The Cursed Omega's Revenge

Chapter Eighteen

GRAY

The secure phone vibrates against aged mahogany, its blue glow cutting through darkness thick as wolf's blood. Four in the morning, that liminal hour when even predators sleep. My brothers dream in adjoining rooms while I stand naked at floor-to-ceiling windows, watching mist curl through Bloodthrone's manicured grounds like fingers searching for throats to squeeze.

"Container ships from Vladivostok docked in Mobile yesterday." Dimitri's voice carries exhaustion wrapped in chemical alertness—the particular cocktail that keeps Interpol agents functional when cases bleed into obsession. "Manifests claim agricultural equipment. Reality delivered twenty-three omegas from breeding facilities in the Qinghai mountains."

I press my palm against cold glass, feel the compound's pulse through my skin. Hundreds of wolves stirring toward consciousness below, the daily dance of predator and prey about to resume. "Specific bloodlines?"

"The handlers' documentation references breeding programs that predate modern pack structure. Detailed genetic records tracking inherited traits across generations—which pairings produce the strongest offspring, the most compliant temperaments." Papers shuffle through encrypted connection. "They're farming them, Gray. Like prize cattle, complete with pedigree charts."

The memory surfaces without permission—ten years old, Willa's arms crushing me against her ribs in that hidden passage. The wet sound of Father's throat opening under Remus's blade, arterial spray painting marble in patterns that looked almost deliberate. Maddox's fingernails drawing blood from my palm while Paxton's tears soaked silent into Willa's dress. The smell of copper and betrayal, of endings that birth twisted beginnings.

"Global omega births have dropped below seven percent." A lighter clicks through the phone—Dimitri's tenth cigarette of the night, probably. "Three percent in isolated territories. The specialty farms are attempting to maintain supply through forced breeding."

"Tell me about the northern operations."

A pause. Deep inhale. "The Canadian facilities are working with Inuit bloodlines we believed extinct. Genetic markers for what our ancestors called direwolves."

My reflection sharpens in window glass—green eyes that hold too much of my father's rage, shoulders built to carry invisible weight. "That's mythology."

"Your brother moves objects without touching them. The youngest reads history through skin contact. We're past the boundaries of mythology, Gray."

He doesn't know about Samira. About the silver light that flows from her palms like liquid moonlight, the way she brought my mother back from death's threshold before collapsing in that medical room. I've kept that intelligence locked behind my teeth—a secret that tastes of possession and protection in equal measure.

"These bloodlines carry markers for anomalous abilities. Enhanced strength that violates our understanding of muscle density. Sensory capabilities beyond normal wolf parameters. And fertility markers that produce alphas of unprecedented power when properly paired."

The door opens without ceremony. Maddox enters wearing black silk pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips, dark hair still mussed from sleep. Behind him, Paxton appears fully dressed despite the hour, fingers already drumming that nervous rhythm against his thigh—the pattern that means his gift won't let him rest.

"Speaker," Maddox commands, settling into aged leather that creaks beneath his weight. A crystal decanter lifts from the bar, amber liquid pouring itself into three glasses with perfect precision—casual display of power that would mark him valuable in the same markets we investigate.

I tap the phone. Dimitri's voice fills the space between us, carrying weight that makes my wolf pace beneath my skin. "The buyers trace through shell companies to established packs. Old bloodlines with Council connections deep enough to matter."

"How deep?"

"Deep enough that Councilor Chen called personally. Her exact message—trust no one in Council colors. The rot climbs higher than we anticipated."

Chen, who taught me to read wind patterns when I was seven, to track prey through summer storms by scent alone. Who held my mother through my birth when complications nearly killed us both. If she's delivering warnings directly, bypassing official channels, the danger has teeth we haven't glimpsed yet.

"There's more. Alpha fertility rates show catastrophic decline among the old bloodlines. Established dynasties are dying out. Current theory suggests breeding with these specific omegas might reverse the trend—hence the astronomical prices."

Through the window, Bloodthrone's grounds emerge from darkness in gradations of gray. Somewhere below, kitchen staff begin their day—including one golden-eyed omega who moves through violence like water, who bleeds silver light when she thinks no one watches.

"Physical documents," Paxton says, his voice carrying that particular tension of a gift that never stops feeding him information. "Digital trails only tell surface stories. I need something I can read properly."

"Working on it. The auction's in two days. After that, you're extracted. The convergence of interested parties makes continued cover untenable."

The line dies with electronic finality. Dawn bleeds across the horizon in shades of rust and old copper, painting everything in colors that remind me of spilled blood on marble.

"We can't save them all." Paxton speaks truth like a blade between ribs—clean, precise, painful.

