The Omega's Desperate Escape

Chapter Fourteen

DESMOND

The Bentley's engine ticks as it cools in my underground parking garage, her scent still clinging to the leather seats—jasmine and vanilla beneath layers of chemical deterrent. Ten minutes. She sat in my car for ten minutes, and the space feels permanently altered.

Roland waits by the private elevator, his expression carefully neutral. "Carl's been here for an hour. Says what he found changes everything."

The ride up forty-three floors passes in silence. Roland knows better than to push when I'm processing, and right now I'm trying to reconcile the girl who pressed herself against the window like a caged thing with the way her packmates relaxed in my presence. They trust her judgment. If she runs, they run. If she stays...

Carl occupies the corner of my conference room like a spider in his web—thin, patient, surrounded by documents and tablets arranged with obsessive precision. He doesn't stand when I enter. We're past such formalities.

"You wanted comprehensive." He slides a manila folder across the polished table. "I went deep."

The first photograph stops my heart.

A girl in white, drowning in fabric that makes her look sacrificial. Fifteen years old, standing between pack members who diminish her with their bulk. But the face—Christ. Huge brown eyes that haven't learned to hide. Black curls cascading past her shoulders like silk. The kind of devastating beauty that makes alphas lose their minds.

"Her name isn't Jinx." Carl's voice cuts through the roar in my ears. "It's Willamette. Willamette Marks. Called Billie."

Billie. The name rolls through my mind, tasting like truth. Not the sharp edges of Jinx but something softer. Younger. Before the world taught her to bite.

"Tell me everything."

"Born in Cascade territory, Oregon. Deep woods pack, fundamentalist leanings. Parents died when she was six—single car accident on a clear night, no witnesses." His tone suggests opinions about convenient accidents. "Raised by her aunt, Catherine Marks, who served as pack Luna."

I study the photograph, matching the girl in white to the woman who destroys alphas in alleys. Same bone structure beneath the baby fat. Same stubborn set to the jaw. But those eyes—those eyes still believed in good outcomes.

"Her presentation..." Carl pauses, shuffling through witness statements. "Multiple sources confirm she presented as the most beautiful omega anyone had seen. One pack elder described it as 'moon-blessed perfection.' The transformation from pretty teenager to devastating beauty happened overnight."

He produces more photos—before and after. The difference staggers. Where the childhood photos show a lovely girl, the presentation photos reveal something that transcends normal omega beauty. Skin that seems lit from within. Features refined to painful perfection. The kind of beauty that starts wars.

"The pack went into chaos. Every unmated alpha lost their minds. There were seven challenges issued before the sun rose—all for the right to court her first." Carl's expression darkens. "But Marcus Reeves had already been promised by Alpha Brennan. First pick of the year's omegas, payment for handling some territorial dispute."

"The presentation ceremony?"

"Never happened. They locked her in a preparation room after her transformation, waiting for the formal gathering. Reeves went to..." Carl's jaw tightens. "To inspect his gift. Got her alone."

Ice slides through my veins. "He didn't—"

"Alpha Brennan called him away before he could complete what he started. Some emergency with a neighboring pack. But witnesses heard her screaming before Brennan's summons interrupted."

My hands clench hard enough to leave nail marks in my palms. The scarred girl who fights like a demon in alleys—she was fifteen, locked in a room with a man three times her age who saw her as property to claim.

"Then what?"

"Then she vanished. Sometime between Reeves leaving and the ceremony start, she disappeared. The omega attendants claimed ignorance, but..." Carl pulls out interview transcripts. "They were lying. Look at these interrogation records."

Names jump out from the pages. Esther—an elderly omega who'd served the pack for sixty years. Jenny and Holly, barely older than Billie. Others whose names blur together but whose silence speaks volumes.

"They got her out. These omegas—they'd been planning. One of them, Esther, had access to keys. She unlocked Billie's door while the others created distractions. Professional operation disguised as omega incompetence."

"What happened to them?"

Carl's silence stretches too long. "Esther died two days after the escape. Heart failure, officially. The others..." He shrugs. "Scattered to other duties. Kept under strict watch. Several bore marks suggesting aggressive questioning."

Esther. An old woman who spent sixty years in servitude, who saw one more girl about to be destroyed and chose rebellion in her final act. Dead within days, taking her secrets to the grave.

"Cascade flooded the continent with missing notices. Very specific about wanting her returned 'for her own safety and medical attention.'"

The flyer makes my wolf snarl. *Omega female, 15 years old. Extraordinary beauty may cause pack disruption. Possibly confused or frightened. Requires immediate medical attention. Contact Cascade pack for substantial reward.*

Medical attention meaning submission training. Pack disruption meaning she was too beautiful to be allowed choice.

