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The memory makes my chest ache.
I should have stopped him. Should have knocked him out, or pulled the op, or—
I shake my head, forcefully shoving the thought away.
I need to work. Work is something I can focus on. It’s something I can control. If I keep thinking about Caelan, I’ll fucking break.
My gaze drifts to the mounds of chaos surrounding me. The piles of books, ledgers, iPads and laptops, not to mention the maps strewn across three tables. There are empty blood bags, overflowing trash cans, and leather Moleskines full of half-legible scribbled thoughts I don’t trust to memory alone.
Front and center, tacked up so I can’t miss them, are the ravings of the two Omegas. The ones who possess what we’re apparently referring to as “abilities.”
At the top are Daniella’s words. “Four became one. One became light. Light wakes the gate. She is the gate.”
Right below are Calla’s: “One thread bound, but one thread frays. She is the flame. She burns to give light. She is the light. The light wakes the gate. The gate is awake.”
Vaelenor keeps running his mouth about “the gate,” and while I can admit it’s creepy as fuck, I’m not ready to jump aboard the Magical Prophesy Express just yet.
I’m still leaning toward the idea that they’re something related to trauma-induced hallucinations. Or a chemical breakdown from whatever cocktail the Omegas were injected with.
Two Omegas were kidnapped, trafficked, and injected with an unknown substance that fucked with their physiology. Changed it enough that my brothers want to call the sparks and glowing byproduct “special powers.”
The strangeness of their new party tricks doesn’t make them magic, though. It just means whatever happened to them, they were both injected with something that’s running the same code.
I’m pouring myself another finger of whiskey I probably don’t need when the door to my library swings open.
I spin around, prepared to lay into whoever’s stupid enough to interrupt me while I’m in the middle of research.
My muscles coil tight. Hot rage floods my veins.
It’s the godsdamned Omega.
The female who got my brother shot. The Omega who lured him into a trap. The reason he’s in a coma, instead of here with me, putting that sharp mind of his to work.
She walks in like she’s allowed to be here, eyes fixed firmly on her feet. She doesn’t even glance up, just sets down her shit and smooths her palms down the leggings someone apparently procured for her.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to make her hurt. To make her feel even a fraction of what Caelan felt. What Vae and I have been feeling every second of every day since we pulled him out of that basement.
“What,” I snap, my tone halfway to a bark, “do you think you’re doing in here?”
Her head jerks up, eyes wide and terrified. Her hands fly over her head, and she drops to the floor in a crouch. Her body curls over to protect her middle, like she’s shielding herself from a blow.
I narrow my eyes.
Does she think I’m about to hit her, or is this just another attempt to get under my skin? Some tactic to make me feel bad for her?
I huff in irritation.
That’s probably exactly what it is. Another manipulation. Another chance for her to play the role of the poor little victim.
Like I haven’t seen that before. Like I don’t know exactly what an Omega pretending to have emotional trauma looks like. She thinks she’s clever, but she has no idea the shit I’ve seen over the centuries.
Her little act won’t work on me.
When I don’t move, the Omega straightens warily until she’s back on her feet. Her cheeks are flushed with what might be embarrassment.
The girl stands there, eyes still wide, gaze jumping around the room but never landing on one area for long. Her mouth opens and closes silently, like she doesn’t know what to say.
I can’t help but study her. I tell myself I’m being tactical. That it’s ignorant not to study your enemies. I need to be prepared for whatever game she’s going to try next.
