The Cursed Omega's Revenge

Chapter Twelve

SAMIRA

Bass thrums through the floorboards and up my bare legs, vibrating in places that should be numb by now. Hector's private rooms reek of 150-proof moonshine and male entitlement, the air thick enough to choke on. I stand center stage in scraps of red fabric that barely qualify as clothing, my body on display for his weekly entertainment.

"Dance for us, Mud." Hector sprawls in his leather chair, legs spread wide, pale eyes glassy with shine and something worse. "Show my friends what passes for omega entertainment these days."

Kyle throws the first bottle cap. It catches my shoulder, sharp edge kissing skin that's already mapped with his fingerprints from last time. Richard follows with peanut shells. Tom flicks ash from his cigarette in my direction, watching it float down like snow.

I move because movement is survival. Find rhythm in the pounding music, let my hips remember motions that keep their attention on my body instead of my face. The dress—if you can call three triangles of fabric held together by string a dress—rides up with each movement. Their eyes track the reveal of thigh, the shadow between breasts, the vulnerability of exposed skin.

"Pathetic." Kyle's already working on his second bottle. "Like watching a scarecrow try to be sexy."

But his eyes don't leave my body. None of theirs do.

I dance through their debris, feet finding clean spots between cigarette butts and broken glass. Inside, I count seconds like rosary beads. Three thousand six hundred makes an hour. One hour is all he usually wants before boredom sets in.

"Know what's really pissing me off?" Hector stands, and the room shifts to accommodate his mood. "Those Council investigators delayed the auction. Another week of feeding useless mouths. Another week of lost profits."

His hand catches my hip, yanks me against him. Moonshine and expensive cologne can't mask the rot underneath—the scent of a man who gets off on power more than pleasure.

"Maybe I should get my money's worth out of you while I wait." His fingers dig into flesh already bruised from yesterday's games. "Been talking to contacts about some experimental drugs. Forces heats in defective omegas."

My step falters. The silver threads in my chest pull tight with alarm I can't show.

"Bet you're all kinds of fun when you're in heat." His breath burns against my neck. "All that control finally cracking. Begging for any c**k that'll fill you."

Richard laughs, spraying shine. "Speaking of those Council pricks, saw the tall one lurking around again. Morrison."

Hector's grip turns punishing. "Where?"

"Medical wing yesterday. Kitchens before that. Harry caught him near the elder housing this morning." Richard wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Got cop written all over him. Something about the way he moves—like he's cataloging evidence even when he's just walking."

"Does he now." Hector spins me to face him, studies me like I'm a puzzle with missing pieces. "And he's been sniffing around you, hasn't he? My ugly little mud wolf."

"He asks standard questions—"

"Nothing standard about that one." His thumb presses against my pulse, feeling the race of my heart. "He moves like law enforcement. Smells like trouble. And apparently has a hard-on for broken omega trash."

He shoves me away hard enough that I stumble, catch myself on the wall. Never fall. Falling is submission.

"Party's over." The drunk act drops like a mask. "Everyone out. Now."

They grumble but obey, taking their bottles and disappointment with them. Alone, Hector becomes something more dangerous—calculated cruelty instead of casual abuse.

"There's something about you I'm missing." He circles me, predator studying prey that won't act right. "You're nothing to look at. Can't breed. Can't even break properly. But that investigator keeps coming back to you."

"I'm nobody."

"That's what I thought." His fingers tangle in my hair, yank my head back to expose my throat. "But nobodies don't draw that kind of attention. So either he's got a kink for worthless omega p***y, or you're hiding something."

I let him see the emptiness behind my eyes. After a long moment, he releases me with disgust.

"Get out. You've got extra duties tomorrow—the dying rooms need tending. Every bedpan, every bath. Then you're scrubbing the communal showers." His smile could cut glass. "With your toothbrush. Get on your knees and make those tiles shine. Maybe some real degradation will finally crack that irritating composure."

He pulls me close one last time, whispers against my ear. "And if I catch Morrison near you again, I'll make you watch while I gut him. Then I'll sell you to the kind of buyers who make death look merciful."

My feet leave bloody prints on his expensive hardwood as I go. Each step burns where glass and debris found tender flesh, but I don't limp. Never show weakness leaving. That's inviting them to chase.

The omega quarters sleep in exhausted silence. I make it to the communal bathroom before my legs give out, sinking onto tiles that have absorbed decades of tears. Blood pools around my feet, dark against cracked porcelain. The cuts are deeper than I thought, glass embedded in flesh that won't heal right without my wolf.

"You're leaving a trail."

His voice slides through the dark like smoke and promises. Gabriel Morrison emerges from shadow with predator's grace, and my body reacts before my mind can stop it—pulse jumping, skin flushing, that hollow where my wolf used to be suddenly aching with want I don't understand.

He wears dark jeans that sit low on his hips, a black henley that clings to muscles built for violence. His hair falls across his forehead, messy like he's been running hands through it. Green eyes track over me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"You shouldn't be here." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "If Hector finds out—"

"Hector's unconscious in his own vomit." He kneels before me, and I catch his full scent—pine forests after rain, winter lightning, something untamed that makes the silver threads in my chest pull tight. "Let me help."

"Why?" The word escapes before I can stop it. "Why do you keep... finding me?"

