The Captured Omega's Savior

Chapter Six

KAILAN

The Ducati screams north at one-forty, engine burning hot between my thighs. Twenty-two hours since the suppressants went down. Two hours until full reconnection tears me apart from the inside.

My hands cramp on the handlebars. Not from strain—from the claws trying to push through nail beds. The tiger wants out. Has wanted out for twenty-two hours of chemical murder. Now he tastes freedom coming and fights for early release.

The wolf snarls back. They've never learned to share space in my body, these two predators that say f**k you to genetics. One wants to hunt alone. One needs pack. Both want control of meat and bone that's already shredding under pressure.

Eighty miles to pack lands. Maybe less. The GPS flickers—Pete's routes take me through logging roads and forgotten paths. Away from civilians who'd die if I lost control at this speed.

Twenty-two hours, nine minutes.

My skin splits along the tattoo lines first. Always does. The sacred patterns crack like fault lines, ink bleeding actual blood as the beasts test their cages. Sanskrit prayers burn. Tibetan mantras pulse with each heartbeat. The tiger across my back writhes—eight years of needle meditation trying to hold what won't be held much longer.

The bike hits a pothole. For a second I'm airborne, weightless. Then gravity slams me back down and something tears in my chest. Not muscle. Deeper. The place where soul connects to flesh starts unraveling.

Focus.

Uncle Chang's voice in my head. Ten years of training. Breathe through the pain. Let it pass through you like wind through empty spaces.

But there's nothing empty left. Every cell fills with competing imperatives. Hunt/pack. Solitary/family. Tiger/wolf. The suppressants don't just wear off—they die screaming, taking pieces of me with them.

A scent hits my nose. Faint through the chemical deadening, but there. Female. Omega.

And something else. Something that makes both predators stop fighting each other and pay attention.

Snow and vanilla and ozone. Power barely contained. The kind of scent that starts wars.

Sixty miles to pack lands.

I push the Ducati harder. One-fifty. One-sixty. The frame shudders with speed it wasn't built for, but Pete chose well. Italian engineering holds while my body falls apart.

Twenty-two hours, eighteen minutes.

The first convulsion hits at mile marker forty. My spine arches, every vertebra trying to reshape itself. The bike wobbles. I fight for control, taste blood where teeth—fangs—have punched through gums. The tiger pushes harder. Wants to hunt whatever female wears that impossible scent.

The wolf agrees. For once, they both want the same thing.

But the tattoos hold. Barely. Each symbol Uncle Chang carved into my skin over a decade activates. The protection spirals on my arms glow faint gold. The mantras across my ribs pulse with stored chi. Even the patterns on my legs—channels for energy that should flow smooth—burn as power backs up against failing flesh.

Forty miles.

I smell blood now. Multiple sources. Fresh kills. Old wounds. The copper-bright stink of violence hangs over the forest like fog. Through it all, that female scent pulls me forward. Stronger with each mile.

Twenty-two hours, twenty-seven minutes.

The logging road turns to gravel. The Ducati fishtails. I lean into the slide, feel muscles tear along my left side. Not human damage—something deeper ripping as tiger and wolf fight for control of our shared skeleton.

But I smell her clearer now. Omega definitely, but more. That ozone edge speaks of power. Old blood. The kind that makes even apex predators think twice.

Twenty miles.

My left hand won't grip right. I glance down—orange and black fur pushes through skin along the knuckles. Tiger claiming territory. The wolf responds by breaking my right foot. Just snaps the bones like kindling, reshapes them into something between human and hunt.

I shift my weight, compensate. The bike holds steady while my body splits along species lines.

Twenty-two hours, thirty-six minutes.

Patrol.

Three wolves in hybrid form step out of the tree line. Magnus's border guard. They expect vehicles to stop. Submit to inspection. Pay tolls in blood or flesh.

I don't stop.

The first wolf realizes too late. The Ducati's front wheel catches him center mass at one-twenty. Impact folds him in half, ribs cracking like wishbones. He flies backward, hits a pine tree with a wet crunch that echoes through the forest. Still alive—werewolf healing works fast—but his spine bends at angles that will take hours to fix.

The second wolf lunges from the left, all muscle and no technique. His claws scrape paint as I swing the bike hard right. My left hand comes off the handlebar—tiger strength, human technique. The ridge hand strike catches him where jaw meets throat. Cartilage crumbles. His eyes go wide as he realizes he can't breathe, can't swallow, can't scream. He drops, hands clawing at his crushed windpipe.

