1
“Allison, I’m Detective Jack Hill. I’m here to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” he says carefully.
For a man his size, with his strong, pressing designation, it must take a lot of practice to maintain his even-keeled demeanor, but given his job, it’s not surprising. He even manages to keep a straight face when he finds me sitting in what should be his seat in the interrogation room, making him take the one in front of the camera that’s undoubtedly set onrecord.
Hill walks slowly around the table, getting close enough to touch my shoulder as he passes, but then his presence isn’t the issue. It’s his scent. It’s almost suffocating in the way it floods the room.
“Sorry, before we start, can you open a window?” I wave my hand around, trying to disperse his sharp citrus scent. It burns my throat in warning.
“Of course, sorry,” he says, going to the small window and unwinding it a couple of inches. The fresh air dilutes his scent.
He waits until I look his way again and offers a small, understanding smile. “I used some desensitizer before I came in. Maybe not enough?”
The sharpness of the chemicals in the desensitizer makes the overtones of pity more evident. The interrogation room was saturated by the stench of it, even before Hill arrived.
Pity stinks like burned sugar.
Each time I breathe in, the taste presses over my senses, making me feel sick, reminding me of what happened. A small whine of distress falls from my chest.
I tug on the brim of my cap, pushing my reading glasses up the bridge of my nose and reclining away from the table, farther out of the view of the camera too.
Gypsy from the Omega Rescue Center responds instinctively, reaching out in comfort, but at the last second, her hand detours and she pushes over a glass of water. She’s already sensing I’m not a fan of her touchy-feely sunshine.
“It’s okay, Allison,” she says quietly, lessening the guilt I feel at rejecting her good intentions. But good intentions aren’t going to keep me safe.
Hill pretends I’m not hovering on the edge of a meltdown. “How’s that?” he asks, coming closer. His question isn’t about his Alpha smell, and we all know it. He wants to know if he can sit to start the interrogation.
“Better. Thank you.” Lifting the water, my hand shakes, and the three of us ignore that too. But when I hiss in pain as the glass hits my split lip, Gypsy’s anxiety breaks, making her bounce out of her chair. We’re quiet as she fusses in the corner, finding one of those instant ice packs and pushing it over without saying a word.
“We can do this later,” Hill insists softly.
Fighting myself not to stand up, I shake my head. I want to walk out the door and never look back, but there’s a process, a part to play. “I need to do this now.”
He doesn’t argue, and once Gypsy sits, they both stay quiet, making it apparent they’re ready when I am.
Using the straw Gypsy found earlier, I take a tentative sip of the water.
“Not too much,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I know.”
And I do know. The first time I gulped water down, I threw it back up. Although, that may have had more to do with the residual stress of being attacked and the pain medication they gave me not agreeing with me. Along with a hundred or so other reasons.
Without looking, I know Hill is studying me, which isn’t alarming. He’s here to take my statement, to talk about the reasons my face now resembles a patchwork quilt. All he’s doing is looking at the whole picture before he starts searching for answers.
The proof of what happened is literally all over my face—fractured eye socket, split lip, and bruising to my larynx, internal and external. If I take off my clothes, he’ll witness more proof of what Rocco did.
Suffering through the humiliation of an invasive rape kit all but stripped layers off me, and I won’t ever give my permission to be examined in any capacity without a lawyer present again. Apparently, the medical team, like Rocco, had a hard time believing me when I said no.
“Do you need anything before we start? More pain relief, something to eat?” Hill asks, looking at me directly for the first time. His brown eyes are full of justice, which is good. And fucking pity, which is hard to see.
“I’m good,” I snap back unnecessarily. My Omega softer side pushes through, needing to comfort him after I was a bitch. “Honestly, I just want to get this done. And then I’m hoping the offer Gypsy made still stands.”
“Of course,” she soothes, making a conscious effort not to touch or look at me too much. Gypsy was all soothing touchesand cuddles when she first arrived, until I bared my teeth, daring her to continue.
“Thanks, Gypsy.” I smile without looking at her. Again, it’s the fucking sadness in their eyes that guts me. I’m a victim. I mean, theoretically it’s not wrong, but still. “Everyone here has been really helpful.”
She makes a noise, as if she’s the one hurting, and considering her role at the Omega Rescue Center, she probably is. My resolve crumbling, I flick my eyes to hers, and as I expected, they’re brimming with the weight of my reality. At the same time, she looks battle weary. This is just another day for her. Another Omega getting beaten up.
