The Omega's Desperate Escape

Chapter Ten

DESMOND

Three weeks. Twenty-one days since I watched my wild omega destroy three Lakeshore alphas in an alley. Twenty-one nights of watching her through cameras that show me everything except what I need to know—why she runs from what we could be.

I sit in my office atop the Venture Tower, Toronto's skyline spread before me like a map of ambitions. The city glitters with promise and threat, each light representing territory, power, possibility. But my attention keeps drifting to the laptop showing four different angles of a fifth-floor apartment on Queen Street.

She's counting pills again.

On the screen, Jinx sits cross-legged on her bed—the bed I provided, in the apartment I renovated—with her suppressant bottle balanced on her knee. Two pills left. Maybe three if that's a fragment at the bottom. Her fingers shake slightly as she tips them onto her palm, and I have to grip my desk to keep from calling my pharmaceutical contacts immediately.

"The Highland pack is pushing the eastern boundary again." Roland's voice cuts through my focus. My second stands by the window, tablet in hand, pretending he doesn't know what holds my attention. "They've acquired two more properties along Danforth."

"Let them." I minimize the surveillance feed, though her image burns behind my eyelids. "Richard Sterling can play his real estate games. We have bigger concerns."

"Such as?"

"Hartford."

The name tastes like mystery and expensive whiskey. Alexander Hartford—British billionaire who materialized in Toronto eight months ago with enough money to reshape King Street and enough influence to make even established packs nervous. Human, supposedly, though no human moves through supernatural politics with his particular grace.

"What about him?" Roland sets his tablet aside. "He's been careful to stay neutral."

"Too careful." I pull up the files my people have compiled. Sadly thin. "Eight months in the city, and we know almost nothing. Cambridge. Harvard. Some monastery in Tibet. Then nothing until he shows up here with twenty-five billion dollars and a talent for being everywhere and nowhere at once."

"You think he's making a play?"

I think about the Emperor Hotel, opening next week. About the Empress nightclub, whispered to be the most exclusive venue Toronto's ever seen. About how Hartford's properties form a careful triangle between the three major pack territories, claiming nothing while commanding everything.

"I think he's already made it. We just can't see the board he's playing on."

My phone buzzes. A text from one of my people at Murphy's Law: She's here. Early shift.

The urge to drive there immediately, to claim what's mine, burns through my chest like good whiskey. But I've built an empire on patience, on strategy over instinct. Jinx isn't some omega to be cornered and claimed. She's a survivor who'll vanish at the first sign of a cage.

"What else?" Because Roland's still standing there, which means there's more.

"The pharmaceutical connection you asked about. For the suppressants."

I spin my chair to face him fully. "And?"

"Dead end. Our usual supplier says the veterinary-grade stuff is getting harder to source. Too many busts lately. The underground market is drying up."

On my laptop screen, Jinx emerges from her room wearing her dishwasher disguise—baseball cap, oversized flannel, probably enough Axe body spray to qualify as chemical warfare. The effort she puts into hiding what she is should infuriate me. Instead, it makes me want to give her a world where she never has to hide again.

"Find alternatives," I order. "Price is no object."

Roland's expression suggests opinions he's too smart to voice. "This is about the omega."

Not a question. Roland's been with me since the beginning, since I walked away from Sebastian's shadow with nothing but spite and our grandmother's trust fund. He knows when I'm compromised.

"She's mine." The words come out rougher than intended. "She just doesn't know it yet."

"Does she know you own her building? That you've been watching—"

"Careful." My alpha voice bleeds through, making him step back. I force control, always control. "What she doesn't know keeps her safe. For now."

Safe from running. Safe from whatever trauma makes her wash dishes like penance and count pills like prayers. Safe from the cursed birth pack that haunts her nightmares.

"The Lakeshore pack is still asking questions," Roland continues after a pause. "About the alley incident. Three of their alphas beaten by a single omega—"

"Tell them to ask quieter questions." I stand, moving to the window where Toronto sprawls beneath me. "Or I'll give them something else to ask about."

