Page 48 of Captive Omega

I slam into the side of the car as something crashes into us.

We’re on the hills with mansions up ahead, quiet streets behind us, and no barriers between the road and the steep hill down.

We teeter on the edge as I grab for the wheel, yelling at Violet to get out.

Too late.

The car tips. My head slams into the windshield. Liquid runs down my face. Violet is screaming and I’m grabbing and grabbing for the wheel, the door, anything to save her.

Then the car flips. Over and over, each bang more violent than the next. Something ignites, the scent of gas and fire overpowering.

Our car comes to a stop after a series of never-ending tumbles.

“Violet?” I croak out.

Can’t move. Smoke is filling the car, and lost glasses mean I can’t see a damn thing.

“Violet?” I dissolve into a burst of coughing that burns my lungs. “VIOLET!”

Nothing.

Nothing but pain and fire and burning.

“Oh.” A soft female voice yanks me out of nightmares and back to the present.

Resa is standing in the doorway, gripping a thin gray folder in both hands. “I’m just leaving this for Garrison.”

But she makes no move to enter the room as her long, slender fingers tighten around it.

The NDA.

After Sadie’s suggestion we show her what Lucas Security does, I hadn’t thought Garrison would ask her so soon or Resa would say yes.

Our work doesn’t lend itself well to getting to know clients after we’ve done what they pay us to do. They leave and we never see them again.

We check over their security systems, investigate corporate espionage (or we did until that last job with Violet), and we find answers to questions the police don’t have the time or the resources to dedicate.

We rarely do fieldwork now. Frost or Roman do that. I haven’t since Violet, and Vaughn is too much of a live wire to go out for long without someone with him. Field work or remote surveillance never interested Garrison. He likes to consult, person to person, at home.

Resa is more curious than I thought she would be. One day after Vaughn rescued her in an alley and, according to Lex, she’s breaking into our computer room. He’d volunteered that information. I’d nodded, focused on my research and pretended I wasn’t interested.

She is… surprising. Beautiful in jeans, bare feet and an oversized blouse as she hovers outside the kitchen, gripping that thin file hard enough to crease it.

“You can leave the file on the table. I’ll make sure he gets it.” Can she see my right cheek from the doorway or do I need to angle my head so she doesn’t as she enters?

When she doesn’t move, I focus harder on the background research I need to finish up on a prospective client. Can’t with her walking toward the dining table, closing the distance between us.

Is she staring at the scar on my cheek or the one on the back of my right hand?

I dart a rapid glance her way.

Her gaze is on my hand. My right one.

A wave of searing anger flares up. Sudden, unexpected, and overwhelming.

The case Garrison picked out for her to work on is supposed to give her something to focus on, and give us—or Garrison—an opportunity to prove we’re not like the alphas who hurt her.

The more she’s around, the more I’m aware of my failings. Of my scars. Of how ugly they are, and how I don’t want her to see them.

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