The Cursed Omega's Revenge

Chapter Thirteen

SAMIRA

Dawn breaks over Bloodthrone like a fresh bruise, and I wake to absence. Mickey's warmth no longer presses against my back in our overcrowded nest. His mountain songs don't hum through the morning routine. Two days since Remus lost big at the underground fights, and beautiful Mickey with his honey eyes became currency to settle debts.

I know better than to ask where. Know better than to hope he landed somewhere soft.

The new boy shivers in the corner where Mickey used to sleep. Hugo, stolen from some Mississippi pack, eighteen and beautiful in that way that makes my stomach clench with dread. Dark skin like polished wood, green eyes like river stones, the kind of pretty that draws the wrong attention in places like this.

He's bleeding through the shirt someone found for him. I can smell it—copper and fear and something else. Silver. Faint as moonlight on water, but there. My hollow chest pulls tight with recognition I don't understand.

"Let me see." I crawl to him, careful not to startle. He's got that look—the one we all wear after the first night, when you realize the stories were sanitized versions of hell.

"They said..." His voice cracks. "Said I was lucky. Could've been sold instead of kept."

Lucky. I help him peel the shirt away, reveal what drunk Betas call entertainment. Bite marks, deep enough to scar. Claw marks that spell ownership across his ribs. And bruises—god, bruises in the shape of hands, of boots, of whatever they could find to mark him with.

"Hold still." I press my palms to the worst of it, and something shifts beneath my skin. Not my wolf—she's locked away behind silver and chemistry. Something else. Threads of moonlight that pulse with each heartbeat.

Hugo gasps. The deepest wounds begin to close, edges knitting together like lovers reuniting. Not full healing—I don't have that kind of power. But enough to stop the bleeding, to ease the worst of the damage.

"How did you—" He stares at my hands like they hold miracles instead of just strange magic I don't understand.

"Shut up about it if you want to live." I pull back before the drain gets too deep. Already dizzy, room spinning at the edges. "Some things are better kept quiet."

The morning bell saves us from more questions. Another day of service, of bent backs and empty stomachs. I help Hugo stand, guide him through the motions of omega life. He learns quick—keep your head down, move silent, take the hits without sound.

Holly finds us in the laundry room before noon. She's got Mandy and Stephanie with her, the unholy trinity of Beta bitches who think their rank makes them special.

"Fresh meat." Holly circles Hugo like a shark, nostrils flaring. "Pretty thing. Bet he screams real nice."

"He's working." I step between them, knowing it's stupid, knowing I'll pay.

"Mud's got another pet." Stephanie grabs my hair, yanks my head back to expose my throat. "What is it about you and pretty boys? First Mickey, now this one."

"Maybe she's running her own little business on the side." Sandra's nails dig into my arm hard enough to draw blood. "Taking a cut of the fresh ones."

Holly's fist finds my kidney with practiced ease. I drop, can't help it, and their boots find all the soft places. But I see Hugo backing toward the door, see him slip out while they're focused on me. Good. One less beautiful thing for them to break.

"Pathetic." Holly spits, the glob landing warm on my cheek. "Can't even fight back properly."

They leave me curled on the cold concrete, ribs screaming and blood in my mouth. But Hugo got away. That's what matters. I push myself up, start sorting laundry again because work doesn't stop for pain.

The silver threads pulse beneath my skin, wanting to heal, wanting to fix. But I push them down. Can't afford to be different. Can't afford to be noticed.

"Child."

Luna Margaret's voice floats through the laundry room like smoke. She looks worse than usual—new bruises painting her collarbones, moving like her ribs might be cracked. But her eyes hold something sharp today. Purpose.

"Luna." I bow my head, proper protocol even though we both know the titles mean nothing here.

She glances around, ensures we're alone, then presses something into my palm. A small vial, filled with liquid that shifts between clear and silver.

"For protection." Her voice drops to barely audible. "Wolfsbane and silver nitrate, concentrated. Stronger than what I have you before. One injection locks a wolf away. Makes them human-weak for weeks, maybe months."

My hand closes around the vial. "Why are you—"

"Because I see how he looks at you." Her fingers brush the bruises on my throat, and I don't need to ask which 'he' she means. "Hector's patience is wearing thin. He'll stop playing soon, take what he wants instead of waiting for you to break."

"I can handle—"

"No." Fierce, sudden. "You can't. No one can, not when they decide to stop pretending we're people instead of things." Her eyes hold decades of knowledge I don't want. "Hide this. Use it if you must. And child?"

I meet her gaze, see my future in her scars.

"Don't hesitate. Men like him don't deserve mercy."

She ghosts away, leaving me with a weapon that feels heavier than its size. I tuck it deep in my dress, against skin where searching hands might not think to look.

Evening brings the summons I've been dreading. Hector wants me in his rooms. Wants his toy to dance, to bend, to finally shatter for his amusement. I find him already deep in his cups, that particular kind of drunk that makes cruel men worse.

"My ugly little mud wolf." He sprawls in his chair, shirt half-unbuttoned, pale eyes tracking me with predator focus. "Been thinking about you all day. About what might finally make you scream."

I stand in the center of his room, hands steady despite the fear crawling up my spine. The vial presses against my ribs, small promise of power in a powerless world.

"Nothing to say?" He rises, sways, catches himself on furniture. "That's fine. I don't need you to talk."

He's on me faster than drunk should allow. Hands in my hair, yanking my head back. Mouth at my throat, teeth finding the same bruises Holly left. His arousal presses against me, and bile rises in my throat.

