash over me. There’s no pity in his voice, no condescension. Just truth. A truth I hadn’t dared let myself believe.

He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing a stray tear from my face as his voice drops even lower.

“This body is a temple, Nyx. And it deserves to be worshipped…just like you.”

I barely have time to process his words before he lowers himself to his knees, his hands sliding down my sides as he goes. My breath hitches as he looks up at me, his eyes filled with reverence so deep it feels like it might undo me.

“Atlas,” I whisper, my voice shaky, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans forward, pressing a kiss to my hipbone, just above where the waistband of my underwear would be. His lips trail lower, his breath hot against my skin, and I feel myself trembling beneath his touch.

He pauses when he reaches the top of my thighs, his hands gripping my hips lightly as he glances up at me.

“Spread your legs for me,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety command.

I hesitate for a moment, the shyness creeping back in, but his steady gaze holds me in place. There’s no judgment there, no impatience. Just quiet encouragement.

Swallowing hard, I shift my feet apart, my cheeks flaming as I feel the slickness between my thighs.

His grip on my hips tightens slightly, and he leans in, inhaling deeply. The sound he makes—a low, guttural growl—sends a fresh wave of heat rushing through me.

“You smell incredible,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my inner thigh as he speaks. “I could drown in your scent, my sweet little Goddess.”

My thighs tremble as he lays a series of kisses along the sensitive skin, each one igniting tiny sparks of pleasure that dance across my nerves.

I try to stay still, but it’s impossible. My body reacts to him without permission, arching toward his touch, craving more.

When his lips brush higher, so close to where I ache for him most, I gasp, as my hands firmly grip his shoulders.

“Atlas,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. He glances up at me again, his hands steadying my shaking legs.

“Do you want me to keep going?” he asks, his voice gentle but laced with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

I nod, unable to form the words, and he smiles — a slow, satisfied curve of his lips that makes my stomach flip.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise sends a thrill through me that I can’t begin to explain.

He takes his time, his lips and tongue exploring every inch of my thighs, every kiss deliberate and slow as if he’s savoring the taste of my skin. My breath comes in shallow gasps, my fingers digging into his shoulders as the tension in my body coils tighter and tighter.

The setting sun bathes upon and past us with golden light, casting a warm glow over his flesh and the hard lines of his body. The sight of him like this — on his knees before me, his hands and mouth worshipping me with a devotion I’ve never known —burns itself into my memory.

His lips press another kiss to my inner thigh, softer this time, almost teasing, before his voice rumbles low, sending shivers up my spine.

“You’re not wearing underwear.”

I freeze, heat rushing to my cheeks so fast it feels like I might combust. My heart stutters in my chest, and I don’t know whether to laugh or curl into myself. Before I can decide, he shifts, his lips hovering just above where I ache for him most, his breath warm against my skin.

“You weren’t planning on telling me, were you?” His tone is amused, but there’s something darker laced within it, hauntingly defiant that makes my stomach flip.

The blush spreading across my cheeks deepens, and I stammer, trying to find a defense.

“I… I didn’t think I needed to,” I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper. Then, summoning courage I don’t know where I found, I add, “Do I? When I’m with you and the pack?”

That earns me a reaction.

His head tilts slightly, the corner of his mouth curving into a slow, almost defiant smirk. The golden light of the setting sun catches the sharp lines of his face, making him look like a predator who’s just cornered his prey.

“If you’re going to tease us like this, little Goddess,” he says, his voice dropping an octave as his hands grip my thighs, pulling me slightly closer, “then you’ll need to be prepared for the consequences.”

My breath catches.

“Consequences?” I manage, my voice trembling, though I’m not sure if it’s from nerves or anticipation.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his smirk deepens, and his head dips lower, his eyes fixed on me as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to my core. My gasp is instant, my body jerking at the unexpected contact.

“If you’re going to forego underwear,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice a tantalizing growl, “then this is how you’ll always feel after taunting us all day long.”

Before I can respond, his tongue slides against me, and every coherent thought vanishes from my mind.

The sensation is overwhelming, foreign in the most exquisite way. His tongue moves slowly at first, exploring, tasting, and every deliberate stroke sends jolts of pleasure radiating through my body.

A shaky moan escapes me, and my hands clutch at him, desperate for some kind of anchor. My thighs tremble, but his hands are there, steadying me, his grip firm enough to hold me in place without making me feel trapped.

“Atlas,” I whisper, my voice trembling, but I don’t know what I’m asking for.

He hums against me, the vibrations making me shudder, and then his tongue flicks against a spot that has me gasping, my back arching involuntarily.

The sound that escapes me is one I’ve never heard myself make before — a mix of gasps and moans, high and breathless.

“Does it feel good?” he asks, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against me with every word.

“So good,” I moan, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

His chuckle is dark, and I feel it more than I hear it as he presses another kiss to my folds.

“Good,” he murmurs, and then his tongue is back, sliding between my slick folds, stroking and teasing with a skill that leaves me breathless.

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

Every movement of his tongue sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me, building a heat low in my belly that grows more intense with every passing second. He takes his time, alternating between long, languid strokes and focused attention on the bundle of nerves that has me trembling and gasping.

My moans grow louder, my body arching into him, desperate for more. His hands grip my thighs, holding me steady as he works, his tongue slipping lower to explore, to taste, and then back up to circle and tease until I’m a trembling, moaning mess beneath him.

“Atlas,” I gasp, my hands finding their way into his hair. My fingers tangle in the soft strands, holding on as if letting go might send me spiraling. “I…I’m so close.”

His response is a low, satisfied hum against me, and he doesn’t pull back this time.

Instead, he lets me take control, lets me move my hips against his mouth, grinding against him as the pressure in my core builds to an unbearable peak.

My breaths come faster, uneven, and shallow, and my vision blurs as I chase that feeling, that high that feels just out of reach.

His tongue is relentless, stroking and teasing and tasting in a way that makes my whole body feel like it’s on fire.

And then it happens.

The wave crashes over me, sudden and all-consuming, and I go still, my body trembling as the pleasure tears through me.

My mouth opens in a silent cry, my head falling back as every nerve in my body lights up, the intensity of it, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

“Atlas,” I whimper, my voice shaky, my body quivering as the aftershocks roll through me. My hands tighten in his hair, my legs trembling against his shoulders, and I feel his grip on my thighs steadying me, grounding me as I come down from the high.

It’s not that I’ve never had an orgasm before. But this? It’s as though such pleasure evolved and is all-consuming. It’s not just the physical release — it’s the way his touch feels like worship, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world.

When he finally pulls back, his lips glistening, his eyes meet mine, and the look in them steals the breath from my lungs. He enjoys licking his lips, as if my taste is the sweetest taste he’s ever enjoyed before he stands up, his hands sliding up my sides until he’s peering down at me once more. He doesn’t hesitate to lean forward, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my lips, allowing me to taste myself in his mouth.

He deepens the touch; the two of us lost in a heated kiss as if we haven’t had enough of one another.

“Do you want to continue,” he whispers after he breaks the kiss.

“Yes,” I practically plead, allowing my eyes to show just how much I want him. Need him. Even if he can barely see the details, I feel as though he senses my desperation. How badly I want more of this thrilling connection to keep going without end.

“Our little goddess is learning how to ask for what she wants,” he hums in praise and kisses before tugging lightly on my bottom lip. “That’s my good Omega.”

Hearing him praise me drives me wild, my body humming in satisfaction as it feels like my slick is begging to slide down my thigh once more.

Atlas pulls back slowly, the deliberate grace of his movements keeping me grounded as I recover from the storm he just unleashed inside me.

His hands remain gentle as they slide along my waist, holding me upright. The sun outside is nearly gone now, its amber glow giving way to twilight, casting long shadows across the room.

He takes my hand in his, his warmth steady and reassuring, and leads me back inside.

The air shifts as we cross the threshold into the bedroom, the soft rustle of curtains brushing against the window the only sound besides the faint hum of my breathing. The bed looms ahead, a plush oasis that suddenly feels far too inviting.

My pulse quickens as he guides me to it, his hand firm but comforting on my lower back.

I lower myself onto the mattress, the cool sheets a contrast to the heat that still lingers on my skin.

Atlas steps back slightly, watching as I inch back toward the headboard, my hands finding purchase on the pillows that await me. The movement feels vulnerable, and exposed, and yet I can’t look away from him. He slowly unwraps the towel from his waist and drops it to the floor.

He stands before me, utterly bare, and I can’t help but drink him in.

The powerful lines of his body, the way his muscles flex and shift beneath his skin, the scars that map his journey—it all feels overwhelming in its perfection.

My gaze trails lower, lingering on his shaft, and my lips part slightly in surprise.

He’s massive.

I’ve seen Alphas at the lab before, their crude displays as they shamelessly jerked themselves off in front of us Omegas, claiming it was a “blessing” for us to witness.

It was degrading and vile, meant to remind us of their power, their supposed superiority. But this? This is nothing like that.

Atlas doesn’t carry himself with arrogance.

There’s no mockery in his stance, no need to dominate through humiliation. He stands there, strong and sure, letting me take him in without rushing me, his confidence quiet but unshakable.

It’s ironic, really. The Alphas in the lab thought their displays were something we should revere. But now, faced with a true Alpha who carries none of that ego, I finally understand what they’ll never be.

Atlas is more of an Alpha in his quiet reverence than they could ever hope to be in their blustering cruelty.

He climbs onto the bed, moving slowly, giving me time to adjust to his approach.

I can’t help the way my tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip, and I notice the way his eyes follow the movement, darkening slightly. My heart stutters in my chest as he reaches me, his body hovering over mine, the heat of him brushing against my skin without fully touching me.

And then he kisses me.

It’s not the rushed, demanding kiss I might have expected. It’s long and deep, his lips moving against mine with a purpose that feels almost reverent. Time seems to stretch and bend around us, the world outside fading into insignificance.

There’s only him, only this moment, and the realization hits me with a startling clarity. I have all the time in the world with him. We can make love all night if we want to, and Atlas will make it feel like it’s the only thing that matters.

His lips leave mine, trailing down to my neck, where he presses open-mouthed kisses along my skin.

Each one feels like a brand, a mark of something far deeper than possession. He lingers at the curve of my shoulder, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before sucking lightly.

I gasp, my back arching slightly, and he chuckles softly against me.

His mouth moves lower, finding the swell of my breasts. His hands follow, calloused fingers grazing the sensitive peaks before his lips close around one nipple.

The heat of his mouth sends a jolt of pleasure through me, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes my lips. He alternates between gentle sucks and light flicks of his tongue, each movement drawing me closer to the edge of reason.

“Atlas,” I moan, my hands gripping the sheets as he teases me. The sensation is almost too much, a high I never expected could feel so defining.

Slick pools between my legs, my arousal unmistakable, and I feel it dripping along my folds, adding to the heat building between us.

He switches to my other breast, giving it the same attention, and I writhe beneath him, my body completely at his mercy. The stimulation is incredible, a crescendo of sensation that leaves me gasping for air. I can see now why sex is often described as an addictive act—this is only the beginning, and I’m already desperate for more.

But this isn’t the main course. Not yet.

Atlas’s hands slide down my sides, his touch deliberate and steady as he trails kisses along my abdomen.

He doesn’t stop until he’s settled between my legs, his broad shoulders nudging them apart. My cheeks burn as I realize how exposed I am, but his expression is anything but judgmental.

He looks up at me, his eyes searching mine. “Are you ready?” he asks softly, his voice low and steady, grounding me even as my heart races.

Before I can answer, his fingers find me, stroking gently along my folds, gathering the slickness there.

The touch is exploratory, careful as if he’s mapping every reaction, every gasp and shiver. He slides one finger inside me, and I gasp, the sensation both strange and wonderful. He adds a second, stretching me slowly, and I moan, my head falling back against the pillows.

He works me gently, his fingers curling and stroking in a way that has my toes curling and my breath coming in ragged pants. My slick coats his hand, and I know he’s doing this on purpose —preparing me, stretching me, making sure I’m ready for what’s to come.

When he finally pulls his fingers free, leaving me trembling and on the brink of release, he asks again.

“Are you ready?”

This time, I nod, my voice failing me as I watch him.

He sits back slightly, his hand wrapping around his shaft, stroking himself slowly. My eyes are drawn to the bead of precum pooling at the tip, and it hits me just how much he needs me, too.

He’s just as desperate for this as I am.

Atlas positions himself at my entrance, the head of his shaft nudging against my slick folds, and my breath catches. He’s so much larger than anything I imagined, and the anticipation alone sends a shiver racing through my body.

His gaze finds mine, steady and grounding, and his hand comes up to cup my cheek.

“Relax, little Goddess,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm. “I’ll take care of you. Let me know if it’s too much.”

I nod, my fingers clutching the sheets beneath me as I try to focus on the soothing cadence of his voice.

Slowly, so slowly, he begins to press forward. The stretch is immediate, my body resisting the intrusion at first, but Atlas is patient.

He doesn’t rush, moving inch by inch, watching my every reaction as he fills me.

When he reaches a point of resistance, I tense instinctively, a faint whimper escaping my lips. He stills, leaning forward until his face is close to mine, and his lips brush against mine in a tender kiss.

“Relax for me, Nyx,” he whispers against my mouth, his free hand sliding up to cup my breast. His thumb grazes my nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure through me that momentarily distracts me from the discomfort. “You’re doing so well. Just breathe.”

I close my eyes, focusing on the feel of his mouth on mine, the warmth of his hand as it kneads my breast.

My body softens under his touch, and when he begins to move again, inching past that barrier, I gasp at the sharp sting that follows.

Pain blossoms briefly, but it’s nothing like the agony I’ve endured in the past. This is different—more heat than hurt, more pressure than pain.

Atlas doesn’t stop kissing me, his lips moving with an urgency that keeps me anchored in the moment. His hand on my breast is gentle, his touch deliberate, and it’s enough to distract me, to make the burn manageable.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained as he slides deeper. “So tight, so warm… You’re incredible, my little goddess. My sweet, Nyx.”

His praise sends a rush of warmth through me, and I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips despite the ache.

Inch by inch, he takes me, his movements unhurried and precise, until he’s fully seated inside me. My body quivers at the intrusion, the fullness almost overwhelming, and I moan, my head falling back against the pillows.

Atlas stays perfectly still, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as he gives me time to adjust. His forehead rests against mine, and his voice is a strained whisper when he speaks.

“You’re amazing, little Goddess. Giving me the privilege of being your first…I’ll never take it for granted. I promise I’ll always make you feel good, just like I will now.”

The sincerity in his tone makes my chest tighten, and I nod, my hands gripping his shoulders as I cling to his words. He kisses me again, slow and deep, and when he pulls back, his amber eyes meet mine.

“I’ll take it slow,” he says, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “I won’t move too far or too fast. But if you need me to stop, you say the word, and I will. No questions asked. Do you understand?”

I nod, unable to find my voice, and hum a soft “mhmm” in response. His lips curve into a small smile before he leans down to kiss me again, and this time, there’s more heat, more fire in the way his mouth moves against mine.

When he begins to move, the sensation is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. He pulls out slowly, almost entirely, before sliding back in, his movements careful and deliberate.

The lingering pain fades with each thrust, replaced by a dull ache that’s almost pleasant in its own way.