"The aunt. Tell me about Catherine Marks."

"Progressive by Cascade standards. She'd been pushing reforms—education access for omegas, career training, the right to refuse matches if they had valid reasons." Carl pulls up more files. "She died six months before Billie's presentation. Rogue attack while traveling between territories."

"Let me guess. No witnesses."

"Body burned beyond recognition. Identified by jewelry and personal effects." He meets my eyes. "My sources say Catherine was planning to invoke sanctuary rights. Take Billie to a progressive pack in California where she'd have choices."

The picture crystallizes with sickening clarity. Catherine Marks saw what was coming—knew her niece's beauty would doom her in a fundamentalist pack. Tried to arrange escape through legal channels. Died for it.

But the omegas finished what Catherine started. Gave Billie what they couldn't have—freedom.

"Six years of silence. Professional grade disappearance for a fifteen-year-old unless she had help on the outside too."

"That's Cascade's theory. They've been hunting quietly, using private resources." Carl spreads new photos across the table. "Then three months ago, someone escalated. Hunters taking omegas from major cities."

Different women stare up from surveillance photos, but the pattern screams—dark hair, brown eyes, delicate features. All bearing enough resemblance to Billie to be worth checking.

"Seattle, Chicago, Detroit. All taken alive. The Detroit grab went public—three omegas from a shopping center, broad daylight." He taps one image. "Local pack intervened, killed most of the team. One hunter talked before dying. Said they were looking for someone specific. Early twenties, goes by Jinx."

My blood turns to ice. They know her street name. Know she's here.

"Reeves?"

"Has to be. He's liquidating personal assets, calling in old markers. Six years of obsession reaching critical mass." Carl produces financial records. "He's hemorrhaging money on this hunt. Hiring the best trackers, paying for information, bribing contacts in every major city."

"How long before they reach Toronto?"

"Could be days. Could be hours. The Detroit failure made them desperate. They'll come in harder, faster, with less concern for collateral damage."

I stand, pacing to the window. Forty-three floors below, Toronto spreads like a circuit board of light and possibility. Somewhere in that maze, Billie Marks thinks she's safe. Thinks six years and chemical suppressants have bought her freedom.

"There's more." Carl's voice pulls me back. "Cascade isn't just fundamentalist—they're connected. Old treaties with traditional packs across the continent. If they make this official, invoke the old laws..."

"Every traditional pack becomes their eyes."

"And their hands. An omega gifted to an alpha belongs to him until death or formal rejection. No exceptions, no statute of limitations." He pauses. "Reeves never rejected his claim. In the eyes of traditional law, she's stolen property."

The words taste like ash. Property. Not a person who was fifteen and terrified, locked in a room with a monster. Property to be retrieved.

I summon the others. Jean-Paul arrives with his usual contained violence, sprawling in a chair like destruction wearing Armani. Andre takes his position by the windows, studying the city with tactical precision. Roland's fingers already fly across his tablet.

The briefing takes ten minutes. Their faces shift from professional interest to personal investment as the story unfolds. A fifteen-year-old omega whose beauty became a curse. An attempted assault. A desperate escape aided by other victims. Six years of successful hiding about to end.

"Câlisse." Jean-Paul's curse carries the weight of our shared childhood in Saint-Jean-Richelieu. "Locked her in a room? She was fifteen."

"Cascade follows the old ways," Andre's voice holds winter cold. "In their eyes, she belonged to Reeves the moment Brennan spoke the words."

"In their eyes, she's breathing their air without permission." I light a cigarette, ignoring the no-smoking regulations in my own building. "They want her back to complete what Reeves started."

"So we stop them." Jean-Paul cracks his knuckles in sequence, an old habit from street fights. "Toronto's ours. They want to hunt here, they go through us."

"It's not that simple." Roland looks up from his tablet. "If Cascade invokes formal pack law, claims she's stolen property, we'd be harboring a fugitive by traditional standards. Other packs would be obligated to assist or at least not interfere."

"f**k tradition." Jean-Paul's grin holds teeth. "What's the point of building our own empire if we still bow to their rules?"

"There's another way."

Andre turns from the window, expression thoughtful. We wait.

"If she's mated—formally claimed by another alpha—Cascade loses all rights. Even fundamentalists acknowledge mate bonds supersede prior claims." He meets my eyes. "It's iron-clad. Not even Reeves could challenge it."

The suggestion hangs in climate-controlled air while my wolf surges forward, scenting possibility. To claim her properly, publicly. To end the threat through biology rather than bloodshed.

"She's been on suppressants for six years," Roland points out, ever practical. "No heats, no biological bonding. And she'd need to consent. Somehow I doubt she'll agree to trade one alpha's claim for another's."