"Been patient." His words slur against my skin. "Been so f*****g patient. But you know what? I'm done waiting for you to break. Gonna take what I want, and maybe you'll break along the way."

His hands tear at my dress, seeking skin, seeking surrender. But drunk makes him clumsy. When he spins me around, shoves me toward his bed, I let momentum carry me to my knees. Let him think I'm submitting.

"That's it." He fumbles with his belt, attention focused on his own clothes. "Finally learning your place."

The vial slides free. Cap pops off silent as prayer. When he grabs my shoulder to haul me up, I turn into his grip, drive the needle deep into his neck.

His eyes go wide. "What did you—"

The silver nitrate hits his system like lightning. He convulses, drops, wolf howling beneath his skin as chemistry locks it away. I watch him thrash, watch the moment he realizes what's happening. His wolf sinks like mine did, caged behind silver bars that won't bend.

"You f*****g bitch." But the words lack power. He's already weakening, muscles failing as his wolf abandons him.

He passes out between one heartbeat and the next. I stand over his unconscious form, needle still in my hand, and feel the weight of possibility. He's helpless. Human-weak. Vulnerable as every omega he's tortured.

The letter opener on his desk calls to me. Sharp enough to open throats instead of correspondence. One quick motion and Bloodthrone has one less monster. One less source of pain.

My hand reaches for it, guided by years of accumulated rage. The silver threads in my chest pulse agreement—justice, they whisper. Balance.

"Don't."

Gabriel materializes from shadow, green eyes taking in the scene—Hector unconscious, me standing over him with murder in my heart, the syringe still dripping silver.

"He deserves it." My voice comes out raw.

"Yes." Simple agreement. "But killing him now brings complications we can't afford. Not yet."

He moves closer, careful, like I'm something wild that might bolt. Maybe I am. His scent wraps around me—pine and storm and safety I shouldn't trust.

"You injected him." Not quite a question.

"Luna Margaret gave it to me. Said to protect myself."

"Smart woman." He kneels beside Hector, checks his pulse with clinical efficiency. "He'll live. Unfortunately. But his wolf..." A smile sharp as winter. "Gone for weeks at minimum. Maybe longer. He'll feel every bruise, every cut. No accelerated healing. No strength beyond human normal."

"Good."

The word comes out fierce, and something flashes in those green eyes. Pride, maybe. Or recognition.

"You're hurt." He rises, attention shifting to me fully. "Let me—"

"I'm fine."

"You're not." Gentle but implacable. "Kitchen first. Clean up. Then I'm checking those ribs."

I follow because arguing takes energy I don't have. Because Hector could wake up. Because this man who smells like salvation keeps appearing when I need him most.

The kitchen stands empty, evening meal long finished. Gabriel guides me to a corner, pulls out the medical kit he seems to carry everywhere. His hands frame my face, turn it toward the light.

"Holly?" He catalogs each bruise with focus that makes my skin heat.

"Among others."

"Tell me their names."

"Why?" I pull back, confused by the intensity in his voice. "What are you going to do, file a report?"

"Something like that." His thumb ghosts over my split lip, and my breath catches. "Lift your shirt."

Heat floods my face. "I said I'm fine."

"And I said you're not." Patient. Immovable. "I can smell the blood, Samira. Let me help."

My name on his lips does things to my insides I don't understand. I lift the fabric slowly, reveal the map of damage across my ribs. His intake of breath is sharp.

"Christ." His fingers trace bruises without touching, heat from his palms making me shiver. "How are you still standing?"

"Practice."

He makes a sound low in his throat, almost a growl. Then his hands are on my skin, gentle as butterfly wings despite their size. He checks each rib with devastating care, and I have to bite my lip against sounds that have nothing to do with pain.

"Nothing broken." His hands linger, thumbs brushing the edge of bruises. "But you need rest. Real food. Time to heal."

"Sure. I'll put that on my list of things that won't happen."

"Samira." The way he says my name—like it matters, like I matter. "This can't continue."

"It's my life." I pull my shirt down, need distance from his touch before I do something stupid. Like lean into it. Like ask for more. "Has been for twenty years."

"Not for much longer." Promise or threat, I can't tell. "Things are changing. Can you feel it?"

I can. The air itself tastes different lately. Charged. Like the moment before lightning strikes. And underneath it all, those silver threads pulse in time with my heartbeat, growing stronger despite my wolf's absence.

"I should go." But I don't move.

"Yes." But his hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing the bone. "Hector won't remember much when he wakes. The silver causes memory gaps. But stay away from him tomorrow. Let him think it was bad liquor, not an omega fighting back."

I nod, lost in the green of his eyes, the careful strength of his touch. He leans closer, and for a moment I think he might—

"Mud?" Rosie's voice from the hallway. "You in there?"

We spring apart like guilty things. By the time Rosie enters, Gabriel has melted back into shadow and I'm cleaning already-clean counters.

"There you are." She takes in my fresh bruises, the careful way I move. "Heard Hector passed out drunk. Might be he'll leave you alone tomorrow."

"Maybe."

She helps me back to our quarters, but I feel him watching. Feel the weight of unfinished moments, of almost-kisses, of truths dancing at the edge of revelation.

Hugo sleeps in Mickey's corner, curled tight as hurt allows. I settle into my space, body aching, mind racing. The empty syringe tucked against my skin reminds me of power exercised, of wolves brought low, of the satisfaction in watching Hector fall.

The silver threads pulse with something like approval. Not healing this time. Something else. Something that tastes like justice and moonlight and the promise of changes coming fast as storm winds.