Page 2 of Captive Omega

I am not an omega Nathaniel intends to keep, or God forbid, bond with his son. So no claiming bites for me. I’m only good as a plaything for Rupert until Asylum business starts up again and Nathaniel can sell me to recoup his money.

And it means I can ignore any order Rupert gives me.

It’s a fact he hates as much as I love.

As he herds me back toward my creaky camp bed, I choke on desperate terror.

No flinching.

No fear.

No alpha will ever see my weakness, least of all Rupert fucking Lang

You fight. You never stop fighting. Maybe one day you’ll win.

“You see, Rupert,” I look him right in the eye as I say calmly, “I think you’re pathetic. A waste of blood, of bone, and of?—”

He lunges, stumbling when I stick a leg out. “Stupid fucking bitch.”

I drag a taunting laugh from the part of me that isn’t quaking. “I’m not the one who can’t talk and unbutton a belt at the same time, Rupert. Now am I?”

Taunts come with pain, usually a slap, sometimes a punch, occasionally a kick as I curl myself into a ball. But what’s a little blood and pain when it delays what will happen later?

His thin lips pinch, stupid brown eyes narrowing as his large hand flies out. I dodge his slap but not the fist he slams into my shoulder. I stumble into the wall, hissing in pain.

And then he’s there, big pawed hands yanking at the sleeve of my dress. Fabric tears. He pins me against the wall as he pushes his pants down.

“Get off!” I scream, shoving him away.

Maybe I timed things just right.

Maybe he was more drunk than usual.

Or maybe fate lined up this perfect, perfect moment.

Rupert staggers back, tripping over the hem of his falling pants as the stained glass window covers him in pretty rainbow colors.

Smash.

Glass shatters, bathing me in the moon’s bright glow.

His arms windmill as he falls. His suddenly sober panicked eyes widen, holding mine all the way down. I flinch at the sickening crack when he lands, a sound I will never forget.

Two seconds.

Strange how a person can fall from so high so fast.

I stare down at him, my breathing loud in my head.

His lips are moving, and his pants are bunched up around fat white ankles. God, what an embarrassing way to die. His gaze dulls, fixing at a point over my left shoulder.

He’s dead.

You killed him.

“Don’t cry,” I whisper as the back of my eyes burn. “He deserved it, so don’t you dare fucking cry.”

Where is my happy dance?

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