"So we convince her." Jean-Paul's suggestion carries typical confidence. "Better us than them, non?"

"She can barely tolerate being in the same car with me. You think she'll accept a mating bite?"

"Maybe if the alternative is clear enough." Andre's voice stays carefully neutral. "Reeves won't stop. Even if we kill this hunter team, he'll send more. Keep sending them until he's broke or dead or successful."

My phone buzzes. Unknown number: *She's not yours to protect. Stay away from her. - H*

Hartford. No more subtle dancing. Direct threat, establishing claim.

"Well, well." Jean-Paul reads over my shoulder. "The mysterious billionaire shows his teeth."

"About time." I stub out my cigarette. "I'm tired of his shadow games."

"If Hartford is what the rumors suggest—" Andre starts.

"Ancient bloodline, impossible connections, maybe not entirely human?" I wave dismissal. "Let him be whatever he is. This is our territory. She's under our protection."

"Is she?" Roland's question cuts deep. "Because from where I sit, she works for Hartford. Lives in your building but takes his money. Uses his resources."

The truth stings. I've provided stage dressing while Hartford directs the actual play.

"Then we change the script." Decision crystallizes. "Jean-Paul, activate our hunting contacts. I want to know every mercenary moving through Ontario. Andre, position strike teams at key entry points. The moment Cascade's people cross into our territory—"

"We end them." Jean-Paul's smile could frighten children. "With prejudice."

"Roland, draft sanctuary paperwork. Make it look legitimate enough to buy time if Cascade goes formal." I move back to the window, watching my city breathe. "And reach out to our allies. Quiet warnings about what's coming."

They disperse to their tasks, leaving me with the photograph of fifteen-year-old Billie. Beautiful enough to break hearts, young enough to believe the world might be kind. That girl deserved protection no one gave her. Deserves justice for every violation, every betrayal, every year spent running.

But the woman she's become deserves more than vengeance. Deserves the choice stolen from her at fifteen. The freedom to exist without being hunted.

Even if protecting her means bloodying my hands. Even if she never knows why Toronto's shadows suddenly grew teeth.

I leave the office as dusk paints the city in shades of amber and ash. The Bentley knows the route to Queen Street by memory, but I park three blocks away. Close enough to watch, far enough to maintain illusion.

Their fifth-floor windows glow against darkening sky. Through glass, I catch glimpses of domestic ritual—Hank cooking while Ami sets the table, pack behaviors that speak of chosen family rather than convenience.

Then I see her.

She's changed from work clothes—soft pants and oversized sweater that make her look younger than her twenty-one years. When she laughs at something Puck says, the sound carries to the street like music I'm not meant to hear.

This is what she protects. Not just herself but this cobbled-together family built from broken pieces. This is why she runs, hides, counts pills like prayer beads. To preserve this fragile peace.

My phone rings. Andre.

"Movement confirmed. Six-person team crossed into Ontario two hours ago. Professional kit, moving fast."

"Timeline?"

"At current pace? Tomorrow night. Maybe sooner if they push."

Tomorrow. Less than forty-eight hours before her past comes calling with tranquilizer guns and restraints.

"Track them. The moment they hit city limits—"

"Already in position."

The call ends. I watch her window another moment. She moves past the glass, pausing to look out at the city spread below. For a heartbeat, I swear she looks directly at me, though distance and shadow make recognition impossible.

Then she vanishes back into warmth and light, unaware that war races toward Toronto on winter highways. Unaware that two alphas circle her with different methods but similar hunger. Unaware that the past she's outrun for six years has finally found its stride.

The photograph waits on my desk when I return—innocence unaware of its own doom. That girl is gone, but her ghost deserves vengeance. The woman she's become deserves freedom to choose her own cage, if she chooses any at all.

I'll give her both, written in blood and binding law.

Hartford wants me to stay away? He's about to learn what happens when you threaten what a Venture has claimed, officially or otherwise.

The hunters want to drag her back to face what Reeves started six years ago? They'll discover Toronto has teeth, and they're all pointed at them.

And Billie—Jinx—whatever name she wears like armor, she'll have something she's never had:

A choice backed by power. Protected by violence if necessary, but still hers to make.

The city glitters beyond my windows, pregnant with threat and promise in equal measure. Somewhere, professional killers race toward my territory with outdated claims and modern weapons. Somewhere, Hartford plans responses to moves I haven't made yet. Somewhere, Billie Marks counts suppressants, unaware her carefully constructed existence is about to shatter.

But she won't face the shards alone.

Not while I breathe and bleed and rule forty-three percent of this city's shadows.