Page 49 of Feral Omega

But I can't.

Won't.

Because as soon as I let myself give in to those base desires, those primal instincts, I'll have lost. They'll have won, stripped away the last shreds of my defiance and self-preservation until I'm nothing but a tame, docile little pet to be paraded around on a leash.

My lip curls at the thought, jaw clenching until I feel the tendons stand out. I am not some fragile hothouse flower to be coddled and preened. I am a survivor, hard as the wilderness that forged me.

They may be beasts, but foxes and jackals are beasts, too. The wilds aren't just for monsters and brutes.

Dropping my hand, I turn away from the tempting piles of softness and head for the far corner of the room. There, I gather up a worn wool blanket and a few of the less opulent pillows, piling them into a nest that's meager and plain.

Just like me.

Just like the life I've always known, with no illusions of grandeur or comfort. A life of hardship and struggle, of constantly having to fight for my next breath.

This is what I know. This is what I understand.

Soft, pretty things are for delicate creatures, not hardened survivors.

Wrapping the blanket around my shoulders, I sink into my makeshift nest and draw my knees to my chest. Let them think they've won me over with their indulgences, their "gifts."

I know better.

All I need is the will to keep fighting, to keep surviving no matter what schemes they devise. And that... that is something no amount of soft blankets or plump pillows can take away.

Chapter

Twenty-One

WHISKEY

The whiskey burns a fiery trail down my throat as I toss back another gulp straight from the bottle. Not my usual drink of choice, but the name's fitting tonight.

I'm a mess.

A drunken, sorry-ass mess sitting on the exam table in the infirmary, waiting for Plague to pop my damn shoulder back into place.

Fucking Wraith.

One minute we're all watching some dumb zombie movie, the next he's seeing red and coming at me like a bat out of hell. That freak doesn't need a reason to try and splatter my guts across the wall.

I take another swig, grimacing at the harsh bite. Stupid fucking idea to provoke him by trying to grab his mask and yelling that the zombie was in the room with us the whole time.

Even drunk off my ass, I know better than to poke that particular bear.

At least this time I managed to roll out of the way before he caved my skull in with that tree trunk of an arm. Not so lucky with the shoulder, though. Dislocated it when I hit the floor hard enough to crack the fucking tile.

So here I sit, knocking back the good stuff to dull the fiery ache radiating through my entire left side while I wait for Dr. Featherlight to grace me with his presence. The bitter taste of defeat and whiskey mingles on my tongue.

The door finally hisses open and there he is, resplendent in that stupid fucking plague doctor getup of his.

What a goddamn drama queen.

I snort into the bottle, glaring at him from beneath my lashes.

"'Bout fucking time," I slur, words clumsy and thick on my tongue. "Was startin' to think you snuck off to spy on our omega, Doc."

Plague doesn't answer, just moves closer, his footsteps eerily silent despite the steel-toed boots. He looms over me, masked face impassive, and reaches out to prod at my injured shoulder with gloved fingers.

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