Page 16 of Feral Omega

Yet.

But he will. They always do.

The chopper banks, circling the sprawling compound nestled in the rugged valley between mountains below. A formidable wall of rough-hewn logs, easily twenty feet high and topped with vicious coils of razor wire, encircles the perimeter. It's an imposing sight, more fortress than pack estate.

Within the confines of the wall, a collection of squat, utilitarian buildings dot the grounds, all concrete and steel. No graceful architecture or manicured gardens here. Everything is functional, almost brutally so.

A far cry from the sprawling luxury estates most important packs occupy, with their grand mansions, meticulously landscaped grounds, and ostentatious displays of wealth and power. Those places are designed to intimidate in a different way, to cow visiting packs with opulence.

This place, in contrast, seems built for a different purpose entirely. Several outbuildings look like barracks, while others have the distinct appearance of an armory, a training facility, vehicle depots. At the center of it all looms the main structure, larger than the rest but no less severe. Narrow windows, too small to easily breach, are spaced at strategic intervals. The few visible doors look heavy enough to withstand assault from a tank.

I was feral long enough to know this is a base of operations, not a home.

But as Emilia said while I was prepared as the sacrificial lamb, the Ghosts aren't like most packs. She insinuated they're more likely to hunt me for sport rather than fuck me.

Guess there's a silver lining after all.

Thane's voice rumbles over the roar of the blades. "It's not much. But it's better than that prison they had you in."

I keep my eyes fixed on the window, watching the ground rush up to meet us. I don't answer. The Refinement Center was a gilded cage—at least the upper levels—but a cage all the same. I'm not naive enough to believe this place, which actually looks the part of a prison, will be any different.

As the landing skids touch down, Thane rises, looming over me. He offers a hand to help me out of the chopper, but when I skirt it and jump down on my own, he snorts a laugh, a frosty cloud puffing through his lips into the mid-morning air.

"Come on," he says, already lumbering toward the largest building.

I trail after Thane, keeping a wary distance as we approach the main building. A bunker is more fitting than a mansion for a pack that deals in death. A few men in winter gear and goggles—nothing Thane seems to feel the need for—look up from their chores, watching us curiously and nudging each other until all eyes are on us. Servants, I'm guessing, not fellow prisoners.

The door groans open and Thane strides inside without so much as a backward glance. I hesitate on the threshold, pulse hammering in my throat. I could run. Disappear into the wilderness and take my chances alone.

It wouldn't be the first time.

But I've barely taken a step when Thane's rumbling voice drifts back. "Don't even think about it."

Bristling, I slink inside, flinching as the door clangs shut at my back with grim finality.

I'm in the wolves' den now.

They're gathered in a sprawling common area, all stone and steel. A fire crackles in a massive hearth, throwing shifting shadows across the assembled alphas. Five of them, including Thane. All male, all huge, all watching me with predatory gazes like I'm a scrap of meat dangled before a pack of starving dogs. Some of their eyes are hidden behind masks, but I can still feel them locked on me all the same.

Thane's hand clamps on my shoulder and I barely suppress a shudder. He propels me forward, into the center of the room. Into the crosshairs.

"Ghosts, meet our new omega." His voice is laced with dark amusement. "Her name is Ivy. Word from the Center is she's a runner, so gather around and commit her scent to memory."

The alphas prowl closer, surrounding me in a loose half-circle. I feel the weight of their stares, heavy and hungry, as they size me up like a prize to be won.

Or prey to be devoured.

A shiver courses through me as the alphas press closer, their heat and hunger palpable, suffocating. I keep my spine straight, my chin high, but inside, I'm quaking.

I've never been this close to so many alphas at once. Never felt so utterly surrounded, cornered.

Helpless.

I take them in with a quick, darting glance, trying not to let my gaze linger on any one of them for too long. As if meeting their eyes directly might provoke them to pounce.

There's an alpha wearing a mask like some kind of dystopian plague doctor, all gleaming lenses and sculpted metal, his long black hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Then there's a younger looking alpha with a burly build, unruly chestnut hair and a devil-may-care smirk on his lips. A third looms like an executioner, face obscured behind a leather hood with two holes for eyes and nothing but shadows behind them.

But it's the fourth that sends real fear skittering down my spine. He's a giant even compared to the rest of them, a vented gas mask that echoes with every breath concealing the lower half of his ruined face. Jagged scars mar what little I can see of his cheeks, hinting at much worse horrors beneath the mask. His left eyelids are torn, and I'm not sure he can fully close that eye.

---