Page 2 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

Then he moves closer, slow enough that I can track every movement. His eyes meet mine and hold there for a while. He swallows hard, and his jaw works like he’s pushing something down.

He crouches down, keeping his distance, his hands visible in front of him. The way you’d approach a wounded animal.

“My name is Declan,” he says. His voice is calm and steady. “I’m with Sentinel Security. We’ve been tracking this pack for months.”

I stare at him. The words don’t make sense.

“It’s over now, Sophie. We’re going to get you out of here. I promise.”

I try to speak—to ask how he knows my name, where the pack is, if this is real or just another fever dream my broken mind has conjured to help me survive—but my throat won’t cooperate. All that comes out is a hoarse rasp.

For just a moment, I see a raw anger in his eyes. Then it is gone, so quickly I almost think I imagined it. He looks away for a second, toward the stairs, and then back at my face.

“Don’t try to talk,” he says. “We have medical on standby. They’ll get you treated. You’re going to be okay.”

I want to believe him. I want to believe him so badly it hurts worse than any of my wounds.

He reaches for me slowly, letting me see each movement coming. His hands are gentle when they touch the ropes at my wrists. I can’t help but flinch anyway, and he pauses immediately to let me catch up.

“I’m going to cut you free,” he says. “Is that alright?”

I barely manage the slightest nod.

The knife appears in his hand, and for one terrible second I’m back with Marek, watching the blade catch the light, waiting for the bite of cold steel against my skin.

But Declan only cuts the rope. The pressure releases, and blood rushes back into my fingers with a thousand needle-like sensations.

“There you go.” His voice stays steady, an anchor in the storm. “Can you sit up?”

I try. My arms shake, my ribs scream, but I try. Declan doesn’t reach for me again. He just waits, patiently, while I drag myself upright against the wall.

The room spins. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

“Easy,” Declan says. “Take your time.”

Footsteps thunder overhead—more people, voices calling to each other. Someone says clear and someone else says get the medic down here and the world is suddenly too loud and too bright after so long in silence and darkness.

My vision tunnels. Declan’s face blurs.

“You’re going to be okay, Sophie,” he says, and it’s the last thing I hear before everything goes black.

The sharp smell of antiseptic drags me back to consciousness.

I open my eyes slowly, blinking against the fluorescent lights overhead. White ceiling and walls. A monitor beeping somewhere to my left. I try to lift my arm and feel the tug of an IV line taped to the back of my hand.

Everything around me is unfamiliar, especially the clean sheets that smell like industrial laundry detergent instead of damp concrete and blood.

Movement catches at the edge of my vision.

A middle-aged woman in pale blue scrubs steps up beside the bed, her expression open and unhurried. Her hand hovers near the IV as she leans closer. “Don’t try to move too fast.”

I try to speak, but my throat feels like I’ve swallowed sand. “Water.” The word comes out cracked and barely human.

“Of course, dear.” She helps me sit up carefully and brings a plastic cup to my lips.

I drink greedily. Water has never tasted so good. It’s cold and clean and I want to cry just from the simple mercy of it.

“Where am I?” I manage when the cup is empty. “How long have I been here?”