"Starting a war over an unclaimed omega—"

"Would be exactly what my brother would do." The comparison stings because it's meant to. "Which is why I'm not doing that. I'm being... strategic."

Strategic. Like buying her building. Like watching her sleep. Like learning that she hoards food in her nightstand drawer and trains with kitchen knives every morning at five. Like discovering she's teaching the fox girl to fight dirty while the bear teaches her to throw a proper punch.

My phone rings. The caller ID shows a number I don't recognize, which is interesting enough to answer.

"Mr. Venture." The voice is professionally neutral, the kind that comes from expensive education. "My name is Stephanie Chen from the Emperor Hotel. I'm calling regarding employment verification for several of your tenants."

My blood goes still. "Which tenants?"

"A Miss Jules Martin, Mr. Henry Thompson, Mr. Peter Parker, Miss Amy Miller, and a Mr. Jin Smith."

Jin Smith. Jinx. At Hartford's hotel.

"They're applying for positions?" I keep my voice carefully neutral while my wolf snarls beneath my skin.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss specifics, but we do need to verify their current address and renter standing."

I provide the information on autopilot, mind racing. Hartford's hotels pay triple what Murphy's Law offers. More than enough for black market suppressants. More than enough to solve all their problems.

More than enough to make my intervention unnecessary.

"Thank you, Mr. Venture. We appreciate your cooperation."

The line goes dead, leaving me staring at a city that suddenly feels like enemy territory.

"Hartford's hiring them." I don't realize I've spoken aloud until Roland responds.

"All of them?"

"All of them." The laptop screen shows their apartment, empty now while they're at their various jobs. Soon to be former jobs, if Hartford has his way. "He's collecting them."

"You don't know that. Maybe they just applied—"

"At the same time? All five?" I laugh, the sound sharp as winter. "No. This is targeted."

But how did Hartford even know about them? About her? I've been so careful, so subtle in my surveillance. Unless...

"Pull everything we have on Hartford. Every property record, every business connection, every rumor." I'm already moving, grabbing my coat. "I want to know what he had for breakfast."

"Where are you going?"

"Murphy's Law." Where my omega washes dishes she shouldn't have to touch, hiding from a world that would worship her if she'd let it. "Time to stop being strategic."

The drive takes twelve minutes. I spend them thinking about Alexander Hartford—his perfect timing, his impossible neutrality, his way of being exactly where pack politics create gaps. Human, they say. But humans don't move like predators pretending to be prey. Humans don't build empires in spaces wolves have overlooked.

Humans don't suddenly notice unclaimed omegas right when those omegas are most vulnerable.

Murphy's Law squats on its corner, neon flickering between existence and suggestion. I park across the street, watching through windows that need washing. The dinner rush is starting, which means she's in the back, up to her elbows in hot water and other people's excess.

My phone buzzes. Roland: Hartford just left his tower. Heading northwest.

Toward Murphy's Law. Of course.

I enter through the front door, claiming a booth with clear sightlines to the kitchen. Mo Chen materializes within seconds, carrying whiskey I didn't order.

"Mr. Venture. Unusual to see you during peak hours."

The allurus sets the glass down with practiced precision, his dark eyes holding secrets I'll never unravel. Mo's survived forty years in Toronto by being everyone's friend and no one's enemy. By providing neutral ground in a city carved by teeth and territory.

"Just needed a drink." I take a sip, letting smoke and heat ground me. "Business has been... complicated."

"Business often is when it involves matters of the heart."

I look at him sharply, but he's already gliding away, smoke in a suit. The kitchen door swings open, revealing glimpses of controlled chaos. I catch her scent—jasmine and vanilla fighting a losing battle against industrial degreaser—and my wolf settles slightly.

She's here. Safe. For now.

The bell above the door chimes, and I know without looking who's entered. The temperature seems to drop, though that might be my imagination. Alexander Hartford moves through space like he owns it, which I suppose he does. Forty-three percent of Toronto belongs to me, but Hartford's carved out his percentage in influence rather than territory.

He takes a table in the corner, angled to see both exits and the kitchen. Our eyes meet briefly—his are green, sharp as broken glass—before he returns to his phone. The dismissal is deliberate, calculated to irritate.

