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The second option is to refuse me. That would be fine, too. I keep my questions—and the blanket—and watch what happens as her instincts start to eat her alive.

My gaze locks on the prophesies pinned to my board, then sweeps over the data spread across my tables.

She knows something. She has to.

She’s lived in that house with that maniac her entire life. If I can just get her to talk, maybe I can figure out what Varenthrall is planning. Maybe we can find the missing Omegas. Maybe I can stop whatever’s coming before it has a chance to get worse.

Because something—a feeling low in my gut that I refuse to ignore—won’t stop screaming that this is all somehow related.

With new determination, I refocus my attention on the female. I slide a hand into the pocket of my slacks and enjoy the way the Omega studies my movements like she’s waiting for me to attack.

It’s fitting that she acts like prey. That’s exactly what she is.

I walk toward the couch with deliberate, controlled movements. Then, ensuring she’s paying attention, I pick up the blanket and run my fingers over the cream and white fur in gentle, soothing strokes.

I want her to see it, to imagine it’s her fingers sinking into the soft fur.

“It’s incredibly soft,” I murmur, taunting her. “Thick. Warm. The kind of blanket an Omega would kill to curl under on a cold night.”

She swallows thickly. Her eyes track my movements. Her hands twitch. She wants it. Needs it. Her instincts must be riding her hard, urging her to do whatever she has to in order to get her hands on it. I imagine that for a girl who grew up with the best and softest fabrics her Omega could ever want or need, being without the last few nights has been a brand new kind of hell for her.

I bite back my smirk.

She’ll break. Quickly. This Omega has no idea what it’s like to be without. This is probably the first time she’s ever been forced to work all day long without a nest to escape to when things get too overwhelming for her spoiled sensibilities.

Her eyes squeeze shut. Her face scrunches like she’s in physical pain.

I expected a response. Anticipated what it would be. I kind of thought she’d throw a fit. Stomp her foot. Tell me life wasn’t fair.

I did not expect to see genuine tears swimming in her bright blue eyes when she finally looks back at me.

Something in my gut twists painfully. I should enjoy this obvious show of her pain, but instead of relishing in the knowledge that I’ve upset her, the sight of her tears clinging precariously to her lashes makes me… uncomfortable.

So I look away.

Instead of acknowledging how fucking weird that felt, I push her harder. Raising the blanket to my nose, I inhale deeply, purposely exaggerating the motion.

“It smells good. Like fire and leather. No other scents. Certainly no blood or tears… or fear.”

She flinches.

Perfect.

I can see her physically holding herself back from reaching out and touching the fabric. Her little fists clench and unclench at her side. Her breathing grows ragged, and the muscles in her arms and shoulders start to twitch.

And yet… she still hasn’t given me an answer.

So I twist the knife a little further.

“You could have it, you know.” My voice is gentle. Kind, even. “All you have to do is tell me the truth.”

Still… not a word.

Her gaze wanders to the fireplace, roaring steadily behind me. I watch as her eyes glaze over. Her limbs shift. Her muscles relax, and her eyes unfocus even further.

Neither of us moves. I study her, trying to understand what the fuck’s going on.

What is this female up to? It’s almost like she’s…