“You feel so good,” Atlas murmurs, his voice a rough whisper that sends shivers down my spine. “So tight, so perfect around me. You were made for this, Nyx—for me.”

His words send a rush of heat through me, and I moan softly, my hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. His thrusts are measured, his pace steady, and with each movement, the ache gives way to something new.

A spark of pleasure ignites low in my belly, growing stronger with every slow glide of his body against mine.

“You look incredible,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear as he speaks. “Even when you’re dazed from the pleasure… especially then.”

I moan again, louder this time, as the pleasure begins to build, each stroke of his hips pushing me closer to a high I’m desperate to reach.

It feels so good. So damn good.

Not simply because of the action but the way Atlas flawlessly executes this. The security and comfort that every thrust brings, while welcoming shots of pleasure and tremors of lust that build and hum in delight.

My body responds instinctively, my hips rising to meet his thrusts, and the friction sends a sharp spike of pleasure shooting through me.

“Atlas,” I gasp, my voice trembling as I arch against him. “Faster…please, faster.”

He doesn’t hesitate, his pace increasing as he moves deeper, each thrust more deliberate than the last. The sound of our bodies moving together fills the room, a symphony of moans and gasps and soft murmurs of praise that leave me breathless.

“You’re incredible,” he groans, his voice tight with restraint. “So good, Nyx. So perfect.”

The pleasure builds, a crescendo of sensation that has me clutching at him, my nails digging into his shoulders as I moan and beg for more. My body moves on its own, grinding against him, chasing the release that feels just out of reach.

“Atlas, I’m… I’m so close,” I whisper, my voice breaking as the tension coils tighter and tighter inside me. This approaching build of pleasure isn’t like what his tongue ignites. It’s far stronger and more consuming, and it’s not going to take long before I lose to this overcoming wave of pleasure that’s begging to drown me.

“So am I,” he murmurs, his pace quickening as his movements grow more urgent. “Do you want me to cum inside you, Nyx? Do you want me to fill you up?”

The question ignites something primal inside me, and I don’t even hesitate.

“Yes,” I gasp, my hands clutching at him desperately. “Yes, Atlas. I want it…everything. Your seed…your knot…I want you.”

He groans, the sound raw and guttural, and I feel his movements falter slightly as he fights for control.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice strained. “There’s no going back if I knot you. You have to be certain.”

I don’t need to think.

Every instinct in me screams that this is what I want, what I need.

“I’m sure,” I whisper, my voice steady despite the desperation in my tone. “I won’t regret this, Atlas. I want you—I want this. Please, Alpha?”

His eyes darken at me begging for his knot, and his lips crash against mine in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger. His pace quickens, his thrusts deep and powerful, and I feel myself climbing higher and higher, the pleasure reaching a fever pitch.

And when I finally fall over the edge, my body shatters beneath him, my climax tearing through me with a force that leaves me trembling and breathless.

Atlas follows seconds later, his groan vibrating against my lips as his release spills inside me, the warmth of it sending another wave of pleasure rippling through my body.

Fuck…so good.

Atlas groans, the feral sound vibrating against my lips as his release fills me, the heat of it sending another wave of pleasure rippling through my already oversensitive body.

I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sensation.

But it’s not over—not yet.

I feel the shift almost immediately.

His knot begins to swell, the thick base of his shaft growing inside me, and a low, primal growl escapes his throat.

His hands grip my hips as his movements resume, his thrusts deep and deliberate. Each stroke sends shockwaves through me, the added stretch of his knot amplifying the sensations until I’m trembling beneath him.

“Atlas,” I gasp, my voice a mix of pleasure and desperation. My body is so sensitive, every nerve ending alight, and the fullness borders on overwhelming. But beneath the ache is a need I can’t name, something instinctual that pushes me to take everything he’s giving me.

His growls deepen, the sound rumbling from his chest as he thrusts harder, faster, his pace rough and relentless.

I bite down on my lip, trying to muffle the moans spilling from me, but it’s no use. My body reacts on its own, arching into him, gripping him tighter with every movement.

“That’s it,” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse as his breath fans over my ear. “You’re taking me so well, little Goddess. You’re perfect for me…made for me.”

His words send a shiver racing down my spine, and I cling to him, my fingers digging into his shoulders as my legs wrap tightly around his waist.

The pressure builds and builds, a maddening mix of pleasure and pain that leaves me gasping for air. I feel a strange pull deep within me, an instinctive urge that I don’t fully understand but can’t ignore.

I bite my lip harder, trying to resist it, but my instincts are too strong. They demand more—demand everything.

Before I can stop myself, I tilt my head and press my lips to the side of his neck. The urge to claim him in return, to mark him in some way, consumes me, and I give in.

Atlas groans, his grip tightening on my hips as I kiss his neck, my teeth grazing his skin. The sensation sends another rush of heat through me, and his movements grow even rougher, his thrusts so deep I feel like I’m losing myself to him entirely.

“Nyx,” he growls, his voice raw and strained, “you’re driving me insane.”

I can’t hold back any longer.

My arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as I bury my face against his skin. My lips press against the curve of his shoulder, and I sink my teeth into him, hard.

The taste of his skin, the faint copper tang of blood where my teeth break through, sends a jolt through me that’s both terrifying and exhilarating.

Atlas curses, his body jerking against mine as his hips slam forward one last time.

He drives himself impossibly deep, his entire length filling me to the hilt, and the sharp mix of pain and pleasure has me crying out. My climax hits me like a tidal wave, crashing over me with a force that leaves me trembling and breathless.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice rough and guttural as his knot swells even further, locking us together.

Heat surges through me as his release spills deeper, and I feel the pulse of his cock as he fills me completely. The sensation is overwhelming, the tightness bordering on too much, but I hold onto him, my body trembling as I ride out the waves of pleasure.

Atlas shifts, his movements careful as he maneuvers us.

I feel the world tilt as he leans back, pulling me with him until he’s lying flat on his back and I’m straddling him. The new position eases some of the pressure, and I sigh in relief, my head resting against his chest as I try to catch my breath.

His hands stroke my back, his touch soothing and grounding.

“It’s almost locked in, baby,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “Just a little more. You’re doing so well, my precious Omega. Almost there.”

I nod weakly, my limbs trembling as I adjust to the fullness, to the weight of him inside me.

His knot stretches me wide, filling me in a way I didn’t know was possible, but his calm presence keeps me from spiraling. He coos softly, his words a steady stream of praise and reassurance as he rubs slow circles along my spine.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers, his lips pressing against my temple. “So strong, so fucking good in taking me. In pleasing your Alpha. My perfect little Goddess.”

His voice soothes the lingering ache, and as the knot fully locks, a strange sense of relief washes over me.

My body relaxes against him, the tension bleeding away as I melt into his embrace. My limbs feel like jelly, and I let out a shaky breath, my head resting on his chest as his hands continue their gentle ministrations.

“You did so well,” he says, his tone full of pride and affection. “I’m sorry for being so rough. I haven’t felt this… wild in years. My Alpha instincts got the better of me.”

I shake my head weakly, a faint smile tugging at my lips, though I can’t help but relax against him. My body feels heavy and drained, though my mind feels weightless.

“I didn’t mind,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “Though… I may have bitten you.”

Atlas chuckles, the sound low and warm, and I feel the vibration against my cheek.

“Oh, I noticed,” he says, amusement lacing his tone. “I think you might’ve marked me.”

“Marked?” I echo, frowning slightly as I lift my head to look at him. “What does that mean?”

He smiles, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“I’ll explain later,” he promises. “For now, just rest, little Goddess.”

I want to press him for more, but the exhaustion hits me like a wave. My eyelids grow heavy, and I let my head fall back onto his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling me further into contentment.

His fingers trail lazily along my back, and I feel his lips press against my temple once more.

“Thank you, Nyx,” he whispers, his voice soft and full of reverence. “Thank you for trusting me. For being ours. I don’t know what we did to deserve you, but I’ll never take this for granted. Never allow the men of my pack to take advantage of this one opportunity we’ve been blessed with.” His lips press to my temple again, but I can’t move or try to tell him that I’m even more grateful. “I’m so thankful fate brought you to me…to us. You’re our little Goddess of the night.”

His words are the last thing I hear before sleep claims me, pulling me under into a blissful haze.

My heart swells with quiet joy, and as the darkness of sleep wraps around me, one final thought flickers through my mind.

I’m glad fate brought me here too.

26

THE ART OF PERSUASION

~NYX~

“What do you mean I have to stay here while you guys do crazy epic shit like hunting motherfuckers and saving a kidnapped sector of Alphas who are being used for ransom?!”

My hands plant firmly on my hips as I stare Dante down, refusing to back away from his hardened gaze. The shadows stir with amusement, their song carrying notes of appreciation for this newfound boldness.

Four days ago, I could barely meet an alpha’s eyes. Now I’m challenging one of them directly.

“I get shot ONE time.”

“The only time,” Kieran huffs, tugging at his turtleneck sweater with obvious discomfort. The fabric clings to him like a second skin, completely impractical for whatever operation they’re planning. “We can’t deal with you almost dying. That fucking wrecked me and I have enough trauma on my plate that I haven’t healed from thank you very much.”

The shadows dance with barely contained laughter at his distress – both from the sweater and the memory of my near-death experience.

They recognize the genuine concern beneath his gruff exterior, the way his scent carries notes of lingering fear despite weeks of recovery.

“If we’re piling trauma like fucking awards, I have the highest which means I get to come!”

“No.” The unified response from Dante, Kieran, and Vale makes me blink in surprise.

My gaze darts to Vale, who immediately throws his hands up in surrender from his wheelchair.

“Nyx, you’re literally our first actual Omega. We can’t possibly put you in harm’s way like that.” His expression carries genuine concern as he continues. “These missions are dangerous enough that I can’t even go in my condition. We’re already down one person – we can’t risk you too.”

“He’s right,” Dante adds, his tactical mind clearly running scenarios. “These Alphas we’re dealing with are massive, built like us. They could easily overpower you, not counting whatever weapons they’re carrying. So absolutely not.”

The shadows bristle at his assumption of my weakness, their song carrying notes of challenge and remembered victories.

Six years of survival have taught me more than they realize.

“I could take you down if I wanted,” I mutter, letting just enough edge enter my tone to make the threat credible.

Dante groans, pinching the bridge of his nose before extending his hand toward me.

“Alright, so if I offer my hand like this and—”

I don’t let him finish.

My body moves with fluid precision born from years of conditioning, grabbing his outstretched hand and using his own momentum to send him flying across the room.

He crashes into the mountain of stuffed animals I won at last night’s fair – a collection that grew to ridiculous proportions before the vendors practically begged us to leave.

The memory of Atlas buying out half another store’s inventory just to see me smile flashes through my mind as Dante lands with a muffled “ow” in the pile of plush toys.

The shadows hum with satisfaction, their song carrying notes of pride in this display of carefully honed skill.

My gaze shifts between Kieran and Vale, the challenge clear in my stance.

“I’m out of shape,” Kieran immediately surrenders, backing away with hands raised.

“I’m handicapped,” Vale pleads before Kieran betrays him with a quick, “Temporarily. So you can toss him.”

“Motherfucker,” Vale snaps, glaring at his pack brother. “I’m in a wheelchair! Don’t be a douche and serve your punishment like Dante!”

The shadows weave through tension with playful energy, recognizing the growing comfort that allows such casual banter. Four daysago, I could barely handle being in the same room with multiple alphas.

Now I’m threatening to throw them around like training dummies.

Rolling my eyes at their antics, I announce.

“I’m gonna ask Atlas.”

Their collective groan draws my eyebrow up in question just as Kieran throws his hands skyward.

“We’ve lost by default.”

“Why?” The grin spreading across my face betrays my pleasure at their defeat.

Vale’s response comes loud and unfiltered.

“Because Atlas is clearly drunk on pussy. He can’t say no to you!”

Satisfaction curls through my chest as I taunt back.

“You would be too if you weren’t being all ‘cautious.’ Hmph.”

The shocked look on Vale’s face makes the shadows dance with delight. Kieran stutters, trying to recover some semblance of authority.

“W-We’re only delaying because you’re precious and need time to recover and adapt!”

I wave off his concern with newfound confidence.

“I can go recover in the grave if I have to go back to that shithole in three days, so you better get off on your stupid mission and be back before dinner or else you aren’t getting dessert.”

The way Dante shoots up from the pile of stuffed animals like someone lit a fire under him sends the shadows into peals of silent laughter.

“I’m starting the car!”

“Fucking traitor!” Vale points accusingly at his retreating back.

Kieran finally admits defeat, stripping off the offensive turtleneck with a heavy sigh.

“I’m gonna go change then ‘cause fuck, I really do want her dessert.”

The declaration draws a pained groan from Vale, who shoots Kieran a side-eye that quickly transforms into an unreadable face.

His expression shifts from playful annoyance to shocked confusion, brow furrowing as if trying to process something that defies explanation.

“Vale?” The change in his demeanor pulls my attention fully to him, the shadows stirring with sudden interest at this unexpected shift in the atmosphere.

Kieran picks up on the tension, his own amusement fading as he studies Vale’s face.

“What’s up, Vale?”

The silence stretches uncomfortably as Vale continues staring, blinking repeatedly as if trying to clear his vision. His hand rises to rub at his eyes before he whispers.

“It’s gone?”

“What’s gone? My shirt?” Kieran’s attempt at humor falls flat against Vale’s obvious distress.

Dante chooses this moment to return, his dramatic entrance accompanied by a frustrated groan.

“Forgot the fucking keys.” He pauses, catching the strange tension in the room. “What’d I miss?”

Vale’s attention snaps to him.

“Dante, what do you see?”

The question draws Dante’s gaze between Kieran and me, his response starting with characteristic snark.

“Our hot Goddess of an Omega and Kieran the douch—” The words die in his throat as his jaw drops, shock painting his features with the same confusion that grips Vale.

The shadows weave through my mind with the growing tension in the room, their song carrying notes of anticipation and wonder rather than their usual warnings.

Kieran glances down at himself, hands patting his torso as if checking for invisible wounds.

“Am I fully naked or something?”

“What’s the deal?” I ask, eyes scanning his shirtless form for whatever has captured their attention. “He’s not naked. Just shirtless.” My gaze searches for any mark or scar that might explain their reaction. “Is something supposed to be there?”

The question draws a heavy sigh from Kieran as his hand rises to rub at his neck – a gesture that seems more habit than necessity.

“It’s just my old bond mark and lack of muscle since I haven’t been working out.” His voice carries forced casualness that doesn’t quite mask deeper pain. “You don’t need the long story now, but I had an Omega I thought I’d marry and have kids with.”

That’s surprising more with the way he nonchalantly says it, but the instances do make sense, especially when they’re all well over their thirties and probably expected to have an Omega by now.

“All of it was a lie and she betrayed us. Almost got everyone killed.” His laugh carries no humor. “But karma’s a bitch and she paid the consequence. She died, and I’m just left with the scar from that failed bondship, if you can call it that. The end.”

The brief tale leaves me gawking, surprised by both the content and the clipped delivery. But something doesn’t add up – my enhanced vision catches no trace of scarring or marks on his neck where a bond bite should have left permanent evidence.

“Kieran.” My head tilts as confusion deepens. “You don’t have a mark on your neck. Why would you say there’s one there?”

