The Cursed Omega's Revenge

Chapter Eleven

GRAY

The memory burns—her face tilted up to mine in that cramped closet-room, golden eyes empty as abandoned wells. My thumb remembers the give of her split lip, how her pulse had fluttered beneath tissue-thin skin. The silver threading under her flesh had called to something primal in me, made my wolf pace the cage of my ribs like he recognized what my mind refused to process.

Liwon's daughter. The knowledge sits heavy as stones in my gut.

Dawn hemorrhages through our windows in shades of rust and ash. Transport arrives in two hours. We're supposed to climb into that government-issued SUV and disappear, leave this festering wound of a pack to continue bleeding out its weakest members. Leave her—Samira Lim, heir to a murdered Beta's legacy—to whatever fresh hell awaits.

"You're going to pace a canyon in that floor." Maddox sprawls across his bed with studied casualness, but the air around him shimmers with barely leashed power. A pen rotates in lazy circles above his palm, water in his glass forms impossible spirals without anyone touching it.

"We can't leave." The words tear free before I can swallow them back.

Paxton looks up from the medical files spread across his bed like evidence at a crime scene. The psychometric backlash has carved hollows beneath his eyes, turned his skin the color of old parchment. Each document carries the weight of suffering, and he's been drowning in it all night.

"Gray—"

"We're staying. However long it takes."

Both brothers straighten. The pen clatters to the floor. Water stills.

"Define staying." Maddox's voice carries the kind of careful neutrality that precedes explosions.

"Another week minimum. Two if we can manage it." I rake hands through hair that refuses to maintain its professional façade. "We tell Remus the conditions here require extended investigation. The malnutrition alone—"

"The children." Paxton's voice cracks. "I touched their medical files. Half of them show signs of systematic starvation. Stunted growth. Cognitive delays from prolonged nutritional deficiency. They're not just abusing them, they're—"

"Creating a permanent underclass." The words taste like bile. "Keeping them weak enough to never fight back."

Maddox rises, begins his own restless circuit of our quarters. "If we stay, we risk exposure. Mother recognized us. Others might—"

"She's Liwon's daughter."

The declaration hangs between us like a blade waiting to drop. My brothers exchange glances heavy with understanding.

"We know." Paxton touches one of the files with reverent fingers. "Found her birth record buried in the medical archives. Samira Lim, born three months before the coup. Parents listed as Liwon and Suchin Lim."

"Father's Beta." Maddox stops pacing. "His most trusted friend. And now his daughter scrubs floors for the man who orchestrated their murders."

The irony tastes like copper pennies and old grief. I think of her taking that beating meant for the child, how she'd curled on the floor absorbing each blow with practiced efficiency. Twenty years of believing herself worthless when she should have been pack royalty.

"She doesn't know." My wolf pushes against my control, wanting to hunt, to claim, to protect what we can't acknowledge. "Has no idea who her parents were."

"And we can't tell her." Paxton states what we all understand. "Remus finds out she's Liwon's blood, she's dead before sunset."

The image of her kneeling outside Hector's door last night flashes behind my eyes—wearing that obscene dress that revealed every bruise, every bite mark, every sign of systematic degradation. The silver nitrate fresh in her system, keeping her wolf caged while her body paid prices that made my teeth ache with the need to tear out throats.

"Breakfast in twenty." I force my tie into submission, layer professional distance over the chaos in my chest. "Time to inform our gracious host his hospitality extends indefinitely."

The dining hall maintains its careful performance of normalcy. Omegas serve with downcast eyes and movements calibrated to avoid notice. The children—God, the children look like famine victims playing dress-up in clothes that hang off bird-thin bones. One boy, maybe six years old, carries a water pitcher that clearly weighs more than he should be lifting. His arms shake with the effort.

She's not among the servers. My wolf notices immediately, paces restless beneath my skin. The omega pouring coffee has auburn hair and freckles painted over finger-shaped bruises. Not her. Not the one who tastes like lightning and lost possibilities.

"Gentlemen." Remus rises from what he pretentiously calls a chair but clearly considers a throne. "I trust you slept well? Your transport should arrive shortly."

"About that." I take my seat with movements precise as a surgeon's. "We'll be extending our investigation."

