The Omega's Three Mates

Chapter Five

I stood in the middle of that stupidly fancy room, caught between Thing 1, Thing 2, and my deadbeat dad who apparently wasn't even dead, and tried really hard not to have a complete meltdown. The kind of meltdown that would probably end with me either crying in a corner or throwing one of those pretentious crystal vases through a window.

Honestly? Both options were looking pretty good right now.

The walls were closing in, and not in that metaphorical anxiety way—though yeah, there was plenty of that too. No, this was different. The carved wooden panels seemed to breathe, to pulse with something old and hungry that made my skin feel too tight. You know that moment when your life goes so sideways that your brain just refuses to process it? When reality starts to feel like someone else's bad dream? Yeah. That.

I couldn't stop moving. Pacing. My beat-up Doc Martens squeaked against hardwood floors that probably cost more than my entire college fund (not that I was thinking about college anymore, not after—no, don't go there). The safe house was like something out of those aesthetic dark academia posts I used to scroll through at 3 AM when I couldn't sleep. All shadowy corners and leaded glass windows that turned the late afternoon sun into Abstract Art™. Weird paintings stared down from the walls—all old dudes in fancy clothes looking constipated, probably worth someone's firstborn child.

"You need to calm down," Thing 1—Caleb, whatever—said in that voice that made me want to throw things. Preferably at his stupidly perfect face.

I laughed. It came out sounding cracked, hysteria creeping in at the edges. "Calm down? Are you serious right now?" My hands were shaking so bad I had to clench them into fists. "Let's see: My mom is dead. My dad isn't actually dead but might as well be for all he's done for us. I'm trapped in some kind of discount Downton Abbey with two guys who look like they walked out of a supernatural romance novel, and oh yeah—apparently everything I thought I knew about myself is a lie. But sure, let me just calm down. Want me to do some breathing exercises while I'm at it?"

The pendant around my neck felt heavy, wrong, like it knew something I didn't. Mom's pendant. The one she'd clasped around my neck on my thirteenth birthday, making me promise never to take it off. Right before she—

No. Not going there. Not now.

The silver burned against my skin, pulsing like a second heartbeat that didn't match mine. It had been doing that more and more lately, ever since... ever since the funeral. God, had that only been yesterday? It felt like years ago. Like another lifetime. Like someone else's life entirely.

"Savannah." Richard—not Dad, never Dad again—took a step toward me. His voice was gentle, like he was trying to calm a spooked animal. It made me want to scream. "You need to listen—"

"To what?" I spun to face him, and oh look, there was that rage again, burning hot behind my ribs. The kind of anger that felt like it could tear the world apart if I let it. "More lies? Because that's all I've gotten my whole life. Lies from you, lies from Mom, lies about what I am, about what all of *this* is—" My voice cracked. Fantastic. Just what I needed. "Did you know she kept a go-bag under her bed? Every house we lived in, every apartment, every crappy motel room—always a bag packed and ready. I found it when I was eight. Thought it was Christmas presents."

The memory hit like a punch to the gut. Me, small and stupid and hopeful, unzipping that duffel bag only to find cash, fake IDs, and a gun I wasn't supposed to know existed. Mom caught me before I could touch it. That was the first time I ever saw her cry.

Thing 2 was watching me with this look that made my skin crawl. Not because it was predatory—though yeah, there was that too, all barely leashed power and ancient hunger—but because it was almost... gentle. Like he got it. Like he understood exactly how it felt to have your whole world turned inside out.

"Your mother did what she thought was right," he said, and his voice was warm honey over broken glass. "She was trying to protect you."

"Don't." The word came out raw, scraping my throat. "Don't you dare talk about her like you knew her."

The pendant pulsed again, stronger this time. Mom never explained it—just like she never explained why we moved so much, or why she'd wake up screaming some nights, or why she made me memorize all those weird rules. Rules I can still hear in her voice, like a mantra on repeat:

Never go out alone on full moons.

Never take off the pendant.

Never trust anyone who asks about your father.

Never stay in one place too long.

Never make friends who ask too many questions.

Never believe in coincidences.

Never look too hard at the shadows.

God, it all made such terrible sense now. Every paranoid habit, every midnight move, every time she looked over her shoulder like she expected to find monsters following us. Turns out she wasn't paranoid at all. She was right.

A sound like thunder rolled in the distance, but the sky outside those fancy windows was clear as crystal. Thing 1 and Thing 2 went still—that weird, predatory stillness that made them look less human. Like statues carved from ice and violence. Richard's head snapped toward the window, his whole body tensing like a bowstring about to snap.

"They're coming," he said, and for the first time since he'd shown up not-dead, I heard real fear in his voice.

"Who?" I demanded, but I already knew. Something in my blood knew. Something old and wild and terrifying that had been sleeping my whole life was suddenly wide awake.

The pendant burned cold as death against my skin. The air felt thick, charged, like right before lightning strikes. Like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible and inevitable to happen.

Outside, something roared.

And it was getting closer.

I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready for any of this. I wasn't ready to be whatever the hell I apparently was, wasn't ready to face the monsters that had been hunting me my whole life without even knowing it.

