The Omega's Desperate Escape

Chapter Eleven

DESMOND

The whiskey burns less than watching her walk into Murphy's Law wearing clothes that don't smell like dishwater. Three weeks of surveillance, of careful planning, of strategic patience—and Hartford swept it all away with a job offer wrapped in benefits packages and living wages.

I've been here two hours, claiming the back booth that lets me see everything while the shadows claim me. Mo pretends not to notice I'm on my fourth whiskey, my third cigarette, or that I'm vibrating with the kind of energy that precedes violence. The old allurus has survived four decades in Toronto by knowing when to serve drinks and when to become smoke.

My phone buzzes with updates I already know. Roland, efficient as always: All five hired. Starting Monday. Hartford interviewed the omega personally.

Personally. The CEO of a multinational empire personally interviewed a dishwasher who hides behind men's cologne and a baseball cap. Either Hartford's lost his mind, or he knows exactly what Jinx is. What she's worth.

What she means to me.

The door chimes, and her scent hits before I see her—jasmine and vanilla under that toxic cologne cloud, suppressants failing by degrees, and underneath it all, the particular sweetness of an omega on the edge. One pill left, maybe two. I can smell it in the way her body's starting to betray her, chemistry overriding chemicals.

She freezes in the doorway when she spots me. Good. Let her see what her choices have wrought. Let her understand that taking Hartford's job, walking into his territory, accepting his protection—all of it has consequences.

Mo intercepts her before she can bolt, and I catch fragments of their conversation. Gratitude for references. For kindness. For all the things I could have given her if she'd let me.

I stand because sitting feels too much like surrender. She tracks my movement like prey spotting a predator, but she doesn't run. Brave little omega. Stupid little omega. Doesn't she understand that courage without protection is just another word for catastrophe?

"Congratulations on the new position." I keep my voice level, controlled, everything I don't feel. "Hartford's lucky to have you."

"It's just a job."

The naivety would be charming if it weren't so dangerous. "Nothing with Hartford is just anything." I move closer, watching her fight the urge to retreat. This close, I can smell everything—her fear, her defiance, her body's slow rebellion against the suppressants. "Be careful, little jinx. Some gifts come with chains you can't see until they're locked."

"Speaking from experience?"

The challenge in her voice makes my wolf bare teeth in approval. This is why she's mine—not just because she's omega, not just because she's beautiful, but because she looks at an alpha who owns forty-three percent of Toronto and dares to push back.

"Everything I've ever given has been freely offered. Can Hartford say the same?"

I think about the pharmacy card burning a hole in her pocket—I can smell the cardstock, the particular ink Hartford uses. Think about the "gene-specific" suppressants he's promising. Think about all the ways an alpha can bind an omega without ever touching her.

"I need to go."

"Monday." The word tastes like prophecy. Like deadline. Like the end of everything I've carefully built. "Everything changes Monday."

She flees, and I let her. What else can I do? Grab her? Demand she refuse Hartford's job? Order her to submit to what we both know is inevitable?

That's what my brother would do. What any traditional alpha would do.

But I've spent years proving I'm not my brother, not my father, not the stereotype of Quebec alphas who take what they want. I've built an empire on being smarter, subtler, better.

And it's cost me her.

"Another?" Mo materializes with the bottle, already pouring before I answer.

"What did Hartford offer you?"

"Partnership. Protection. The promise that Murphy's Law remains neutral territory regardless of pack politics." He sets the bottle down between us. "Also, forty percent over market value."

"I'd have given you fifty."

"You'd have made it contingent on her. Hartford's offer stands regardless."

Smart. Ruthless in its simplicity. Buy the ground she stands on, the people she trusts, the air she breathes. Make yourself indispensable through kindness rather than force.

"What is he?"

Mo polishes a glass that doesn't need polishing. "Older than you think. Younger than he seems. Other than that?" A shrug that encompasses centuries of secrets. "He's whatever he needs to be."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you'll get." He pauses, studying me with eyes that have seen empires rise and fall. "She's not a prize, Desmond. Not a territory to claim. She's a survivor who's learned that alphas mean cages, no matter how pretty the bars."

"I'm not—"

"Aren't you?" He gestures at my phone. "Cameras in her home. Buying her building. Watching, waiting, planning. How is that different from any other alpha who thinks possession equals protection?"

The words sting because they're meant to. Because they're true.

"Hartford's doing the same thing."

"Hartford's offering choices. You're offering ownership with better terms." Mo takes the bottle with him when he goes. "Think about that while you plan your next move."

I sit in the booth until closing, smoking cigarettes and watching the door she won't walk through again. My phone provides a steady stream of intelligence that only deepens my frustration.

Hartford's pharmaceutical company—the one hidden behind seven shells of ownership—has been developing new suppressants for two years. Gene-specific compounds that don't slowly poison the user. Revolutionary technology that could change everything for unregistered omegas.

Launching next month. What a coincidence.

My building manager texts about another offer on the Queen Street property. Hartford again, this time through a different shell company. Fifty percent over market. Cash.

I respond without thinking: Not for sale at any price.

Because I'm not giving up the one piece of her I actually have. The cameras might be invasive, might be wrong, but they're the only way I can ensure she's safe. That she's eating. That she's not lying in a suppressant-induced coma while her pack assumes she's just tired.

Two AM finds me in my office, staring at screens that show too much and not enough. She's awake, sitting at their kitchen table with the fox girl. They're counting pills—the new ones the wolfling Puck sourced from whoever's flooding the market with Portuguese labels and impossible prices.

"Those are mine," I tell the empty office, recognizing the batch codes. Three days ago, I paid a small fortune for a shipment of Brazilian suppressants meant for the registered packs. Supposedly untraceable. Supposedly.