The remark hits him with confusion, sending all three alphas into various states of shock. Vale’s hands tighten on his wheelchair arms while Dante takes an unconscious step forward. Kieran’s reaction proves most telling – his face drains of color as his fingers press against skin that should carry permanent scarring.

“What do you mean there’s no mark?” Kieran’s voice emerges rough with emotion. “It’s been there for seven years. A visible reminder of everything she—” He cuts himself off, turning to Vale. “You can’t see it either?”

Vale shakes his head slowly, wonder and confusion warring in his expression.

“It’s completely gone, brother. Like it was never there.”

“Impossible.” The word escapes Dante in a harsh whisper. “Bond marks don’t just vanish. They’re permanent. A physical manifestation of the connection, even when it’s betrayed or broken.”

Kieran’s neck shows no evidence of scarring or marking that would indicate a previous bond. The skin remains unmarred, carrying only natural texture without a hint of past trauma.

“How long?” Kieran’s question comes directed at Vale, voice tight with barely controlled emotion. “How long has it been gone?”

“I just noticed,” Vale admits, still studying the unmarked skin with fascination. “But thinking back… I can’t actually remember the last time I clearly saw it. It’s like…” He struggles for words. “It was there before Ravenscroft invasion though.”

Dante moves closer, tactical mind clearly processing implications.

“Could be connected to recent events. New influences affecting old wounds.” His gaze shifts meaningfully in my direction, though he doesn’t voice the obvious connection.

“It’s different now,” Kieran says softly, understanding blooming in his expression as he watches my movement. “Everything’s different since…” He trails off, but the implication hangs clear in the air between us.

Since I arrived.

When they rescued me from sterile halls.

“The only way to remove a bond mark is when another Omega is deemed impactful enough on the Alpha to override the previous root of ownership.”

Atlas’s voice carries from the stairs, drawing our collective attention.

He stands fully equipped in combat gear, every piece of tactical equipment placed with precise care. The shadows stir in humming appreciation, recognizing in his stance the perfect balance between controlled power and careful restraint.

“It’s rare,” he continues, descending with measured steps. “The implications only manifest when an Alpha who has been marked meets someone who overrides that feeling of purpose an Omega ignites in them.” His tone carries the weight of absolute certainty. “The moment an Omega successfully triggers such implications, the previous imprint begins to fade.”

It’s a surprising revelation I’ve never heard before.

“The speed of its disappearance depends entirely on how the individual acknowledges and accepts the idea of a new Omega.” His gaze fixes on Kieran with uncomfortable accuracy despite his damaged vision.

My breath catches as I realize he’s not wearing his blindfold, his eyes slightly open to reveal that haunting combination of white clouding with hints of burning amber beneath.

“Kieran,” Atlas’s voice drops lower, weighted with meaning, “was the one who caught you in the forest when you were on the verge of death.” The revelation makes my heart stutter in my chest. “He cradled you. Begged you to live. Applied CPR in a desperate attempt to revive you.”

Each detail lands with precise impact, painting a vivid picture of moments lost to unconsciousness. The shadows stir with recognition, their song carrying echoes of that desperate struggle between life and death.

“He did everything in his power to save you,” Atlas continues, with careful emphasis on each word. “Compare that to his response with his previous Omega – watching her perish while feeling only the clinical mourning of losing an Omega, but not the individual herself.”

The implications hover in the air between us, heavy with significance that none of us quite know how to process.

“Kieran,” I whisper his name, my feet carrying me toward him before conscious thought can intervene.

A blush spreads across his cheeks as I draw near, his gaze dropping as he searches for words to minimize what he did for me.

“It wasn’t really that—” His attempt at deflection dies as I rise on tiptoes, pressing my palm against his bare chest while finding his lips in a gentle kiss.

He freezes initially, the surprise evident in his rigid posture before gradually relaxing into the connection.

His response carries hesitation, so different from Atlas’s carefully controlled passion. Where Atlas alternates between desperate need and measured restraint, Kieran’s kiss speaks of cautious exploration and lingering uncertainty.

I keep the moment brief – just long enough to convey my gratitude in the most intimate omega way possible. When I pull back, I can’t help but smile at his reaction.

“Thank you, Kieran.”

His face flames brilliant red as he stammers something about changing clothes before practically fleeing upstairs.

Dante’s snicker breaks the charged atmosphere.

“Forgot how shy he was with omegas back in the day,” he observes with obvious amusement. “Guess some things never change.”

“Clearly,” Vale adds dryly from his wheelchair.

A moment of comfortable silence settles before I turn my attention to Atlas.

“I want to come with you for the mission!”

The collective groan from Vale and Dante carries notes of familiar exasperation.

“We already told her no,” they protest in unison.

Atlas merely arches an eyebrow as I launch into a detailed explanation of why I should be allowed to join them.

My voice grows more animated as I build my case, listing credentials and capabilities with increasing passion.

“You better hurry up so we can enjoy pack sex as dessert because you’re all being shy and slow about it, and I know what I’m capable—”

The rest of my argument disappears as Atlas moves with preternatural speed, his hand finding my throat as he pins me against the kitchen counter.

His kiss steals both breath and protest, tongue claiming my mouth with devastating thoroughness until I’m panting against his lips.

When he finally pulls back, his voice drops to a register that sends heat pooling low in my belly.

“I want my little Goddess wearing nothing but that cute little dark pink set I bought you. The one you complained about that doesn’t cover anything.” His words paint vivid pictures that make my pulse race. “Laid out on the table where each Alpha is going to eat you out wholeheartedly before you’ll suck their cocks generously, in preparation for the fucking they’ll deliver all night long.”

The explicit description leaves me gawking, my mind spinning with possibilities I’d barely dared imagine. His logic proves frustratingly sound when he adds.

“We can’t do that if you’re tired from the mission, can we?”

Damn…

“No,” I admit quietly, heat flooding my cheeks.

“Then be the good Omega you are and listen to Daddy until we get back, yes?”

“Y-Yes, Alpha…” The words emerge breathless as desire courses through my veins.

“Hmm?” His teeth tug gently at my bottom lip, the slight pinch sending jolts of electricity straight to my core.

“Yes, Daddy.”

The admission comes out flustered but certain as my body responds to his dominant presence.

My pussy pulses with need, a reaction he clearly anticipated when he instructed me to wear only underwear beneath my clothes this morning.

His thigh slides between my legs, pressing against my core with deliberate pressure that draws a soft whimper from my throat.

“Good girl.”

The praise sends fresh heat flooding through my system moments before his lips claim mine in another searing kiss.

“I’m heading to the van first.” One final kiss punctuates his statement before he releases me completely.

At the doorway, he adds.

“Dante. Hurry up.”

“Uh…yes…sure…coming…” Dante’s flush speaks volumes as he mutters, “That was fucking hot.”

His gaze shifts to Vale with sudden concern.

“You better take an energy drink or something because we’ll need you for that kitchen dessert shit.”

Vale’s smirk carries wicked promise.

“Can’t take energy drinks with the new meds from treatment today, but I’ll have plenty of energy when it comes to our Omega.”

“Good, ‘cause if Atlas is in the picture, I feel like we’re gonna need it.” Dante’s departure leaves me still processing everything that just transpired, my body humming with anticipation for their return.

My hand rises unconsciously to my neck where Atlas’s grip left a phantom sensation of possession without pain.

Fuck…that was so hot…and amazing…I think.

I’m struck by the profound difference between their passion and Ravenscroft’s clinical trials. These alphas see me as a treasure to be cherished rather than an experiment to be tested.

Vale watches me with a knowing smile as I process the implications of what awaits. His presence offers much-appreciated grounding, knowing at least if I have to stay, I’ll have someone to wait with while watching how he works during missions.

It’s a reminder that patience brings the sweetest rewards – a lesson these alphas seem determined to teach through a careful balance of dominance and tender care.

Time stretches before me like honey dripping from a comb, each second marked by growing anticipation of their return.

The mission that seemed so vital moments ago fades beneath the weight of Atlas’s explicit promises, leaving me torn between frustration at being left behind and eager preparation for their eventual reunion.

The pink lingerie set that sparked such heated declaration waits upstairs, delicate fabric that barely qualifies as coverage now transformed into an instrument of seduction.

Vale’s quiet chuckle draws my attention back to present reality.

“Guess you need a distraction, huh?”

I pout, knowing damn well I’m gonna need something to get my mind off until they come back.

“Yes,” I confess, making his smile simply grow.

“Wanna open a time capsule with me?”

Now that catches my attention with newfound excitement, leaving me clapping my hands together as I whisper, “Time capsule?”

I’m excited to see what he means.

27

THE COURAGE TO MOVE ON

~VALE~

“My office is in the basement,” I explain as I guide Nyx through our home. “All the equipment requires its own space, plus it’s cooler down there which helps prevent overheating.”

She follows beside me, her presence radiating curiosity about every detail of our living space. The past fo days have shown her incredible adaptability – from flinching at sudden movements to comfortable exploration of pack territory.

“I need to grab my medicine for three and come back up,” I add, watching her expression shift to immediate concern.

“Would you like me to get it?” she offers, eyeing the wheelchair I’m currently confined to. “It must be difficult navigating with…”

I can’t help but smile at her consideration.

“The wheelchair’s just following doctor’s orders. I still have function in my legs, especially with the new treatment regimen.” Pride creeps into my voice as I continue, “It’s been working surprisingly well. I don’t want to risk compromising progress by pushing too hard too fast.”

Her hand brushes my shoulder in gentle understanding. The casual touch speaks volumes about how far she’s come – from omega conditioned to fear contact to one who offers comfort freely.

“The chair’s a pain in the ass,” I admit with a wry grin, “but it serves its purpose. Besides, we have an elevator.”

Her eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Really?”

“Dante helped with the installation,” I explain, feeling that familiar warmth of pack pride. “He’s got hidden talents beyond the tactical stuff.”

“I’m impressed,” she says softly before her expression shifts to something more uncertain. “I feel bad that I haven’t spent more time with each of you individually. Especially with…” She trails off, but I understand the weight of an unspoken deadline hovering in her thoughts.

“No,” I shake my head firmly. “Don’t feel bad about that. We actually agreed to take this approach.” At her questioning look, I continue, “Rather than all of us rushing to be the first to claim your attention, we wanted to give you space.”

“Why?” The question carries hints of disappointment and uncertainty that make my chest ache.

“Because you’re not an object,” I state with quiet intensity. “We don’t want you feeling like your only value is the pleasure you can bring us. That’s not what having an omega means to this pack.”

“But…” she hesitates, confusion clear in her features. “People make it seem like you’re harmful, feral, or unmateable because…”

“Because we won’t pounce on every omega we see?” I complete her thought with a bitter laugh. “Yeah, we’re horny fuckers with needs, I won’t deny that. But we’re past that stage of just fucking for the hell of it.”

My hands grip the wheelchair’s arms as memories surface of younger days, of meaningless connections that left hollow emptiness in their wake.

“No connection, just strangers opening channels that potentially lead to knotting and being stuck with an omega that only wants us for whatever financial benefit they can gain? No thanks.”

I shake my head, dispersing darker thoughts.

“We’re over that shit.”

The conviction in my voice draws her closer, curiosity bright in her extraordinary eyes.

“Tell me more?” The request comes gentle, genuinely interested rather than demanding. It’s nice to have an Omega that actually wants to listen to your past.

To get a glimpse of what shaped you…

“Society has weird expectations,” I begin, choosing words carefully. “Alphas are supposed to be these mindless rutting machines, claiming any compatible omega without thought or discretion. If we show restraint or actually want connection beyond physical, suddenly we’re ‘feral’ or ‘damaged.’”

Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with a natural ease that still catches me off guard.

The simple gesture encourages me to continue.

“The pack saw too much during missions. Too many omegas treated like property, too many bonds formed for political or financial advantage rather than genuine connection.” My thumb traces absent patterns across her knuckles. “Made us realize we wanted something different.”

“Different how?” Her question carries no judgment, just a sincere desire to understand.

“We want an omega who sees us as people, not just designations or bank accounts. Someone who builds genuine connections rather than calculating potential profit.” My gaze meets hers directly. “Someone who might actually care if we don’t come back…you know.”

Understanding blooms in her expression as pieces click into place.

“That’s why you’ve been so careful with me. Why you don’t push for more despite obvious attraction.”

“Partly,” I admit. “You’ve been through hell, little one. The last thing you needed was four alphas fighting over who got to claim you first.” A slight smile tugs at my lips. “Though Atlas kind of jumped the queue there.”

Her blush proves adorable, but she maintains eye contact.

“He did. But it felt… natural. Not forced or clinical like…”

“Like Ravenscroft,” I finish when she trails off. “Exactly. That’s what we want – natural progression based on genuine connection. Not forced compliance or calculated submission.”

“But society labels you feral for wanting actual relationships?” The confusion in her tone mirrors my own feelings on the matter.

“Society’s fucked up,” I state bluntly. “They’ve commodified designation dynamics until meaning gets lost beneath market value and political advantage. Alphas who want more than physical gratification get labeled defective because we’re harder to control through biological imperatives.”

Her fingers tighten around mine as the implications sink deeper.

“You’re not defective,” she states with surprising fierceness. “None of you are.”

“No?” I can’t help testing, curious about her certainty. “Even with my failing legs? Dante’s hearing loss? Atlas’s eyes? Kieran’s emotional scars, though I guess thanks to a certain Omega, that’s faded into the abyss of the past.”

“Especially because of those things,” she declares without hesitation, though she smiles slightly at the reminder of Kieran’s newfound restart. “They prove you’re real. Human. Not just walking stereotypes of alpha designation.”

Pride swells in my chest at her understanding.

“That’s exactly it, little one. We want an omega who sees past surface damage to who we really are. Who might actually care about the men beneath military precision and tactical gear.”

“I do care,” she whispers, the admission carrying the weight of profound truth. “Even before knowing details of your conditions or histories. You each played a role in my survival and escape…even if that freedom is threatened now, I feel beyond grateful to experience any of this.”

“You deserve to exist and be free, Nyx” I interrupt gently. “Not just as an omega, but as a person who survived incredible trauma without losing the capacity for genuine connection.”

Her free hand rises to cup my cheek, the gesture carrying such tenderness it steals my breath.

“Thank you for explaining. For helping me understand why you approach things differently.”

“Thank you for listening,” I return quietly. “For seeing us as more than just alpha stereotypes or damaged goods.”

“Never damaged,” she declares with surprising intensity. “Just real. Human. Worth knowing beyond designation or military precision.”

Her understanding strikes deep, awakening parts of me I thought permanently dormant after years of careful control.

This would be a good time… wouldn’t it?

I pause in front of a heavy metal door, gesturing toward the handle.

“Would you mind opening it?”

“Not at all,” Nyx responds immediately, reaching for the handle. The door swings open to reveal what appears to be a storage room, though the reinforced walls and climate control system suggest it’s designed for more than simple storage.

I roll inside, Nyx following close behind as I navigate toward a specific shelf.

“We don’t come in here much,” I explain, “but anything particularly valuable gets stored here. The room’s fireproof, temperature controlled, basically a vault without looking too obvious about it.”

My wheelchair stops at a precise spot, hands reaching for a drawer built into the wall. The mechanism slides smoothly and silently, revealing a box wrapped with green and pink ribbon. I lift it carefully into my lap, fingers running over the fabric with an almost reverent touch.

