The Cursed Omega's Revenge

Chapter Seventeen

SAMIRA

The storage closet we call home stinks of mildew and six unwashed bodies pressed too close. I wake with Tam's elbow digging into my spine and Hugo's foot against my face, the usual tangle of limbs we become to share warmth. My head pounds like someone's taken a hammer to it, and everything aches in that bone-deep way that comes from giving too much of yourself away.

Yesterday. Luna Margaret's blood on my hands, silver threads pouring from my palms into her torn flesh. The way her wounds closed while mine opened, invisible but just as real. Then nothing but black until I woke here with Rosie's worried face hovering above me.

"You nearly died, foolish girl," she'd whispered. "That investigator saw everything. Had to make him swear on the Moon Mother to keep quiet."

Morrison. Gabriel Morrison with his green eyes that see too much.

My body protests as I untangle myself from the sleeping pile. Every movement sends fresh waves of exhaustion through me, like I aged ten years in one night. The silver threads that usually pulse beneath my skin feel dim, barely flickering. Used up. Spent on keeping Luna Margaret breathing.

"Mud." Cook's voice carries through the door before dawn fully breaks. "Get your worthless hide up here."

I dress in the dark, fingers fumbling with fabric. My hands shake—not from cold but from whatever price my strange gift demanded. The other omegas stir but don't wake. We've learned to sleep through each other's summons, knowing interference only brings group punishment.

The kitchen stairs feel like a mountain. Twenty-three steps that usually pass in ritual now stretch endless. My legs wobble on step fifteen. Have to grip the rail to keep from tumbling backward. By the time I reach the top, sweat beads on my forehead despite the morning chill.

Cook stands with her arms crossed, mean little eyes taking in my state with satisfaction. "Look what the cat dragged in. Heard you fainted yesterday. Getting too delicate for kitchen work?"

"No, ma'am."

Her backhand catches me across the cheek, snapping my head sideways. The blow sends me into the counter, ribs connecting hard with the edge. Pain blooms fresh and sharp—seems my accelerated healing ain't working right since yesterday.

"Hector wants you scrubbing the discipline rooms in the basement. Says you been getting soft, need reminding what happens to lazy omegas." Cook's smile shows too many teeth. "But first, breakfast prep. Three hundred biscuits for the pack meeting."

Three hundred. My hands already ache at the thought. But I nod, move to the prep station where flour waits in fifty-pound sacks. The first sack feels like it weighs twice that. I mange to hoist it onto the counter, but my arms scream protest.

Holly appears as I'm mixing the third batch, Stephanie and Madison trailing behind like hyenas following a lion. They're dressed nice—silk blouses and pressed skirts, the kind of clothes female Betas wear to remind everyone they rank above omega trash.

"Well, well. Hero Mud." Holly's voice drips acid sweet. "Heard you played nurse yesterday."

My hands keep working the dough. Don't respond. Don't react. That's the rule.

Madison dumps her coffee into my mixing bowl. "Oops."

Twenty pounds of ruined dough. I'll have to start over, and Cook will blame me for wasting supplies. But I just reach for fresh flour, begin again.

"Nothing to say?" Stephanie grabs a handful of my hair, yanking my head back. "Or are you too tired from spreading your legs for that investigator?"

"Leave her alone."

We all freeze. Luna Margaret stands in the doorway, moving carefully but upright. The wounds I healed yesterday are gone, leaving only faint pink lines. But new bruises paint her throat—Remus's fingers marked in purple-black.

"Luna." Holly's voice shifts, becomes carefully respectful. Even Betas know better than to openly disrespect the Alpha's wife. "We were just—"

"I know what you were doing." Margaret moves closer, each step deliberate despite the pain she's hiding. "Perhaps you've forgotten that kitchen discipline falls under my purview."

It doesn't. Hasn't for years. But the Betas exchange glances, uncertain.

"Run along." Margaret's tone brooks no argument. "I'm sure you have duties elsewhere."

They leave, but Holly's eyes promise retribution later. When the Luna's not around to interfere.

Margaret waits until their footsteps fade, then sags against the counter. "You saved my life yesterday."

