The Captured Omega's Savior

Chapter Ten

KAILAN

Yunnan jungle. Monsoon season. Water streams from the canopy in endless sheets, drums against elephant ear leaves until the whole forest becomes one vast percussion. My paws sink deep into red mud that squelches warm between my toes. The air hangs so thick with moisture I drink it rather than breathe.

I am tiger. Pure tiger. No wolf snarling through my bones, no human thoughts cluttering instinct. Just four hundred pounds of muscle and ancient hunger moving through green shadows.

The sambar deer picks through the understory fifty meters ahead. Male. Three years old. Strong haunches, healthy coat despite the season. His musk carries on the wet air—earth and animal and the particular sweetness of prey unaware. He strips bark from a young tree, massive head lowered, guard down.

Fatal mistake.

I flow forward through curtains of rain. Water runs off my striped coat in rivulets, each droplet catching what little light filters through. Each placement of paw deliberate, silent despite the sucking mud. The bamboo barely whispers as I pass. Forty meters. Thirty. Twenty. His ear flicks—instinct warning him something prowls nearby. He lifts his head. Dark eyes scan the undergrowth. Nostrils flare, testing air that carries too much rain to hold scent.

Too late.

I explode from cover. Four bounds to close the distance. His hindquarters bunch to flee but mud betrays him, makes him stumble. My weight hits his haunches like a freight train. We crash down together, his antlers gouging furrows in wet earth. His scream cuts through the rain—high, desperate, already knowing death approaches. My jaws find his throat. Crush. Hold. His legs kick against my belly, hooves scraping, but I wait. Always wait. Let the blood flow. Let the fight drain out with it.

Hot copper floods my mouth. The tiger's joy sings through every nerve—this is what we're made for. This purity of purpose. Hunt. Kill. Feed. No complications. No pack dynamics. No divided loyalties. Just predator and prey locked in the oldest dance. His heartbeat slows against my tongue. Stutters. Stops.

Mine. My kill. My territory. My—

---

Consciousness returns in fragments. Not jungle. Not raining. Not tiger.

Clean sheets against my back. Soft mattress underneath that smells faintly of lavender fabric softener. Climate-controlled air that carries no hint of monsoon or blood. My mouth tastes copper but there's no kill. Just memory. Dream.

Light filters through windows. The quality suggests morning—that particular golden tone that only comes in the first hours after dawn. My body feels like someone disassembled it, filed down all the connecting pieces, then forced everything back together with a hammer.

Then her scent hits.

Vanilla extract sweet and rich. Jasmine flowers in full bloom. Something underneath like skin warmed by summer sun. It saturates the air until every breath pulls her deeper into my lungs. Omega scent but more than that. Something that makes both animals in my chest lift their heads and take notice. Something that whispers mine in frequencies only predators understand.

The door opens. She stands backlit, morning sun catching in hair that defies genetics—black and white in patterns that flow like spilled ink and snow. No dye could achieve those transitions. Fae blood announcing itself bold as a flag.

"You're awake." Her voice carries relief and caution braided together. "Twenty-four hours. Starting to think you'd gone into some kind of healing coma."

I try to speak. My throat produces sand and rust. She moves to the bedside table, pours water from a glass pitcher. When she hands me the cup, our fingers brush. Current races up my arm, spreads through my chest like wildfire, pools heat low in my gut.

The tiger stretches, suddenly very interested. The wolf's ears prick forward. For once, unified in their focus.

Want her.

"Kailan Lee." She settles into the chair beside the bed. Close enough that her scent wraps around me like silk rope. Far enough I can't reach out and pull her against me. "Susan's brother. The one who's been in Tibet."

"Winter Solis." Her name tastes right on my tongue. Like it belongs there. "Judson's daughter. My sister's step-daughter."

"Susan talked to you about me?"

"Some, but it was Pete who caught me up." The old hardware store owner's briefing floods back. Beautiful enough to stop traffic. Omega. Fae blood. Trained fighter. Magnus planned to give her to David Fletcher. "Said you were trained. Said you could handle yourself."

