My stomach growls as if to punctuate my point.
Loud. Obnoxious.
Absolutely mortifying in the echoing silence of this warehouse.
Traitor.
"Maybe a fucking book?!" I add, because I'm spiraling now and there's no stopping this train. The rails are gone. The conductor has abandoned ship. We're going full speed into chaos territory. "Hell, give me some damn weed!"
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the distant drip of water somewhere in this architectural nightmare. A persistentplop... plop... plop...that's going to haunt my dreams if I ever get out of here. Which I will. Obviously.
My pack will come.
They always come.
All three of them—Damien, Milo, and Caden—stand frozen like someone hit pause on their collective existence. It's almost impressive, really. Three fully grown Alpha males, rendered speechless by one hungry omega in a designer dress.
It would be comical if I weren't, you know, tied to a stupid-ass chair.
Damien—the unofficial leader of this circus, with his perfectly gelled dark hair and the kind of jawline that used tomake me stupid before I realized pretty packaging often hides rotten contents—looks like he's reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment. Good. He should. His scent reaches me through the warehouse's musty air: cedar and bergamot with an undercurrent of smug superiority that makes my omega want to gag rather than submit. There's something darker there too, something that speaks to barely controlled rage simmering beneath his polished exterior.
Funny how scents you once found attractive can curdle into something nauseating once you see the person beneath them…discover what they're capable of, and when you finally stop making excuses for the cruelty disguised as care.
Milo shifts uncomfortably to Damien's left, his bulky frame barely contained by what I'm sure he thinks is an intimidating all-black outfit. It's not. It's giving "I shop exclusively at discount stores and call it tactical." He smells like pine and anxiety—heavy on the anxiety, thick enough to taste on the back of my tongue. He was never good at conflict, preferring to let others do his dirty work while he hovered in the background like a sentient shadow, providing muscle when needed but never initiative.
A follower in every sense of the word. And followers are just as guilty as leaders when they choose to follow into darkness.
Caden, the youngest of my ex-pack, has at least the decency to look vaguely guilty. His sandy hair falls into eyes that won't meet mine, and his scent—something like honeyed tea, now soured with stress and something that might be regret—tells me everything about how he feels being here. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he's trying to make himself smaller.
Not guilty enough to stop it, though. Never that. Certainly not brave enough to stand up, to say no, to be anything other than Damien's shadow. Some things never change.
Two security goons flank them like poorly paid backup dancers, their scents generic Alpha aggression—all musk and testosterone and "I peaked playing high school football and never emotionally recovered." One of them has a gun holstered at his hip that he keeps touching like he's not sure it's still there.Amateur. The other looks like he bench-presses cars for fun and hasn't read a book since the ones with pictures. His neck is so thick it's basically merged with his shoulders.
These are the intimidating henchmen they could afford? Truly, I'm insulted on behalf of kidnappers everywhere.
I let out a growl that rumbles from somewhere deep in my chest—an omega's growl, which doesn't carry the same weight as an Alpha's but gets my point across just fine. It's more of a warning than a threat, a sound that says, "I may be small, but I will absolutely bite, and I had my tetanus shot last year."
"Oh, myfucking god," I snap, straining against my bonds hard enough that the chair creaks ominously beneath me. "If you don't fucking feed me, I'm going to tap into the lovely training we rich kids all get on how to escape being kidnapped and kick y'all's asses myself!"
It's not an empty threat.
The Carlisle family fortune—built on generations of old money and careful investments—came with certain... extracurricular educational opportunities. Self-defense classes start at age eight. Escape techniques from a former CIA operative whom my grandmother kept on retainer. How to identify a tracking device in your Birkin. How to dislocate your thumb to slip out of poorly tied restraints. Standard heiress curriculum for families who understand that wealth makes you a target.
These zip ties, though? Not poorly tied. Which is mildly concerning but also means someone here has done this before. Delightful.
"Hell," I add, the hysteria creeping into my voice now, mixing with genuine frustration and the kind of anger that comes from being interrupted mid-anticipation of the best Valentine's Day of your life, "justkill meat this rate. Better than being fuckinghungry!"
Damien pinches the bridge of his nose, the gesture so familiar it makes something in my chest twist with an emotion that's definitely not longing. More like the urge to commit violence. He used to do that same thing whenever I didn't fall in line, didn't perform the role of perfect omega he'd scripted for me.
"I forgot," he mutters, his voice like gravel wrapped in silk—the same voice that used to whisper promises he never intended to keep, that used to tell me I was overreacting, that I was too sensitive, that I was lucky to have him, "what a fuckingpain in our assesyou are when you won't shut the fuck up."
There's the Damien I know.
Charming as a viper and twice as venomous.
The mask slips to reveal the monster I always knew lurked beneath.
My scent shifts without my permission—the usual warm notes of cinnamon sugar and roasted coffee beans taking on something sharper, more defensive. Dark vanilla and soft amber churning into something bitter, something that probably reads as pure defiance to every Alpha nose in the room. My omega is bristling, not cowering. Rising up instead of backing down.
