Darkness welcomes me like a comforting embrace.
I wake to chaos.
There's shouting--distant at first, then closer, then everywhere at once. Voices I don't recognize barking orders, the sharp crack of something that might be gunfire, the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground. Alarms are blaring somewhere, a persistent wail that drills into my skull like a hot needle, like someone is systematically driving railroad spikes through my temples.
"--intruder alert--"
"--security is down, I repeat, security is being taken down left and right--"
"--how many are there?! How the fuck did they find us?!--"
What's happening? Where am I? Why does everything hurt so much?
The room around me slowly filters into my awareness through the haze of pain. Concrete walls, industrial lighting, the smell of dust and mildew and something chemical--a warehouse, maybe, or an abandoned storage facility. The chair I'm tied to is hard and plastic, biting into my wrists where rough rope has rubbed my skin raw. My ankles are bound too, secured to the chair legs with the kind of efficiency that suggests someone has done this before.
I try to open my eyes fully, but the world immediately starts spinning, a nauseating carousel of blurred colors and shapes that makes my stomach lurch violently. My head is pounding--a deep, throbbing ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat, radiating from somewhere near my left temple where I can feel crusted blood matted in my hair. I'm too hot. Way too hot, like someone has turned my internal thermostat up to maximum and forgotten about it, like a fever is raging through my body unchecked.
Heat. I'm going into heat. The pre-symptoms from yesterday have escalated into something more urgent, more demanding, more impossible to ignore. My skin feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending screaming for relief. But that doesn't explain the pain in my head, the way my limbs feel like they're filled with sand, the complete disorientation that's making it impossible to focus on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.
The scents in the room are overwhelming and wrong--strange Alpha pheromones that make my Omega instincts recoil in disgust, the acrid smell of fear-sweat from men who know they're in over their heads, the metallic tang of blood that might be mine. Everything is too loud, too bright, too much. My bodyis screaming for my Alphas, for the familiar scents of cedar and pine and campfire smoke and bergamot, for the safety of my pack.
Someone grabs my face, fingers rough and impatient, forcing my head up so hard my neck protests. I try to focus on the person in front of me, but I'm seeing triple--three overlapping versions of a face I should recognize but can't quite place through the fog in my brain. Dark hair, sharp features, expensive suit that looks out of place in this industrial hellhole.
"Milo,” I manage, the name coming out slurred and uncertain. One of my family's loyal soldiers--I remember him now. He was always hovering at the edges of family gatherings, doing my father's dirty work with quiet efficiency.
"Fuck, man," Milo's voice is sharp with something that might be concern or might be annoyance--it's hard to tell through the ringing in my ears. "You punished her too fucking hard. You always take this shit too far."
He's talking to someone else. Someone I can't see. There's movement in my peripheral vision, shadows shifting in a room I don't recognize.
"She doesn't look too good at all," another voice adds, younger and more uncertain. "Like, at all. Is she supposed to be that pale?"
"Shut up." A third voice--older, harsher, dripping with contempt. "She's just bluffing. Trying to make us feel guilty. That's what Omegas do. Manipulate."
I'm not bluffing. I genuinely can't see straight. I genuinely feel like I might die. But sure, let's go with manipulation.
Milo releases my face, and my head drops forward, chin hitting my chest. I can't support it. I can't support anything. My neck feels like it's made of overcooked pasta, unable to hold the weight of my skull. A groan escapes me--pathetic and weak and entirely involuntary.
I feel like shit. Complete and utter shit. Which is strange because I don't remember feeling this bad before. What happened? How did I get here? The last thing I remember is... is...
The memories come in fragments. The coffee shop meeting that morning--signing papers, shaking hands, one step closer to my dream. Walking outside. A van pulling up. Hands grabbing me before I could scream.
They took me. My family's people finally caught up to me, and they took me right off the street like I was nothing. Like I belonged to them.
My body hurts everywhere--deep, aching pain that suggests I've been hit or thrown or both. The heat building under my skin is making everything worse, amplifying every sensation until the brush of air feels like sandpaper and the scents in the room are overwhelming. Wrong scents. Alpha scents that aren't mine, that make my Omega instincts recoil with revulsion instead of comfort.
I want Tank. I want Elias. I want Julian. I want to go home.
The thought makes tears prick at my eyes, hot and humiliating. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to give these people the satisfaction of seeing me break. I've survived worse than this. I've survived my family's cruelty for twenty-four years. I can survive a few more hours.
My head is wrenched up again, pain shooting through my neck and skull at the rough treatment. Someone is yelling at me--the harsh-voiced one, probably--but I can't make out the words through the static in my brain. It's like trying to hear through water, everything muffled and distant.
"I'll..." I try to respond, try to prove I'm conscious and cooperative because maybe that will make them stop. "Fuck... give me... a few secs..."
My eyes roll back in my head.
The world goes dark.
Gunshots.