“Is that the time capsule you mentioned earlier?” Nyx asks, curiosity clear in her tone.

A slight smirk tugs at my lips as memories surface.

“No, this belonged to my grandma.” The words come easier than expected, weighted with emotion but not the usual pain. “She made the most incredible cupcakes…the kind that actually reminds me of your scent, all sweetness and complexity layered together.”

Nyx moves closer, drawn by the warmth in my voice as I continue.

“Her specialty was split flavors – chocolate on one side, vanilla on the other. People would line up around the block for them, selling out within hours of opening.”

My fingers trace the ribbon as I lose myself in the memory.

“One night, I got the last one. Bit into it and discovered it was special. Filled with this golden cream that seemed to glow. I’ve wondered since if she planned it that way, but at that moment…”

I pause, gathering the courage to share the deeper truth.

“At that moment, it made me feel like the most important person in the world. Like I mattered in ways I couldn’t quite grasp but desperately needed to believe.”

I think of all the magical moments from back then. How I believed, despite the chaos and mean things kids and adults alike would do, I could see the happiness and pure beauty in a world filled with magic potential.

“She didn’t know about the bullying,” I admit quietly. “Didn’t know how rough things were outside school and sports clubs. But somehow that cupcake, that moment of discovering something magical meant just for me…it meant everything.”

Nyx’s hand finds my shoulder, offering silent support as emotion threatens to overwhelm me.

“She gave me this box to open, but…” My voice catches slightly. “She passed away before midnight struck.”

Her soft gasp just proves that she’s listening to the take, that my past circumstance actually matters to her.

“I never had the courage to open it,” I whisper, staring at the box that’s carried so many years of wondering. “Kept waiting for the right moment, but it never seemed to come…”

My gaze rises to meet hers.

“Until now.”

The simple admission changes something in the air between us – this sharing of vulnerability creates a connection deeper than mere designation dynamics. Her presence beside me feels right in ways I can’t quite explain as if her understanding somehow completes the circuit left open by years of careful avoidance.

Having her here makes all of this less frightening. Finally facing what I should have years ago, but not having the courage to accept my grandma wasn’t coming back.

My fingers find the ribbon’s end, tugging gently at the carefully preserved bow. The fabric slides smooth against itself, releasing a knot that’s held for over two decades. Each movement feels weighted with significance – not just opening a physical container but unlocking part of myself I’ve kept carefully guarded.

The box itself shows signs of age – corners softened by time, surface marked by years of careful handling. But the ribbon’s colors remain vibrant as if protecting whatever treasure waits within from time’s usual decay.

Green and pink – colors that seemed like a random choice now strike a deeper chord as I notice how perfectly they match Nyx’s hair. The coincidence feels too precise to be an accident as if my grandmother somehow knew this moment would come.

Knew exactly who needed to be present when the seal finally broke.

The lid lifts to reveal two items – a carefully folded note and an ornate key decorated with a tiny silver bell at its end.

My breath catches as recognition strikes, memories flooding back of that same bell’s gentle chime marking each customer’s entrance to my grandmother’s sanctuary.

Nyx leans closer, curiosity is evident in her expression.

“What’s the key for?”

A smile spreads across my face, growing wider as understanding dawns.

“Her bakery,” I whisper, emotion making my voice rough. “I never thought she’d leave it to a kid, but it was her most prized possession.”

The weight of such trust strikes deeper as I explain.

“She was the only female baker in the entire city back then. Every Alpha in the business district tried diligently to force her out, but she never backed down.”

“Does the bakery still exist?” Nyx asks softly, her hand finding my shoulder in gentle support.

“No,” I admit, fingers tracing the key’s intricate design. “But I have a strong hunch this envelope contains the land deed. Which means…” Excitement builds as implications register. “I still own it.”

Her eyes widen with understanding as I continue, “The government could let some rich asshole build over it, but the moment I present these documents, my ownership claim supersedes their plans. She made sure of that.”

A quiet chuckle escapes as memory surfaces.

“555 Zodiac Street.”

“Angel number with such a unique street name,” Nyx observes with a smile that lights up her entire face.

“We could check if the building still stands tomorrow,” I suggest, heart racing at the possibility. After so many years of avoiding this moment, suddenly I can’t wait to see what remains of my grandmother’s legacy.

“What would you do with it?” Nyx’s question carries genuine interest rather than mere politeness.

“I don’t know,” I admit, though possibilities begin forming in my mind. “If my legs keep improving with treatment… who knows? Maybe I’ll open a bakery.”

Her gasp of delight catches me off guard.

“Can I join you?” The request bursts forth with pure enthusiasm. “Would you teach me how to bake and cook? I’ve always wanted to learn!”

The image forms instantly – Nyx in an apron, flour on her cheek as she learns family recipes passed down through generations. My chest tightens with unexpected emotion at how perfectly she fits into this dream I hadn’t even known I harbored.

I also try not to think of the “other” things we could do, especially with her in an apron…bent over…a flour mess all over the table…

“Of course, I’ll teach you,” I assure her, warmth spreading through my chest at her obvious joy. I have to tune back to the present or else my thoughts will spiral into wild dirty things.

I can’t hold off a hard-on until the others return. “Everything my grandmother taught me, every secret recipe and special technique.”

Her squeal of happiness precedes the gentle press of her lips against my forehead. The gesture carries such genuine affection it steals my breath completely.

“What was that for?” I manage to ask, though part of me already knows the answer.

“I’m proud of you,” she says simply. “For facing what you feared and conquering it. For opening this piece of your past instead of letting it stay locked away forever.”

Our eyes meet, the moment stretching between us filled with something that transcends mere designation dynamics. This connection we’re building, layer by careful layer, feels more profound than any instant attraction or biological imperative.

The shrill beep of my alarm breaks the spell, reminding me of medication waiting downstairs.

“I’ll be back,” I promise, reluctant to end this moment but knowing the treatment’s importance for potential future plans.

The basement’s cool air wraps around me as I roll up to my desk, multiple monitors casting blue light across the space.

A quick check of the security feeds confirms what I expected – Atlas and Kieran took one of the vans, their tracking signal already miles away. Dante’s signature shows up closer, the matte black car stationary at a nearby gas station.

Probably filling up after their last mission.

My hand finds the new prescription bottle with practiced ease. Just one tablet, but it represents so much possibility. The doctors seemed genuinely optimistic about this treatment regimen, suggesting it might actually reverse the degenerative effects rather than just slowing them.

Water washes the pill down as my mind drifts to the faster solution they’d mentioned – an injection similar to what I used during missions, but refined.

Instead of granting temporary mobility followed by crippling pain, it supposedly offers permanent improvement. But that requires approval from higher authorities, mountains of paperwork, and endless waiting.

Quickly checking the address of my Grandma’s bakery, I quickly survey the general space, noticing its being used for a medical corp, but it doesn’t bother or worry me. Those can easily be moved and bought when money is involved.

I secure everything with methodical precision, double-checking monitors before heading to the elevator. The gentle hum of machinery accompanies my ascent, a sound so familiar I barely notice it anymore.

But something feels off as the doors slide open to the main floor.

The world tilts suddenly, reality spiraling like a carnival ride gone wrong. My vision blurs at the edges, turning the familiar hallway into a twisted tunnel.

What the fuck?

My heart begins to race as panic builds, each beat feeling too fast, too hard against my ribs.

“No, no, no,” I mutter, jamming my hand between the elevator doors before they can close. The emergency button glows red under my trembling fingers as I press it, muscle memory guiding me to activate the distress signal on my wheelchair next.

“Vale?” Nyx’s voice carries from the end of the hall, confusion quickly morphing into terror as she processes my condition.

Her eyes widen with recognition of a genuine emergency, feet already moving toward me with desperate speed.

I want to stop her, to ease the panic I see spreading across her features. My body betrays me as I try to rise from the chair, legs refusing to cooperate as the world continues its sickening spin. Gravity shifts without warning, the floor rushing up to meet me with brutal force.

But the impact never comes.

Instead, I’m falling through endless space, reality fracturing around me like shattered glass. Each heartbeat thunders in my ears, too fast, too erratic, each pulse carrying fear of being the last.

Nyx’s voice reaches me through growing darkness, my name torn from her throat with pure desperation.

I try to respond, to reach for her, to offer any reassurance. But my body refuses all commands, consciousness slipping away like water through grasping fingers.

The void that claims me carries absolute finality – not mere unconsciousness but something deeper, darker. My last coherent thought centers on Nyx’s terrified expression, on leaving her alone to handle this crisis. The pack’s too far away, and won’t make it back in time.

I’m falling.

Falling.

Falling through endless night that burns with each racing heartbeat.

Until finally, mercifully, even that sensation fades into perfect darkness.

My heart gives one final desperate thunder against my ribs before silence claims complete victory.

The last echo of Nyx’s voice follows me down into the void, carrying notes of fear I can no longer ease.

The darkness wraps around me like a final embrace, stealing away all sensation until nothing remains but perfect.

Absolute stillness.

28

RAGE OF AN OMEGA

~NYX~

“Iwant to see whoever approved those drugs. NOW!”

Each word carries deadly precision, rage making my voice nearly unrecognizable.

My hands slam against the wooden desk with enough force to make the entire surface shudder.

The secretary – Beta, perfectly coiffed, probably never faced real crisis in her life – tries for a placating smile.

“Ma’am, if you could just calm down—”

Everything on her desk goes flying with one sweep of my arm. Files scatter like confetti, her precious computer crashes to the floor, and that stupid little name plate that reads “Margaret Winters” skids across polished tile.

“I will destroy everything in this building if you don’t get me who I need to talk to this instant!”

The words tear from my throat carrying years of suppressed fury. My blood boils hot enough to burn, heart thundering against my ribs while my entire body trembles with barely contained rage. How dare they? How fucking dare they try to take him from me?

Margaret’s perfectly manicured finger finds some button beneath her desk, probably calling security. Her gaze shifts to the three alphas standing behind me, taking in their tactical gear still dusty from their abandoned mission.

“Why are you letting your omega rampage like this?” The question carries notes of genuine confusion.

After all, proper alphas control their omegas, right?

Kieran’s laugh holds no humor.

“Well, maybe if one of your pack mates was given medication deliberately designed to stop his heart instead of the life-saving treatment that’s been working marvelously otherwise, you’d be a little pissed too.”

“So we suggest,” Dante steps forward, voice carrying deadly calm, “you get us exactly who we’re looking for. Because we listen to what our omega wants without hesitation.”

“And if she wants to burn this place down,” Atlas finishes with quiet certainty, “we’ll do so before anyone can evacuate.”

The threat hangs in air thick enough to choke on.

I remember with perfect clarity the moment Vale’s heart stopped beating beneath my desperate hands. Remember screaming into the phone for help while trying to remember CPR I’d never properly learned.

If Subdivision D hadn’t been nearby… if they hadn’t responded so quickly to emergency signals… if they hadn’t had proper medical training…

The thought sends fresh wave of fury through my system.

What kind of omega doesn’t know basic life-saving techniques?

What kind of facility trains us for combat but not for saving those we care about?

Maybe I’m being too hard on myself, knowing there was no point in teaching whom they labeled dogs, basic life resurrection treatment, especially when the intention was to kill, not save, but this is the only way I can protect what I dare say is mine.

And if that means causing an uproar, so be it.

“That won’t be necessary.”

The voice striking through tension freezes my blood solid. My eyes widen as recognition hits. Fighting the panic beat of my heart against my chest, my head whips around to stare past my Alphas at the man I never thought I’d see again.

The owner of Ravenscroft Asylum stands in a perfectly pressed suit, exactly as I remember. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle to mar his presentation. The same man who watched countless experiments with clinical detachment now studies me with unnerving intensity.

The one who mocked us. The devil who tried to stop my escape with threats.

Now he’s returned once more, and from his taunting gaze, I’m sure he’s plotted another diabolical plan to ruin me.

The coincidence feels too precise to be an accident.

Memory crashes through carefully maintained control:

Vale’s face going slack as consciousness fled.

The terrible stillness of his chest beneath my palms.

The endless seconds before help arrived.

The eternity of watching others fight to restart his heart.

My fury finds a new focus, crystallizing into something beyond mere rage. This man, this monster who orchestrated years of torment, somehow connects to the current crisis. The realization burns through my veins like acid, awakening something primal that transcends designation dynamics.

The alphas behind me shift stances subtly, reading murderous intent in my rigid posture. But they make no move to stop me, no attempt to prevent whatever violence might explode from this recognition.

Because they understand.

They’ve seen firsthand what Ravenscroft’s “treatments” did to omegas. What their careful programming stole from countless lives. What their experiments cost in blood and pain and shattered psyches.

Now Vale lies unconscious three floors above us, machines monitoring every breath while doctors try to understand what triggered cardiac arrest. Yes, he was facing a degenerative disease, but it hadn’t reached his heart yet. He still had plenty of time to fight and get better with the right treatment.

Someone administered those meds with the perfect dosage to trigger an overdose.

Since I hadn’t finalized a bond with him yet, they can easily toss the blame on me. The omega who didn’t attend to her Alpha’s needs, driving him to see no future but to kill himself…

The desk between us suddenly feels like an insufficient barrier.

My voice emerges barely above a whisper, carrying decades of accumulated pain:

“What did you do to him?”

The question hangs between us like a drawn blade, sharp enough to draw blood. His slight smile never wavers as he studies me with those cold eyes that haunted countless nightmares.

“Patient 495,” he says my designation like a cherished memory. “You’ve exceeded every expectation. Truly remarkable progress.”

The use of that number, that careful categorization they branded into my psyche, sends a fresh wave of sizzling anger through my system. But beneath rage burns something colder, more calculated – the part of me they crafted so carefully now turned toward their destruction.

He planned this to happen.

Wanted me to return straight to him.

“Allow me to formally introduce myself,” he smooths nonexistent wrinkles from his impeccable suit. “Charles Press.”

He pauses on purpose, clearly having no intention of speaking the list of credentials people would normally lay out to be acknowledged.

“Margaret, you may step out. Our omega guest and her alpha comrades wouldn’t be foolish enough to start anything.” His smile carries venomous certainty. “Not while one of their own fights for his life on machinery I own. It would be quite… unfortunate if we experienced a sudden blackout that affected the backup systems.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Dante’s voice carries deadly promise.

“Oh, but I would.” He meets the challenge without hesitation. “I know exactly who your pack is. Parazodiac, isn’t it? Playing at running things when really,” his laugh holds no warmth, “you’re merely minnows swimming among sharks.”

Each measured step toward the desk forces us to adjust position, a careful dance of predator and prey where roles remain frustratingly unclear. His movements carry deliberate precision as he removes his jacket, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a bandaged arm where my knife found its mark.

The display feels calculated, reminding us of violence already exchanged while promising more to come.

He settles into the chair with casual dominance that makes my teeth ache.

“Such unfortunate circumstances,” he observes, folding his hands on the desk’s polished surface. “Let’s not waste time with pleasantries. Out of the goodness of my heart, I won’t charge for the life-saving intervention your alpha required.”

The pause carries the weight of a trap about to spring.

“However, continued treatment is reserved for alphas with established omega bonds. And it’s quite obvious this pack hasn’t officially claimed the omega standing before us.”

