The Cursed Omega's Revenge

Chapter Eight

SAMIRA

The interview room smells like bleach and lemon polish. They set it up in the old music room where nobody goes no more, and I can still see marks on the floor where a piano used to sit. Now there's just a metal table and chairs that screech when you move them, and three men in suits who look at us like we're puzzles that need solving.

Hector catches my arm before I go in, fingers digging deep enough to leave new bruises on top of old ones. His breath smells like mint trying to cover something rotten.

"Remember what we discussed." His thumb finds the nerve that makes my whole arm go numb. "Tell them how happy you are. How well we treat you. Or little Tam learns what auction blocks feel like."

I nod because what else is there? He shoves me through the door hard enough that I stumble, catch myself on the table edge. The three investigators look up from their papers, and my stomach drops like I swallowed stones.

It's the one from breakfast. The tall one with green eyes that made my wolf act crazy. He sits in the middle chair, face blank as fresh paper, fingers steepled like he's praying to the god of boring questions.

"Please sit." His voice don't give nothing away. Professional. Cold. Like I'm just another task on his list. "State your name for the record."

I sink into the metal chair, feel it steal what little warmth I got. "Samira Lim. But everyone calls me Mud."

The youngest one—sandy hair and eyes that see too much—writes something down. The middle one lounges like a cat, all casual grace that don't match the sharp attention in his face.

"How long have you been with Bloodthrone?" Green Eyes asks, not looking up from his papers.

"All my life, sir. Since I was a baby."

"And your parents?"

The question hits like cold water. Nobody asks about parents here. Nobody talks about the dead. "Don't know nothing about them. They died when I was three months old. Pack raised me."

Something flickers across his face, gone before I can read it. The youngest one stops writing, exchanges a look with Cat Man that speaks in a language I don't understand.

"Tell us about your daily routine." Green Eyes finally looks at me, and I got to fight not to squirm. His gaze feels heavy, like it's pressing on all my bruises at once.

So I lie. Tell them about nutritious meals I don't eat, comfortable quarters I don't have, medical care that don't exist except when Luna Margaret sneaks me moonflower essence. I paint a picture pretty enough to hang on walls, all while my wolf paces inside me, restless in a way that makes my skin itch.

"And you're treated well?" Cat Man leans forward, and something electric sparks in the air around him. "No complaints?"

"None, sir." The lie tastes like ash. "Alpha Carver takes good care of all his omegas."

"What about your heat cycles?" The youngest one asks, gentle-like, but the question makes me freeze. "Are they regular? Properly managed?"

Heat crawls up my neck. Twenty years old and never had a heat. Another way I'm broken, wrong, defective. Hector likes to remind me, usually while explaining why no Alpha would want damaged goods.

"I—" My voice cracks. "I ain't never had one."

All three go still. Green Eyes' jaw tightens just a fraction. Cat Man's casual sprawl turns predatory. The youngest looks at me with something that might be pity if I believed investigators felt such things.

"Never?" Green Eyes keeps his voice level, but something dangerous lurks underneath. "Have you seen a healer about this?"

"Doctor says I'm just born wrong." The words come out practiced because I've said them so many times. "Some omegas are. Defective. Won't nobody want a broken omega anyway."

"Who told you that?"

The question cuts sharper than it should. I risk a glance at Green Eyes and find him staring at me with an intensity that makes my wolf whine. His hands press flat on the table, and I notice his knuckles are white.

"Everyone knows it." I drop my gaze to my lap where my fingers twist together. "Beta Hector explained it real clear. I'm lucky the pack keeps me even though I'm useless for breeding."

Something cracks. I look up to find the pen in Green Eyes' hand broke in half, ink spreading across his fingers like blood. He stares at it like it betrayed him, then carefully sets the pieces aside.

"Thank you for your time." His voice could freeze hell. "You can go."

I stand on shaky legs, confused by the sudden dismissal. At the door, I risk one look back. Three sets of eyes follow me, each carrying weight I don't understand. Green Eyes meets my gaze for a heartbeat, and something hot flashes through me, there and gone like lightning.

Then I'm in the hallway, and Hector's waiting with his snake smile.

"Well done, Mud. Maybe you're trainable after all."

He walks away, and I slump against the wall, trying to understand why my body feels like I got a fever. My wolf won't settle, keeps pushing against boundaries I didn't know existed. Heat pools low in my belly, unfamiliar and wrong.

I make it through dinner service on autopilot. Every time I pass near the investigators' table, the feeling gets worse. Like something inside me is trying to claw its way out. My hands shake. Sweat beads on my forehead even though the dining hall's cold.

"You feeling alright?" Rosie whispers when we're back in the kitchen. "You look flushed."

"I'm fine." But I'm not. Something's wrong. My skin feels too tight, too hot. Scents that never bothered me before make my head spin. And my wolf—she's gone from restless to frantic, throwing herself against walls I can't see.

By the time we're dismissed to our quarters, I can barely walk straight. The basement stairs seem endless. Our storage closet bedroom's packed with bodies seeking warmth, but I'm already burning.

"Mud?" Tam's small hand finds mine in the dark. "You're really hot."

"Just tired, little mouse." But when I lay down, the cotton pallet feels like sandpaper on my skin. Everything hurts. Everything's too much.

I must make some sound, because suddenly Rosie's there, hand cool on my forehead. Her intake of breath is sharp as breaking glass.

"Oh, child. Oh no."

"What?" But I know. Somewhere deep, I know. The heat building in my core, the way my wolf screams, the wetness between my thighs that ain't never happened before. "I can't. I don't—I'm broken."

"You're in heat." Rosie's voice carries fear I ain't heard since the last omega died birthing. "Your first heat. Lord help us, not now. Not with investigators here."

