Page 38 of Feral Omega

I don't know what to say to that. I don't know what to make of it.

It's a lie. It has to be. But what reason does he have?

I can't understand him. Any of them.

"Well, you must be hungry," he says suddenly. "Should we try something light? Toast? Rice, perhaps?"

I stare at him in silence, and shake my head.

He sighs. "Yes, I heard from the servants you refused to eat. I had you on a feeding tube while you were out, so if your throat is a bit scratchy, that's why," he explains. "But I'm afraid if you continue to refuse eating solids on your own, it'll have to go back in."

I blanche at the threat, my mouth still dry even though I just drank. Everything hurts, so it's hard to notice anything in particular, but now that he's brought it to my attention, I can't stop thinking about the dull ache in my throat.

"That's what I thought," he says, walking over to the door. "Stay put."

He leaves the room, and I look around, immediately trying to will my legs to swing over the edge of the bed but they won't budge. The feeling is only starting to come back in my toes and it's excruciating.

Fuck.

Just as I'm starting to pick at the IV in the crook of my arm, he returns carrying a plate from what I assume is the dining hall. Whatever it is, it doesn't have a strong smell, which I'm grateful for, since I feel so queasy it's hard to hold the water down.

When I see that it's just plain toast with butter, I'm torn between the kneejerk impulse to refuse food, and the hunger that springs alive in the pit of my stomach like some ancient monster brought back to life.

"It's not exactly five-star cuisine, but I figured it would be easy on your stomach," he says, setting the plate on the table next to the bed. He takes off the thin blue glove on his right hand, which is as much of a contradiction as the rest of him. His fingers are long and elegant, but the shape of his hand is still strong, and there are callouses where a surgeon's blade—or a killer's—has clearly rested many times before.

I'm sure he's killed more than he's saved.

When he picks up the toast and offers it to me, I flinch instinctively.

"What, you think it's poison, too?" he asks, taking a bite off the corner. "See? It's safe."

I continue to stare at him in defiance, if only because I've come this far. He might be gentler than those creeps at the Refinement Center, but he's still an alpha and I refuse to take food from his hand like a dog.

He tilts his head, studying me with that damned curiosity glinting in his pale blue eyes. He's somehow no less menacing without the golden lenses and the mask.

"What's the matter? You must be hungry," he reasons.

Before I can deny it, my stomach growls. Traitor.

Plague chuckles, a deep yet smooth, melodic sound that fills me with rage and something else I'd rather not acknowledge. "I'm not going to force you," he says, placing the partially eaten toast back on the plate. "But you have to eat sooner or later. It's up to you to decide how."

With that, he rises again and leaves through the second door in the room. I assume the other one probably leads out into a hallway, but this one leads into a larger clinic where he'd certainly see me if I tried to run past him. He disappears from view every so often, but always ends up pacing back and forth, moving things here or there.

I glance back at the toast once I'm sure he's not watching and my stomach gurgles in desperation. I swipe the uneaten slice off the plate and take a bite, and despite the simplicity of the plain bread with a little bit of butter, it's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. The butter glides over my tongue and melts, supple and sweet, and the crunch of the toast yields to the chewy center of the bread.

I devour the toast in a matter of seconds, my hunger taking over as I shove the last few bites into my mouth. The taste of the butter lingers on my tongue, rich and satisfying, and for a moment, I almost forget where I am, lost in the simple pleasure of finally having something in my stomach.

But then my eyes fall on the half-eaten slice, the one Plague took a bite from, and reality comes crashing back. I hesitate, my hand hovering over the plate, torn between my pride and the gnawing ache in my belly.

It's not giving in, I tell myself, snatching up the toast and shoving it into my mouth before I can change my mind. He didn't hand it to me, didn't force me to eat from his fingers like a pet. This is different. This is survival.

I chew slowly, savoring every crumb, trying to ignore the fact that his lips touched this same piece of bread just moments before. It doesn't mean anything.

As I swallow the last bite, I feel a strange mix of satisfaction and shame. I've managed to eat, to nourish my weakened body, but at what cost? Am I already starting to bend, to break under the weight of my captivity?

No. I refuse to let that happen. I've fought too hard, survived too much to let them win now. Even if my body is weak, my spirit is strong. I won't let them break me.

I glance toward the door where Plague disappeared, wondering what game he's playing. Why didn't he force me to eat from his hand, like the alphas at the Center always did? Why give me the choice, the illusion of control?

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