Then I see him.
Storm.
Lying in the middle of the floor, his body in a crumpled, unmoving heap. Blood dribbles from his mouth or his nose. Perhaps both. I can’t tell. There’s a cut on his forearm; the skin I can see, already turning shades of purple. The sight steals the air from my lungs. For a moment, I’m frozen, unable to process what I’m seeing.
“Storm,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I rush to his side. I drop to my knees, my hands trembling as I touch his shoulder. He’s so still. Too still. Panic claws at my chest.
“Storm!” I shake him vigorously, but he doesn’t answer. Seconds pass and he still doesn’t respond, so I shake him harder, mindful not to injure him any more than he already is. My fingers fumble at his neck, searching for his pulse, and relief washes over me when I feel the faint, steady thrum beneath his skin.
“Storm, are you okay?” My voice breaks as tears spill down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. This is all because of me. If I hadn’t—”
“Stop.” His voice is weak, but it’s enough to silence my spiraling thoughts. He opens his eyes, his gaze clouded with pain but steady as it meets mine. “This isn’t your fault, sis. He’s a fucking prick. An alcoholic. None of this is on you.”
I shake my head, my tears falling faster now. “You need to leave. Go somewhere far away. You need a pack, Storm.”
He winces as he tries to sit up, and I gently press him back down. “I’m not leaving here without you,” he says firmly, his voice gaining strength despite his injuries. “You’re an omega, and to him, you’re nothing but money in his eyes. If I leave, there’s no telling what he’ll do with you.”
His words cut deep, the truth of them sinking in like a blade. I glance around the room, my eyes landing on the shattered remnants of the coffee table and the bloodstains that seem to mock me. This house, this life, it’s a prison, and my dad holds the keys.
But as I look back down at Storm, battered and broken but still alive, something fierce ignites in my chest. Yes, I’m an omega, and maybe he thinks that means I’m weak. If I leave, my father will go right to Storm, and I couldn’t live with myself if he were to hurt him again. But I’ll find a way to get away. Even if it means burning this entire house to the ground.
“Storm,” I help him sit up. “Please go. I may be a moneymaker for him. A means of raising his status, but until I have my heat, I’m useless to him. I still have time to find a way out of here. To escape.”
He starts to move and flinches, holding his stomach as he groans painfully.
“Let me help you.”
My heart pounds as I help Storm to his feet. He leans his weight against me as we make our way toward the kitchen. Storm’s breathing is labored, his body tense with pain and rage.
“We need to talk about your pending heat, River,” he mutters. “What we’re going to do to get ready for it.”
“We,” I let out a strained laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “Since when do alphas have heats? Do siblings now share heats? If so, you can go through all the bad parts and I’ll take the good.”
Storm rolls his eyes, not finding the humor in my words. “I’m serious, River. How do you plan to handle it? I don’t trust yougoing to The Foundation, and I sure as hell don’t trust Dad to help you find a pack that will cherish you the way they should. If he has anything to do with it, he’ll go for the highest bidder.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. Storm has pressed this conversation on me for months, but this time it’s different. My first heat is closing in, and I can feel the walls tightening, every option narrowing to nothing.
“Can we pause that conversation for a minute?” I ask softly. “I need to get you cleaned up.”
“Get me cleaned up?” He reaches out, his hand skimming along the edge of my face, then along the temple on the other side, pushing my hair away from my face.
Storm sighs, but doesn’t fight me as I guide him to one of the chairs. Blood streaks down his cheek, trailing along his jaw onto his lip, where he’s sporting a fresh cut. His knuckles are torn up too, more evidence of the fight with the monster we call our father.
I rush to the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit, my hands shaking as I rifle through the supplies. It’s then that I catch sight of myself in the mirror. The gash along my cheek. Opening the kit, I fumble through it, finding the skin glue. I’ve used this before, and I will be doing it again today. I dampen a washcloth and clean the wound, then pat it dry. Carefully, I press the edges of the cut together and apply the glue, holding it firmly together as I give it a few moments to dry.
“River, are you okay?” my brother’s broken voice calls to me.
“Yeah, just cleaning the cut on my face.” I know he’s smiling, glad that I chose to take care of myself first.
Once it dries, I take out a couple butterfly strips and place them along the cut. Just an added step. My eyes drift to my temple to the bruising already taking shape. The cut there is smaller, and I add some strips there before taking one final lookin the mirror, then close the lid on the first aid kit and head back to the kitchen.
When I return, Storm’s sitting still, his gaze distant. The sight of him so beaten, so tired, makes my chest ache.
I wet a washcloth and carefully begin dabbing the blood from his face. His body tenses at first, but he gives in and lets me tend to him. When I wipe over the gash on his lip, he winces.
“Your face…,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on the wound he’s been trying not to look at. His dark eyes swim with frustration and guilt. “It’s going to scar. We need to get you to a hospital so they can take care of it.” “It’s fine,” I tell him, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’m good at taking care of little things like this.” I try to play it off like it’s nothing.
“River—”
