The Cursed Omega's Revenge

Chapter Sixteen

GRAY

The throne room reeks of fear-sweat and submission, that particular cocktail of scents that rises from a crowd anticipating violence. Every wolf in Bloodthrone packs into the space, segregated by rank in concentric circles of diminishing worth. Alphas and their favored Betas claim the inner ring, close enough to smell the blood when it spills. The rest arrange themselves outward by degrees of power, until the omegas press against the walls, trying to become invisible.

I stand with my brothers among the mid-ranked visitors, our investigator status granting us neutral ground. The late afternoon sun slants through high windows, turning dust motes into floating amber. Each shaft of light illuminates another pocket of misery—here a Beta with yellowing bruises, there an omega child too thin for their frame, everywhere the careful distance subordinates maintain from their superiors.

Samira enters with the other kitchen omegas, and my wolf stirs beneath my skin. Even from across the room, I catch her scent—lightning and sweetness, now undercut with the musk of arousal I put there an hour ago. She moves differently, I notice. Still careful, still calculated, but there's a fluidity that wasn't there before. As if pleasure has taught her body new ways to exist in space.

Her dress bears a fresh tear at the shoulder seam, probably from our rushed separation in the bell tower. The fabric gaps just enough to reveal the smooth curve where neck meets shoulder, skin I've tasted, skin that tastes of silver fire and secrets. She takes her position against the far wall between Rosie and young Tam, keeping her eyes down, making herself small.

"Brothers and sisters." Remus's voice cuts through the murmur of assembled wolves. He sits on what was my father's chair, transformed into something grotesque with added gilt and carved wolves that look more like demons. "We gather to address a disturbing trend."

The temperature drops. Even the Alphas straighten, sensing the particular flavor of Remus's rage—cold, calculated, theatrical. He rises from his throne with the kind of deliberate grace that precedes brutality.

"Someone has been stealing from our medical stores." Each word falls like a stone into still water. "Wolfsbane. Silver nitrate. Compounds that, in the wrong hands, become weapons against your own kind."

My peripheral vision catches Samira's absolute stillness. Not the freeze of guilt, but the careful non-reaction of someone who's learned to show nothing when everything's at stake. Her hand finds Tam's, a small comfort offered despite her own danger.

"Beta Hector nearly died." Remus descends from the dais, moving through the crowd that parts like water. "His wolf may never fully recover. This is attempted murder of a ranked pack member."

Hector himself stands near the throne, and I study him with clinical interest. Three days since the injection, and he looks like a strong wind would snap him in half. His usually pale skin has taken on a grayish cast, and when he moves, it's with the careful consideration of someone whose body no longer obeys instantly. His wolf is gone, locked away behind chemical barriers, leaving him vulnerable as any human.

Good.

"We've identified the thief." Remus's announcement sends a ripple of anticipation through the crowd. My muscles coil, ready to move, but then two Betas drag forward a figure that isn't Samira.

Luna Margaret.

My mother stumbles between her captors, and rage floods my system so fast I taste copper. Maddox's hand finds my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise—a reminder, a warning, a plea for control. On my other side, Paxton's breathing has gone carefully measured, the way he does when he's fighting not to let his gift spiral.

"Our Luna," Remus's voice drips false sorrow, "has forgotten her place. She's been stealing medical supplies, distributing them to omegas, undermining pack hierarchy."

They force her to her knees in the center of the room. Her silk dress—one of the few nice things she's allowed—tears at the knee, revealing skin mottled with old bruises. But she raises her head, meets Remus's gaze with a defiance that makes my chest tight with pride and terror.

"Twenty lashes." He announces it casually, like ordering coffee. "A reminder that even Lunas must respect pack law."

"She's your mate." The words escape before wisdom can stop them. Every eye in the room turns to me, and I feel my brothers' tension ratchet higher.

Remus's attention falls on me like weight. "Investigator Morrison. How good of you to remind me of my personal stakes in this betrayal."

I force my expression into professional neutrality. "The Council has specific statutes regarding the punishment of mated pairs. Article seven, subsection three—"

"States that an Alpha may discipline his mate as he sees fit, provided permanent damage isn't inflicted." Remus's smile could freeze blood. "Twenty lashes won't leave permanent damage. Will they, my dear?"

My mother says nothing. She knows, as we all know, that the physical scars will heal. It's everything else that stays broken.

