The Omega's Desperate Escape

Chapter Nine

ALEX

The November rain tastes of rust and broken promises as I watch her flee Murphy's Law, that ridiculous baseball cap pulled low against the storm. Three months I've observed this impossible omega who fights like a blade dancer and hides behind drugstore cologne thick enough to choke lesser wolves. Three months of restraint, of meditation techniques the monks beat into me with bamboo rods and mountain cold.

All undone because Desmond Venture couldn't keep his whiskey-soaked scent to himself.

I dissolve into shadow between one heartbeat and the next, riding air currents up to the roof where I can track her progress through streets that shine like black glass. The Tibetan masters called it rlung rta—wind horse, the art of becoming one with the element that carries all things. To most wolves, I simply cease to exist.

She moves through my city—and Toronto is mine in all the ways that matter—checking shadows with the hypervigilance of prey that's learned to bite back. Her scent trail tells stories: jasmine and vanilla fighting a losing battle against Axe body spray, suppressants working overtime, and underneath it all, the copper tang of violence barely leashed.

Beautiful.

From my perch, I watch her meet the fox at the corner, see how the smaller girl threads her arm through Jinx's with pack instinct. Family forged from necessity rather than blood. The bear, the cat, the wolf, the fox—all circling their wounded omega like satellites around a gravity well.

My phone vibrates. Oliver, my head of security, his British accent clipped even through text: The building improvements are accelerating. Venture's moving faster.

Six weeks ago, Desmond bought their building. Started his little improvements, thinking he was clever with his hidden cameras and gradual renovations. As if I hadn't been monitoring every property transfer in the city since arriving eight months ago. As if I didn't have shell companies ready to counter any move he made.

Until now, I'd been content to let him play his games. Toronto needed its three-pack balance—Highland's old money, Lakeshore's new ambition, Venture's calculated rise. I'd carved my empire in the spaces between, neutral territory built on human power and supernatural discretion.

But then he had to notice her. My wild omega with her knives and her rage and her absolute refusal to submit to what biology demanded.

I track them to the building on Queen Street, noting the new security doors, the fixed windows, all of Venture's transparent attempts at courtship through real estate. Once they're inside, I drop from the roof in controlled descent, wind cushioning my fall until I land silent as snowfall in the alley.

The memory of first seeing her floods back unbidden. Three months ago, a Tuesday night when I'd been visiting Murphy's to ensure my neutrality arrangement with Mo held firm. She'd been elbow-deep in dishwater, cap low, shoulders curved in false submission that couldn't hide the predator underneath. The place was slammed so even the dishwasher was serving drinks.

Then some drunk beta had grabbed her ass.

The violence that followed was poetry. Economical, precise, utterly without mercy. She'd broken his wrist with the dish towel—a dish towel—then continued loading the bus tub like nothing had happened while he writhed on the floor.

I'd known then. My wolf had known. Had recognized something in her that went beyond designation, beyond the omega perfume struggling through industrial-strength cologne. Here was someone who'd been broken and reforged, who'd chosen violence over victimhood.

Three months of watching. Learning her routines, her tells, the way she counted suppressants like prayer beads. Three months of maintaining distance because I'd learned control in the mountains, learned that wanting and taking were different creatures entirely.

But Venture's interest changes the game. His cameras in her apartment, his building improvements, his appearance in that alley—all of it reeks of alpha entitlement wrapped in progressive packaging.

Time to stop playing observer.

My first call is to Stephanie, head of HR at the Emperor. She answers on the second ring because everyone answers when I call.

"Mr. Hartford." No questions about the late hour. Stephanie learned quickly that I keep my own schedule.

"There may be applications coming in. Five individuals from Queen Street. I want them hired."

"All of them?"

"All of them. Find positions that suit their skills. Competitive wages. Full benefits." I pause, calculating. "And Stephanie? Process them separately. They'll be suspicious of group offers."

"Understood. Anything else?"

"The omega might apply as male. Don't question it."

Silence as she processes this. Then, "Of course, Mr. Hartford. I'll handle it personally."

I end the call and consider my next move. Three months of watching from shadows, learning her patterns, her fears, the way she counts pills like a rosary to a god that's forsaken her. I know about the nightmares where she whispers Marcus's name. Know about the fundamentalist pack in Oregon that tried to break her. Know that she's down to three suppressants and Venture's interest is about to make her situation infinitely worse.

