A burning rage fills me, snapping my attention back to the omega. His knife jabs are graceful and sure. He really knows how to fight. I can see hours of training and a natural talent in his movements. It is going to be hard to defeat him physically.
With a growl, and a blast of magic I disintegrate the knife. He yelps in surprise as his weapon dissolves into dust in his hand. Seizing the moment, I snatch him off of the table and throw him over my shoulder. Time to lock him in the basement.
Chapter eight
Thebasementisstarkand empty. Clean bare concrete floor and plain brick walls. No one in the pack has ever gone feral but Callum’s insistence to keep somewhere ready just in case, has proven to be the right decision. As usual. That man has never made a mistake in his life. It’s infuriating.
I put Fitz down on his feet and he bolts to the far corner, pressing his back against it as if he can push himself into the wall. His emerald eyes are wide, his breathing fast. The acrid scent of terror rolls off him.
I step towards him. He is trembling and deathly pale. I’ve never seen anyone look so scared in all my life and I don’t like it one bit. Despite everything, he is still an omega and I’m an alpha. No omega should be this fearful of me. My presence should be a comfort, not a threat.
I inch closer. He yelps and drops to the floor, covering his head with his arms and curling up into a small, protective ball. He is cowering before me and all I want to do is reassure him. I drop into a crouch in front of him. He sobs and the sharp smell of urine fills the basement.
I scramble back in horror. How have I scared him this much? I only picked him up and carried him down here. I’ve never hurt him before, so what does he think I’m going to do to him?
I rack my brain trying to figure out what I’ve done, and suddenly it hits me. How ever he became a hunter, whether by upbringing or choice, he is one. He kills shifters because he believes they are monsters. Abominations who deserve to die. He thinks I am a werewolf, a terrifying beast from human tales who murders innocent people for fun.
With a sinking heart I realize he has every reason to believe that I am that beast. I murdered his friends in front of him. I’ve been so wrapped up in thinking of myself as the victim and him as the evildoer because of a night that happened decades ago, I never once thought to think that I’ve done the exact same thing to him, wiped out his pack, his family. Hunters tend to stick to small self-contained groups. I could well have slaughtered everyone he knows. Just last night.
Then I threw him into a heat, took him prisoner. Took his virginity and forced him to take my knot. I gasp as the true horror of it all sinks in. I am a monster. No wonder he wants to kill me. No wonder he is so scared.
His whimpers break my heart. Slowly I stand up and back away. When you are terrified of the monster under your bed, that monster can’t comfort you. I feel sick. I hate seeing him like this. I much prefer the feisty, rude, pain-in-the-ass Fitz to this broken one.
Turning sharply around I climb the stairs. This time there is no denying it. I really am running away.
I return a few hours later with clean clothes, food, bottles of water, a bucket and some blankets.
Fitz is tucked into a different corner. He is hugging his knees to his chest and his chin is resting on them. He watches me warily as I place my offerings in the middle of the floor, a good distance away from him. As I turn to leave he speaks.
“Why aren’t you punishing me?”
I turn back to face him. “I am punishing you. I’m keeping you locked in a basement.”
He stares at me. “Is that all?”
I nod.
“My friends would have beaten the crap out of me if I cut one of them.”
He sounds calm. Unemotional. As if he is discussing the weather. It’s unsettling. I don’t like the idea that getting beaten is his normal. Omegas shouldn’t be beaten. Not ever. They are not physically strong enough to defend themselves. Hurting them when they can’t stop you is nothing but abuse.
“Then they weren’t your friends,” I say.
He winces and looks away. His shoulders droop, and I feel like an ass. But it can’t have been a shocking revelation to him if my simple words hit so hard. He already knows the truth of it. But that doesn’t make it any less painful to hear.
“Sorry,” I offer pathetically.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he eyes my pile of supplies hopefully. Taking the cue, I back well away, so he can come and retrieve them. He scurries forward and drags it all back to his corner.
I watch as he deftly changes his clothes. He keeps his back to me which is ridiculous. He is a fighter but is still choosing to turn his back on the potential threat in the room in favor of human ideas of modesty. I manage to bite back my growl just in time. That wouldn’t have helped the situation at all.
Next, he takes the blankets and efficiently makes a tiny nest out of them. It reminds me of a dog bed and doesn’t help my mood at all. He curls up in it and lets out a sigh of contentment.
My hands curl into fists. He is acting like lying in a dog bed in a basement is familiar, comforting territory. As if it feels like home after all the craziness. He told me he had never slept in a bed before and I hate how possible my theory seems. I don’t want him to have been a collared pet, beaten and kept in a basement. I’d much prefer him to be an evil, willing traitor to his kind. It’s a conflicted thought, as are all my thoughts concerning Fitz.
I’d prefer for him to be an enemy to hate, then to know he has suffered. Because I can’t stand the thought of him suffering.
“I’ll be back soon,” I promise him.