"You would have healed—"

"No." She cuts me off. "The wounds were too deep. Severed organs. I was dying, and you brought me back." Her fingers ghost over where the worst lash had been. "That gift you have... it's dangerous."

"Won't happen again. Used it all up. Can barely heal a paper cut now."

"It'll come back." She looks around, ensures we're alone. "It always does, for those with the old blood. But Samira—" She uses my real name, not Mud, and something in my chest tightens. "You must be more careful. If Remus discovers what you can do..."

"He won't."

"He's already suspicious. Hector's been whispering in his ear about you. How you're different. How the investigator Morrison watches you."

Morrison. Who saw me heal her. Who knows my secret now.

"Three more days until the auction," Margaret continues. "Then the investigators leave, and things will go back to—" She stops herself, but I know what she meant. Back to normal. Back to the everyday horror we've learned to survive.

"Tam's on the list."

Margaret's face crumples with sympathy she can't afford to show. "I know. I tried to argue against it, but—"

"MUD!" Cook's screech cuts through the moment. "Those biscuits better be ready!"

Margaret touches my hand briefly—a gesture that could get us both punished—then ghosts away. I return to kneading dough with hands that barely work right, counting each batch like prayer beads.

By the time breakfast service starts, I can barely stand. The biscuits are done, somehow, though I don't remember finishing the last fifty. My hands are blistered from the oven, burns that should heal in minutes but just sit there, angry and red.

I serve the main dining hall in a haze. The investigators sit at their usual table, and Morrison's eyes track my every stumble. His jaw tightens when he sees the fresh bruises, the way I'm favoring my left side where ribs might be cracked.

"You look unwell." He says it quiet when I pour his coffee, meant just for me.

"I'm fine, sir."

His hand brushes mine as he takes the cup—deliberate contact that sends warmth through my exhausted body. "You're not."

Hector materializes beside us. "Problem, Mr. Morrison?"

"Your omega appears ill."

"Mud's just lazy. Ain't that right?" Hector's fingers dig into my shoulder, finding pressure points with practiced ease. "She's got important work today. Discipline rooms need deep cleaning."

Morrison's expression doesn't change, but something dangerous flickers in those green eyes. "I see."

"Come on, Mud." Hector steers me away, his grip leaving fresh bruises. "Time to remind you what your place is."

The basement stairs descend into darkness that feels alive. Twenty steps down to where they keep the tools of correction. The whipping posts. The chains. The things that make omegas scream until their voices break.

The first room holds the posts—three of them, wood stained dark with old blood that won't wash out no matter how hard you scrub. The smell hits like a physical thing: copper and fear and pain soaked so deep into the walls it's become part of the structure.

"Every inch," Hector says. "Floors, walls, posts. And Mud?" He leans close enough that I smell his breakfast on his breath. "I'll be checking. One spot missed and you'll get familiar with these rooms in a different way."

He leaves me with a bucket of caustic cleanser that burns my already damaged hands. I get on my knees, start scrubbing. The floor's concrete, porous enough to hold onto stains that might be decades old. My brush finds grooves worn into the stone—claw marks from omegas who shifted in desperation, trying to escape pain that followed them even into wolf form.

The second room holds chains and shackles sized for different builds. Some for adults. Some smaller, child-sized. Those are the worst, because I know who they're meant for. Know that Tam could end up here if I don't play my part perfect.

I'm scrubbing blood from a set of manacles when footsteps echo on the stairs. Multiple sets. My stomach drops.

Holly, Stephanie, Madison, and two others I don't know well. They spread out, blocking the exit.

"Hector said we could help supervise." Holly produces a riding crop from behind her back. "Make sure you're thorough."

The first strike catches me across the shoulders. I don't stop scrubbing.

"She didn't even flinch." Madison sounds disappointed. "Hit her harder."

The next blow splits skin. I feel blood trickle down my back, soaking into my dress. Still, I keep cleaning. Motion is safer than stillness. Work might satisfy them enough to leave.

"Hold her arms."

