The Cursed Omega's Revenge

Chapter Ten

SAMIRA

The bruise on my ribs spreads like wine spilled on white cloth, purple-black bleeding into yellow-green at the edges. Two days since Holly's boot found that sweet spot between bone and breath, and my body forgot how to fix itself. I press fingers against the tender flesh, watch it go white then flood dark again. Pain blooms sharp and real—the only thing that cuts through the numbness.

Used to be bruises faded in hours on me. Used to be cuts closed while I watched. Used to be I had a wolf who knew the secret language of healing.

Now I got a hollow where she lived, an echo chamber that amplifies absence with every breath.

The investigators leave tomorrow. I'm scrubbing the main hall floor when footsteps stop beside my bucket. Pine and winter storms—that scent hits before I look up. The tall one. The one whose green eyes made my dead wolf thrash like something drowning.

"You're hurt."

Not a question. I keep my eyes on the marble, watching his reflection fracture in the sudsy water. His jaw works like he's chewing words he can't spit out.

"Fell down the stairs." The lie comes automatic, worn smooth from overuse.

He crouches beside me, and I catch myself breathing shallow to avoid pulling in more of his scent. Even with my wolf buried under silver and wolfsbane, something in me recognizes something in him. Makes my skin prickle with awareness I don't want.

"Stairs don't leave knuckle marks." His voice carries controlled fury. "Who—"

"Does it matter?" I dunk my rag, wring it out harder than necessary. Water splashes, droplets catching light like tiny prisms. "You leave tomorrow. We go back to normal. This is normal."

Silence stretches between us. I scrub the same spot over and over, feeling the weight of his stare like hands on my skin.

"Your wolf." He says it quiet. "She's gone."

My hand stills. Nobody's supposed to notice. Nobody's supposed to care about one broken omega who can't even cycle right.

"Good riddance." The words taste like copper. "She never brought nothing but trouble."

"That's not—" He cuts himself off, runs a hand through dark hair that falls back perfectly messed. Everything about him screams control, but there's something wild underneath. Something that calls to the empty spaces in me. "Wolfsbane and silver together. That's not suppression, that's—"

"I know what it is." I start scrubbing again because motion is safer than stillness. "Luna warned me. Might be permanent. Hope it is."

He makes a sound low in his throat, almost a growl. The bucket between us trembles, water rippling without anyone touching it.

"You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" I finally meet his eyes, let him see the nothing inside. "You don't know me. What makes you think you know what I deserve? I'm a worthless omega with a weak wolf. Now she's gone. Good."

His hand moves like he might touch me, stops inches from my cheek. The air between his palm and my skin electric with possibility.

"You're not worthless." Each word deliberate as a vow. "You're—"

"Hey Gabe!" Another investigator calls from the doorway—the artistic one who moves like liquid lightning. "Transport confirmed for dawn. Need you to sign off on the preliminary reports."

Green Eyes—Gabe—stays frozen for a heartbeat. Then he stands, professional mask sliding back into place. But not before I catch something raw in his expression. Something that looks like recognition fighting its way to the surface.

"This isn't over," he tells me, quiet enough his colleague can't hear.

Then he's gone, leaving me with sudsy water and the ghost of almost-touch burning on my skin.

Sandra finds me an hour later, takes her daily entertainment in a backhand that snaps my head sideways. I taste blood, feel it pool behind teeth I won't let her knock loose. She calls me pathetic. Worthless. Other words that slide off like water because I already know what I am.

But something strange happens when she walks away. The cut inside my cheek seals itself in seconds. Not the slow, human healing I been dealing with for days. Quick. Clean. Like my body remembered its old tricks for just a moment.

I run my tongue over smooth flesh where torn should be, confused. My wolf is gone. I felt her die, felt the silver and wolfsbane lock her in a cage so deep she'll never surface.

So why did that heal?

No time to wonder. The day crawls forward in its usual rhythm—serve breakfast, clean rooms, dodge fists and feet when I'm too slow. My body moves through it all disconnected, a puppet dancing on strings of habit.

It's near sunset when I find Tam in the pantry, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's.

Half a bread roll stuffed in her mouth, crumbs on her chin, guilt and terror warring in her huge eyes when she sees me.

"I was just—Cook said—"

Footsteps. Heavy. Cook's particular rhythm when she's hunting for something to be mad about. I grab the rest of the bread from Tam's dress, shove it in my mouth. The door swings open as I'm still chewing.