The temperature plummets. Silverware pauses mid-motion. Remus's practiced smile calcifies into something that belongs in a morgue.

"I see. And what prompted this... extension?"

"Your pack shows signs of systematic neglect that violate basic Council standards." I dissect eggs I have no intention of eating, each cut deliberate. "The omega quarters are substandard—overcrowding, inadequate heating, no proper sanitation. The children show clear signs of malnutrition. Several appear to be suffering from diseases easily prevented with basic medical care."

"And the hierarchical abuse." Maddox adds with the casual tone of someone discussing weather patterns. "We've documented over thirty incidents of unprovoked violence against lower-ranked pack members in just three days."

"Nature isn't always kind." Remus settles back, studying us with the focus of a snake selecting which mouse to swallow first. "The strong lead, the weak serve. It's been the foundation of pack structure since the first wolf walked upright."

"Has it?" Paxton's voice carries an edge sharp enough to draw blood. "Because last I checked, the whole Alpha-Beta-Omega biological determinism theory was debunked decades ago. We're all just wolves with varying abilities. This rigid hierarchy you enforce? It's learned behavior. Social conditioning. Not natural law."

Silence spreads like spilled ink. Remus goes statue-still, only his eyes moving as they track between my brothers and me.

"You remind me of someone." Each word drops like a stone into still water. "Had all sorts of progressive ideas about pack structure. Thought omegas deserved equal treatment, same opportunities as other wolves. Even suggested they could hold rank if they proved capable."

My father's ghost sits at the table with us. I feel Romulus Carver in my bones, in the way my brothers hold themselves ready for violence, in the ideals that got him killed by the brother now claiming his throne.

"Fascinating." I keep my tone neutral as Switzerland. "What happened to this progressive thinker?"

"Rogue ambush." Remus's smile could freeze hell. "Tore his throat out one winter night. Along with his Beta. Terrible tragedy. The pack nearly didn't survive the loss."

Lies wrapped in enough truth to choke on. Yes, Father died to claws and teeth. Yes, rogues were involved. But they answered to the brother who now sits here wearing his blood like an invisible crown.

"How unfortunate." I push eggs around my plate, watching him through lowered lashes. "We'll need full medical records for the past five years. Complete access to all facilities—including any areas not included in our initial tour. And unrestricted interview privileges with all pack members."

"All facilities?" Hector materializes at Remus's shoulder like a particularly well-trained nightmare. Today he smells of s*x and silver nitrate, and my wolf bares teeth I can't show. "Some areas are restricted. Pack security, you understand."

"We have Council authority to access everything." Truth honed to cutting edge. "Unless you're hiding something?"

"Nothing at all." Remus stands with the kind of careful control that speaks of barely leashed violence. "Hector will arrange whatever you need. Now if you'll excuse me, I have matters requiring my attention."

He stalks out trailing alpha dominance like a poisonous perfume. Hector lingers, studying us with eyes the color of old bone.

"I'll have those records delivered within the hour." His tone suggests he'd rather deliver our entrails. "Will there be anything else?"

"The omega from yesterday." The words escape before wisdom can cage them. "Asian female, black hair. She wasn't serving breakfast."

His smile spreads slow as an oil spill. "Mud? She's on special assignment now. Exclusive duty. No longer available for general service."

Special assignment. The words hook into my chest with barbed wire fingers. My wolf tests the limits of my control, wanting to paint these walls with Hector's blood.

"I see."

"Do you?" He leans closer, breath carrying the scent of cruelty and arousal. "Some wolves are born for specific purposes. She's finally found hers. Amazing what they'll agree to when properly motivated."

He saunters away while I grip the table hard enough to leave claw marks in hundred-year-old oak. Special assignment. The dress that showed too much bruised skin. How she'd looked at me with eyes empty of everything but grim determination.

"Breathe." Maddox's hand grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of doing something spectacularly stupid. "Not here. Not now."

He's right. The dining hall has too many eyes, too many ears waiting to carry tales. I force down the rage that wants to crack my chest open, lock it behind walls of professional necessity that feel like they're made of tissue paper and good intentions.

We retreat to our quarters where Paxton immediately secures the space—checking for new surveillance, reading the emotional echoes of anyone who entered while we were gone. His fingers trail over surfaces, pulling histories from wood and fabric.