“You can’t just stop treatment,” Kieran’s protest carries notes of desperate fury.

“Why not?” The question emerges silk-smooth, wrapped in absolute authority. “I own this facility. Why shouldn’t I determine who deserves access to what I provide? Who receives care and who… doesn’t?”

The implications sink like lead in my stomach as understanding dawns.

Every calculated move, every careful manipulation, has led to this moment of inevitable choice.

My voice emerges barely above a whisper, forced past the lump forming in my throat.

“What needs to be done for Vale to continue receiving treatment?”

Atlas’s hand finds my shoulder, grip conveying silent support even as rage radiates from his frame. Dante’s carefully controlled breathing speaks of violence barely contained, while Kieran’s scent carries notes of pure protective fury.

But we all recognize the trap we’ve walked into — the careful manipulation that leaves no room for negotiation or escape. Vale’s life hangs by threads this man controls with casual cruelty, leaving us no choice but to play whatever game he’s orchestrated.

He leans back, satisfaction radiating from every pore as he watches as realization settles over us. He’s orchestrated this perfectly – using Vale’s condition, the facility’s resources, and my presence to create a situation that serves his purposes entirely.

The machinery keeping Vale alive hums in my consciousness, each beep marking seconds where his survival depends entirely on the equipment this man controls. The knowledge burns like acid in my veins, but beneath fury grows cold certainty – whatever price he names, I’ll pay it.

Even if it means returning to that hellhole.

Because watching Vale’s heart stop once was enough.

Living those eternal seconds between the last breath and desperate revival carved scars I never want to experience again. This man may control the game for now, but he doesn’t understand what six years of his careful programming created.

He sees an Omega ready to submit for the sake of alpha survival. What he’s actually facing is weapon turned protector, every careful lesson in violence and control now focused on ensuring my pack’s survival by any means necessary.

I survived Ravenscroft once. I can do it again.

Let him believe he holds all the cards. Savor momentary triumph while it lasts, but I intend to play until the very end, until the price of his interference extracts payment in a currency he never expected to spend.

Charles reaches into his desk drawer with deliberate slowness, extracting a single sheet of paper and placing it before him. A pen follows, laid across the pristine surface with precise care that speaks of calculated performance.

“I consider myself a good person,” he begins, voice carrying notes of false benevolence. “I truly hate seeing alphas suffer unnecessarily, especially over such weak, pitiful omegas.” His gaze fixes on me with unsettling intensity. “Though I’ll admit, Patient 495, you’ve exceeded initial expectations.”

The way he studies me carries weight of scientific observation, clinical assessment wrapped in predatory interest.

“I knew something was special about you from the beginning. Which is exactly why I’ve been curating you, ensuring you’re properly prepared for the set of alphas I’ve kept in Ravenscroft’s captivity these many years.”

“Alphas?” Dante’s question carries sharp disbelief. “You don’t keep them hostage. It’s against their rights.”

Charles’s laugh holds no warmth, only cruel amusement at such naivety.

“The fine line in this world of hierarchy and ‘rules’ is very thin when you really think about it.” His fingers trace the pen’s surface as he continues. “In this sinister reality, everything operates on exchange. People give and take. One must sacrifice to reach the next level of life.”

His explanation carries weight of twisted philosophy, each word selected for maximum impact.

“Without sacrifice, you’re left to suffer, never reaching the grand scheme’s conclusion.”

Those cold eyes find mine again, holding my gaze with triumphant malice.

“I have a set of alphas back at the asylum that you’d be perfect for. They’re a bit rough…feral, I suppose, after so long in captivity.”

Pride colors his tone as he continues.

“I do aim to feed them, keep up appearances, but all the lethal cage fights are really quite straining.”

Cage fights?

The revelation hits like a physical blow. How many horrors occurred behind Ravenscroft’s walls that even I never witnessed?

How many alphas suffered similar fate to omegas I’d watched disappear?

“Though you may break, given how… innocent you are.” His gaze travels my body with possessive assessment that makes my skin crawl. “But I’m sure those desperate alphas can whip you into shape in that department. That’s the purpose of your body anyway. To please and service.”

Three deep growls erupt simultaneously, the sound so primal it makes me flinch. Atlas, Dante, and Kieran’s fury fills the room with lethal promise, their protective rage manifesting in waves of alpha pheromones that would terrify any normal person.

It makes my instincts go wild, while my mind races along the fact they’ve become so protective of me, but what can we do? Vale’s life is at risk.

Charles just laughs, the sound carrying genuine amusement at their display.

“Awww, how cute.” His smile holds nothing but mockery. “But there’s nothing you three can do about it. You should have bonded with your omega while you had the chance.”

Contempt drips from every word as he continues.

“Funny how alphas always want to be so soft and tender with omegas, all because of trauma bullshit.” His head shakes in exaggerated disappointment. “Now look at your ends. Laughable.”

I reach for the contract with steady hands that belie the trembling in my heart.

The terms lay bare in stark black and white – no hidden clauses, no deceptive language, just simple exchange. My return to Ravenscroft’s walls for Vale’s complete treatment and recovery, all expenses covered.

My eyes fix on the success rate statistics: 98% chance of full recovery and return to normal function.

The number burns into my mind like a hot brand, offering hope I dare not show on my face. This treatment could save him, could restore everything his condition has stolen.

The realization settles deep in my bones – this is the only way to protect Vale. To save him in a way that only I can manage, only I can provide. The pack will survive without me. They can find another omega, one without my damage, my complications, my history of violence and clinical conditioning.

Once Vale recovers, once he’s back to full strength and health, they can move forward. Build a better future. Find happiness again without a reminder of what Ravenscroft’s influence cost them.

I’m just one stepping stone in their journey.

Temporary refuge that gave me a glimpse of what pack life could be, even if experience proved heartbreakingly brief.

The memory of their kindness, their acceptance, their careful consideration will have to sustain me through whatever awaits in those sterile halls.

Kieran’s hand reaches for me as I return the contract to the desk, his touch carrying desperate pleas I cannot acknowledge. The pen feels heavy as I sign just ‘Blackwood’ – refusing to give my full signature.

Let Charles wonder at the omission, but I won’t risk him using my complete name on other documents that might drag me deeper into whatever schemes he’s crafting.

“Done,” I announce with calm I don’t feel. “I’ll be at Ravenscroft’s gates tomorrow morning.”

Charles’s frown carries obvious displeasure at the delay.

Before he can protest, I continue.

“Surely you’ll allow one more night with my alphas.” The words taste bitter but necessary. “It would be cruel to deprive a pack that’s grown accustomed to omega presence without letting me…serve their needs one final time.”

His huff of amusement carries notes of male appreciation for implied activities.

“Of course,” he waves dismissively, victory making him magnanimous. “I’ll send the contract copy to Vale’s email for safekeeping.” His smile turns sharp. “Just in case your pack needs a reminder before attempting any foolish rescue missions on my property.”

The implied threat carries clear understanding of their tactical capabilities. But his smug satisfaction proves he doesn’t truly understand what he’s dealing with – doesn’t recognize that sometimes cages create more dangerous predators than freedom ever could.

For now I’ll play my role, accept his terms, walk willingly into his trap he thinks is so cleverly constructed. But six years of his careful programming created a weapon he never fully comprehended. His victory feels hollow against the weight of what those years taught me about patience, about survival, about turning captivity itself into strength.

One final night of freedom stretches before me, one last chance to feel the safety of pack bonds before sterile halls reclaim their prize. The alphas’ fury radiates against my skin, their protective rage filling the air with promise of violence delayed but not denied.

But Vale’s survival outweighs everything – their anger, my freedom, whatever future we might have built together.

Sometimes sacrifice demands the highest price from those most willing to pay it.

29

THE WEIGHT OF GOODBYE

~NYX~

“There’s no way I’m struggling into this non-concealing piece for no one to be here,” I complain with my hands on my hips.

The bedroom feels impossibly large tonight, shadows stretching across the plush carpet like grasping fingers.

Moonlight filters through gauzy curtains, casting everything in shades of silver and blue that only heighten the surreal quality of these final hours.

I stand in the doorway, uncertainty making my feet feel heavy as lead. The shadows in my mind hum with gentle melancholy, their song carrying notes of farewell rather than their usual warnings. They recognize the weight of this moment—the last night of freedom before sterile halls reclaim their prize.

Dante lies on the bed, back pressed on the mountain of pillows at the headboard. His hands are behind his head, flexing his arms in their tempting position while he lies beneath a single blanket that surely covers his nakedness. His usual confident smirk is firmly in place though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The heaviness of defeat rings through the house this evening, as palpable as the silence that surrounded our final meal together. Each bite tasted like ash, conversation dying beneath the weight of what tomorrow brings.

“Come here, little Goddess,” he calls softly, arms opening in invitation.

The gentleness in his voice breaks something inside me. Tears spring unbidden to my eyes, blurring my vision as I cross the room on trembling legs. The plush carpet feels impossibly soft beneath my feet—such stark contrast to the cold concrete floors that await me.

I crawl onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath my weight. Dante’s arms wrap around me immediately, pulling me against his chest with careful tenderness that only makes the tears fall faster.

“Don’t cry, little Goddess,” he whispers, his lips brushing my temple. “A star of the night shouldn’t be shedding tears. You’re always supposed to shine, no matter the circumstance.”

A sob tears from my throat, raw and painful.

“I hate this,” I manage between gasping breaths. “I hate that I barely got to know any of you. That everything’s being stripped away before it could truly begin.”

The shadows weave through my consciousness with mournful harmony, their song carrying notes of profound loss. They’ve returned in full force, preparing for the battles ahead.

Battles we both suspect might be our last.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, fingers clutching at his shirt. “I never meant to mark Atlas. Never wanted to leave any of you with scars like Kieran carried. I didn’t mean to set up more pain and heartbreak.”

“Shhh,” Dante soothes, his hand stroking my back in gentle circles. “That mark is different. It’s proof of connection freely given, not manipulation or betrayal. Atlas wears it with pride.”

Fresh tears spill at his words.

“But I’m still leaving. Still breaking whatever we started to build.”

“No.” The word emerges fierce and certain. “You’re protecting our pack the only way available. Sacrificing your freedom to save Vale’s life. That’s not betrayal…that’s loyalty beyond measure.”

His fingers thread through my hair, the touch impossibly gentle despite the steel in his voice as he continues.

“And we’re going to come back for you. We’re going to fight every fucker who tries to stop us from saving you. This isn’t the end, you hear me? It’s just the beginning, and they’re going to see the full extent of our wrath when we take back what’s ours to claim.”

The conviction in his tone steals my breath.

I want to argue, to point out the impossibility of fighting an organization as vast and powerful as Ravenscroft. But something in me recognizes the truth in his words—the absolute certainty that transcends mere promise.

These alphas don’t make idle threats or empty declarations. When they say they’ll come for me, they mean it with every fiber of their being.

“I’m scared,” I admit in a barely audible whisper. “Not of returning…but of hope. Of believing in rescue only to have that hope stripped away day by day in those sterile halls.”

Dante’s arms tighten fractionally.

“Then let us carry that hope for you. Let us shoulder the weight while you focus on survival. We’ll move heaven and earth to reach you—just hold on until we do.”

“I never thought I’d find this,” I whisper, voice thick with emotion. “Never imagined alphas could be like you all are. That pack bonds could feel like…like coming home rather than chains to be feared.”

“You did find us though,” Dante murmurs. “Found your way through hell itself to reach us. And we’re not letting you go without one hell of a fight.”

His certainty wraps around me like armor, offering protection against darker thoughts that threaten to overwhelm me. The shadows weave through his words with harmonic approval, their song carrying notes of destiny fulfilled rather than thwarted.

“You know,” Dante murmurs against my hair, his voice carrying forced lightness, “I demand a rematch when you return. Need to see if you can still toss me across the room like that.”

A watery laugh escapes between sobs. “Only if we get more cute stuffies to cushion your fall.”

“Deal.” His chest rumbles with gentle amusement. “I’ll get you a whole room full. Stack them floor to ceiling until you can barely walk through the door. Create the ultimate landing zone for whenever you feel like throwing any of us around.”

His hand continues its soothing path along my spine as he presses a gentle kiss to my temple. The gesture carries such tenderness it only makes fresh tears spill.

“You know what’s funny?” he whispers after a moment of quiet. “I took so long to really open up to you. Kept thinking you’d be gone before I got the chance – that you’d find another group of alphas who had their shit together better than we do.”

The admission catches me off guard, making me lift my head to meet his gaze. “Why would you think that?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, fingers absent-mindedly playing with strands of my hair as he gathers thoughts.

“When I lost my hearing,” he begins slowly, “it messed with my head in ways I didn’t expect. The physical adjustment was one thing – learning to read lips, relying more on other senses, adapting to the implant’s limitations. But the mental toll?” He shakes his head slightly. “That hit harder.”

I stay quiet, giving him space to continue at his own pace. The shadows weave through the moment with gentle curiosity, their song carrying notes of understanding rather than their usual caution.

“I developed all this anxiety about being… less than. About not being enough.” His voice drops lower, weighted with old pain. “Started thinking no omega would want an alpha who couldn’t hear them properly. Who might miss important cues or fail to respond fast enough in emergencies.”

My heart clenches at the vulnerability in his tone. “Dante…”

“It seems ridiculous now,” he continues with slight self-deprecation. “All that worry about being perfect for some hypothetical omega, when real connection isn’t about perfection at all.”

His thumb brushes fresh tears from my cheek as he adds:

“You showed us that. Showed me that. Your strength isn’t in spite of what you’ve endured…it’s because of it. Every scar and traumatic moment of survival has shaped you into a blessing for us and a threat to them.”

The shadows hum with approval at his words, their harmony carrying notes of profound truth.

“Look at what you’re doing right now,” he continues, voice thick with emotion. “Sacrificing your freedom to save Vale. That’s not weakness or submission – that’s strength beyond measure. The kind of loyalty that can’t be forced or programmed.”

His arms tighten fractionally around me, as if physical contact might somehow prevent tomorrow from arriving.

“We’re so blessed to have you in our lives,” he whispers. “To witness your courage, your resilience, your capacity for care despite everything you’ve endured. Which is exactly why you can’t lose hope in us. We won’t let you down. Not like this. Not ever.”

Fresh tears spill at his words, but these carry a different weight than earlier sorrow. These speak of connection that transcends mere designation dynamics – of understanding found in shared vulnerability and mutual support.

His forehead rests against mine as emotion threatens to choke his words.

“So don’t you dare think for one second that we’re letting you go without the fight of our lives. Don’t let them convince you that you’re alone, forgotten, or unworthy of rescue.”

The conviction in his voice steals my breath completely.

“Because you’ve carved a place in this pack that no one else could ever fill. You’ve awakened parts of us we thought were permanently lost to trauma and time. That kind of connection? It doesn’t just disappear because some asshole in an expensive suit thinks he can force it.”

“I’ll remember,” I whisper, the words emerging thick with tears. “I’ll hold onto every moment, every shared laugh, every quiet understanding like a precious treasure.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise sending warmth through my chest despite the circumstances. “And we’ll remember too. Every smile lights up the whole room. Every challenge that pushes us to be better. Every moment of trust you’ve shown despite having every reason not to.”

