Victor Hernandez comes from a long line of pompous fucks. I see that more clearly today than ever before. My grandfather was equally horrific when he was alive, but I initially thought it was his age that made him such a prick. Now I know, it’s twisted into each strand of DNA they share.
I throw a curveball at him, since we’re talking death and murder. “Why not just kill me?”
He laughs again. This time, it’s more gregarious and authentic. His happiness is real.
“We’re family. That’s not how we treat each other.”
I nearly fucking choke on my own tongue. This fucking prick sitting across from me is giving me that answer after trying tomurder his own flesh and blood. Although I’m the only one aware that attempt failed.
“Enough talk of things outside of our control,” he says, leaning back in his seat again.
I tip my head to the side, painting intrigue on my features, waiting for him to lead us on the path we’re on. This way, at least his motivations should become more understandable.
“Tell me, how would you discredit my notable achievements when the accolades come from such important and high-standing people in our society? And let's not forget, I’m only just starting to gain their support. I’m not yet hitting my peak, but at least I’m controlled and learned enough to peak.”
I can visualize each of those damn accolades he’s referring to, and most certainly, I am aware he is gaining more recognition daily. The regional and state governments have held benefits in his honor, the university has scholarships in his name, private investors throw money at him like confetti at a wedding.
“You look perplexed. Is all this too much? You can come home, you know.”
“How? What you did is…” I hiss, raising my hand to jab a finger in his direction.
He throws his hands up, mocking me by taking an exaggerated, and overly emphasized, exhale. Exactly how he acts with my toddler sister.
“See, you proved my point just now by acting so irrationally. I say this again, if you want a different outcome to the one you’re dealing with, you need to think differently, change your strategy!”
“This is a game to you, isn’t it?”
When he doesn’t immediately answer, and his scent becomes more intense like a blossoming flower, I get another reminder of how his mind works. Everything is a game, the stakes get higher and higher, and there can only be one winner.
Unfortunately, he’s probably very right about the reason why the authorities didn’t come in and question him. My age, my gender, and my designation are all issues, but mostly, it’s his occupation and reputation. Discrediting Ambassador Victor Hernandez is something that will take time to do.
“Fine, then, Victor, let’s talk terms.”
“You make it sound like an onerous task, Quinn.”
I pull a face that is as obvious as if I snorted a laugh of disbelief.
“If you want to be difficult, I know my contact is happy to wait until your sister is of age. It really is up to you how this plays out. All of it. I mean, unless you are going to prove me right that you’re not the worthy adversary I had hoped you were.”
Everything in me stills. And it’s not like air escaping a balloon. Quite the opposite. The pop is sudden and abrupt, and a huge, cavernous void is left in its wake. The space left behind isn’t empty; it's full of resolution and revenge, determination and longing. Taking down Victor Hernandez, discrediting him, ruining his reputation, and stopping him from hurting any others is my purpose in life. And nothing will stand in my way. Not personal goals or career success. Not time, not even the possibility of giddy dreams, and scent-matched packmates.
I will prove to him that my age, gender, and designation are actually my greatest qualities, my surest strength. Before I find someone who will listen and believe every word I say about what a stain my father is on our society.
Chapter One
QUINN
Medically speaking, tears don’t smell. As an overworked, highly stressed, and very tired Omega, I would argue until I’m blue in the face that they do.
Waving the junior doctor closer, I point at the takeout cup as an unspoken invitation. Her butt hits the seat, and she bursts into tears. I nearly do too. I hate people suffering. I hate suffering. Some days, I hate people too.
I fight hard not to wrap her in my arms and make excuses that today was just a bad day. But it’s not right to discount today as somehow being out of the ordinary. Our clinic is full of life, and sadly, occasionally death. I can’t tell her to hope. She needs to do that herself, or she won’t last long as a doctor.
I sip on my drink, letting her emotions, and mine, have the chance to flame bright, then burn out. It’s how we do things here, allowing each other to cope how we need. Her method includes tears. She’s clearly embarrassed by her breakdown because she covers her face.
Which is unnecessary. I don’t want her to feel bad for dealing with it how she is, but at the same time, we’re in the middle of the emergency ward, at a small but busy community health facility. Sometimes we don’t have the luxury of time.
I pat her shoulder, keeping my hand there until her sobbing subsides. “Tiana,” I say, clearing my throat when my own emotions get tangled in hers.
