Damien turns away, addressing the remaining security goon—who looks like he's reconsidering his career choices—with the kind of cold authority that makes lesser men scramble to obey.
"Get her some fucking food," he orders, "so I don't need to suffer listening to her fucking complain." A pause, loaded with barely contained rage. "And clean this shit up."
He has every intention of walking away.
I can see it in the rigid line of his spine, the way his hands flex at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from doing something he'd regret. Or something he'd enjoy too much.
And my stupid, self-destructive mouth—the same mouth that got me through three years of hell by refusing to be silenced—decides this is the perfect moment to keep going.
"Jeez," I rasp, my voice wrecked but my attitude entirely intact, "if you're gonna choke me, at least do itrightso I'm dead and not reminiscing on how Tank enjoys choking me intoecstasy."
Too far? Probably. Do I care? Absolutely not.
I've been silenced for too long. I've spent too many years swallowing my words to keep the peace.
No more.
I'm still heaving for breath, my throat burning, but the memory washes over me unbidden anyway—Tank's massive hand wrapped around my throat in an entirely different context, dark brown eyes watching my every reaction with the intensity of a man worshipping at an altar.
The way he'd asked, every single time, if I was okay. If I wanted more.
If I wanted him to stop.
The way he'd held me after, pressing kisses to my pulse point, murmuring praise until I felt precious instead of used.
That'sthe difference.
Consent. Care. Love.
It’s so fucking simple…and yet why is it so hard for all these Alphas to follow through?
Damien stops mid-stride.
The air in the warehouse shifts, temperature dropping several degrees as every Alpha in the room goes rigid. Even Milo and Caden, who've been doing their best impression of furniture, seem to stop breathing.
"Damien," Caden starts, voice threaded with warning. "Don't?—"
"You," Damien snarls, spinning on his heel with violence written in every line of his body, "never fucking listen. Never do what you'retold."
And ladies and gentlemen….there it is.
The real issue.
The thing that drove him crazy during our entire farce of a relationship; my refusal to be the perfect, obedient omega he wanted to parade around like a show pony. My insistence on having thoughts and opinions and a goddamn spine.
I brace myself as he storms toward me, every muscle tensing for whatever's coming next.
"Well," I mutter, unable to stop myself even now, even when I should absolutely shut the hell up, "next time tell me to shut u?—"
The butt of his gun connects with my temple.
Pain explodes through my skull like a supernova—bright, consuming, total.
The world tilts sideways, colors bleeding into shapes bleeding into darkness. Somewhere far away, I think I hear shouting, the clatter of something falling, maybe my own body slumping in the chair.
My last coherent thought, before the void swallows me whole, is that I hope someone saves that chocolate truffle cake.
And that's when my pack finds me—because they will miraculously find where the hell this warehouse is—there won't be enough left of these bastards to identify.