The third has a gun. Smart wolf.

The muzzle flash lights up his face—young, scared, following orders that will get him killed. The bullet takes me high in the shoulder. Clean through deltoid and out the back. The Ducati wobbles but holds. Blood streams down my chest, soaks into Italian leather.

I could kill him. Should kill him. But I leave him alive to report back. Let Magnus know death comes on two wheels.

Ten miles.

The forest thickens. Old growth that remembers when wolves ran free. When tigers hunted without treaty. The road narrows to barely more than a deer path. I smell the compound now—fear-sweat and aggression, submission and pain. Forty-three hearts beating too fast.

And her. That impossible female closer with each breath.

Twenty-two hours, forty-five minutes.

The tiger wins control of my right arm at mile marker three. Fur erupts along the forearm, orange and black and wrong. Claws where fingernails should be. I steer one-handed while my body tears itself between shapes.

Two more patrols. I don't slow down.

The first patrol scatters when they see what's coming. Half-shifted hybrid on a motorcycle, blood painting everything red. One tries to radio ahead. I clothesline him at ninety. The impact spins him like a top. His head stays attached—barely—but the angle tells me his neck won't heal straight.

The second patrol has automatic weapons and training.

They've set up a proper ambush. Crossfire positions. Good cover. Someone taught them well.

Muzzle flash lights up the forest. I dump the bike at seventy, use its momentum as a weapon. The Ducati slides into their formation like a thousand-pound bowling ball. One wolf tries to dive clear. The bike catches his legs, turns bones into powder.

I hit the ground rolling. Bullets chew through space where I was. The Ducati wraps itself around a tree, engine dying with a metal scream.

On foot now. One mile to the compound.

Twenty-two hours, fifty-one minutes.

The first wolf comes at me while I'm still finding my feet. Sloppy. Emotional. He saw his packmate's legs turn to paste and wants revenge.

Wing Chun serves me now. Economy of motion. Straight lines. No wasted energy when every cell burns with transformation.

I slip inside his guard, trap his arm. The pak sao deflects his claws while my phoenix eye punch drives through his temple. The bone cracks like an egg. He drops, right eye already filling with blood.

Two more rush from the left, trying to use numbers. They telegraph everything—the shift of weight, the tell in their shoulders. I flow between them like water through stones. Biu jee—thrusting fingers—takes the first in the throat. Not a killing blow, but his trachea collapses enough to take him out of the fight. He stumbles back, making sounds like a broken accordion.

The second swings wild, all rage and no control. I catch his wrist, use his momentum. The arm breaks in three places—humerus, radius, ulna all snapping in sequence. He screams high and thin.

Movement behind me. I spin, drop low. Claws whistle over my head. My heel catches the attacker's knee from the side. The joint explodes inward. He goes down howling.

Twenty-two hours, fifty-four minutes.

My left leg gives out. Not injury—transformation. The ankle reshapes itself, bones lengthening into something built for sprinting. For pouncing. Tiger claiming the limb while wolf takes the right.

I crawl. Then stumble. Then run crooked while my body can't agree on its shape.

More wolves converge. Magnus must have pulled everyone from the borders. Good. Means fewer between me and that scent when I reach the compound.

A wolf with military training comes in smart. Doesn't commit to the attack. Throws feints, tests my mobility. Sees how my left leg won't bend right.

He goes for the weakness.

I let him.

His tackle takes me down hard. We roll through pine needles and old blood. He's got position, weight advantage, knows what he's doing. Goes for the throat.

I palm-strike his nose. Cartilage drives backward into the frontal sinus. His eyes cross. I buck him off, follow up with an elbow that caves in his orbital socket. He won't be getting up.

Three more. Always three more. Magnus has numbers if nothing else.

Twenty-two hours, fifty-six minutes.

They try to coordinate. Form a triangle, come at me from multiple angles. It might work if my body wasn't splitting into predator configurations that make their own rules.

The tiger takes my left arm completely. Muscle redistributes, bones thicken. When the first wolf comes in, my backhand doesn't just break his jaw—it tears half his face off. He spins away, trying to hold meat to bone.

The wolf claims my right leg to the hip. The new anatomy drops me into a crouch that turns into a sweep. Two attackers go down tangled. I'm on them before they can separate. Thumbs find eyes. Press until I feel the pop. Both wolves thrash, blind and screaming.