The wind carries me through Toronto's maze, past territories marked in scent and blood, to Murphy's Law. The bar sits on its corner like neutral ground made manifest, neon flickering between hope and surrender.

I solidify in the shadows beside the entrance, checking for threats before stepping into the light. Inside, Mo is wiping down tables with movements too precise for mere humanity. The allurus doesn't look up when I enter, but his shoulders tense with recognition.

"Your Highness." He uses the title like a weapon, soft enough that the three remaining patrons won't hear. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"You know why I'm here."

"The girl." He sets down his rag with deliberate care. "Who washes dishes like meditation and fights like she's got nothing left to lose."

"I'll be making her an offer. Her and her pack."

Mo's laugh carries centuries of watching powerful men make declarations about women who didn't ask for their attention. "And Venture? You think he'll just step aside because the lost prince of Edenvalen wants to play human?"

The title cuts deep, but I don't let it show. "I think Venture's about to learn that some bloodlines run deeper than his Quebec ambitions." I place a card on the bar—black metal, no name, just a private number. "I also think Murphy's Law deserves a silent partner. Someone who ensures it stays neutral territory regardless of which wolves circle."

He studies the card without touching it. Allurus don't survive centuries by grabbing every shiny thing offered. "You're starting a war."

"I'm preventing one. Venture's obsession will destabilize the entire city if left unchecked. I'm offering... alternative arrangements."

"And the girl? Does she get a say in these arrangements?"

The question lands like a physical blow. Because he's right—here I am, another alpha making plans around an omega who never asked for any of this. The irony tastes bitter as mountain snow.

"She'll have every choice. Always." The words come out rough with truth I hadn't expected to voice. "I'm not Venture. I'm not whoever this Marcus was. I'm offering options, not ownership."

Mo finally picks up the card, and for a heartbeat I glimpse his true form—something ancient and impossible, all shifting angles and watchful eyes—before he's just a middle-aged bar owner again.

"Five million should cover initial improvements," I continue. "Silent partnership. You maintain full control."

"Generous." He pockets the card. "The monks called you Yeshi. 'Primordial wisdom.' Let's hope their naming was prophetic."

"Let's hope their lessons in restraint hold," I counter, and we both know I'm not talking about business.

Outside, I dissolve into wind again, rising above the city that spreads like a circuit board of light and shadow. One more call to make.

Dr. Viola Wagner answers from her lab in Switzerland where genius keeps vampire hours. "Prince Alex. Do you know what time it is here?"

"I need the omega suppressant project accelerated."

Silence stretches across continents. Then, "The gene-specific formula? We're still twelve months from human trials—"

"Full resources. Unlimited budget. I want something that doesn't poison them slowly, something that gives them actual choice instead of chemical slavery."

"This is about someone specific." Not a question. Viola's too brilliant to miss the urgency threading through my voice.

"Two months, Vi. Can you do it?"

"With unlimited resources? I can do it in six weeks." She pauses. "Alexander, the current suppressants are killing them. Whatever omega you're trying to save—"

"Six weeks." I end the call before she can remind me of pharmaceutical realities.

The wind carries me higher, until Toronto spreads below like a map of territories and intentions. Eight months I've been here, building my empire in the neutral spaces between pack law. Eight months of careful political distancing, of using human wealth and ancient bloodline gifts to carve out something new.

The Emperor Hotel rises from King Street like a middle finger to pack hierarchy—neutral ground where anyone can stay, work, drink without fearing territory violations. The Empress nightclub, opening in two weeks, will push that concept further. Safe spaces in a city where safety usually comes with submission.

All of it built for moments like this. For wild omegas who refuse to kneel. For broken packs who rebuild themselves from spite and loyalty. For a world where designation doesn't determine destiny.

My phone buzzes. Roland, Venture's second, with yet another meeting request about territory disputes. I delete it unread. Let him wonder why the mysterious human billionaire suddenly has no time for diplomatic fiction.

I ride the wind to Queen Street, hovering outside their fifth-floor window like some lovesick ghost. Inside, they're toasting survival with bootleg whiskey, building family from shared meals and sharper trauma. She sits curled in a chair, those ridiculous men's clothes doing nothing to hide the grace underneath, counting her remaining pills with movements I've memorized.