Hartford. Has to be. He intercepted my shipment, repackaged it, made it available through channels that would reach her without triggering her suspicion. Let her think she's finding her own solution while he pulls strings she can't see.

Brilliant. Infuriating. Exactly what I should have done.

My phone rings. Sebastian, because this night isn't complete without my brother's particular brand of condescension.

"Mon frérot. Heard you're having trouble with your territory."

"No trouble." I minimize the surveillance feeds, even though he can't see them. "Toronto's stable."

"Really? Because I heard Hartford's making moves. Hiring away your people. Buying up your properties." His pause is calculated for maximum impact. "Claiming your omega."

Ice slides down my spine. "How do you know about her?"

"Please. Did you think your interest in some dishwasher would go unnoticed? The bloodlines talk, Desmond. They wonder why the youngest Venture is obsessed with unclaimed trash when he could have any omega in Quebec."

"She's not trash."

"No? Then what is she? This girl who hides in men's clothes and washes dishes for degenerates? Who runs with rogues and reeks of suppressants?" His laugh is all teeth. "Father thinks you're having a crisis. Midlife at thirty-five."

"Father can—"

"Careful. He's still head of the family, even if you've forgotten what that means." Another pause. "You know, if you can't handle Hartford, I could come help. Been too long since I visited Toronto."

The threat is clear. Sebastian's "help" comes with prices I stopped paying when I left Quebec. Comes with traditional values and brutal solutions and everything I've spent years proving I'm not.

"I'll handle Hartford."

"See that you do. Because if some human—" he savors the word like wine "—can take your city and your omega, what does that say about our bloodline?"

He hangs up before I can respond, leaving me with bitter truths and bitter whiskey. My brother's right about one thing—letting Hartford win isn't just about losing Jinx. It's about losing everything I've built. Everything I've fought to prove.

But Mo's right too. I've been playing by the old rules, thinking possession and protection are the same thing. Thinking if I watch her enough, control enough variables, plan enough moves, she'll eventually see what we could be.

While Hartford offers her freedom wrapped in pharmaceutical miracles and living wages.

My head of security calls at three. "Sir? We've been monitoring Hartford's movements like you asked."

"And?"

"He visited a building in Scarborough. One registered to the Tibetan Buddhist Federation. Stayed three hours."

Tibet. Monastery. The gaps in Hartford's history suddenly take shape. "What kind of building?"

"Unknown. No windows. Single entrance. But sir? The energy readings were... unusual."

"Unusual how?"

"Consistent with major metaphysical workings. The kind of power signatures we'd expect from—" He hesitates.

"From what?"

"From something much older than human, sir."

The pieces click with nauseating clarity. Hartford hasn't been hiding his nature—he's been hiding his age. His power. His lineage that makes my family's five-hundred-year history look like yesterday's news.

No wonder he moves through pack politics like smoke. No wonder he can develop revolutionary pharmaceuticals and buy properties and offer my omega salvation without breaking a sweat.

He's not playing by our rules because he predates them.

I pull up everything we have on ancient bloodlines. The first wolves. The ones who walked before the moon goddess gave us shape, when shifting was will rather than lunar gift. Most are myth now. Legend. Bedtime stories to make cubs behave.

But some survived. Hidden. Adapted. Evolved beyond the need for packs and moons and all the structures we built to contain power we couldn't understand.

If Hartford's one of them—if he's what I think he is—then I'm not just fighting for an omega. I'm fighting something that was ancient when my ancestors were human.

"Sir?" My security head still on the line. "What do you want us to do?"

"Nothing. Pull back surveillance on Hartford immediately."

"But—"

"Now." Because if Hartford is what I think, he's been letting me watch. Amused by the puppy thinking it's hunting the wolf. And when he stops being amused...

I end the call and stare at the screens showing Jinx's apartment. She's finally asleep, curled in her bed like safety is something she's still learning. The new suppressants are working—I can see it in how her body relaxes, how the constant tension she carries has eased fractionally.

Hartford's gift. Hartford's binding. Hartford's move in a game I'm only beginning to understand.

But I'm not my brother. Not my father. Not the alpha who takes because he can.

I'm something else. Something that built an empire from spite and ambition. Something that walked away from guaranteed power to prove power could be earned.

Time to prove it again.

I make three calls. The first to my pharmaceutical contacts—not for suppressants, but for something else. Something that might level a playing field tilted by centuries.

The second to my grandmother in Quebec. The one who gave me the trust fund that started everything. The one who remembers when our bloodline was more than politics and posturing.

The third to a number I swore I'd never use. A debt I've carried for five years, waiting for something worth the price of calling it in.

"Desmond Venture." The voice on the other end is amused. Female. Old as water and twice as dangerous. "Finally ready to collect?"

"I need information about the ancient lines. The first wolves. The ones who predate the moon's gift."

"Expensive information."

"I'm good for it."

"Yes. You are." She pauses, and I hear wind that sounds like it's blowing from somewhere that's not quite here. "The one you seek. Hartford. He's not what you think."

"Then what is he?"

"Patient, young Venture. First, let me tell you about the bloodlines that walked when the world was young. When shifting was thought rather than instinct. When wolves were gods, not pack animals playing at civilization."

I settle in to listen, to learn, to find the weapons I need for a war that started before I drew breath. Outside, Toronto sleeps unaware that ancient things walk its streets, that old powers are stirring, that an omega who just wants to wash dishes in peace has become the catalyst for something bigger than territory disputes.

Monday, she starts working for Hartford. Monday, she walks into his power thinking it's just a job.

Monday, I stop playing by rules written for lesser wolves.

The game changes now. Time to remind Toronto—and Hartford—that Ventures didn't survive five centuries by accepting defeat.