Something flashes in those green eyes—hunger, recognition, a want that mirrors the ache in my chest. "Because I can't seem to stop."

He reaches for my feet, then pauses. "May I?"

The formality of asking permission—when everyone else just takes—breaks something in me. I nod, not trusting my voice.

His hands engulf my feet, careful and warm and impossibly gentle. The first touch sends electricity racing up my legs, pooling heat in places that have been cold for so long. He examines each cut with focused intensity, jaw tightening at what he finds.

"This needs proper cleaning." He pulls medical supplies from a bag I hadn't noticed. "It's going to sting."

Everything stings. But not his touch. His touch burns in different ways—ways that make me remember I have a body beyond pain, that skin can feel things other than fists. When he cleans the wounds, I bite my lip to keep from making sounds that have nothing to do with pain.

"You were dancing." Not a question. His thumbs brush my ankles as he works, and I shiver. "In that dress. For them."

Heat floods my face. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing." His voice drops, rough with something that makes my stomach clench. "The thought of you... of them watching you..."

His hands still on my calves. The bathroom suddenly feels too small, air too thick. I'm hyperaware of everything—the way his breathing has changed, the flex of his forearms as he fights for control, the heat radiating from his body.

"Why do you care?" The question comes out breathless.

He looks up, and the raw want in his eyes steals what's left of my air. "I wish I knew."

His hands slide higher, checking for damage on my shins, my knees. Professional. Clinical. Except for how his touch lingers, how his breathing catches when I shiver. The space between us crackles with electricity that has nothing to do with medical care.

"Richard thinks you're a cop." I need words to fill the dangerous silence. "Says you move like one. Catalog things like evidence."

His mouth quirks in what's almost a smile. "Just another asshole shooting his mouth off while drunk on the shine."

"Are you?" I press, even though I shouldn't. "A cop?"

"Would it matter?" His hands pause on my knees, thumbs tracing circles that make thinking difficult. "Would it change this?"

This. The word hangs between us, heavy with meaning neither of us can afford to acknowledge. This thing building between us. This want that defies logic and circumstance. This dangerous attraction that could get us both killed.

"I don't know what this is."

"Neither do I." He returns to tending my feet, wrapping bandages with steady hands that betray nothing of the tension thrumming through him. "But I know I can't walk past your suffering. Can't pretend I don't see what they do to you."

He finishes the second foot but doesn't release it. Instead, his thumb presses into my arch, massaging away pain, and a sound escapes me—small, needy, mortifying.

His eyes flash to mine, pupils dilated. For a moment, we're frozen, balanced on the edge of something irreversible. Then he's moving, shifting closer, one hand bracing against the wall beside my head. Not touching, but close enough that I feel his heat, breathe his scent.

"Tell me to stop." His voice is gravel and need. "Tell me to leave."

I should. Every survival instinct screams danger. But my treacherous body leans toward him, drawn like a moth to flame that promises beautiful destruction.

"I can't."

He makes a sound low in his throat—part growl, part surrender. His free hand cups my face, thumb ghosting over the cut Kyle's bottle cap left. The touch is feather-light but I feel it everywhere, electricity racing through veins that remember they're meant for more than carrying pain.

"You're hurt." He traces the injury with devastating gentleness. "Always hurt."

"It's what I'm for." The words come out broken. "Taking hurt. Being hurt."

"No." Fierce. Absolute. "You're for so much more."

His forehead drops to rest against mine. We breathe the same air, exist in the same space, balanced on a precipice. I could turn my head just slightly, could close the distance, could taste what this thing between us might become.

"Samira." My name on his lips sounds like prayer and curse combined. "I need to—"

Footsteps echo in the hallway. We spring apart like guilty things, him melting back into shadow with practiced ease while I try to calm my racing heart. The door opens and Rosie appears, her weathered face creasing with concern.

"Child, what are you—" She stops, nostrils flaring. "Someone else was here."

"No one." The lie tastes like copper and want. "Just me."

She studies me—the medical supplies I shouldn't have, the professional bandaging on my feet, the flush on my skin that has nothing to do with pain. But Rosie's survived by knowing when not to ask questions.

"Come on then. Let's get you to bed before someone notices you're gone."

I stand on bandaged feet that hold steady, gather the supplies he left. Hidden among the gauze and tape, I find a new toothbrush still in its package. For tomorrow's humiliation. The small kindness threatens tears I can't afford.

Rosie helps me back to our quarters, but I feel him watching from the shadows. Feel the weight of his gaze like hands on my skin, possession and protection wrapped in darkness.

In our closet-room, I curl into my usual spot between sleeping bodies. But rest remains elusive. My skin burns where he touched, brands of gentleness that will ache worse than any bruise. The memory of his nearness, his scent, the devastating want in his eyes plays on repeat.

I press the toothbrush against my chest like a secret, like a promise, like the last match in a world gone dark. Tomorrow brings degradation and death-watch and showers scrubbed on bleeding knees. But right now, in the space between heartbeats, I let myself imagine.

What would have happened if Rosie hadn't interrupted. Where his hands might have traveled with permission instead of medical necessity. What that mouth would taste like against mine—pine and winter and wild things barely leashed.

The silver threads in my chest pulse with heat that has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with him. Even with my wolf locked away, my body recognizes something in his. Calls to it. Wants it with a desperation that should terrify me.

Instead, I close my eyes and let myself burn.