The compound walls rise through the trees. Twenty-foot concrete topped with razor wire. Lights blaze from every window. I hear heartbeats inside. Voices raised in forced celebration.

And her. Close enough now that both predators howl for her.

The main gate is reinforced steel. Guards in towers with rifles. Spotlights sweep the approach.

I don't use the gate.

Twenty-two hours, fifty-seven minutes.

The wall looks sheer, but fingers that can't decide between human and claw find purchase. The first guard spots me at ten feet. His rifle barks. Bullets spark off concrete inches from my face.

I keep climbing. A spotlight blinds me. I squint against the glare, feel stone crumble under claws that shouldn't be there yet.

At fifteen feet, the second guard gets a bead on me. The bullet catches me in the thigh. Through and through. Blood runs hot down my leg. I climb faster.

At the top, razor wire tears through jacket and flesh. I barely feel it. Too much already wrong with my nervous system to register new damage.

I drop into the courtyard. Land wrong when my right leg extends into wolf configuration mid-fall. The knee dislocates. Pops back in at an angle that makes walking interesting.

Guards pour from doorways. All armed. All ready.

The tiger tattoo on my back burns like napalm. Every prayer activates at once, trying to hold what won't be held. Trying to keep me human for three more minutes.

Just three more minutes.

A guard raises his rifle. I flow forward, inside the kill zone before he can fire. My hand—currently more paw than palm—rips the weapon away. The stock shatters against his skull. The follow-up elbow drives through his sternum. Ribs crack like dry branches.

More guards. More guns.

I stop thinking. Let training move the body while my mind focuses on not exploding into two different animals at once.

A knife fighter comes in low and fast. Good technique. Prison style. He's killed before.

I don't give him space to work. Jam his elbow, trap the blade hand. My headbutt breaks his nose, blinds him with his own blood. The knee to his solar plexus doubles him over. I take the knife as he falls, use it to open the next throat that comes too close.

Arterial spray paints the courtyard wall. The wolf in me wants to lap at it. The tiger wants to roll in it. I do neither. Keep moving toward that scent that promises everything.

They try a rush. Six at once. Probably think numbers will overwhelm me.

The first one reaches me as my spine decides to grow new vertebrae. The pain drops me to one knee, but muscle memory doesn't need a functioning skeleton. My fist drives up under his ribs. I feel his diaphragm rupture, watch his eyes go wide as he realizes he'll never breathe right again.

The second tries to grapple. Stupid move. I'm slick with blood—mine, theirs, everyone's. Can't hold what won't be held. I slip his grip, drive fingers into his eyes. He reels back. I follow, use his body as a shield when the third one swings a tire iron at my head.

The iron breaks his packmate's shoulder. I catch it on the backswing, let the attacker's momentum carry him into my rising knee. Teeth scatter like dice. He goes down spitting ivory and blood.

Twenty-three hours.

Inside the compound now. Following that scent like a lifeline. Bodies litter the courtyard behind me. Some still breathing. Most not. The ones who'll live will remember what comes for those who stand between predators and their hunt.

My left arm hangs wrong—tiger anatomy trying to assert itself. The right leg drags, wolf-shaped and useless for human locomotion. But I move forward. Always forward.

The last guard between me and the door is smart. Stays back. Makes me come to him. Watches how I move, catalogues the damage.

He waits until I'm close. Then moves like water. Trained. Special forces maybe. His strike targets the bullet wound in my shoulder. Bright pain explodes through my nervous system.

I let it fuel me. Pain means alive. Alive means fighting.

My counter is pure tiger—raking claws across his chest. Leather parts like paper. So does skin. So does muscle. He staggers back, trying to hold himself together.

I don't let him. The palm heel strike drives him through the door. Wood splinters. Glass shatters. He lands in the hall beyond, not moving.

Twenty-three hours, one minute.

The main hall glows with warmth and terror. I stumble through the destroyed entrance. The smell of fear and champagne. The sight of Magnus holding court.

And her.

White dress. Black and white hair that can't be natural. Beauty that makes both predators stop fighting each other and stare.

The omega from that impossible scent.

Twenty-three hours, two minutes.

I take one step forward. Someone screams. The lights cut out.

In the darkness, I feel the last of the suppressants die. Feel the reconnection hit like a freight train made of claws and fury. My skeleton splits along two different blueprints.

And in that agony, in that moment before I either transform or die trying—

I roar.