But I remember the smell. Cologne and something sour underneath. I remember the sound of a door locking behind me. I remember the weight of silence, thick and expectant.
There were hands. I know that. I don’t know how many times. I don’t know how long.
I remember the way the light changed—morning, then night, then morning again. I counted the shifts in shadow like they were hours. Like they meant something.
I remember the mirror. Not what I saw in it, just that I couldn’t look. Every time I tried, my throat closed and my stomach turned. I think I cried. I think I begged. I think I stopped being Charlie.
When I was brought back to the boarding house, I didn’t speak for three days. My body was covered inbruises of all shapes and sizes that lasted even longer than my lack of speaking.
The other Omegas didn’t ask. They just looked away, knowing exactly what happened without me having to utter a single word. Like whatever had happened to me might happen to them next.
And maybe it would.
Eventually, the memory faded at the edges like smoke. But as it slipped away, something else crept in. Panic, quiet at first. Then louder. My heart thudded against bone, each beat a warning.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The blackness rolled in like fog. Slow and familiar. I didn’t fight it. I let it settle. Let it dull everything.
Numb was safer. Numb was necessary.
It was the only way to make it through the next few days.
Chapter 4
Charlie
The door shut behind me with a sound too soft to be safe. It was so different than the slam of the car door moments before where I jerked before remembering my place.
The Alpha didn’t speak, simply walked ahead, expecting me to follow.
I did.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
No creaking floors. No humming appliances. Just silence, like the walls were listening.
Everything smelled like him—leather, smoke, something warm I couldn’t name.
I kept my eyes low, but I saw enough. Clean lines. Dark wood. No clutter. No comfort.
It wasn’t a home. Just a building that housed a man who now owned me for the time being.
I stepped onto the white tile. The same kind of cold as the hospital floor.
That thought came uninvited.
I blinked hard, but the memory bled through anyway, the fluorescent lights that shone too bright from a time I didn’t want to recall. His voice cut through it. “Shoes off.”
I obeyed.
The silence returned. But now it wasn’t just quiet. It was loaded. Like the house knew what I’d remembered. Like Alpha Harris did too.
I followed him down the hall. The walls were bare. No photos. No art. Just shadow.
Until on a table near the stairs, tucked between two heavy books was a stuffed rabbit. It was faded gray with one ear bent.
I stopped, not able to help myself. The Alpha didn’t. He kept walking like it wasn’t there. Like it didn’t mean anything. But it did. Because nothing in this house was accidental.
