And when it does, when he's finally open and desperate and undeniably ours, Father will find himself with no good options and no way out.
Tomorrow, I'll start pulling on his threads.
Tonight, Amos is still mine.
Mattaniah
Theroomthey'vegivenme is beautiful. I can acknowledge that much even through the haze of exhaustion and fear clouding my thoughts. It's larger than our entire apartment back home, with a king-sized bed draped in expensive linens and furniture that probably costs more than everything I've ever owned combined. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over manicured grounds that stretch forever into the darkness.
It's also cold and it has nothing to do with temperature.
Everything is blue and black and chrome. There’s sharp angles and hard surfaces and not a single soft thing in sight. The pillows on the bed are decorative and stiff, unyielding when I press my hand against them. The blankets are thin and sleek, designed for appearance rather than comfort. There are no worn edges, no familiar scents, nothing that feels even remotely like mine.
I sink onto the edge of the mattress and wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop the trembling that's been building since we walked through the front door. Someone from the staff mentioned that dinner would be in an hour, that I could use the bathroom to shower if I wanted. The words barely registered. All I could focus on was getting to this room, closing the door, and putting some kind of barrier between myself and all those overwhelming Alpha scents.
The lock clicked into place behind me, and I nearly sobbed with relief.
Now I'm sitting in this cold, beautiful room that's supposed to be mine, and all I can think about is everything I've lost. My space was small and cramped and the heat never worked properly in winter, but it was familiar. It was safe. More importantly, it had my nest.
The thought makes my throat tighten. It wasn't much of a nest, not really. Just a pile of pillows and blankets collected over the years from thrift stores and clearance bins, arranged in the corner of my closet where Mom couldn’t see and mock me for being pathetic.
Some of the blankets were threadbare. Some of the pillows had lost most of their stuffing. But they were mine, soft and worn and saturated with my own scent in a way that always helped calm the neediness that lives permanently in my chest.
Mom didn't pack any of it.
I knew she wouldn't. She found my nest once when I was sixteen and tore it apart while I watched, telling me that I'd never amount to anything if I let myself be that weak. That nests are for Omegas who've given up, Omegas who've accepted their place at some Alpha's feet instead of using what they have to get ahead. I rebuilt it in secret after she went to bed that night, piece by piece, and I've kept it hidden from her ever since.
Now it's gone, left behind in an apartment we'll never return to, probably already in a dumpster somewhere.
The loss hits harder than I expect, a physical ache in my chest that makes it difficult to breathe. I curl up on the stiff bed and pull my knees to my chest, making myself as small as possible.Get it together,I tell myself.
But it’s nearly impossible with those two scents filtering into my room, curling around me despite my best efforts to ignore them. My body wants to respond so badly it hurts. My throat keeps trying to make sounds I refuse to let out. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to find an Alpha, any Alpha, and beg them to hold me through this.
I shove my fist against my mouth and bite down on my knuckles, using the pain to center myself.
The blockers I took in the car aren't helping as much as they should, dulling the edge of my responses, and keeping my scent from broadcasting my distress as loudly as it wants to.
But they're fighting a losing battle against the sheer intensity of this house. I'm not sure any amount would be enough to suppress what my body is trying to do right now.
I should get up and shower, make myself presentable for dinner, and do what a smart Omega would do in a house full of Alphas whose scents are already making my body do things I can't afford. Instead I stay curled on the bed, shaking, trying to remember how to breathe.
Time passes in a blur. I must drift off at some point because a harsh knock jolts me upright with my heart slamming against my ribs. The room is darker now, the windows showing nothing but black, and for a disorienting moment I can't remember where I am or whose house this is or why the sheets smell like nothing at all.
The knock comes again, louder.
"Mattaniah." The voice on the other side carries the kind of authority that makes my spine want to curve before I've consciously registered who's speaking. "Open this door."
I scramble off the bed with my legs tangled in the thin blanket, my brain splitting in two directions at once. The lock. I locked the door. A hysterical corner of my mind congratulates me on that foresight even as the rest of me panics about what it's going to cost.
"I'm coming," I manage, my voice cracking. "Just give me a second, I was sleeping, I didn't mean to..."
The lock gives way with a splintering crack that flinches me backward into the bedframe. Mr. Hale fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking the hallway light, every line of his body radiating displeasure from the pressed collar of his suit to the hands hanging loose at his sides.
I scramble back until I hit the wall, my palms pressing flat against the cold surface behind me. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it, and despite every ounce of training I possess, a small whimper escapes my throat.
His nostrils flare in response, his pupils expanding until there's barely any color left, his gaze sharpening into something that has no business being directed at a person he met twenty minutes ago. It's not anger. It's something older and more instinctive than anger, something that recognizes what I am underneath the blockers and the training, and it roots me to the wall with a terror that has nothing to do with the broken door.
He holds it for a moment. Then his jaw tightens, his hands flex once at his sides, and whatever moved through his expression gets locked away behind the authority he walked in wearing.