They strip her dress to the waist with clinical efficiency, baring her back to the crowd. I catalog each scar revealed—some old enough to be silver-white, others still pink with recent healing. A map of twenty years of creative cruelty. My wolf howls beneath my skin, demanding blood for blood, but I lock him down with brutal force.

The first crack of leather on skin echoes through the throne room. My mother doesn't make a sound, but I see the impact ripple through her body, see her fingers curl against the floor.

Two. Three. Four.

I count each stroke, memorize each welt rising on pale skin. Beside me, Maddox trembles with suppressed power. Objects throughout the room vibrate subtly—glasses on tables, weapons on walls, dust motes suddenly moving in patterns that defy air currents.

"Control," I breathe, so quiet only my brothers can hear.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Blood now, running in thin rivulets down her spine. The omegas along the walls have gone pale, some of the younger ones crying silently. I find Samira in the crowd, see her gripping Tam so tight her knuckles have gone white. Her face remains carefully blank, but I notice how she positions herself, subtly shielding the child from the worst of the view.

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

My mother's body jerks with each impact now, her strength failing. The Beta wielding the whip shows no emotion, just mechanical precision. This is a job, nothing more. The blood spatters wider with each strike, droplets reaching the inner circle of observers. Some step back. Others lean forward.

Seventeen. Eighteen.

She collapses forward, catching herself on her hands. Blood pools on the white marble, the same marble where my father bled out twenty years ago. The symmetry makes my vision blur with rage.

Nineteen.

The whip rises for the final blow, and my mother's arms give out. She sprawls on the marble, consciousness fading. The Beta adjusts his stance, aiming for unmarked skin.

Twenty.

The last lash falls across her lower back, and she doesn't even flinch. She's gone somewhere beyond pain, that place where the mind retreats when the body can't escape.

"Clean her up." Remus waves a dismissive hand. "Take her to the medical wing. Let this be a lesson about the price of betrayal."

He turns to address the crowd, but I'm watching the omegas move. They surge forward as one, Rosie directing with sharp gestures. Samira and three others lift my mother with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. Her blood soaks into their clothes, but they don't hesitate, cradling her broken form between them.

"The rest of you, dismissed." Remus's voice carries satisfaction now, his point made in blood and suffering. "Remember what you've seen. Remember the consequences of defying pack law."

The throne room empties in a controlled rush, wolves eager to escape the copper stench and lingering violence. I force myself to move with them, to maintain cover even as every instinct screams to follow that small procession carrying my mother away.

"Not yet." Maddox's grip on my arm is iron. "Too obvious."

He's right. Guards watch every exit, and Remus himself still stands on the dais, pale eyes tracking movement with predatory focus. So we file out with the others, three investigators properly disturbed by the primitive justice they've witnessed.

The corridor outside buzzes with nervous energy. Wolves cluster in small groups, voices low and urgent. Some approve—harsh but necessary, they murmur. Others say nothing, but their faces carry the hollow look of those who've seen too much and can't afford to care anymore.

"Fifteen minutes," I tell my brothers. "Then I'm checking the medical wing."

"Gray—"

"Fifteen minutes."

I pace our quarters, each second crawling by with agonizing slowness. Through the window, I watch guards change shifts, note patterns, calculate approaches. The medical wing is in the east section, technically off-limits to non-pack members. But investigators have authority to document medical facilities, to ensure proper care standards.

When fifteen minutes pass, I straighten my tie, grab the official tablet we use for reports. Professional. Clinical. Just an investigator following up on a concerning incident.

The medical wing smells of antiseptic trying to mask decay. Half the rooms stand empty, equipment sold off or redistributed to more profitable ventures. I follow the sound of movement, find them in a room at the end of the corridor.

My mother lies face-down on a medical cot that's seen better decades. Rosie kneels beside her, carefully cleaning blood from torn skin with hands that shake slightly. Samira stands at the head of the bed, my mother's hands gripped in hers, whispering something too low to catch.

They both freeze when I enter, Rosie's eyes going wide with fear. But Samira just looks at me with those golden eyes that see too much.

"Investigator Morrison." Her voice stays carefully neutral. "You documentin' medical responses to pack discipline?"

"Something like that." I close the door, engage the lock. "How bad?"

Rosie glances between us, clearly calculating risks. "Twenty lashes with a weighted whip. Muscle damage, might be her kidneys took a hit from them lower strikes. She need a real healer, but—"

"But healers is for ranked wolves." Samira finishes, bitterness creeping into her tone. "Lunas who forget where they belong get bandages and prayers, if they lucky."