His fingers comb gently through my hair as he adds:

“We’ll remember that you chose us. That you saw past our damage and designation to who we really are. That you offered connection based on understanding rather than mere biology or social expectation.”

Fresh tears spill, but these carry notes of gratitude rather than grief. These speak of bonds formed through genuine care rather than clinical necessity or designation dynamics.

“Rest now,” he urges softly, tucking my head beneath his chin. “Tomorrow comes soon enough. Tonight just let me hold you, let me memorize everything about how you feel in my arms.”

I wish sleeping was that simple.

30

LET US COMPLETE WHAT WE STARTED…TOGETHER

~NYX~

Sunrise is here…

The first breath I take that morning carries the warmth of the bodies surrounding me, the scent of musk and familiarity blanketing me like an embrace.

It isn’t the sterile air of Ravenscroft. Not yet. But the reminder lingers at the edges of my consciousness, gnawing at the peace I’ve found in this cabin, in the arms of the men who have unknowingly anchored me to something more.

The golden light of dawn stretches through the window, its gentle fingers brushing over my skin, turning every exposed inch into something soft, something fragile.

For a few moments, I let myself forget. Let myself sink into the warmth, into the firm body behind me and the steady presence ahead. My fingers twitch against the sheets, curled into the material as if I can anchor myself to this moment—hold it in place before it slips away.

A slow shift behind me sends a ripple of awareness down my spine.

Dante.

I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the undeniable heat of his body pressing into my back. The scent of him, cinnamon, and baked goodness fills my lungs as he stirs, but I don’t turn to him.

Because someone is watching me.

My lashes flutter as I open my eyes, expecting to see the clock or the dim glow of morning seeping through the cracks. Instead, pale silver eyes meet mine.

Vale.

My breath catches, lips parting slightly as I take in the way he stares at me.

Silent. Unreadable.

But the intensity in those eyes makes my stomach tighten, makes my pulse drum against my throat.

There are no words exchanged, none needed. The quiet is thick between us, charged with something fragile, something that won’t survive once I step outside these walls.

Once I am forced back into hell.

He sees it too.

I can tell by the way his gaze lingers, memorizing my features as if he’ll carve them into the marrow of his bones.

A shift behind me, the whisper of sheets moving. Dante is still there. Still close. And from beyond Vale, Kieran lies sprawled on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other stretched across the bed, fingers twitching slightly in his sleep.

I can’t see Atlas, but I feel him; assured that he’s here because his scent is unmistakable — pine needles and mountain air that would make you wish to be on the top of a mountain, admiring the view as the sun rises.

A scent that has burned itself into my memory, but also makes me wish I could be surrounded by this blended space of scents forever.

Pines needled, mint, sandalwood, and cinnamon.

Such unique aromas are overwhelming for many but so perfectly blessed for someone like me who assumed all this while a defective Omega like myself would never enjoy such a scent concoction.

The scent of four Alphas who actually want me…

They are all here.

Together.

A final morning before the world rips me away again.

My throat tightens, and I force my eyes back to Vale, taking in the way he studies me, the slow rise and fall of his chest as if breathing me in.

My lips part to say something — I’m not sure what — but before I can, he reaches out, fingers brushing along the curve of my cheek.

A silent question.

I swallow, my skin burning where he touches, and before I can stop myself, I lean into it, nuzzling against his palm, savoring the calloused warmth of his skin. A sound leaves him, something low, something aching. And then the space between us disappears.

The first kiss is barely there, a whisper of lips against lips. I taste sleep and something sweeter beneath, something uniquely Vale.

His fingers trace the edge of my jaw, slide down the column of my throat, and press just enough to make me swallow hard against the touch.

Then Dante moves his breath at my ear, the slow, deliberate press of his lips against the curve of my shoulder sending fire through my veins.

My body tenses.

Then melts.

The reality of what this morning means sinks deeper into my chest, making the need coil tighter inside me.

I don’t want to leave.

Don’t want to face what comes next.

I want to lose myself here, in this moment, in them.

Something must show in my eyes to make Vale lean in, his lips tenderly pressing mine. It feels like a reassurance kiss, the intimacy that makes my heart clench in sadness because of what I’ve done.

In two weeks I’ve made these men help me recover, worry them with uncertainty, and now plague them with the haunting reality that I may not come back to them…

They should hate me.

Despise how I’ve somehow left an imprint on each of them, big or small, and now I balance their hope in my survival…

Or retrieval.

Vale’s lips claim mine once more, and it’s so easy to kiss him back. To just forget how wrong it is to fall into the yearning passion despite the pain I’ll be leaving behind, and just enjoy this one moment to be intimate with him.

With each kiss, I wonder what will happen upon my return.

Vale will get better, recover, get the treatment he needs to potentially heal his degenerative condition and maybe he’ll be able to get back to normal. To that strong version of himself that I caught a glimpse of in the midst of the autumn day forest.

I can imagine him in the kitchen, baking various cupcakes to create the perfect replica of his Grandma’s unique recipe, spreading the show and love of sweet baked goods to those in the community when he’s ready to make that bakery.

Knowing he’ll be as close to normal as he can be gives me a pinch of relief, and I keep repeating that in my mind as I kiss him as passionately as I can.

He groans into my mouth, taking control so effortlessly his hand finding my breast and squeezing it slightly, igniting a moan to escape my lips between kisses.

Dante shifts from behind, and I feel the arm around my waist tighten further. He nestles further against me, his lips already finding the side of my neck. Laying a firm kiss to my flesh, igniting goosebumps when his rough voice whispers my name.

“Stop thinking,” he mutters as if he read the constant back-and-forth dilemma purring in my mind. “Just stay…a little longer…hmm?”

A little longer…

A few more hours…

With them.

I shiver, my fingers curling into Vale’s shoulder as Dante’s hand slides down my side, tracing every inch of exposed skin.

I know what this is.

A goodbye wrapped in pleasure, a desperate attempt to burn memories into flesh.

Kieran stirs, and I catch the way his eyes flicker open, dark and hooded before he slowly leans to the side. It doesn’t take him long to take in the scene before him — a slow smirk curves his lips.

“Well… this is one hell of a way to wake up.”

I can tell he’s enjoying himself, placing an arm over and behind his head, while I peak the movement of his hand that goes down to strap around his cock as he begins to stroke himself.

Atlas is last.

His presence shifts at the edge of the bed, and I realize he’s not only standing there, completely naked and hot as hell, but there are his half-open eyes, taking in enough of the scent to give off a sense of pride with the situation.

Vale releases my lips, allowing me to breathe, while Atlas’ fingers wrap around my ankle, dragging slowly up my calf. His grip is firm, and possessive, proving he knows what he wants, but also shows not a sign of regret in what we’ve done in the past and the mark I leave behind as a constant memory.

“She deserves more than this, brothers. Why don’t we please our Omega?”

Please our Omega…

Ours…

I’m theirs…and no matter what the future holds I’m still going to be theirs.

Atlas’s grip tightens, fingers pressing into my skin as he drags his touch up the length of my leg.

Heat coils low in my stomach, an unspoken anticipation crackling between us like static before a storm. His scent—pine needles and mountain air, a crisp contrast to the smoldering musk of the others—envelops me, and I turn my head to him, lips parted in something between a plea and surrender.

“Let us worship you,” Atlas murmurs, his voice thick with something ancient, something reverent. His knuckles brush against my inner thigh, teasing, promising, as his eyes darken. “You deserve nothing less.”

Vale’s lips leave mine, and I barely have a moment to breathe before Dante claims them.

His kiss is slow, coaxing, his tongue sliding over mine in a lazy, possessive stroke. The taste of him is fire and spice, intoxicating and consuming.

My body arches against them, drawn to every touch, every heated caress, as if they are the only thing keeping me tethered to this moment.

Kieran shifts beside me, his calloused hands tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my stomach. His lips press against my shoulder, the touch achingly tender, a stark contrast to the intensity of the hands gripping me.

“You were made for this,” he murmurs, voice husky against my skin. “For us.”

A shudder rolls through me, pleasure and desperation entwining, making me reach for more. My fingers sink into Atlas’s forearm, urging him closer, and he obliges, his lips finding the hollow of my throat, his breath warm and heavy.

“Perfect,” Vale whispers against my ear, his hand cupping my jaw, angling my face toward him. “You’re perfect.”

I can’t think.

Can’t process anything beyond the feeling of their hands on me, their lips marking every inch of my exposed skin.

They touch me as if I am something sacred, something fragile yet unbreakable in their grasp. Each kiss is a vow, a silent promise that they won’t let me forget this moment — won’t let me leave without carrying the weight of them imprinted into my very being.

Atlas’s mouth moves lower, the press of his lips scorching down the center of my stomach.

My breath stutters as his tongue flicks out, teasing, tasting. He groans against me, the sound vibrating through my core. Dante’s fingers tighten on my hips, as if holding himself back, as if the restraint is a battle he’s quickly losing.

“You’ll remember us,” Kieran says, his voice laced with something dark and possessive. “Even when you’re gone, you’ll feel us on your skin. In your bones until we’re right there to claim what’s ours. What we’re about to mark today is property of us. Parazodiac Nexus Ops: Subdivision A.”

I whimper as Vale claims my lips again, his kiss softer this time, lingering as if memorizing the shape of my mouth.

“You. Are. Ours,” Vale grunts each word between deep passionate kisses.

Dante’s grip loosens just enough for his fingers to trail lower, exploring, tracing every sensitive inch as Atlas presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh.

“Say it,” Dante commands, his voice rough against my ear. “Say you’ll remember.”

I exhale shakily, my body trembling from the weight of their worship, the sheer intensity of their devotion.

“I’ll remember,” I whisper, my voice a broken, breathless vow.

Atlas groans against my skin, his grip tightening as his mouth moves lower, lower, until all I can do is arch into him, my body pleading for more.

Kieran’s voice is casual, but there’s an undeniable smirk beneath it.

“Vale should get first dibs,” he says, his words both teasing and reverent. “Considering he almost died and all.”

A low grumble against my skin, rough lips pressing against the curve of my stomach, is Vale’s only response. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight it.

Instead, he trails slow, open-mouthed kisses down my stomach, each one branding me, making my body arch in anticipation.

The sight of him moving with such control, such ease compared to before, sends a ripple of something close to hope through me. His leg still moves stiffly, but there is no wince, no flash of pain in his gaze. Just hunger, raw, and unfiltered need as he looks at me like I’m the only Omega he’s ever wanted.

That thought should be comforting.

It should anchor me to the moment, let me sink into this night, into them. Instead, it makes my stomach twist with something far more dangerous. Because if he’s healing— if he’s getting stronger —what’s stopping him from finding another Omega?

From looking at someone else the way he’s looking at me now?

As if he can read my mind, he pauses, his lips ghosting just above my navel. Silver eyes lock onto mine, dark and determined.

“No,” he murmurs, his breath fanning against my heated skin. “There is no one else. No one but you.”

A blush creeps up my neck, making me shudder as his fingers tighten around my thighs, spreading me open with ease.

“So you better enjoy the ride, little Goddess,” he says, his voice thick with promise, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips.

Then his tongue glides along the inside of my left thigh, slow and deliberate, making my breath hitch. The heat pooling in my core is unbearable, my body thrumming with anticipation as slick coats my thighs, my pulse hammering beneath his mouth.

He hums in approval, dragging his tongue along my sensitive skin again, teasing me, making my muscles tense and tremble.

“Already dripping for me,” he murmurs against my thigh, his tone filled with dark satisfaction. “Good girl.”

Fucking hell…

Never would I think being praised by an Alpha — my Alphas — could be such a turn-on. My body simply blazes with heat just from two words.

A whimper escapes me, my hips twitching, seeking more. But Vale is nothing if not patient. He presses a lingering kiss just above where I need him most, his fingers digging into my thighs to hold me in place.

“Patience,” he whispers, his breath sending shivers racing up my spine. “I want to savor you. Every inch.”

I groan, frustration and desire tangling in my veins, but it doesn’t matter. Vale sets the pace, his mouth exploring, worshiping.

Every kiss, every slow drag of his tongue, makes my nerves spark, my body helpless against the pleasure building inside me.

The moan that leaves my lips is swallowed by the warmth of their bodies surrounding me — by the pleasure that pulses through my veins like liquid fire.

Vale sets the pace below, his mouth slow and tormenting as he worships me with each deliberate drag of his tongue, each teasing press against my clit. My body trembles, a shudder rolling through me as I arch against the bed, against them.

I barely have time to breathe before I feel Dante’s mouth latch onto my right breast, his tongue flicking over my stiff nipple, teasing it into a hardened peak before sucking it into his mouth. Heat blooms through my chest, a deep ache coiling in my stomach as his fingers knead and fondle the soft flesh.

He hums in approval, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core.

Kieran is no less indulgent, his lips moving along my throat, leaving a trail of possessive marks in his wake. Each slow drag of his teeth, each press of his tongue against my pulse point, sends more slick pooling between my thighs.

His hand finds my other breast, palming it, massaging, rolling the peaked nipple between his fingers, and the sensation has me keening, my head falling back against the pillows.

Atlas has been silent, calculating. But I can feel him moving, feel the shift in the mattress as he approaches.

He moves behind me, making it possible for him to wrap his fingers around the front of my neck, his grip firm, yet careful —just enough pressure to make my breath stutter, to draw my attention to him.

My moans are swallowed by his lips as he crashes his mouth against mine.

It’s rough, possessive, the taste of him heady and intoxicating. His grip on my throat tightens just slightly, making my pulse race, making my thighs twitch with need.

The contrast of control and pleasure, of dominance and tenderness, makes my body burn hotter, makes my core clench around nothing as slick floods my thighs.

Below, Vale groans in appreciation, the wet sound of his tongue working against my clit making me shiver and quake for more.

He flicks, and teases, before wrapping his lips around the bundle of nerves and sucking, his hands gripping my thighs to keep me open, to keep me from escaping the pleasure that threatens to consume me whole.

I try to breathe, try to ground myself in the overwhelming sensations, but it’s impossible. Every touch, every press of their bodies against mine, has me spiraling. Atlas’s mouth devours mine, stealing every whimper, every cry of pleasure, while Dante and Kieran continue their worship, their hands and mouths setting my skin on fire.

So good.

Beyond pleasure I’ve ever experienced.

I’d always assumed sex with the emphasis on connection was the best and only good part when it came to the dynamic between Alpha and Omega, but this.

This build of passion and lust as our bodies coil with desire and intensity, creating such a magnetic connection that pleased all of us in a unit is beyond my wildest imagination…

I feel myself unraveling, the pleasure tightening in my stomach, coiling dangerously close to breaking.

I’m at their mercy, my body completely theirs to command. And when Vale’s tongue dips lower, when he flattens it and drags it up through my slick folds before circling my clit again, I know I’m losing any battle to not cum.

I’m too far gone for that.

My orgasm slams into my, my whimpering moans getting lost in Atlas’s mouth, the sound muffled by his rough kiss. My hands claw at the sheets, desperate, needing something to anchor me to reality, but all I can feel is them — everywhere, consuming me, worshiping me, breaking me down, and piecing me back together with their touches.

Kieran’s hand tightens around my breast, pinching the nipple just enough to make me gasp against Atlas’s lips.

