Page 35 of Feral Omega

The tension in the common room is palpable as I stride in, my boots thudding against the floor. Whiskey and Wraith are seated on the same sofa, and for once, they're not the ones I'm worried about going after each other.

Plague and Valek stand at opposite ends of the room, their postures rigid, the air crackling with unspoken animosity. I suppress a sigh. Plague, usually the voice of reason, the one I can count on to keep a level head, seems ready to tear into Valek at any moment.

I can't help but wonder if this is what the Council intended all along. Sending Ivy to us.

A wild card.

A catalyst.

Maybe they hoped she would fracture us, drive wedges into the cracks that already exist in our dysfunctional little family.

But whatever their intention was, she's ours now. And I'll be damned if I let anyone, Council or otherwise, take her away.

I can see it in the eyes of my brothers, in the way they gravitate toward her, in the fierce protectiveness that radiates from them whenever she's near.

We're all in too deep. There's no going back.

I clear my throat, drawing their attention. Valek's eyes glint dangerously behind his hood, but he remains still. Plague's fists clench and unclench at his sides.

"We need to talk," I say, my voice low and even. "About Ivy. And about the Refinement Center."

I let the words hang in the air for a moment, heavy with implication. I think back to my meeting with my father, the esteemed General. The way his face remained impassive as I laid out my suspicions, my accusations. The Refinement Center, that gilded cage masquerading as a haven, was nothing more than a house of horrors for the omegas deemed 'unfit'.

"They're abusing them," I say, each word sharp as a knife. "The ones they consider Irreparable. Starving them. Torturing them, doing God only knows what else. All under the guise of 'taming'."

Plague is silent, his body tense. Valek remains impassive, but I can see the way his jaw tightens beneath his mask.

"Yeah, we gathered that," Whiskey says, standing. "The question is, what's your old man gonna do about it?"

I don't answer for a moment.

"My father knew," I finally say, my voice rough with shame. "The Council knew. They've been letting it happen. Turning a blind eye to the atrocities committed within those walls."

The weight of my words settles over the room like a suffocating blanket. I can see the rage building in Plague, the way his shoulders tremble with barely contained fury. Even Valek seems unsettled, a rare crack in his usually unflappable demeanor. Whiskey looks like he wants to put a fist—or a person—through a wall.

As for Wraith… I haven't seen that look in his eyes in years. The last time I did, people died.

Not a few. Dozens.

"Ivy was there for years," I continue, my voice rough with emotion. "Enduring God knows what. There are probably others."

"She's ours," Whiskey growls, his eyes sweeping over the rest of us. "And we protect what's ours. No matter the cost."

Plague nods. Even Valek inclines his head, a silent agreement.

Wraith snarls low, an echo of the barely contained rage coursing off him. Rage I know too well. Rage I feel in equal measure.

They're all ready to go to war, and that is what we do. For circumstances far less dire than this. For causes so insignificant in comparison.

And now comes the hard part. Because they're where I was when I left my father's office, ready to burn the world down.

Before reality set in.

"We will," I say firmly. "But right now, protecting her means doing nothing."

I can see the protests forming on their lips, the indignation, the outrage. And I get it. God, do I get it. Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to march into that hellhole, to raze it to the ground, to make them pay for every single scar, every bruise, every moment of pain they inflicted on Ivy.

But I can't. Not yet.

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