But ready or not, everything was about to change.

That's when the first howl split the air.

It wasn't a wolf. It wasn't anything that had ever been natural or sane. It was the sound of nightmares given voice, of something that had forgotten how to be human. And it was getting closer.

The front door burst open so hard it left dents in the wallpaper.

Three figures filled the doorway, and holy s**t—if Thing 1 and Thing 2 were supernatural romance novel cover models, these guys were straight-up action movie heroes. The kind that make you question your life choices and possibly your sexuality.

The first one through the door was all coiled darkness and barely contained violence. Six feet of "I could kill you with my pinky" energy wrapped in tactical gear that would make a soldier drool. His eyes were this insane shade of burgundy—like dried blood or really expensive wine—and the scars that traced his neck looked like lightning strikes against brown skin. I dubbed him Shadow Boy in my head, because apparently that's what I do when I'm freaking out.

Behind him came this absolute unit of a human being (if he even was human). Mountain Man was the kind of massive that makes you wonder if giants are real. All broad shoulders and scarred knuckles, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite by someone who'd never heard of the word "gentle." His white-silver hair was pulled back in this tight braid that should have looked ridiculous but somehow made him even more terrifying.

But it was the third one that made my breath catch. Knife Boy moved like water, like every step was part of some lethal dance. Shorter than the others but just as deadly, with a face that belonged to European male models and eyes that held secrets older than time. The knives strapped to his thighs caught the light like teeth.

That's when the window exploded.

It didn't just break—it disintegrated, sending a shower of crystal daggers across those fancy hardwood floors. And what came through... God, I wish I could say it looked like a movie monster. Like something CGI'd and safely contained behind a screen.

The first mutant dog--rogue--hit the ground on all fours, moving like its bones were trying to escape its skin. Its spine curved in ways that made my vision blur, body twisted into shapes that shouldn't exist. The skin—if you could even call it that—was a mottled grey-purple, like a weeks-old bruise stretched over too-sharp angles. When it opened its mouth, rows of jagged teeth gleamed like broken glass in the dying light.

More of them poured in, moving with this horrible synchronization, like someone was puppeting them all on the same twisted strings. They didn't walk so much as skitter, all wrong angles and too many joints, leaving smears of something black and oily on the antique floors.

The smell hit like a physical force—wet earth and copper and something older, something that made my hindbrain scream danger and wrong and run run run.

One of them made this sound—like static and screaming had a baby, then threw it down a well. Its amber eyes fixed on me with such desperate hunger that I felt it like hooks in my skin.

The pendant at my throat went from warm to burning cold in an instant.

That's when everything exploded into motion.

Shadow Boy moved like darkness given form, each strike precise and brutal. He caught the first rogue by its twisted throat and slammed it into the ground so hard the floorboards cracked. The thing tried to get up, joints popping and cracking as it reformed itself, but he just kept hitting it. Again. And again. And again.

Mountain Man was pure power, breaking bones like they were made of chalk. Two rogues rushed him at once—all snapping jaws and razor claws—and he met them with this smile that belonged in ancient wars. The sound of impact made the windows rattle in their frames.

And Knife Boy... holy hell. His blades carved silver arcs through the air, turning violence into art. Blood sprayed across his perfect face and he didn't even blink, just kept moving like this was some kind of deadly dance he'd practiced for centuries.

The rogues weren't fighting so much as attacking with blind, animal desperation. They moved like a pack of rabid wolves, all snapping teeth and feral rage. But there was something else there too—something almost desperate in the way they kept trying to get to me, to the pendant that now felt like ice against my skin.

One of them got close enough that I saw its eyes up close. There was nothing human left in them. Just endless, hungry black, like looking into a hole in the world. It opened its mouth—that awful, tooth-filled mouth—and made this sound that was almost words:

"Need... omega... the mark..."

Thing 1—Caleb—appeared out of nowhere and literally tore the thing's head off.

I wish I was exaggerating.

I also wish I could say I looked away.

The fight turned the room into a war zone. That fancy furniture? Kindling. Those priceless paintings? Confetti. Blood—black and red and something that glowed silver—painted abstract art across the walls.

"Hide," Thing 2 snarled at me, his voice barely human anymore. He had one of the rogues by its twisted spine, and I swear to God his eyes were glowing like arctic ice. "Now!"

I didn't need to be told twice.

The massive wardrobe in the corner looked like something out of Narnia, all carved wood and ancient promises. I yanked the door open, the smell of cedar and sage hitting me like a wave, and dove inside.

Through the crack I left (because like hell was I closing myself in completely), I watched the world dissolve into beautiful violence.

Shadow Boy's eyes blazed crimson as he moved through the chaos like a demon's shadow. Mountain Man picked up an entire chaise lounge and used it like a baseball bat. Knife Boy's blades sang death songs through the air, each movement precise as a surgeon's scalpel.

And my pendant... God, my pendant pulsed like a second heart, each beat sending shocks of something ancient and electric through my veins. Something was waking up inside me, something wild and hungry that recognized the violence as natural as breathing.

The worst part?

Part of me wanted to join in.