The room spins. Omegas in heat get noticed. Get claimed. Get bred whether they want it or not. And investigators or no investigators, if an Alpha catches my scent...

"We got to hide her." Someone says. "If Remus finds out—"

"He'll sell her to the highest bidder before morning." Rosie finishes. "Or keep her for himself."

Hands pull me up, guide me through darkness. Everything's a haze of too-much sensation. The stairs hurt. The air hurts. Existing hurts. My wolf claws at my insides, demanding something I don't understand.

We don't go to the usual places. Instead, Rosie leads me through passages I didn't know existed, up to a part of the house that smells like sadness and expensive perfume.

Luna Margaret opens her door before we knock.

"I smelled her from the third floor." She looks worse than usual, fresh bruises painting her jaw purple-black. But her eyes hold steady. "Bring her in. Quickly."

Her private sitting room ain't been updated since the old Alpha died. Everything's soft blues and silvers, like moonlight made into furniture. She guides me to a small couch, movements careful like she's the one who might break.

"First heat at twenty." She studies me with eyes that know too much. "Your wolf's been bound so tight she couldn't even cycle. Whatever's hiding you is breaking down."

I don't understand the words, but the pain makes sense. Everything makes sense except why Luna's helping when she should be calling Remus.

"This will hurt." She produces a syringe from a hidden drawer, the liquid inside shimmering silver-dark. "Wolfsbane and silver nitrate. It'll kill the heat, force it back down. But—"

"Do it." I can barely speak through the need clawing up my throat. "Please."

She don't hesitate. The needle slides into my neck, and liquid fire races through my veins. I bite down on the leather she shoves between my teeth, taste cowhide and old tears. The world goes white-hot, then black.

I wake to silence and the absence of feeling.

Everything's muted. Scents that were overwhelming now barely register. The heat's gone, but so is something else. I reach for my wolf and find... nothing. Just empty space where she should be.

"It worked." Margaret sits beside me, pressing a cool cloth to my forehead. "But the combination locked your wolf away. Maybe for good."

I should care. Should panic. But I feel nothing except a vast, spreading numbness. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." Her smile tastes bitter. "I just caged the only free thing you had left."

Rosie helps me back to the basement as dawn breaks. Nobody mentions the night. Nobody asks questions. We're good at keeping secrets that keep us alive.

Morning comes too soon. I drag myself through routines that feel like moving through thick honey. Everything's distant. Muffled. Like I'm watching my life through frosted glass.

I'm cleaning the second-floor bathrooms when they find me. Three female Betas, the ones who think their rank makes them special. Holly leads them, all sharp bones and sharper smiles.

"Well, well. If it ain't the defective omega." She kicks my bucket, sending dirty water across the tiles I just cleaned. "Heard you finally had a heat. Must have been pathetic, over so quick."

I say nothing. Feel nothing. Just get back on my knees, start cleaning again.

"Look at her." Another one—Stephanie—grabs my hair, yanks my head back. "Not even gonna fight. What's wrong, Mud? Finally realize what you are?"

"Nothing." The word comes out flat. "I'm nothing."

They expect tears. Anger. Something. When I give them empty eyes and silence, it makes them meaner. Holly's boot catches my ribs, sends me sprawling in the dirty water. Stephanie's heel grinds into my hand until bones creak.

I don't flinch. Don't cry. Just lay there in the filth, staring at nothing, feeling nothing.

"Pathetic." Holly spits, the glob landing in my hair. "Not even worth the effort."

They leave me there, soaked and bruised and empty. I push myself up, start cleaning again. My hand throbs. My ribs ache. But it's all distant, like pain happening to someone else.

The bathroom door opens. I don't look up, just keep scrubbing.

"What happened to you?"

Green Eyes. The investigator. I should care that he's seeing me like this—covered in dirty water and spit, bruises blooming fresh. Should feel shame or fear or something.

"Fell." The lie comes automatic. "Clumsy."

Silence stretches. Then he's kneeling beside me, suit be damned, catching my chin with gentle fingers. Making me look at him.

His green eyes burn with something that might matter if I could feel. "Who did this?"

"Does it matter?" I pull away, go back to scrubbing. "Just another day in paradise."

He watches me clean for long minutes. I feel the weight of his stare but can't bring myself to care. My wolf's gone. Locked away behind silver and wolfsbane. The only thing that made me more than nothing, and I killed her to stay safe.

"You had a heat." Not a question. "Last night. And someone gave you wolfsbane to suppress it."

I keep scrubbing. The floor's clean but I keep going. Motion without purpose.

"That's dangerous." His voice carries weight I'm too empty to measure. "Wolfsbane and silver together could kill your wolf permanently."

"Good." The word falls out, hollow as a bird bone. "She was broken anyway. Like the rest of me."

Something shifts in the air. He reaches out, stops just short of touching. "You're not broken."

I laugh, but it's just sound without feeling. "I'm twenty years old, never had a heat till last night. Can't breed. Can't bond. Can't even keep my wolf without her trying to get me killed. If that ain't broken, what is?"

"Surviving." The word comes fierce. "Twenty years in this hell and you're still here. Still protecting others. Still fighting even when you think you're not."

I finally look at him. Really look. His green eyes hold storms barely contained, hands clenched like he's stopping himself from reaching out. For a moment, something flickers in my chest. A spark trying to catch in wet wood.

Then it dies, and I'm empty again.

"I need to finish cleaning." I turn away. "Before someone sees."

He stands slow, reluctant. "This isn't over."

I don't answer. Just keep scrubbing floors that'll never be clean enough, in a house built on bones, with a chest full of nothing where my wolf used to be.

The investigator leaves, but his scent lingers. Pine and winter storms and something wild.

It should mean something.

But I'm too empty to care.