"We save who we can."

"Starting with Mother and the omega you watch like she's magnetic north?" Maddox lets a floating glass settle onto carved wood with deliberate control. "That's not the mission."

The mission. Gather evidence against Remus. Depose him through Council authority so I can claim what's mine by blood right. But we still don't know who protects him from the shadows, who's been feeding him intelligence for twenty years, warning him when investigations venture too close to truth.

A knock interrupts my response. The nervous omega who brings coffee each morning, always careful to keep her eyes downcast. But this morning she carries more than silver service and French pastries. An envelope of thick cream paper rests beside the coffee pot, sealed with wax the color of fresh blood.

"From Alpha Remus," she whispers, already retreating toward the door like prey that knows it's been noticed.

I break the seal, unfold stationary that whispers wealth in every fiber. Remus's handwriting sprawls across the page in aggressive strokes that remind me of claw marks:

Investigators Morrison,

A private preview of tomorrow's auction lots has been arranged. Select buyers only. Your position grants you professional courtesy—early access to examine the inventory.

The viewing begins at noon in the east pavilion. Light refreshments will be served.

What outsiders call trafficking, we call tradition. The exchange of pack members has maintained bloodline diversity since before written history. I trust men of your sophistication understand that some practices transcend modern sensibilities.

—Alpha Remus Carver

"Arrogant bastard's actually trying to convert us to his perspective." Maddox watches condensation bead on untouched crystal, each droplet catching light like tears.

But my attention fixes on a second page, handwritten in different ink—fresher, still carrying the metallic scent of recent inscription:

Late Addition - Lot 47-B: Defective Omega

Female, approximately 20 years

Non-cycling (confirmed infertile)

Classification: Manual labor only

Previous owner: Bloodthrone Pack (internal transfer)

Starting bid: $500

Notes: Brown wolf, recessive genetics, suitable for housework/field labor

Current designation: "Mud"

No breeding value—price reflects utility only

The paper tears where my claws emerge without conscious thought, shredding through words that reduce her to nothing. My wolf explodes against the cage of my ribs, demanding freedom, demanding blood, demanding we tear through every barrier between us and the woman who carries lightning in her veins.

"Gray." Paxton's hand hovers near my shoulder, not quite touching—he knows better than to make contact when my control fractures. "Your eyes are bleeding gold."

"He's selling her." The words emerge more growl than speech.

Maddox takes the torn page, scans quickly. Understanding dawns across his features like sunrise over water, followed by carefully controlled fury. "Five hundred dollars. He's pricing her less than the clothes he wears to dinner."

"This is about Hector." Paxton's fingers trace the paper's edge, his gift pulling impressions from ink and intention. "Three days ago, someone injected Hector with concentrated wolfsbane and silver nitrate. Killed his wolf permanently. This is Remus testing his suspicions."

The pieces align with sickening clarity. Hector found unconscious in his quarters, his wolf caged forever behind walls of chemistry and silver. No one claimed responsibility. But if Remus suspects Samira...

"If he knew for certain, she'd already be dead." Maddox reasons through the logic with cold precision. "This is calculated. He's watching to see who reacts. Who tries to save the worthless omega that nobody should care about."

"Or he simply enjoys the cruelty of it." I turn from the window where morning light transforms the compound into something deceptively beautiful, all golden edges and soft shadows that hide the rot beneath. "Making her stand on that platform while buyers examine her like furniture. Letting her know exactly what she's worth in his economy."

The thought of strange hands evaluating her, calculating her value in labor and pain, determining how much suffering her body can absorb before breaking—

Crystal shatters in my grip. Blood wells where shards meet flesh, healing before the drops can fall. The metallic scent fills the air, making all our wolves stir restless beneath skin.

"We maintain cover." Maddox's words carry less conviction than they should. "Gather evidence. Identify his protector. Execute the plan—"

"She'll be gone before we can move." The certainty tastes of copper and rage. "Sold to some backwater pack that needs another body to break. Or worse—"

Someone who recognizes what hides beneath exhaustion and careful invisibility. Someone who knows how to spot suppressed bloodlines, hidden power. The daughter of Liwon and Suchin Lim, carrying genetics that shouldn't exist, standing on an auction block because she dared defend herself against a sadist who saw her as a toy to break.

"Mother made us promise." Paxton's reminder carries the weight of that night when we found her alive, when she made us swear on Father's grave to maintain cover no matter what we witnessed.

Mother. Who breathes because Samira poured her life force into healing wounds that should have been fatal. Who probably doesn't know the girl who saved her is about to be sold for less than the wine Mother drinks with breakfast.