It works.

Mo appears at Hartford's table with the same supernatural speed, carrying what looks like tea. They exchange words too quiet for even wolf hearing, and I catch Mo glancing toward the kitchen. Toward her.

My phone vibrates. Roland again: Hartford's HR just called our other tenants. Offering positions. Good positions.

The whiskey turns to ash in my mouth. He's not just hiring them—he's collecting her pack. Offering them stability I've been too strategic to provide. Creating obligations that will tie her to him without ever seeming to pursue her directly.

Brilliant. Infuriating. Exactly what I should have done weeks ago if I hadn't been so focused on watching, waiting, planning the perfect approach.

The kitchen door swings wide as a server backs through with a full tray. For a moment, I see her clearly—cap pulled low, shoulders hunched to minimize her presence, moving with the mechanical efficiency of someone who's learned to disappear in plain sight. Beautiful in her defiance of what beauty means.

Hartford's looking too. His expression doesn't change, but there's an intensity to his stillness that makes my wolf bare teeth. He knows. Somehow, the mysterious British billionaire knows about my wild omega.

Mo appears at my shoulder, refilling whiskey I haven't touched. "Careful, Mr. Venture. Some games have more players than the board suggests."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning Hartford's tea is a blend from a monastery in Tibet. Very rare. Only served to those the monks call Yeshi." He pauses, letting that sink in. "Primordial wisdom."

The pieces click with sickening clarity. Tibet. Monastery. Five years of absence from all records. Hartford isn't some human billionaire playing with supernatural politics.

He's something else entirely. Something that learned to hide so well even other predators see prey.

"How long has he known about her?"

Mo's smile is enigmatic as always. "I serve drinks, Mr. Venture. Not secrets."

He glides away, leaving me with whiskey and the growing certainty that I've miscalculated. Hartford hasn't been staying out of pack business out of respect or fear. He's been waiting. Watching.

Just like me.

The kitchen door opens again. This time she emerges fully, carrying a bus tub of dirty dishes. The weight makes her shoulders strain, but she moves with determined grace. Hartford tracks her progress without seeming to, his attention split between his phone and her movement.

She passes close enough that I catch her full scent—omega sweetness buried under chemical cologne, suppressants failing to fully mask what she is, and underneath it all, the sharp edge of fear. Her pills are running out. Her carefully constructed existence is crumbling.

And two alphas are circling her like sharks scenting blood in the water.

I stand, decision crystallizing. No more strategy. No more patience. Hartford wants to play? Fine. But he'll learn what the Quebec bloodlines knew centuries ago—Ventures don't share.

Mo intercepts me before I reach the kitchen. "She's working."

"I need to speak with her."

"No." Soft, but immovable. "You need to decide what matters more—your pride or her safety."

Through the porthole window, I watch her spray dishes with mechanical precision. Three weeks I've observed, planned, waited. Now Hartford threatens to sweep in and claim through kindness what I've been trying to take through patience.

"Tell her..." I pause, weighing words. "Tell her if she needs anything—anything—she can come to me."

Mo nods. "I'll tell her. Whether she listens..." He shrugs eloquently.

I leave cash on the table and walk out, feeling Hartford's eyes track my exit. The war for Toronto's been brewing for months, territory disputes and power plays building pressure. But this? This is personal.

My omega needs suppressants. Hartford's offering jobs. The solution seems obvious—outbid him. Offer her double, triple, whatever it takes.

But she's not a prize to be bought. She's a survivor who's learned that alphas always want something, always take more than they give. If I'm going to win her, I need to offer what Hartford can't.

I need to offer her the truth.

My phone rings as I reach my car. "Sir?" One of my security team. "The building on Queen Street. Someone just made an offer. Cash. Twenty percent above market."

Hartford. Of course.

"Double it."

"Sir?"

"Whatever he offers, double it. That building stays mine."

Because she's mine. Even if she doesn't know it. Even if Hartford thinks he can maneuver around me with jobs and kindness and whatever ancient bloodline he's hiding behind that human mask.

Three weeks I've waited. No more.