"Stealing from my pantry?" Cook's face already red with righteous fury.

"Got hungry." I swallow hard, feel the bread stick in my throat. "Took some."

Her eyes narrow, darting between me and Tam. The calculation happens quick—punish the child who might still learn proper fear, or the broken omega who takes beatings like breathing?

The rolling pin catches me across the shoulders, drives me to my knees. Another blow finds the spreading bruise on my ribs. I curl tight, protect the soft parts, let her work out whatever rage needs releasing. Each impact rings through me, sharp and lasting without my wolf to dull the edges.

"Thieving trash!" Another hit, this one catching my kidney. Stars burst behind my eyelids. "Think you can steal from me?"

Tam makes a sound, high and scared. I catch her eye through the haze of pain, shake my head once. Stay quiet. Stay still. Let me be the lightning rod for all that anger.

Cook beats me methodical, like kneading bread. Arms like iron from years of kitchen work finding every tender spot, every old hurt that ain't healed right. My body rocks with impacts, but I keep the sounds locked behind teeth. Just breathe through it. Count the blows like prayer beads.

She stops when her arm gets tired. Always does. I stay curled on the cold floor, waiting for permission to exist again.

"Get out of my kitchen. Both of you." She's breathing hard, satisfied. "And if I catch either of you stealing again—"

I push myself up slow. Everything screams. Without my wolf, pain don't fade quick—it settles in for a long visit. Tam helps me stand, her small hands shaking where they grip my arm.

Soon as we're far enough away, she starts crying proper. "Why'd you do that? I'm the one who stole."

Because you're eight. Because you still got hope. Because someone needs to stand between small things and sharp teeth.

"Don't matter." I squeeze her shoulder gentle as I can. "Go find Rosie."

"Mud—"

"Go."

She goes reluctant, looking back with eyes too old for her face. I manage the basement stairs through willpower and wall support, each step a fresh reminder of Cook's handiwork.

The closet-room is empty, most omegas still at evening tasks. I sink onto my pallet, try to find a position that don't press on fresh damage. Everything hurts deeper now, lasting in ways it never used to.

But then—warmth spreads from somewhere beneath my breastbone. Not healing exactly, but something else. Like silver threads weaving through the pain, taking the sharpest edges and softening them just enough to bear.

I press a hand to my chest, confused. There's no wolf there. Just empty space. But something else moves under my skin, delicate as spider silk and twice as strange.

"Mud?"

I jerk, hissing when the movement pulls at bruised ribs. The investigator—Gabe—stands in the doorway like he's got every right to be in omega quarters after dark.

"You can't be here." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "If someone sees—"

"Everyone's at dinner." He steps inside, fills the small space with his presence. Pine and storms and something wild barely leashed. "I needed to—are you bleeding?"

I touch my lip, find it split from Cook's rolling pin. The blood tastes wrong. Not copper but something sweeter, with an aftertaste like moonlight.

"It's nothing."

"Stop saying that." He moves closer, and I got nowhere to retreat. "Stop acting like you deserve this."

"Don't I?" The laugh hurts coming out. "Defective omega who can't do nothing right. Who steals food and makes trouble. Quit trying to tell me what I deserve when you can't do nothing about it."

His hands frame my face before I can flinch away, thumbs ghosting over bruises with impossible gentleness. Green eyes bore into mine with intensity that makes my chest tight.

"You deserve—" His voice breaks. Reforms. "So much more than this."

The air between us charges, electric with things unsaid. My skin burns where he touches, and that silver thread in my chest pulls taut like it recognizes something in him. Wants something I don't understand.

"Tomorrow you leave." I should pull away. Can't. "Tomorrow this ends."

"No." The word comes fierce. "This is just beginning."

His thumb brushes my split lip, and heat races through me that's got nothing to do with pain. For a moment, I forget I'm empty. Forget I'm nothing. Forget everything but the weight of his hands and the way he looks at me like I'm worth saving.

Then footsteps on the stairs shatter the moment. He pulls back, professional mask slamming into place. By the time Rosie appears, he's examining our quarters with bureaucratic disinterest.

"These conditions are substandard," he says, voice carrying no trace of what just passed between us. "I'll note it in my report."

Rosie bobs her head, eyes darting between us with too much knowing. He leaves without looking at me again, but I feel the reluctance in his retreat.

"Girl," Rosie says soon as he's gone, "what are you playing at?"

"Nothing." I touch my lip where his thumb brushed. "I'm nothing."