Another knock. Different omega, trembling visibly beneath her careful composure. "Alpha Remus requests your immediate presence. The viewing has been moved up. He insists you attend."

Of course it has. Keep us off balance, force us to dance to his rhythm while he watches for tells, for weaknesses, for proof that someone cares about one broken omega whose value he's set at pocket change.

"Inform Alpha Carver we'll attend shortly."

She flees like her tail's on fire. I dress with mechanical precision, each movement controlled despite rage that threatens to crack my chest open. Custom suit that fits like armor, weapons hidden beneath fabric that whispers money with every thread. My brothers mirror my preparations, our synchronized movements born from twenty years of shared trauma, of learning to hide truth beneath carefully constructed masks.

"We attend the viewing." My voice emerges steady despite my wolf howling for blood, for justice, for the freedom to tear out throats. "We catalogue faces. Gather intelligence. Play our parts."

"And Samira?"

I meet Maddox's eyes, see my own determination reflected despite his protests. Paxton watches us both with that particular expression of someone whose gift has already shown him how this ends—badly, probably, with blood and fire and broken promises.

The invitation burns in my pocket as we descend marble stairs that still remember my father's blood, no matter how many times they've been cleaned. Through tall windows, morning light paints everything gold—the exact shade of eyes that don't know they're about to be sold. Eyes that don't know three brothers are about to shatter twenty years of planning, break every promise, destroy every carefully constructed cover to ensure she never stands on that platform.

The east pavilion rises like a glass and steel obscenity against the traditional architecture, Remus's monument to his own power. Inside, alphas gather in expensive suits and predator smiles, examining the preliminary offerings—omegas in chains, some barely past presentation, all wearing the particular expression of those who've learned hope hurts worse than despair.

Remus holds court at the pavilion's heart, surrounded by handlers and accountants, playing the gracious host to monsters dressed in civilization's trappings. He smiles when he spots us, all teeth and calculated welcome, raising a crystal glass of something that catches light like liquid rubies.

"Investigators Morrison! Come, let me introduce you to some of our most discerning collectors."

Collectors. Not buyers. Not slavers. Collectors, like these broken souls are art pieces to be acquired and displayed.

My hands form fists inside tailored pockets, claws drawing blood from my own palms to keep from reaching for his throat. Around us, omegas stand in careful lines while alphas examine them like livestock—checking teeth, testing muscle tone, evaluating breeding potential with clinical detachment.

"This one's from the northern territories," a handler explains to a silver-haired alpha whose cologne can't mask the rot beneath. "Excellent bloodline. Her grandmother was—"

"I don't care about her grandmother." The alpha's hand grips the omega's jaw, forcing her mouth open to examine her teeth. "I care about her fertility markers. The last one you sold me turned out barren after three breeding cycles."

My wolf snarls silent in my chest. Maddox's control slips enough that several champagne glasses on a nearby table begin to vibrate. Paxton's gone pale, his gift feeding him the history of every chain, every collar, every omega who's stood in this pavilion and never left whole.

"The special lots won't be displayed until tomorrow's main event," Remus appears at my elbow like smoke given form. His smile carries the particular satisfaction of a predator who knows the prey can't run. "But I thought you might be interested in a late addition. Defective specimen, but sometimes those have their own... appeal."

He knows. Or suspects. This is the test—will the investigators who've shown such interest in his omega population react to news of one worthless girl's sale?

"Manual labor classifications rarely interest our department," I respond with calculated boredom. "The Council focuses on bloodline preservation, not domestic servants."

"Of course." But his eyes glitter with something that might be amusement. Or anticipation. "Still, she's an interesting case. Twenty years old, never had a heat. Completely barren. Yet she continues to survive. There's something almost... admirable about that level of biological failure, don't you think?"

Every word is a hook seeking flesh, testing for reaction. I give him nothing but professional disinterest while my wolf tears at my ribs, demanding I show him what biological failure really looks like—his throat opened to spine, his blood painting these pristine floors in patterns that would make his brother proud.

"Survival's rarely admirable," I respond instead. "It's just persistence without purpose."

Remus laughs, the sound carrying across the pavilion like breaking glass. "Spoken like a true Council man. Come, there are others you should meet."

He leads us deeper into the gathering, past alphas whose names I recognize from Father's old files—pack leaders who've grown fat on the suffering trade, who've built dynasties on foundation of broken bodies and stolen children. They greet us with careful respect, these investigators who might hold their futures in our manicured hands.

But all I can think about is golden eyes that will stand on tomorrow's platform. Golden eyes that don't know the storm that's coming.

Two days.

Forty-eight hours to dismantle twenty years of planning for one woman who doesn't even know my real name.

The mission's already ashes. We just haven't struck the match yet.