My hand balls into a fist, nails biting into my palm hard enough to ground me in pain rather than possibility. That’s not what I want. It can’t be.
What I want is choice. The freedom to decide my own fate without biology or politics or the expectations of others driving me toward an inevitable conclusion. I want to matter beyond my designation, beyond my womb, beyond the expectations and assumptions of what it means to be an Omega.
When Logan first came to the Enclave, I thought I’d found someone who saw me—really saw me. Not just an Omega, but a person with thoughts and interests and value beyond breeding potential. For a moment, I’d believed that maybe, just maybe, I could have both: my identity and the mating my biology craves.
How naive I was.
I sink onto the floor, back against the bed frame, knees pulled to my chest. I’m tired of running. Tired of fighting. Tired of the constant fear.
But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to just surrender to them.
A creak outside my door pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. The subtle shift of weight on old floorboards—someone settling into position. Ares, most likely. Logan wouldn’t have the patience to stand guard, Cillian is still mostly confined to a sickbed and Poe has made a habit of disappearing for long stretches of time since we arrived.
I strain my ears, catching the soft scrape of chair legs against wood. So Ares is planning to stay a while. The thought should irritate me—being watched, monitored—but instead, a strange comfort seeps through the cracks in my defenses. Of all Logan’s pack, Ares is the most straightforward. The most honest about what he is.
A monster who knows he’s a monster.
The silence outside of the door feels more pregnant the longer I listen. The rustle of clothing against weapons, the creak of a chair as he shifts his weight and the occasional intake of breath seem to grow louder with each passing moment.
I don’t realize I’ve moved closer to the closed door until my knees press against the wood.
“How are you doing in there?”
I freeze, when Ares’s voice comes from so close it feels like he is whispering in my ear. Mortification washes over me at the realization he knows I’m sitting on the opposite side of the door.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. What can I possibly say? That I’m fine? That I’m not falling apart inside this dusty room? That I’m not terrified of what happens next?
Instead of answering, I turn to rest my back against the door. The wood is cool against my spine through the thin fabric of my borrowed shirt. I draw my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them like I can hold myself together through sheer physical effort.
“You don’t have to talk,” Ares continues after a moment, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m happy to fill the quiet if you like, though.”
I rest my head back against the door, closing my eyes. The position mirrors his, I imagine—both of us sitting with only inches and a wooden barrier between us. It’s the closest I’ve physically been to any of them in days.
“Logan’s gone to meet a contact from the underground,” he says, filling the silence I leave. “Some rebel who’ll only speak with him alone. Could be a trap, but...” He sighs, and I can almost see him running a hand through those cinnamon curls. “He’s always been lucky when it comes to finding his way out of trouble.”
My body feels oddly disconnected, as if I’m floating above it, watching this scene play out.
I should care more about this information. It’s politically significant—a prince meeting with rebels could be treason orstrategy or both. But my mind can only fixate on the lingering scent of him through the wood and the gentle thrum of his voice.
“It’s not a great plan,” Ares admits, as if reading my thoughts. “But it’s better than hiding out here until the king’s guard tracks us down.”
“You’re safe here, for now. I’ve made sure of that,” Ares says softly. “This place is unregistered and we’re remote enough that the nearest surveillance point is miles away.”
“I know you don’t trust us,” Ares continues. “You have every right not to. But I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
The floating sensation intensifies, a peculiar warmth spreading through my limbs. My skin feels too tight, hypersensitive where it touches the fabric of my clothes. A familiar ache pools low in my belly, and with it comes horrified recognition.
No. Not now. It’s too soon.
“Maya,” Ares’s voice cuts through my panic, lower now, almost a whisper. “You okay in there?”
I hadn’t been ignoring the signs, only misattributing them. The malaise and heightened anxiety could have just as easily been the result of situational stress. But the flare of warmth in the pit of my stomach has nothing to do with the military rations we’ve been eating.
Somehow, I’m going into an early heat.
I’ve been back on suppressants since escaping the doctor, but not soon enough, it seems. Not long enough to prevent this mild heat from coming. The doctor’s experiments must have thrown my cycle into chaos, triggering an early heat despite the medication.
“Don’t come in,” I manage to say, my first words to him since locking myself away. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, strained and breathless.