Hands grab me, haul me upright. Holly's face fills my vision, ugly with the particular cruelty of those who've found someone lower to hurt.

"You think you're special. Morrison watches you. Luna protects you. But you're nothing. Less than nothing." She presses the crop under my chin, forcing my head up. "Say it."

"I'm nothing."

"Say you're worthless."

"I'm worthless."

"Say you deserve this."

The words stick in my throat. Because for the first time in twenty years, some small part of me doesn't believe it. That part that saved Mickey's leg, that healed Luna Margaret, that caught Morrison's attention—it rebels against the lie.

Holly's fist connects with my stomach, driving air from my lungs. I double over, gasping.

"Say it!"

"Leave her alone."

Morrison fills the doorway like an avenging angel wrapped in a government suit. His brothers flank him, and the Betas suddenly look very small.

"This is pack business—" Holly starts.

"This is assault." His voice could freeze hell. "Which falls under Council jurisdiction when it involves systematic abuse of subordinate pack members."

"You can't—"

"I can. I am. Get out."

They flee like rats when the lights come on. Morrison moves toward me, but I flinch back. Can't help it. Too many hands reaching for me today, none of them kind until his.

"Let me see."

"Can't. If Hector finds out you helped—"

"I don't give a damn what Hector finds out."

His hands are gentle as they check my injuries. Cracked ribs, definitely. The wounds on my back are deeper than I thought—Holly put real force behind that crop. And everything's healing human-slow, my gift exhausted from yesterday's miracle.

"Why aren't you healing?"

So he did see. Saw the silver threads, the impossible mending of Margaret's flesh.

"Spent it all. Takes time to come back."

"How long?"

"Don't know. Never pushed it that far before."

He produces medical supplies from somewhere—proper ones, not the expired stuff we sometimes steal for desperate moments. His touch is clinical but warm as he tends the worst damage.

"The auction's in three days."

"I know."

"Things are going to change. I promise you—"

"Don't." I pull away, start gathering my cleaning supplies. "Don't make promises you can't keep. You'll leave. Write reports. Maybe the Council sends a strongly worded letter. Meanwhile, we're still here. Still bleeding. Still watching children get sold to the highest bidder."

"Samira—"

"That's not my name here. I'm Mud. Nothing. Nobody. That's how I survive."

He catches my wrist, gentle over the blisters and burns. "You're so much more than that."

"No. I'm exactly that. An omega who scrubs blood from torture rooms and thanks her betters for the privilege."

I pull free, go back to scrubbing. Because that's what I do. That's who I am. And in three days, when the investigators leave and Tam gets sold and everything goes back to its particular version of hell, I'll still be here. Still scrubbing. Still surviving.

Morrison watches me work for a long moment, then speaks quietly. "It won't always be like this."

Then he's gone, leaving me with blood-stained concrete and the ghost of gentle hands. I scrub harder, trying to erase stains that have become part of the stone itself. By the time I finish, full dark has fallen. My hands are raw meat, my back screams with every movement, and I missed dinner service which means no food until tomorrow.

I climb the stairs on legs that barely work, each step an negotiation with gravity. Make it to the kitchen where Rosie waits with worried eyes and stolen bread.

"Eat."

"Can't. Too tired."

"Eat anyway." She breaks the bread into small pieces, feeds them to me like I'm a child. "Morrison came looking for you earlier. Said you need medical attention."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. None of us are. But you especially—what you did yesterday, it nearly killed you. And they know it. They're pushing harder because they sense weakness."

She's right. Predators always know when prey is wounded.

I manage half the bread before exhaustion wins. Rosie helps me to our closet-room where the others already sleep in their pile of shared warmth. I collapse onto my pallet, body one giant bruise, gift depleted, hope guttering like a candle in wind.

Three more days. Three more days of this escalating torture. Three more days before Tam disappears into whatever hell waits for pretty omega children.

Unless something changes.

Unless Morrison's promises mean something.

Unless the silver threads come back strong enough to matter.

But I'm too tired for unless. Too broken for hope.

Sleep takes me under, and I dream of blood that won't wash out no matter how hard I scrub.