Dante hums against my skin, the vibration sending another pulse of pleasure through me. And Vale — gods, Vale — is relentless, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes, even as I cum into his mouth. He doesn’t hesitate to drink up my slick like it’s the best-tasting thing he’s tasted, enjoying every slurping lick and suck while his fingers dig into my thighs to keep me in place as he drinks me in.

“She tastes fucking divine,” Vale murmurs against me, his voice thick with hunger. “So fucking sweet.”

Atlas finally pulls away, his grip on my throat loosening just enough for me to suck in a shaky breath. His silver eyes are dark, filled with something primal as he watches me come undone beneath them.

“Our little Goddess is going to be generous this morning, isn’t she?” He growls lowly, and how my body shivers with goosebumps while it feels as if I can cum again with how Vale continues to thrust his tongue deep into my pulsing walls.

“Y-Yes,” I pant, feeling the pleasure build all over again.

“I know you will because our Omega never disappoints us,” he continues with praise, giving me a heated kiss that makes my toes curl before he hums against my lips, “You’re going to cum again for Vale, yes?”

“Y-Yes,” I moan desperately, wanting to please him.

To please all of them.

My body complies, those Omega instincts simply further riling me up with prickling lust that tingles through me in heated waves.

“Let go for us, Omega,” he orders, his voice rough, commanding. “Show us how good we make you feel.”

As if I could hold back.

Vale presses his tongue flat against my clit, flicking it once, twice, before sucking me into his mouth, and I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me like a tidal wave, my body arching off the bed as pleasure crashes over me in dizzying waves. My cries are swallowed by Atlas’s mouth as he kisses me again, rough and deep, drinking in every broken moan, every gasp of his name.

Dante groans against my breast, nipping at the sensitive flesh as my body trembles beneath them. Kieran’s grip tightens around my waist, holding me steady as my body quakes with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Vale doesn’t stop, his tongue still lapping at my oversensitive clit, drawing out every last tremor, every last drop of pleasure until I’m shaking, barely able to breathe.

I get a second’s grace, sprawled against the bed, my chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, but I know from how Dante takes Vale’s place and already taunting my clit with his fingers proves there’s more to come.

But they’re not done with me.

Not even close.

Dante wastes no time.

The moment Vale moves away, his fingers are there, replacing his mouth, teasing and taunting as they slide against my slick folds.

I barely get a chance to catch my breath before a fresh wave of pleasure rips through me. The contrast between the rough pads of his fingers and the smooth, wet heat of his mouth when he dips down to lap at my clit sends a shudder through my entire body.

“You’re so fucking wet for us,” Dante murmurs against me, his breath hot against my core before his lips press against my clit in a slow, taunting kiss. “I could stay here all morning. Make you my breakfast.”

My response is nothing but a whimper, my legs instinctively spreading wider for him. My hips twitch as his fingers circle my entrance before pressing in, stretching me with that perfect, torturous slowness that has my body arching off the bed.

One finger, then two, his knuckles sinking deep as my slick coats them.

Vale shifts beside me, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before moving down to capture my nipple between his lips.

A needy moan tumbles from my mouth as he flicks his tongue over the sensitive peak, his free hand cupping the weight of my breast as he rolls the other between his fingers.

The sharp pleasure makes my head spin, my back bowing off the mattress.

And then there’s Atlas.

His presence at my other side is quiet, and controlled, but when his hand curls around my throat, my eyes snap open to meet his. The weight of his grip is possessive, just enough pressure to make me keen for more.

His thumb strokes the side of my neck, an unspoken demand to keep my gaze locked on his.

“You look fucking divine like this,” Atlas murmurs, voice like gravel as he leans in, his lips ghosting over mine. “Falling apart for us.”

I barely have time to react before his mouth claims mine, rough and desperate.

The dominance in his kiss is unmistakable, his tongue pushing past my lips, swallowing every moan, every breathless plea. He tastes like smoke and control, intoxicating in a way that makes my core clench around Dante’s fingers.

Dante curls them inside me, stroking against that devastating spot that makes my vision blur. My thighs tremble as he adds a third finger, stretching me, preparing me, all while his tongue flicks against my clit in maddening, teasing strokes.

“Gods,” I choke out, breaking away from Atlas’s lips as my body seizes with pleasure. “Dante—”

“I know,” he rasps, his tone laced with dark satisfaction. “I can feel you squeezing my fingers, Omega. So fucking tight.”

My nails dig into Atlas’s forearm as Vale’s teeth scrape gently against my nipple, adding another layer to the pleasure coursing through me.

It’s too much and not enough, my body climbing higher, reaching for something just out of my grasp.

Dante’s mouth is relentless, sucking and flicking against my clit, his fingers moving in deep, steady thrusts, scissoring slightly to draw out my pleasure.

My body reacts instinctively, rocking against his hand, chasing that high that is so dangerously close.

“Let go for us,” Atlas commands, his grip tightening just enough around my throat to make my breath stutter. “Come on his fingers, little Goddess.”

Vale hums in agreement, his lips trailing up my collarbone as he kisses along my jaw, his breath hot against my ear.

“We want to hear you come undone, Omega.”

Dante growls against me, the vibration sending me spiraling. His fingers curl one last time, his tongue pressing flat against my clit, and that’s all it takes.

The orgasm slams into me, my body seizing, my back arching off the bed as a sharp cry rips from my throat. My vision whites out, my body trembling violently as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.

Dante doesn’t stop. His fingers slow but don’t leave me, his mouth still teasing, coaxing me through the aftershocks until my body finally sags against the mattress, boneless and spent.

Atlas lets out a low chuckle, his grip firm yet teasing as he leans over me.

“Dante,” he says, voice dripping with amusement, “give our sweet Omega a taste of herself.”

Dante hums in approval, flashing a wicked grin before pulling his fingers from between my trembling thighs.

I watch, dazed, as he lifts them to his mouth, his tongue flicking out to taste me. His eyes darken with satisfaction, a deep rumble escaping his chest.

“Fuck, you taste so sweet,” he murmurs, sucking each finger clean, his gaze locked onto mine.

Then he’s moving, climbing over me, his powerful frame pinning my hands to the bed on either side of my head.

The shift in control makes my breath hitch, and before I can fully process it, his lips crash against mine, swallowing my startled gasp.

His kiss is pure possession, all-consuming and desperate. Our tongues tangle in a deep, filthy rhythm, the taste of myself still lingering on his lips.

The kiss is relentless, a claiming that leaves no space for doubt—Dante is devouring me, staking his claim in a way that has my body melting beneath him.

I whimper into his mouth, pressing up into him, the pressure of his body against mine sending fresh sparks of arousal through me. The heat is unbearable, thick, and stifling, and still, I don’t want it to end.

I want more. Need more.

We kiss until my lungs burn until my body is trembling and desperate for air. When we finally break apart, panting, our eyes lock. The intensity in his gaze makes my stomach flip, and the smirk that follows has my toes curling.

Dante leans in, voice husky and teasing.

“We should keep that pretty mouth busy, don’t you think?”

He turns his head slightly, catching Atlas’s gaze, and his next words are a sinful whisper.

“Why doesn’t our leader get the first suck while Kieran fills her up?”

Atlas’s grin is nothing short of predatory, his sharp silver eyes burning into me as he runs a possessive hand down my cheek.

My stomach tightens, anticipation pooling low in my belly. My body is already sensitive, trembling from the relentless pleasure they’ve drawn from me, but the high is too intoxicating to stop now.

I don’t want to stop.

I’ve never felt this insatiable, this desperate, and they know it.

With coordinated ease, they move me, shifting my pliant body until I’m lying sideways on the bed.

My head rests at the edge, my lips already parted in anticipation. Atlas positions himself beside me, his thick cock standing hard and proud, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

I don’t get the chance to admire him for long, because Kieran’s warm hands slide down my hips, gripping them firmly as he positions himself behind me.

The weight of his cock gliding along my slick folds makes me whimper, my body twitching with need.

“So eager, Omega,” Kieran murmurs, his voice dark with promise. “You’re dripping for us. You want to be filled, don’t you?”

Atlas chuckles, brushing his thumb against my bottom lip. “We’ll give her exactly what she needs.”

I moan, caught between pleasure and anticipation as Atlas presses the head of his cock against my lips.

I open willingly, my tongue flicking out to taste him, and his responding groan sends a new wave of slick rushing between my thighs.

Kieran grips my hips tighter, his tip teasing at my entrance before pressing in slowly, stretching me in the most delicious way.

My body clenches, desperate to take all of him, to be completely filled, as Atlas slides further into my mouth, claiming me one inch at a time.

The stretch is intoxicating, my lips parting wider as I relax my throat, eager to take more. At the same time, Kieran presses deeper inside me, the thick length of him stretching me impossibly wide.

He moves slowly, deliberately, savoring each inch as I whimper against Atlas’s cock.

Kieran groans, his grip on my waist tightening as he bottoms out, his hips flush against my ass.

“Fuck, Omega,” he rasps, his voice rough with restraint. “You’re so tight. Just for us. Just for your pack, isn’t that right?”

I moan around Atlas’s cock, the vibrations making him curse above me.

My fingers grip his thighs, needing something to hold onto as Kieran pulls back, only to push in again with aching slowness. Each deep thrust forces another moan from my throat, making my walls flutter around him.

Dante and Vale are keeping my breasts busy, continuing to fondle and lick them as they enjoy the view of theatrics happening before their eyes.

“That’s our good girl,” Atlas praises, his hand threading into my hair, guiding me further down his shaft. “Our Omega wanted to ensure we were the first and the last to ever give her pleasure. Your virgin pussy was so fucking good and tight. Now my brothers get to enjoy that blessing with me, and we’ll make damn sure it stays that way.”

Kieran lets out a dark chuckle, his thrusts steady as he stretches me open.

“You feel that, little Goddess? The way your body clings to me? It’s because you were made for us. Only us.”

Heat floods my body at their words, a possessive thrill curling in my stomach.

I let Atlas’s cock slide deeper, my tongue swirling around his length, my throat relaxing further as he groans above me.

His grip on my hair tightens a silent command, a reassurance that I’m doing exactly what he wants.

Kieran sets a slow, intoxicating rhythm, his thick length dragging against every sensitive spot inside me, making my toes curl.

“So good,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the back of my shoulder, his hands spreading my hips wider. “Taking me so well, Omega. Just like you were meant to.”

My breath stutters, the overwhelming fullness of them both sending shockwaves of pleasure through me.

My slick coats Kieran’s cock, making his thrusts smoother, and deeper. The stretch, the burn, the sheer intensity of being claimed like this makes my mind go blank, pleasure tightening in my core.

Atlas groans, his hand guiding my movements as I take him deeper.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he mutters, his hips rolling forward, pushing further into my mouth. “Look at you, taking both of us so beautifully.”

Kieran picks up the pace, his cock plunging deeper, making my breath hitch. My body clenches around him, the pleasure mounting, cresting higher with each stroke.

“You were made for this, Omega,” Kieran growls, his fingers digging into my hips. “Made to be filled by your pack.”

Atlas watches me through hooded eyes, his thumb brushing over my cheek as I take him deeper still.

“You’re ours, Nyx. Our sweet little goddess. No one else will ever touch you like this.”

The possessiveness in his voice sends another rush of heat through me, my body trembling with need. Kieran’s thrusts grow rougher, more insistent, dragging me closer to the edge, while Atlas tightens his grip on my hair, urging me to take him further, to let him claim every inch of me.

“Such a good girl,” Kieran grits out, his movements becoming desperate, chasing his own release. “You’re squeezing me so tight, knowing how much I’m loving it. Fuck, I can feel how close you are.”

I whimper around Atlas, my thighs shaking, the pleasure teetering on the edge of unbearable. My walls clench around Kieran’s cock, the pressure of Atlas in my mouth pushing me higher, higher—

Atlas curses, his hips jerking as he starts to lose control, his breath ragged.

“Shit, she’s so perfect like this. Kieran…fuck…order her to cum.” He’s so close to the edge and yet he’s giving power to Kieran by allowing him to control that final push over the edge.

So we can cum together.

Kieran’s grip on my waist tightens as his thrusts become relentless.

“Cum for us, Omega. Now.”

A strangled cry leaves me as pleasure crashes through me, my body seizing, my vision going white as the orgasm rips me apart.

I shake, convulsing around Kieran, my moans muffled by Atlas as they both groan, their own releases chasing them fast.

The moment Kieran and Atlas pull out, I collapse against the bed, my chest heaving as I gasp for breath.

My body is still trembling, my limbs loose and pliant, floating somewhere between exhaustion and euphoric bliss. My slick coats my inner thighs, the evidence of my complete surrender to them, and yet, even as I try to catch my breath, I feel the mattress shift beneath me.

Vale.

I blink my eyes open, just in time to see him kneeling between my legs, his hands warm and steady as he lifts them, pushing my thighs apart.

The hunger in his gaze is unmistakable, a desperate, aching need that makes my stomach tighten with anticipation. His cock is thick and straining, the veins along his shaft visible, pulsing, and I swallow hard at the sight of him gliding his length along my slick-covered folds, teasing me, making my body respond despite how spent I am.

“Can you give me one more, sweetheart?” Vale asks, his voice husky, edged with desperation.

My breath catches at the plea in his tone, the way his silver eyes burn into mine, dark and wanting. My body is already answering before my mind does, a pulse of fresh heat pooling between my legs as I nod.

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice barely there but firm. “Yes, Vale.”

A grin tugs at his lips, filled with something between gratitude and pure possession.

His hands tighten on my thighs, spreading me wider as he lines himself up, rubbing his cock through my folds one last time, coating himself in my slick.

“Such a good Omega,” he murmurs, voice thick with praise. “Our little goddess. Shining so brightly, just for us.”

He presses forward, the thick head of his cock slipping inside with ease, the stretch making my breath hitch as my body instinctively clenches around him.

The slow, careful glide as he pushes deeper makes my toes curl, my fingers gripping the sheets beneath me.

He groans, his hands gripping my thighs as he watches the way he disappears inside me, inch by inch.

“Fuck, you feel perfect.”

I moan as he sinks deeper, my walls molding to his shape, pulsing around him. His pace is slow at first, letting me adjust, but even then, every deep stroke sends another wave of pleasure crashing over me. My body is so sensitive, every nerve lit up, but I don’t want him to stop.

I want this.

Want him.

All of him in this moment of bliss and equilibrium.

Where the world is forgotten and it’s just us.

The others murmur their approval, their soft praises wrapping around me like silk, but they give this moment to Vale. This is his.

He leans down, his lips brushing against my temple as he thrusts deeper.

“I needed this,” he confesses, his breath ragged. “I needed you. So bad. To love you right. Value your existence and worth the best way I can know how.”

I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer, our bodies molding together as he moves inside me, filling me so completely.

His strokes grow more desperate, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure bursting behind my eyes. My slick coats his cock, making every slide effortless, every push deeper, more intoxicating.

Vale groans, his lips brushing against my ear.

“You take me so well. Like you were made for me.”

I cry out as he shifts his angle, hitting that perfect spot inside me, making my body tighten in response. My nails dig into his back, my legs wrapping around his waist, holding him closer as he picks up the pace, chasing something inevitable.

Then I feel it.

The telltale swell at the base of his cock.

His knot.

A shudder rolls through me, anticipation curling deep in my belly. Vale curses, his movements growing erratic, desperate.

