Page 37 of Feral Omega

He checks my heartbeat next with his stethoscope, asks me to breathe deep a few times, and then looks in my ears and down my throat. Even up my nostrils, which is more embarrassing than I want to admit.

Plague finally steps back, apparently finished with his examination. "Your vitals are stable, and there doesn't seem to be any lasting damage from the sedative," he says, more to himself than to me. "But you'll need to rest and regain your strength."

I stare at him, my eyes narrowed with distrust, my body still tense despite his assurances. How can I trust him? How can I trust any of them, after everything I've been through?

"You were in a medically induced coma," Plague explains, his voice calm and even. "Your body was weak from starvation and badly dehydrated. I needed to give you time to heal."

His words sink in slowly, and a wave of anger washes over me. They put me under, took away my control, my autonomy. Just like the Center always did. I open my mouth to protest, to demand answers, but Plague holds up a hand to silence me.

"I know you're upset, Ivy. But no one here is going to hurt you. You didn't exactly win the pack lottery, being the Ghosts' omega, but I can assure you, it's much better than the Refinement Center."

I shudder at the mention of the Center, memories of cold, sterile rooms and harsh, uncaring hands flooding my mind. The endless "training" sessions, the punishments for the slightest infractions, the constant fear and despair. Anything would be better than going back there.

But that doesn't mean they're any less twisted. They're alphas, after all. And in my experience, alphas only want one thing from omegas like me.

I try to sit up, to swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, but a sudden wave of dizziness washes over me. I can barely feel my legs, weak and unresponsive beneath the thin hospital blanket. Panic rises in my throat—what have they done to me?

Plague is at my side in an instant, his hands firm but gentle as he eases me back down onto the bed. "Easy, Ivy. You're still weak. It's going to take time for your body to recover."

I want to fight him, to push him away and run, but I know it's futile. Even if I could stand, where would I go? The Center would find me, drag me back to that hellish place. At least here, with the Ghosts, I might have a chance at escape later.

I lay back against the pillows, my mind racing with questions and fears. Plague seems to sense my unease, his voice softening as he speaks. "The sedative will take some time to work out of your system, Ivy. You need to take things slow, give your body a chance to adjust."

He tilts his head, studying me intently. "Are you thirsty?"

I hesitate, my throat parched and aching, but the fear of what they might have put in the water holds me back. Slowly, I nod, watching him warily as he reaches for a glass on the nearby table.

Plague pauses, his hand hovering over the glass as he notices my apprehension. With a sigh, he reaches up and begins to remove his mask, the hiss of released air making me flinch.

As the mask comes away, I find myself staring, transfixed by the face beneath. He's stunning, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and piercing eyes that seem to see straight into my soul. His inky hair is even longer than Thane's. It falls in soft waves around his shoulders, framing his elegant but masculine features.

I'm so caught off guard by his appearance that I almost miss the way he raises the glass to his own lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip of the water. He swallows, then holds the glass out to me, his eyes never leaving mine.

Tentatively, I reach out and take the glass, my fingers brushing against his gloved hand. The water is cool and soothing as it slides down my throat, and before I know it, I've drained the entire glass. Plague watches me, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he refills the glass from a pitcher.

"Drink slowly," he cautions, handing the glass back to me. "Too much too fast and you'll make yourself sick."

I bristle at the command, hating the way my body automatically wants to obey. That's the worst thing about alphas. Even more than their brutality and their lecherous ways, it's the fact that my own body wants to take commands from them, no matter how much I despise their kind.

But the thirst is overwhelming, and I find myself sipping the water more cautiously, savoring each cool mouthful.

As I drink, I can't help but study Plague, trying to reconcile the intimidating, mysterious figure I've come to fear with the man standing before me. He's younger than I expected, perhaps in his early thirties, and there's a weariness in his eyes that speaks of a life filled with hardship and struggle.

But there's also a strength there, a quiet confidence that both unnerves and intrigues me. I've spent so long viewing alphas as the enemy, as the ones who seek to control and dominate omegas like me. But Plague seems different somehow, more complex than the ruthless agent I'd imagined him to be.

I finish the second glass of water, feeling the cool liquid settle in my empty stomach. Plague takes the glass from me, setting it aside before fixing me with an intense stare.

"I know you don't trust me, Ivy. And I don't blame you. The world has given you every reason to be wary of alphas, especially ones like me."

He leans in closer, his voice low and earnest. "But I promise you, I'm not going to hurt you. None of the Ghosts will."

A part of me wants to believe him, wants to let myself hope that I've found a place where I can be safe. But the scars on my body and soul run too deep, the memories of betrayal and pain too fresh.

I turn away from Plague, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I can't trust anyone," I whisper, my voice hoarse with emotion. "Not even myself."

Plague is silent for a long moment, and I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost gentle.

"Trust is earned, Ivy. And I intend to earn yours, no matter how long it takes."

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