The Cursed Omega's Revenge

Chapter Six

GRAY

The Bloodthrone compound spreads before us like an infected wound trying to pass for a beauty mark. Twenty years of memory clash with present reality as our rental SUV crunches over gravel that once knew my bare feet. The main house rises three stories of antebellum pretension, white columns meant to evoke Southern gentility but achieving only the aesthetic of bones picked clean.

"Smile, boys," I mutter, adjusting my tie with movements calculated to broadcast bureaucratic tedium. "Time to play government stooges."

Maddox straightens his jacket, and I catch the subtle shift of air around him—telekinetic energy bleeding through his control. "Place reeks of fear."

He's right. Even with windows closed, the compound's scent profile tells a story of systematic abuse. Fear-sweat soaked into wood. Old blood beneath fresh paint. The particular musk of omegas kept in permanent submission. My wolf stirs, recognizing home territory, but I shove him down. Gabriel Morrison doesn't have a wolf. Gabriel Morrison has spreadsheets and regulations.

"Remember," Paxton says quietly, fingers drumming against his thigh, "we're boring. We're thorough. We're exactly what they expect."

The front doors open before we reach them. A Beta waits—pale as winter frost with eyes like a taxidermist's work. Dead things pretending at life. He smiles, and my skin crawls with recognition of a fellow predator.

"Gentlemen. Beta Hector Reeves." His handshake aims to establish dominance through pressure. I return it with limp disinterest, watch his eyes narrow at my refusal to engage. "Alpha Carver is waiting in the dining hall."

The foyer hasn't changed. Same marble floors where I learned to crawl. Same chandelier that caught fire the night everything ended. But now the walls hold portraits of Remus instead of my father, and the air tastes of wrongness so thick I have to breathe through my mouth.

We follow Hector through hallways that map themselves in my muscle memory. Here's where Maddox broke his first tooth. There's where mother sang us to sleep during thunderstorms. Every step feels like swallowing glass, but my expression remains flat as week-old beer.

The dining hall doors open, and sensory data floods in. Eighty-three distinct scents—fifteen omegas, sixty betas, eight alphas. Breakfast laid out like a magazine spread, too perfect to be real. And beneath it all, the copper tang of barely concealed violence.

My wolf notices her before I do.

A small thing by the service door, hands steady on a coffee tray despite the purple-black bruise blooming on her shoulder where her uniform's slipped. Thai-Chinese features marked by systematic starvation. Golden eyes that track movement with the hypervigilance of prey that's survived too long to be lucky.

Nothing special. Nothing that should make my wolf lift his head.

But she moves wrong. Or right. Hard to say. Where other omegas cringe and scurry, she flows. Economical. Purposeful. Like someone who's learned to navigate violence by becoming liquid.

"Gentlemen." Remus rises from his throne—because of course it's a throne, not a chair. Still handsome at fifty-two, if you like your men with the moral complexity of rabid dogs. "Welcome to Bloodthrone. I'm Alpha Carver."

I don't offer my hand. "Mr. Morrison. My colleagues, Mr. Morrison and Mr. Morrison. We're here regarding the complaints filed against your pack."

Let him parse which Morrison is which. The confusion flickers across his face before he covers it with expansive gestures.

"Of course, of course. We're an open book. Please, sit. Have breakfast. My omegas have prepared a feast to welcome you."

We sit in synchronized boredom. The omega with golden eyes approaches with coffee, and something shifts in the air. Not scent—she smells of nothing particular, just soap and exhaustion. But my wolf stretches, interested in a way that makes no sense.

Maddox takes his coffee without looking. His fingers brush hers, and I catch her micro-flinch, the way she contains reaction behind walls built of years. She moves to Paxton, who inhales too sharply. His gift's screaming something, but his face remains professionally blank.

She reaches me last.

This close, I can catalog damage. Scars on her hands from burns and blades. The particular bend of fingers broken and healed wrong. Malnutrition evident in the brittle quality of her black hair. But her eyes...

Golden eyes meet mine for half a heartbeat, and my wolf slams against my ribs hard enough to hurt. The coffee cup rattles against the saucer as she pours, her hand trembling just once before she locks it down.