She makes that sound that means she don't believe me but won't push. Not yet. Instead, she helps me clean and bandage the worst damage, clucking over bruises that should be fading but ain't.

"These should be half-healed by now." She prods the mass on my ribs, making me hiss. "Even without your wolf, your body should—"

"Well it don't." I pull my shirt down, done with being examined. "Not anymore."

But even as I say it, that silver warmth pulses under my skin. Not healing. Something else. Something that tastes like secrets and moonlight and the impossible green of a stranger's eyes.

Night comes with its usual chorus of exhausted breathing and muffled tears. I lay careful on my side, Tam curled against my back like a puppy seeking warmth. Her breath evens out into sleep, but I stay awake, counting bruises like stars.

Tomorrow the investigators leave. Tomorrow we go back to normal. Tomorrow—

"Mud." Rosie's whisper cuts through the dark. "Harry told me something. About the auction lists."

My body goes rigid. "What about them?"

"Tam's name." She don't need to say more.

The silver thread in my chest goes cold. All those beatings. All that pain taken to keep her safe. And still her name ends up on the list of goods for sale.

"No." The word comes out cracked. "I'll talk to Cook. Tell her—"

"Cook don't make the lists. Beta Hector does."

Hector. Who smiles like winter and takes pleasure in breaking things that bend too much. Who's been watching me with interest that makes my skin crawl.

"Then I'll talk to him." The decision settles like stones in my stomach. "Whatever he wants. Whatever it takes."

"Mud, no. You don't know what you're saying."

Don't I? I know exactly what men like Hector want from omegas who interest them. Know the price of keeping children off auction blocks. Know that some chains you put on yourself to keep others free.

"I know." I close my eyes, feel that silver thread pulse with something like warning. "But what else is there?"

Rosie don't answer. We both know there ain't nothing else. Just choices between different kinds of breaking.

I wait until the house sleeps deep before slipping out. My body protests every movement, but I push through. The Beta quarters are in the west wing, far enough from omega territory to feel like trespassing.

Hector's door stands half-open, lamplight spilling into the hallway. I knock soft, step inside when his voice calls permission.

He's at his desk, writing something that looks like inventory. When he sees me, his smile spreads slow and satisfied.

"Mud. What an unexpected pleasure." He sets down his pen, leans back to study me. "Come to entertain me for a bit?"

"Come to make a deal."

His eyebrows rise. "Oh? What could you possibly have that I want?"

I swallow pride, dignity, the last shreds of self I been holding tight. "Heard Tam's name is on the auction list."

"Children bring good prices." He shrugs like we're discussing weather. "Especially untouched ones."

"Take her off."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I'm asking." The words taste like gravel. "Because I'll do anything you want if you keep her off that list."

He rises, circles me slow. I feel his gaze like hands, taking inventory of bruises and bones and all the ways I don't measure up.

"Anything?" His finger traces my spine through thin fabric. "That's a dangerous offer, little omega."

"I mean it."

"I know you do." He stops in front of me, tips my chin up with one finger. "That's what makes you so... interesting."

I wait for him to name his price. To demand what all Alphas want from omegas. Instead, he studies me like a puzzle with missing pieces.

"I don't understand it," he muses. "You're ugly. Dark. Scrawny. Nothing to look at, really." Each word deliberate as a cut. "But you fascinate me."

I say nothing. There's nothing to say.

"It's because you won't break." His thumb brushes the bruise Sandra left on my cheek. "I've seen you take beatings that would leave grown wolves sobbing. Seen you swallow pain like water. But you never break. Never beg. Never give me the satisfaction of seeing you shatter."

The silver thread in my chest pulses warning. This is bigger than just wanting an omega in his bed. This is about power. About conquering something unconquerable.

"So here's my deal." His smile shows too many teeth. "You become my personal slave. Not just for a night or a week. Permanently. You belong to me, completely. Do whatever I say, whenever I say it. Let me try to find what finally breaks you."

"And Tam?"

"Stays off the auction block. This time and all times, as long as you're mine."

Mine. Like I'm property. Like I'm a thing to be owned and tested and discarded when the game gets boring. But Tam's eight. Tam's got a chance if I can buy her enough time.

"Deal."

The word falls between us like a key turning in a lock. His smile widens, and I see the next twenty years spread out like a map of suffering. But under it all, that silver thread pulses steady.

Not healing. Not my dead wolf. Something else. Something that tastes like endurance and moonlight and the memory of gentle hands on bruised skin.