“I can feel it,” he groans, his forehead pressed against mine. “Fuck, I’m gonna knot you, Omega. I’m gonna lock myself inside you and fill you up so deep.”

My body clenches at his words, the heat inside me building to something unbearable.

Atlas’s voice cuts through the haze, firm yet gentle.

“Relax, little Goddess,” he murmurs, stroking a hand down my stomach, grounding me. “Let him in. Let him claim you the way he needs to.”

I gasp, my walls fluttering around Vale as his knot swells further, inching inside me, stretching me wider than ever before.

It’s overwhelming, the pressure, the fullness, the way my slick gushes around him as my body adjusts to the sheer size of him.

“Almost there,” Vale grits out, his fingers digging into my hips as he fights the urge to slam forward. “You can take it. You’re so good for me. Fated to take every bit of me.”

And then, with one final push, his knot locks inside me, stretching me completely, sealing us together as he lets out a deep, shuddering groan.

The moment it happens, the pleasure crashes over me like a tidal wave.

I cry out, my body clenching hard around him, my orgasm slamming into me so intensely that I forget how to breathe.

Vale follows, his body shaking as he spills deep inside me, his groans vibrating against my skin.

It’s overwhelming.

Consuming.

Absolutely perfect.

Life defining.

I feel like I’m floating, lost in the haze of pleasure, my body boneless, my limbs trembling.

I’ve never felt so full.

So complete.

Vale buries his face in my neck, his breath ragged, his arms tightening around me.

“Mine,” he whispers, the single word branding itself into my soul.

I know no matter what is ahead for me when I open my eyes to face reality once more, that I have the confidence to believe, they’ll come back for me.

That I’ll always be their fated M.U.S.E.

Theirs.

31

THE DOUBLEGANGER OF TRUTH

~NYX~

The black gloves slide over my hands with familiar ease, the material supple and warm against my skin.

I study my reflection in the mirror, taking in the combat attire with a mix of appreciation and bitter irony.

The ensemble feels like preparing for field operation rather than willing to return to captivity.

How strange that I’m dressing for battle when I’m walking straight into the enemy’s arms.

The material provides comfort I know won’t last – these clothes will likely be stripped away before the van even reaches those imposing metal gates. Still, for now, I savor the warmth and protection they offer, however temporary.

If I even make it back alive.

The thought surfaces unbidden, accompanied by notable silence where the shadows usually whisper.

Their absence speaks volumes – no warnings, no hymns, no gentle reassurance. As if they too refuse to acknowledge the reality of what awaits, choosing instead to retreat into perfect stillness.

My gaze fixes on the mirror, studying changes wrought by mere days of freedom.

Two weeks – one spent unconscious during recovery, the other precious days learning to exist in this world beyond sterile halls.

Such a brief time shouldn’t create such a profound transformation, yet evidence stares back at me with undeniable clarity.

The woman in the reflection barely resembles the one who escaped Ravenscroft’s walls.

Though exhaustion still lingers in subtle ways, the improvement proves striking. Dark circles that once dominated beneath my eyes have faded to barely noticeable shadows. My skin glows with health born from proper nutrition and genuine care rather than clinical maintenance.

The gothic-inspired makeup – my first real attempt at cosmetics – adds dimension I never knew possible. The style suits me in ways I wouldn’t have predicted, discovered through careful study of reference images and gentle experimentation.

My stomach remains empty save for morning coffee, a deliberate choice rather than anxiety-induced aversion.

No point consuming real food when it will likely make a reappearance during whatever “welcome back” reception awaits. Better to face a potential beating with an empty stomach than risk additional humiliation.

“Alright,” I announce to the room, turning from my reflection to face reality.

My gaze finds Vale first, the sight of fresh tears on his cheeks sending sharp pain through my chest.

They’ve all been crying – evidence lingers in red-rimmed eyes and lingering tension – but his grief carries raw edges of guilt I wish I could ease.

Kieran stands beside his wheelchair, hand resting on Vale’s shoulder in a gesture that offers support while clearly needing it himself. The steady squeeze of his fingers speaks volumes about shared pain and mutual comfort.

Atlas and Dante maintain positions at opposite ends of the room, their stance carrying military precision that feels appropriate for this moment of farewell. They stand like honor guard preparing the final salute, the formality somehow making this easier to bear.

I summon the best smile possible, knowing drawn-out goodbyes will only make this harder. Better to keep things simple, and clean – like removing the bandage in a single swift motion rather than prolonging inevitable pain.

“See you soon?” The words emerge barely above a whisper, my voice breaking on the final syllable that transforms the statement into a question.

Atlas’s response carries the weight of absolute conviction.

“We’ll be right there, causing havoc and mayhem. Until our last breath.”

My attention catches on the mark decorating his neck, proudly displayed by the v-neck black shirt that defies his usual preference for high collars. The sight sends a fresh ache through my chest – he’s wearing my claim like a badge of honor rather than a shameful scar.

A trophy rather than a burden.

The realization draws a watery smile as I offer a silent nod before heading toward the door. Each step carries me past their positions, giving me one final chance to memorize their unique scents:

Atlas’s pine needles and leather.

Vale’s rain-washed granite and wild mint.

Kieran’s sandalwood and berries.

Dante’s cinnamon and fresh-baked comfort.

The combination wraps around me like a farewell embrace, a final reminder that the M.U.S.E. designation they branded me with holds no power anymore. That label belongs to a different person – one who existed before discovering what genuine pack bonds feel like.

My hand finds a doorknob with steady certainty that belies trembling in my heart.

Just as fingers begin to turn metal, Kieran’s voice shatters carefully maintained composure.

“Fucking hell I can’t do this shit!”

I glance back to find him already halfway down the hall, moving with desperate speed that carries him several steps before he freezes mid-stride. The color drains from his face as if he’s seen ghosts materialize before him.

“What the fuck?” His voice carries notes of confusion and dawning horror. “W-Why?”

Confusion furrows my brow as I try to understand his reaction. The question barely forms in my mind before he speaks again:

“Nyx. There’s two of you again.”

The words trigger confusion, sending ice through my veins even as my mind struggles to process the implication hidden in that single word.

Again?

Time freezes as I turn toward the open door, reality fracturing around what should be impossible.

The woman standing there could be my reflection, if mirrors could age their subjects by decades and polish every rough edge into deadly elegance.

Her baseline teal green hair falls past her waist in loose curls that speak of carefully maintained luxury rather than my own experimental ombre. The style gives her an ethereal quality, each strand catching light like liquid silk.

Where my coloring shows signs of Ravenscroft’s attempts at categorization, hers carries deliberate artistry that transforms unusual shade into a mark of distinction.

The black dress she wears clings to her frame with expensive precision, the material flowing like water over curves that time has somehow enhanced rather than diminished.

Every movement speaks of practiced grace, from the subtle shift of fabric to the way her heels catch light with an unmistakable quality that screams wealth beyond measure.

But it’s the tattoos that truly catch my attention – intricate designs that wind their way across the exposed skin of her neck and chest like living art.

Each mark appears deliberate, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration.

A single pendant rests against her collarbone, golden metal catching light in ways that seem to defy normal physics.

The symbol etched into its surface triggers something in my memory – an echo of dreams where similar markings danced through the darkness while an ethereal voice sang lullabies of comfort and protection.

The two guards flanking her maintain perfect stillness, their tactical gear, and obvious weaponry marking them as elite protection rather than mere muscle. Their focus remains absolute, scanning surroundings with military precision while carefully avoiding direct observation of the scene unfolding before them.

But it’s her eyes that truly steal my breath – perfect mirrors of my own, yet carrying the weight of decades lived in full awareness rather than clinical captivity.

Wisdom earned through experience rather than torture shapes the slight lines at their corners, while power radiates from their depths with an intensity that makes my enhanced senses hum with recognition.

These are the eyes that haunted my dreams, that watched through forest shadows as death circled ever closer.

These are the eyes that shed tears for my fall while tactical gear and sniper rifle marked their owner as something far more dangerous than a mere observer.

My mouth opens but words fail completely.

What question could possibly encompass the magnitude of this moment? What response could bridge decades of separation and silence?

She saves me from the attempt, her voice carrying notes that strike deeper than mere sound.

“Nyx Blackwood.”

The name emerges weighted with emotion, her eyes beginning to glass over despite an obvious attempt at control.

“Good thing we stopped you on time.”

“Who?” The question slips out small and uncertain, though part of me already knows the answer will shatter whatever reality I thought I understood.

“Astraelle Blackwood.” Each word falls with precise impact, reshaping my world with every syllable. “CEO and leader of all the SubDivision Units of The Parazodiac Nexus.”

She pauses deliberately, watching shock spread across my features as implications stack up like dominoes waiting to fall.

“It would be best if we go inside to discuss the next steps that must be taken,” she continues with careful precision, “especially with your subdivision of Alphas involved.”

The world seems to tilt on its axis as understanding begins to dawn.

“Did you just say the Leader of all Subdivisions of The Parazodiac Nexus?” Kieran’s voice breaks through my stunned silence. His hand finds mine, pulling me back against his chest in a protective gesture that speaks of an instinctive need to shield.

The movement allows our visitor passage as she glides into the house, her guards closing the door to take up position outside.

“Yes,” she confirms without hesitation. “Which is precisely why I’m here. We’ll need your help to plan an operation to take down Ravenscroft permanently. The action was supposed to commence today, but there’s been a delay.”

“A delay? From what?” Dante’s question carries notes of suspicion while Atlas adds with careful precision: “And why are you introducing yourself now? You’re Nyx’s mother, aren’t you?”

The truth hangs heavy in the air as she approaches the kitchen island, laying out papers with a familiar document prominently displayed on top – the contract bearing my signature.

“Yes. I have a parental association with Nyx Blackwood,” she acknowledges, voice carrying the weight of years of careful distance. “Which as much as I’d love to dive into…circumstances are making it quite difficult to do such.”

Her gaze finds mine briefly, emotion flickering beneath careful control.

“You’re owed a proper explanation. For everything. However, a rushed apology is not one you’ve earned. Especially as the heir of our Blackwood foundation.”

“Heir?” The word emerges barely above a whisper, confusion making my head spin.

Kieran’s grip tightens slightly as he murmurs.

“Wait? She’s the older twin?”

“Twin?” My attention snaps to him, my mind racing to process this new revelation.

He clearly wants to start to explain, realizing they never told me during recovery about meeting someone who looked exactly like me.

“Jinx Blackwood,” my mother interrupts with careful precision. “Who’s now on a mission to retrieve one of the most lethal packs that has ever been registered.”

“Registered?” Atlas’s question carries notes of growing understanding. “The only packs that need to be registered on the system are those who are subdivisions in Parazodiac Nexus.”

“Correct.” Her confirmation lands with deliberate weight. “Subdivision Zero. They’re the first pack to ever become official lethal forces of The Parazodiac Nexus ten years ago.”

I feel tension spike through Kieran’s frame, anger flashing across his features with startling intensity.

“They’ve…” Dante trails off, concern evident as he watches Kieran’s reaction. “They’ve been missing for years.”

“Yes,” she acknowledges simply. “And have been located. Mission to extract them was supposed to commence, however there’s been an error in that execution.”

“Because?” Atlas prompts with careful neutrality. “Does this have to do with Nyx returning?”

“Nyx will not be returning to Ravenscroft unless she’ll be accompanying you with your mission to return to either retrieve or eliminate Subdivision Zero.”

“E-Eliminate?!”

The word tears from my throat as horror spreads through our group.

“Charles Press’s operation of selling, abusing, and killing Omegas needs to be shut down sooner rather than later,” she continues with clinical precision. “Which is why this operation will be initiated. Because of the recent acknowledgment of forces that have voluntarily joined Ravenscroft this morning, it is too much of a risk to not interfere any longer. Which is why we must get involved and is why I’m here.”

“Voluntarily?” Dante’s laugh holds no humor. “Who the fuck voluntarily signs up to join Ravenscroft?”

Her response comes as a simple gesture toward the top paper on the pile.

“You tell me.”

One step carries me to the island’s edge where the contract lies exposed. There, next to my signature in bright pink ink, another name blazes like accusation:

Jinx Blackwood.

“Shit…” The curse escapes as my eyes find a tiny note beneath the signed line.

“Sacrifices need to be made in this world, but you’ve done more for me than I could have asked for. It’s now my turn to return the favor.

Be free, Sister.”

“Jinx Blackwood is now associated with Subdivision Zero,” my mother states with careful neutrality. “It’s now your team’s duty to extract or eliminate depending on the circumstance of feral activity. The choice will be left to you.”

She turns away, steps carrying her back toward the hallway with measured grace that speaks of years of careful control.

“Y-You’re going to abandon her there?!” Dante’s protest carries raw emotion that makes my chest ache. “She went there to spare Nyx!”

“It’s not my duty to stop anyone from choosing their path,” she declares, looking back over her shoulder to meet my gaze with the rest of my men.

The sadness in her eyes cuts deeper than any words could reach, making me wonder what history lies between her and the twin I never knew existed.

This woman who’s supposed to be our Mother.

“Jinx has chosen to walk her path. Now it’s her turn to tell her story and determine whether her sacrifice was worth fighting for.”

Those final words hang in the air as she departs, leaving silence heavy with implications.

Though I’ve just gained freedom I never expected, though a happy ending seems suddenly within reach, one thought burns through everything else:

At what cost?

Jinx understood this truth.

Now it falls to me to honor the cost of that understanding – whatever price such knowledge might ultimately demand.

I swallow the lump in my throat, turning my attention back to my men as the echoing of the door closing hums through the atmosphere.

One look at each of them tells me they’ve already made their decision, but they’re giving me the opportunity to lead.

To make our choice as a pack.

“We’re going back,” I vow with affirmation. “We’re retrieving Jinx Blackwood and the Alphas of Subdivision Zero. By any means necessary.”

Survive, Jinx.

I’m coming back for you.

F.I.N.

One chapter ends, another one begins.

PREORDER Jinx’s Book:

KNOT THEIR FATED M.U.S.E.

ABOUT AVERY SONG

Avery Song is a reverse harem author who specializes in paranormal, fantasy, and urban romance.

She especially loves writing strong main characters and is excited for all the books that are approaching.

ALSO BY AVERY SONG

THE PARAZODIAC NEXUS

Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E (Jun 2025)

THE CROWNED MONSTER TRILOGY

Court of Aether and Shadows

Court of Divinity and Ruin (Mar 2025)

Court of Nightmares and Starlight (Jun 2025)

MASQUERADE OF SIN

(COMPLETE)

Den of Monsters

WILLOW’S FORBIDDEN PACK

(COMPLETE)

Wolf Awakened

Wolf Endangered

Wolf Outcasted

Wolf Domination

AURELIA’S PACK OF MISFITS

(COMPLETE)

Wolf Rejected

Wolf Reclaimed

Wolf Redemption

HER DARK OBSESSIONS DUET

(COMPLETE)

Found By Her Monsters

Claimed By Her Monsters

SPELL TRAVELER CHRONICLES

(COMPLETE)

Witchling Academy- Semester One

Witchling Academy- Semester Two

Witchling Academy- Semester Three

Witchling Academy- Semester Four

Witchling Academy- Semester Five

Witchling Academy- Semester Six

Witchling Academy- Semester Seven

Witchling Academy- Semester Eight