“I belong to Sunday! Please... let me. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Pick the toy back up. Turn it on. I want the curved end inside.”
Zora reaches for the black plastic, her movements frantic as she clicks the button. She slides the contoured head deep, her eyes going wide when it hits the right angle.
“Hook it. Pull that head up toward your belly button. I want to see your hips lift off the mattress.”
She gasps and follows the order. Her back arches and her stomach muscles cord under her brown skin.
“Keep that pressure steady. Don’t let go of the base. Start the motion again. Faster.”
The sound of the motor and the wet friction fills the speakers. I reach into my underwear and pull my cock free. I wrap my hand around the shaft, moving in a fast, tight rhythm as I watch her on the screen.
“You’re shaking. I can see the tremor in your thighs. Hold it right there. Don’t move a muscle.”
She freezes, her chest heaving as she stares into the camera.
“Now. Push it in. Give it everything.”
She bites her lip and shoves the device into herself. Her body hitches as a small squirt of liquid hits the bed and she screams. I pull my cock back just in time to come as she collapses. I watch her go limp, her breath coming in short gasps.
“Go to sleep, Omega. Until next time.”
I cut the connection before she can say anything back. I sit in the dark, my hands shaking as I pull the mask off. The metal is warm, and my breathingis the only soundin the small room. I feel like a king and a prick, and the distance between my office and her floor feels like a prison.
I lean back in the leather chair and wait for my breathing to level out. The session was what I needed to settle the restless noise in my head, but the high of being the one she was listening to is already fading. It’s being replaced by the thought of the security breach.
I can’t just sit here and feel good about myself because I got a reaction out of her through a screen. If I’m the one running this place, I can’t have anyone else lurking in the shadows.
I grab an industrial flashlight from my desk and head for the stairs. I skip the lobby, scanning my badge so it will take me to the subbasement, all the way down to the bottom. The air changes as the lift goes down, moving from the clean, filtered luxury to the damp smell of concrete and old rusted iron. This is the subbasement. It’s not on any of the floor plans I show the residents. It’s the original 1920s frame of the old hotel, the place where the new construction ends and the actual history of the building begins.
I step out and shine the light down the hallway. It’s a bright beam that cuts through the dark. I head toward the service wing where the hallway camera lost that figure. I’ve lived here for three years and I know every pipe in the ceiling, but there’s a gap in my layout, something the builders must have overlooked or covered up.
I scan the walls, moving some old ventilation ducts and a pile of trash left over from the lobby renovation. There, tucked behind a massive lead pipe, is a hatch. It’s heavy iron and rusted with age, the kind of door they used for the old steam-heat systems.
I pull on the handle. The hinges let out a loud, high-pitched scream that echoes through the basement before it bangs against the wall. It’s the banging Preston was complaining about in 101. He wasn’t hearing the air filtration; he was hearing a door opening in the bones of the building.
I drop down into the crawlspace beyond the hatch. It’s just about four feet high, so I have to crouch, my suit jacket catching on the rough, unfinished walls. I sweep the light around the cramped space.
My heart stops.
In the corner, away from the leaking pipes, is a makeshift bed; a dirty wool blanket spread over the brick. There’s a pile of energy bar wrappers, a small battery-operated lantern, and some burnt pieces of paper scattered on the ground.
I pull a pair of gloves from my pocket and pick up a piece of half-burnt cardboard. My hand is shaking as I bring the light closer. It’s a drawing of a sun with golden rays, the kind of thing a kid would draw with a cheap crayon.
I feel a cold weight in my gut. This isn’t just a squatter. This is someone who knows where we came from. Based on the trash and the state of the blanket, they’ve been down here for at least a few weeks. They’ve been watching her since before she even finished moving in. They’ve been using the old tunnels and shafts to move around without any of my cameras seeing them.
I climb back out of the hatch, my jaw set so tight I can feel the tension in my teeth. I built this place to be her sanctuary, a way to make sure she was the safest person in the city. I'm failing as her Alpha.
Sweatcoatsmyskin,making the sheet beneath me feel damp and suffocating. I lurch into a sitting position, my chest heaving as I claw at the air. The acrid scent of burning plastic fills my nose, thick and real enough to make me gag. My lungs burn. Each intake of breath feels like drawing in a mouthful of heated grit.
I blink, staring into the oppressive darkness of the nesting room. The orange glow of the city filters through the edges of the heavy curtains, creating long, distorted shadows on the far wall. My heart thrashes against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I’m not at the shelter. I’m in my apartment. I’m safe.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads 3:12 AM.
I reach for the silver laptop sitting on the mattress beside me and flip the lid open. The white light of the screen hits my eyes, forcing me to wince and squint. The adrenaline of the dream still hums in my blood like a live wire.