"Could handle myself." Something dark flickers through her eyes. "Handled David Fletcher with his own knife."

The admission hangs between us. She watches my face, waiting for something. Judgment maybe. Disgust. Fear.

"Good girl."

Her pupils dilate. A flush creeps up her throat. "Good girl?"

"Man who finds joy in hurting others deserves to bleed out knowing exactly who killed him." The growl threading through my voice surprises us both. "Death was a mercy."

"Fifteen million." Her laugh sounds like breaking glass. "That's what I'm worth on the international market. Omega with fae blood. At least now I know my price tag."

Rage floods my system. Both animals wanting to tear apart threats that no longer exist. She doesn't flinch at the sound building in my chest. If anything, she leans forward slightly. Her scent warms, adding notes of arousal to grief and exhaustion.

Pressure builds sharp and urgent in my abdomen. My bladder makes its needs known with zero subtlety.

"I need—" Heat crawls up my neck. "Bathroom."

Understanding flashes across her face. She stands, gestures toward a door. "Through there. Can you walk?"

"One way to find out."

Standing takes everything I have. The room tilts, holds, tilts again. My legs shake but support my weight. Every joint screams protest. Deep bone ache like I've been shattered and badly welded back together. But I make it to the bathroom without falling.

The door closes. Locks. I handle necessary business while trying not to think about her on the other side. About how her scent makes rational thought scatter. About what she'd taste like. Sound like. Feel like under my hands.

The mirror above the sink stops me cold.

I look like warmed-over death. Skin pale beneath my natural tan. Dark circles carved deep beneath both eyes. Three days of stubble heading toward full beard. The tattoos visible above the borrowed shirt's collar still intact—prayers and protection wrapped around my throat in scripts she wouldn't recognize.

I splash cold water on my face. Watch it drip from my jaw. My hands shake as I wash them—exhaustion or aftershocks from the reconnection. Maybe both. Probably both.

When I return, she's standing by the window. Morning light turns her into something otherworldly. Beautiful and dangerous and absolutely not meant for someone like me.

"I've been exploring while you slept." She doesn't turn around. "This whole place is set up for long-term stays. Multiple exits. Sight lines from every window. Dad was always thorough."

"Find anything interesting?"

Now she turns. A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Gun safe in the office. Combination lock."

"And?"

"Opened on the third try." She pulls a Glock from behind her back. Checks the chamber with practiced ease. "My birthday. Dad never was creative with passwords."

The weapon looks natural in her hands. Comfortable. Pete said she was trained but this speaks of years of practice. Muscle memory. A father preparing his daughter for the worst.

Which came anyway.

"What else?"

"Files. Maps. Three months of surveillance on the Silvercrest pack, about five miles from here." She sets the gun on the dresser. Moves closer. "Dad was tracking something. Disappearances. All young omegas. All vanished from border territories."

"You want to continue his work."

"Someone should." Her chin lifts. "Someone who gives a damn about more than territory disputes."

"You're exhausted. I'm held together by stubbornness and whatever's left of my tattoos." I gesture between us. "We're in no shape to take on whatever killed your father."

"So we what? Hide here forever?"

"We recover. Plan. Get strong." I meet her eyes. "Then we hunt."

She opens her mouth to argue. A knock interrupts.

We both freeze. Winter moves first, gun appearing in her hand like magic. I follow on legs that protest every step. She presses against the wall beside the door. Professional. Trained.

"Stay back." She checks the peephole. Tension bleeds from her shoulders. "No one there."

She opens the door carefully. A cardboard box sits on the threshold. Groceries visible at the top—bread, eggs, a carton of milk. Winter scans the hallway. Empty.

"Help me."

We carry the box inside together. Set it on the kitchen counter. A note taped to the side in handwriting that makes my chest tight.

Stay and recuperate. You're safe here for the moment. —Susan

"How did she—" Winter stops. "Of course. This is a Moonhaven safe house. She knows all of them."

"James Fletcher must be helping her." I unpack eggs. Bread. Fresh vegetables. Medical supplies. Clothes that look my size. "Your father's inside man?"