"He knows something." Maddox creates his sound barrier, the air shimmering like heat mirages. "That comment about progressive ideas. He was testing us."

"Or warning." I stare out at grounds that once knew our footprints, where Father taught us to track deer and read wind patterns. Where his blood fed winter earth twenty years ago. "Either way, we're running out of time."

"Samira." Paxton speaks her name like a prayer. "What did Hector mean about special assignment?"

I think of silver threads pulsing beneath bruised skin. Of how she'd taken violence meant for a child without flinching. Of golden eyes that should burn with their father's righteous fire instead of accepting emptiness.

"Nothing good."

The records arrive in boxes that smell of suffering. We catalog horrors with clinical precision—sale receipts that barely bother with code words, medical experiments that would make Josef Mengele take notes, disciplinary reports that detail torture with bureaucratic indifference.

But focus fractures. My wolf paces, restless with the knowledge that somewhere in this sprawling compound, Liwon's daughter pays prices in flesh for a child's safety. That whatever bargain she struck with Hector, the cost compounds with interest measured in degradation.

Night falls like a shroud. My brothers sleep the exhausted slumber of men who've read too much evil. But I slip out, drawn by instinct older than thought and twice as dangerous.

I find her by scent—lightning and sorrow now tinged with fresh silver nitrate and the copper tang of blood. She kneels outside Hector's door like a broken guardian, wearing a dress that's more suggestion than clothing. Bruises paint her exposed skin in shades of midnight and wine. Her head rests against the wall, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with mechanical precision.

"You shouldn't be here." Her voice comes threadbare and hollow. "He'll be back soon."

I crouch before her, catalog fresh damage with hands that ache to heal, to hold, to claim. Bite marks on her shoulder, deep enough to scar. Handprints around her throat in purple-black. The systematic destruction of something precious as moonlight.

"What did you promise him?"

Her eyes open, gold dimmed to tarnished brass. "Whatever it took."

"For the child. For Tam."

"She's eight." As if that explains everything. As if Liwon's daughter carrying someone else's child on her broken back is just the way the world works.

I reach out, stop millimeters from her skin. Want burns in my chest hot enough to char bone, but she's not mine to touch. Not like this. Not when she's hollowed out and filled with nothing but desperate duty.

"This won't save her." Truth offered gentle as I can manage while my wolf howls for blood. "Men like Hector don't keep bargains. He'll use you up and still sell her to whoever pays highest."

"Maybe." She shifts, the dress riding up to reveal more geography of abuse. "But maybe he'll get distracted first. Find a new toy. Maybe I can buy her time to grow too old for the kind of buyers who—"

She stops. We both know what kind of buyers pay premium for eight-year-old omegas. The knowledge sits between us like a corpse at a christening.

"Let me help."

"How?" For one moment, fire flickers in those golden depths. "You going to blow your cover for one broken omega? Risk your investigation? Announce to Remus that you're here for more than bureaucratic box-checking?"

Yes. The word burns my throat like swallowed coals. Yes, I would risk everything for you.

Instead, I pull back. Stand. Force distance between us that feels like flaying skin from muscle.

"We're staying another week. Maybe two."

"Wonderful." She closes her eyes again. "I'll be right here. Or in his bed. Or wherever else he wants to test what finally makes me scream. Playing my part in this grand theater. Just like you."

Footsteps echo in the corridor. I fade into shadows as Hector approaches, watch him nudge her with an expensive boot.

"Inside, pet. Time for tonight's experiment. I have some new ideas about what might finally crack that irritating composure."

She rises with the fluid grace of someone who's learned to move through pain like water. Follows him through the door that closes with the finality of a coffin lid.

I return to our quarters carrying her scent like a curse, silver and sorrow and strength that refuses to shatter despite every reason to crumble. My wolf howls for what we can't claim, for Liwon's daughter reduced to this, for the mate we can't acknowledge without destroying everything.

One week. Two at most.

Then every carefully laid plan burns, and I tear this place down to its foundations.

Because some things matter more than evidence. Some prices are too high to pay.

Even if she doesn't know her own worth yet. Even if I have to teach her with blood and silver fire who she really is.