"Thank you," I say, voice neutral as Switzerland.

She drops her gaze and retreats, but my wolf tracks her movement with an intensity that makes my skin itch. Wrong. This is wrong. She's just another abused omega in a pack full of them. Nothing special. Nothing that should make my chest tight.

"Your facilities are impressive." I cut into eggs with mechanical precision, taste ash and too much salt. "We'll need to tour everything. Speak with all pack members. Review your records for the past five years."

"Whatever you need." Remus's smile could strip paint. "We have nothing to hide."

The breakfast continues in verbal fencing. I let Maddox take point on questioning their structure while I observe. The omega continues serving, and I notice things that shouldn't matter. How she positions herself to see all exits. The way she shifts weight to compensate for what looks like bruised ribs. How younger omegas gravitate toward her when they think no one's watching.

A blonde woman in housekeeper's uniform enters, whispers something sharp. The golden-eyed omega sets down her tray to respond, and the housekeeper's hand flashes out, catching her ear in a casual cuff that snaps her head sideways.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't cry out. Just straightens and continues the conversation like violence is punctuation.

My wolf snarls silent fury.

"Your omega program," Maddox says suddenly. "We'll need to interview them individually. Without supervision."

Temperature drop. Remus's smile calcifies.

"Of course. Though I assure you, our omegas are well-treated. Happy. Productive members of our pack."

"I'm sure," Paxton adds, dry as Scottish summer. "That's what we're here to verify."

The meal concludes with Remus assigning Hector as our tour guide. Perfect. Nothing like a sadist to show us the sanitized version of hell.

We start with the main house. Hector drones statistics while I catalog truth. Fresh paint in the omega quarters can't hide the scratch marks on doorframes. New bedding doesn't erase the scent of old terror. The medical facility gleams sterile and empty, but Paxton brushes fingertips across an examination table and goes pale.

"How many omegas in your current population?" I ask, making notes that look official but actually map guard positions.

"Twenty-seven," Hector replies smoothly. "All registered, all accounted for."

Lie. The scent signatures suggest at least forty. Which means some are hidden or...worse.

We move through training facilities that double as punishment centers, past auction platforms disguised as community spaces. My wolf paces with increasing agitation, and I don't understand why until we circle back through the kitchens.

She's there, scrubbing pots with mechanical efficiency. The water's scalding—I can see steam rising, see the red of her hands—but she doesn't pause. A younger omega works beside her, maybe eight years old, mimicking her movements with desperate precision.

"Efficient operation," I comment to Hector, who preens.

"We pride ourselves on omega productivity. They're happiest when useful."

The golden-eyed omega's shoulders tighten just a fraction. The child beside her whimpers, and she shifts closer, using her body to shield the girl from Hector's eyeline. Protective. Maternal despite having no pups of her own.

My wolf keys into something I miss, pushing images at me. Pack. Protect. Mine. I shove him down hard enough to taste copper.

The tour continues through afternoon into evening. We're shown the good omegas, the ones trained to smile and parrot happiness. But I notice the ones kept hidden. Bruises painted over with makeup. The pregnant omega who shouldn't be working but carries water buckets with shaking arms. The way conversation dies when we enter spaces.

"Dinner will be served in an hour," Hector announces as we complete our circuit. "Alpha Carver insists you join him."

"We'll need those financial records before then," I say, channeling every boring bureaucrat I've ever met. "Five years of purchase orders, medical supplies, population changes."

His smile tightens. "Of course. I'll have them sent to your quarters."

They've given us rooms in the guest wing. Probably bugged, definitely monitored. We sweep for electronics out of habit, find the obvious ones, leave them in place while Maddox creates a telekinetic bubble that blocks sound.

"This place is a horror show," Paxton whispers, still shaking from whatever he read in the medical room. "The examination table alone... Gray, they're not just trafficking. They're experimenting."

"I know." I pace, my wolf too agitated for stillness. "We need those records. Real ones, not whatever sanitized versions Hector provides."

"I can get them tonight," Maddox offers. "After they think we're asleep."