"Has to be. He gave us his truck. Had keys to this place." Winter holds up a package of steaks. "Someone who knows werewolf metabolism packed this. We burn through calories like furnaces."

We unpack in silence. Domestic routine that feels too intimate. Her shoulder brushes mine reaching for the upper cabinet. My hand covers hers passing the milk. Each touch sparks. Each accidental contact builds heat neither of us acknowledges.

"Hungry?" Her voice comes out rougher than intended.

My stomach answers before I can. Twenty-four hours unconscious plus however long the fight lasted. Winter smiles. Does something devastating to my chest every time.

"Sit. I'll cook."

I fold into a kitchen chair that groans under my weight. Watch her move through the space. Confident. Capable. The omega who slit her would-be rapist's throat and carved her initials in his face.

"Susan wants us to go north." She cracks eggs into a pan. "Storm pack. Your birthright."

"But you disagree."

"Three girls missing, Kailan. Three omegas vanished from Silvercrest territory." She plates eggs, slides them across. "Someone should care."

"Your father cared. Look what that bought him."

The words hit hard. She flinches. But then her spine straightens.

"So we let them keep taking girls? Let them keep feeding whatever network Magnus supplied?"

"We get strong first. Smart first." I eat while she paces. "Rushing in gets us killed. Then who helps anyone?"

"Every day we wait—"

"Is a day we're not corpses. Dead heroes save no one."

She whirls on me. "You sound like you don't care."

"I care about keeping you alive."

The words hang between us. Too honest. Too raw. Her scent spikes—vanilla and jasmine and pure female interest.

"Why?"

"You know why."

She steps closer. "Biological imperative? Alpha protecting omega?"

"No."

"Then what?"

I stand. She has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. This close, her warmth radiates against my chest. Her pulse flutters in her throat like a trapped bird.

"I look at you and both animals in my chest stop fighting each other." Truth spills out unfiltered. "They agree on something for the first time in thirty years. They want you."

"Just them?"

"No."

Her breathing quickens. "We can't. Not now. Not when—"

"I know." But I don't step back. Neither does she. "Doesn't change the want."

"Kailan."

My name on her lips breaks something. I move closer. She doesn't retreat. Her back hits the counter. My hands bracket her waist, not touching but close enough she feels the heat.

"Tell me to stop."

She looks up at me. Pupils blown wide. Lips parted. "I should."

"But?"

"But I've been smelling you for twenty-four hours. Cleaning blood off your skin. Seeing exactly what's under those clothes." Her voice drops to whiskey and smoke. "Do you know what you look like? What all that ink looks like on all that muscle?"

My control frays. "Winter."

"Every inch covered in protection prayers. Sacred geometry. Symbols I don't understand but my omega brain doesn't care." Her hand comes up. Hovers over my chest. "I put you in those sweats and had to take care myself after."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

We stand frozen. Her hand almost touching me. My body caging hers without contact. The air between us combusts. One move. One breath. One touch and we'd both go up in flames.

I step back. Force distance between us before I do something we'll both regret. Or worse—something we won't regret but should.

"Shower." My voice sounds wrecked. "I need a shower. Cold. Long. Away from you."

"Probably wise."

"Very wise."

But neither of us moves. We stand there breathing hard. Wanting hard. Making terrible decisions with our eyes while our bodies stay carefully apart.

"Go." She turns away. "Before I do something stupid."

"Like?"

"Like find out if you taste as good as you smell."

I flee. Actually flee to the bathroom like a coward. Close the door between us. Lean against it breathing like I've run miles.

Cold shower. Coldest water this place produces. I stand under the icy spray until my teeth chatter. Until the want banked down to manageable levels. Until I can think past the need to claim her against every available surface.

When I emerge, she's at her father's desk. Gun beside her. Maps spread out. Making notes in margins. Planning. I watch from the doorway—competent hands, focused expression, mind sharp as the knife she used on Fletcher.

Mine, both animals insist.

Not yet, I tell them.

But soon.

Very soon.