Three left. Three days if she's careful, less if stress triggers her body's rebellion against the suppressants. And stress is coming—Venture's interest guarantees that.

The urge to tap on the window, to offer her everything here and now, burns through my chest like wolfsbane. But I know better. Learned it in the mountains where wanting meant nothing against wind that could flay skin from bone. Patience is just another form of hunting.

Still, my wolf paces beneath my skin, registering every detail. The way she unconsciously checks exits even in her own home. How her hand never strays far from the knife at her ribs. The careful distance she maintains even from her chosen pack.

Trauma recognizing trauma.

Because I know about running from what you're meant to be. Know about fundamentalist packs who think bloodline determines worth, who'd cage you in destiny written by ancestors who never asked if you wanted their legacy.

The wind shifts, and for a moment I swear she looks directly at me. Those brown eyes—sharp with intelligence, dark with secrets—scanning the window like she can feel the weight of attention.

I dissolve completely, becoming nothing but scattered air and intention, but I leave part of my awareness anchored here. To her window. To the impossible girl who's made me break three months of carefully maintained distance with one terrified sprint from an alley.

Back in my penthouse at the Meridian Tower, I solidify in the meditation room where Tibetan symbols cover walls that have witnessed too many nights of failed control. The city spreads below through floor-to-ceiling windows, and I can see Venture's building from here, his territory marked in light and arrogance.

He thinks he's clever. Thinks buying her building, installing cameras, playing savior in alleys makes her his. He doesn't understand that she's not something to be claimed. She's something to be earned. Courted. Given every choice that was stolen from her.

My phone buzzes again. Oliver with an update: Venture's got people watching the girl and her misfits. Gets hourly reports about all of them.

So it escalates.

I pull up the files my security team has compiled over three months. Every detail of her past they could find, though she's been careful about covering tracks. The Cascade pack in Oregon—fundamentalist wolves who think the Moon Mother determines all fates. An aunt who died protecting her. An enforcer named Marcus who thought presentation meant possession.

And now Venture, who plays progressive but still thinks like an alpha. Who sees an unmated omega and thinks destiny instead of choice.

My wolf snarls at the thought, and frost spreads across the windows despite the climate control. The Pendragon gift responding to emotion, weather bending to will just as wind bends to movement.

Control. The monks taught me control.

But control doesn't mean inaction. Doesn't mean letting another alpha circle her while she runs out of suppressants that are poisoning her slowly.

I make more calls. Set more pieces in motion. A pharmaceutical company in Switzerland working on revolutionary suppressants. A hotel empire ready to offer sanctuary disguised as employment. A network of neutral territories that could shelter a pack that doesn't fit traditional structures.

All for a girl who doesn't know I exist beyond a shadow at a bar, nursing whiskey while she washes dishes.

All for an omega who'd rather fight than submit, who's rebuilt herself from trauma and refuses to be less than she is.

The wind whispers through the penthouse, carrying the scent of coming storm. Winter approaching fast, and with it, the territorial tensions that always spike when wolves feel the ancient call to establish dominance before the lean months.

But there's something else in the wind. Change. The kind that comes when old bloodlines meet new defiance. When ancient gifts serve modern purposes. When an omega's refusal to kneel makes two alphas orbit her like binary stars, each pulling in different directions.

I know how this ends. Have seen it in too many cities, too many packs. Violence dressed up as protection. Possession masquerading as love.

Not this time.

Not with her.

The meditation room holds too many ghosts, so I rise on wind currents to the roof where Toronto spreads endless below. Somewhere in this maze of light and shadow, my wild omega is planning survival while two alphas plan her future.

The irony doesn't escape me. But I learned in the mountains that sometimes the best way to protect something wild is to make sure it has room to run. Options to choose. Sanctuary that doesn't come with chains.

Let Venture play his games with buildings and cameras.

I'll give her an empire.

If she'll take it.

If she doesn't gut me first for trying.

The wind howls agreement, and I dissolve into it, becoming nothing but intention and patience scattered across a city about to discover what happens when ancient bloodlines stop pretending to be human.

Yeshi, the monks named me. Primordial wisdom.

Time to find out if wisdom means anything against one wild omega's absolute refusal to be tamed.