"Do it. Pax, I need you reading everything you can touch. Build a timeline." I stop at the window, stare out at grounds that used to mean safety. "Something's off about their omega count."

"Besides the obvious abuse?" Paxton asks.

"They're hiding some. Keeping them separated. Why?"

"Could be pregnant ones," Maddox suggests. "Or ones too damaged to show."

Maybe. But my wolf won't settle, keeps pushing images of golden eyes that see too much. An omega who doesn't flinch. Who protects others despite having no power. Who moves like water through violence.

Nothing special. Just another victim in a house built on suffering.

So why can't I stop thinking about the way she didn't cry out when struck? The careful distance she maintained from every wolf except the children? The bruises on her shoulders that looked defensive, not inflicted?

Dinner brings more pageantry. We're seated at the high table, forced to watch omegas serve while Remus plays benevolent Alpha. The golden-eyed one isn't there. Different servers, all young and pretty and terrified behind painted smiles.

"Where's the omega from breakfast?" I ask Hector casually. "Dark hair, golden eyes?"

He laughs. "Mud? Probably scrubbing floors somewhere. Not exactly dining room material."

Mud. They call her Mud.

My wolf bares teeth I can't show.

The evening drags through courses of rich food that tastes like starch and grease. Remus pontificates about pack harmony while bruised omegas pour wine with shaking hands. One spills, just a drop, and the temperature shifts. She freezes, terror rolling off her in waves.

"No harm done," I say before anyone can react, dabbing the spot with my napkin. "These things happen."

The omega stares like I've spoken ancient Greek. Remus's eyes narrow, calculating. Hector looks disappointed, denied his entertainment.

We retire early, claiming travel fatigue. In our rooms, Maddox prepares for his midnight reconnaissance while Paxton maps what he's learned through touch. I review the sanitized records Hector provided, finding gaps big enough to drive trucks through.

"I'm going to walk the grounds," I announce. "Get a feel for security patterns."

"Want backup?" Maddox asks.

"No. Keep to the plan."

Outside, night transforms the compound. What daylight makes pretty, darkness reveals as predatory. I move through shadows, cataloging guard positions, noting weak points. My wolf pulls me toward the omega quarters, and I let him lead because his instincts have kept us alive this long.

Light spills from a ground-floor window. Inside, the golden-eyed omega—Mud—sits with three younger ones. She's teaching them something, hands moving in sign language while her mouth shapes words they're learning to read on lips.

Combat signs. She's teaching them military hand signals disguised as games.

One child signs something that makes her laugh, and the sound hits me like a physical blow. Rich and real and utterly unexpected from someone who lives in hell.

My wolf whines, pushing harder. Want. Need. Protect. Mine.

Not mine. Not anything. Just an omega teaching pups to survive in a world that wants them dead or broken. Nothing special except for the way she makes horror bearable for children who deserve better. Nothing remarkable except how she builds walls of fierce care around the vulnerable while her own wounds go untended.

Nothing that should make me want to tear this whole compound apart to keep her safe.

I force myself away, complete my circuit, return to find Maddox successful in his mission. Real records paint a picture of systematic horror. Omegas sold to fighting rings. Medical experiments in fertility enhancement. Death rates that suggest murder disguised as discipline.

And through it all, financial trails that lead somewhere unexpected. Not just to buyers, but to someone inside the Council itself. Someone who's been enabling this for decades.

"We need more time," I say. "Dig deeper. Find who's protecting them."

But even as we plan, my wolf won't stop whining. Won't stop pushing images of golden eyes and careful hands and the way she shaped survival into sign language for pups who might not live to use it.

Nothing special. Just another casualty of power and greed.

So why does leaving her here feel like tearing off my own skin?

Tomorrow we interview omegas. Tomorrow I'll sit across from her and ask bureaucratic questions while she lies to keep herself and others alive. Tomorrow I'll pretend she's nothing while my wolf screams the truth I'm not ready to hear.

Tonight, I pace and plan and tell myself the tightness in my chest is just anger at injustice. Not recognition. Not the mate bond trying to break through whatever hides her.

Just anger. Nothing more.

My wolf laughs, calling me a liar in a language older than words.