I approach slowly, see my mother's back properly now. The damage is extensive, designed to scar, to serve as permanent reminder. Without proper healing, she'll carry these marks forever.

"Can you—" I stop, catch myself before revealing too much. But Samira understands anyway.

"Rosie, go fetch more water. Clean water, from them kitchen filters what actually work."

The old omega hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave Samira alone with me. But something in Samira's expression decides her. She shuffles out, closing the door soft behind her.

The moment we're alone, Samira moves. She locks the door properly, wedges a chair under the handle. Then she's at the window, pulling curtains that barely hang on bent rods.

"You know her." Not a question. "Way you was watchin', way your hands kept makin' fists. You know her personal-like."

I open my mouth to lie, but she shakes her head.

"Don't matter. Just—watch that door for me."

She returns to my mother, and something shifts in the air. The temperature drops several degrees, and I smell ozone, like the moment before lightning strikes. Samira places her palms on the worst of the wounds, and her breathing changes, becomes deeper, rhythmic.

At first, nothing happens. Then I see it—the faintest shimmer of silver beneath her skin, like moonlight trapped in her veins. It pools in her palms, growing brighter, until actual light begins to seep between her fingers.

The wounds respond immediately. Blood stops flowing. Edges begin to pull together, not fully healing but closing enough to prevent infection, to minimize scarring. The silver light pulses with Samira's heartbeat, and I realize she's pouring her own life force into my mother's body.

"Stop." I move toward her, see how pale she's becoming. "You're giving too much."

"Almost—" Her voice comes out strained. "Almost got it."

The light flares once, bright enough to leave afterimages. Then Samira collapses.

I catch her before she hits the floor, her body limp and frightening cold. Her pulse flutters beneath my fingers, thready and weak. I've seen this before in healing texts—the cost of forcing life force transfer, especially without proper training.

My mother stirs on the cot, unconscious but breathing easier. The wounds on her back have closed to angry red lines instead of gaping tears. Not fully healed, but survivable.

The door handle rattles. I shift Samira to the floor, arrange her like she simply fainted from the sight of blood. By the time Rosie forces the door open, I'm standing by the window, tablet in hand, every inch the professional investigator.

"She collapsed." I keep my voice clinical. "Possibly shock from the violence witnessed."

Rosie's knowing eyes take in the scene—my mother's improved condition, Samira unconscious on the floor, the lingering scent of ozone and silver in the air.

"Yes sir," she says slowly. "Shock. Girl always been tender-hearted 'bout violence and such."

Together we lift Samira onto an empty cot. Her skin feels like ice, and when I check her pulse again, it's barely there. Whatever she did drained her almost completely.

"She needs—" I start, but Rosie cuts me off.

"Rest is what she need. Maybe some food when she come to. That honey water from the kitchen, if Cook's feelin' generous." She fusses with a thin blanket, tucking it around Samira's still form. "Girl always givin' more'n she got. Even when there ain't nothin' left in her to give."

I want to stay. Want to wrap myself around her until warmth returns to her skin, until her pulse strengthens. But boots echo in the corridor—guards doing rounds, checking on the Luna's condition.

"I should continue my inspection." The words taste like ash. "Other facilities to document."

Rosie nods, but as I reach the door, she speaks again. "That girl there, our Mud, she somethin' special. More special than she know herself. Than anybody know, I reckon." A pause, weighted with meaning. "Be a real shame if the wrong folks was to catch on to what she really is."

Our eyes meet, and understanding passes between us. She knows I care. Knows I saw what Samira did. And she's warning me that others might notice too.

I leave them there, my mother unconscious but healing, Samira drained to dangerous levels, Rosie standing guard over both. The walk back to our quarters feels endless, each step away from her a betrayal of instincts that scream to protect, to claim, to never let her out of my sight.

My brothers wait with barely contained questions. I give them the basics—Mother will survive, Samira helped, the situation is contained for now. But my mind stays in that medical room, with a woman who burns herself to ash to heal others, who hides impossible power beneath careful submission.

Three days until the auction. Three days to finish our investigation, identify the Council traitor, position our pieces. Three days of pretending I don't know that Samira is something extraordinary, something that calls to every protective instinct I have.

Through our window, I watch the sun sink toward the horizon, painting the compound in shades of rust and shadow. Somewhere in the medical wing, she's still unconscious, still cold, still recovering from saving my mother at terrible cost to herself.

And somewhere in his throne room, Remus sits in my father's chair, unaware that his carefully controlled world has already started to crack.