Page 148 of Captive Omega

Blaine pushes himself to his feet without a word and walks toward me.

I instinctively back up, hate myself for retreating, and force myself to stop. We’re outside the meeting room when Blaine pulls the door closed behind him, and it’s just us in the hallway.

“You were in my room.” I point my knife at him. “What the fuck were you doing in my room?”

I wait for him to tell me he can explain. That he has a perfectly good reason for behavior so creepy I don’t know why I’m not already stabbing him.

“I broke a promise,” he says, meeting my gaze. “I’m sorry for it, but that doesn’t excuse what I did.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “So, what, you’re seriously going to just stand there and let me stab you?”

“I am.”

“Why?” Again, I demand to know why I’m not putting this knife to good use. I told him I would kick his ass if he ever did something to deserve it. So why the hell am I holding back? “Why were you in my room?”

“Does the reason matter?”

His quiet question confuses me.

The door swings open behind Blaine before I can summon a response. Garrison and Vaughn look from me to Blaine and to the knife I’m pointing at him.

“Did something happen?” Garrison asks.

“Yes, something happened,” I snap. “He…”

Touched me?

Raped me?

What?

What do I believe Blaine did to me in my sleep because, try as I might, I struggle to envision him doing any of the awful, stab-worthy things that I can think of?

“Resa?” Vaughn prompts when I don’t continue.

“I was in her room last night,” Blaine says quietly.

For a long moment, no one responds.

“Doing what exactly?” Garrison asks.

I wait for a mountain of excuses or lies.

“It doesn’t matter why, just that I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been,” Blaine continues, speaking over Vaughn’s question. He’s still looking at me, and he’s still making no move to protect his throat from my knife. “The reason doesn’t matter. Resa is well within her rights to be upset.”

“Damn right I…” My voice trails off as I spot something over his shoulder that I should have noticed way before now.

Slack-jawed, I step around Blaine, eyes glued to the meeting room they turned into a war room. Messy scrawls and crudely drawn diagrams cover every inch of the whiteboard. Maps and photographs of the inside and outside of the courthouse spill over the conference table.

Then I spot a black duffel.

It’s scary how much I’ve learned from TV and movies, because I’m almost positive I’m looking at a bag full of bullet-proof vests.

“What is that?” I point my knife at the bag.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Garrison says calmly.

“You said it would be a challenge. This—” I gesture at the maps, the photographs, the white mugs stained with coffee, and the bullet-proof vests, “—is significantly more than a challenge.”

---