Page 81 of Captive Omega

Vaughn is in the doorway, looking worried, his buttons haphazard, and hair the same way. His boot laces pulled up but not done up, like he dressed in a hurry. Lex is beside him, khaki green hair standing in all directions, in pj’s, looking sleep rumpled. It’s bright. Every downstairs light must be on for it to be this bright.

There’s no sign of Blaine.

Just how long was I falling apart?

Garrison scoops me into his arms. It’s not as awful as I thought it would be. He doesn’t hug me against his chest; he keeps his touch almost clinical. As if he knows this isn’t something I would ordinarily want.

It doesn’t hit me how late it is until Garrison strides outside, Vaughn trailing us. As I peer over Garrison’s shoulder, Lex lifts his hand and smiles at me but doesn’t close the door. He watches, as if he wants to make sure we get to the car okay. And it’s into the big, tanklike Hummer with its engine purring we climb into.

I wish I could smile back or apologize for pulling everyone from bed at what must be the middle of the night.

Our driver isn’t Vaughn. He slides into the passenger seat. It’s Blaine, in his usual turtleneck shirt. The city is dark and quiet, the streets mostly empty. I sit in Garrison’s lap, crossways, my head resting on Garrison’s shoulder, staring out at the dark city and trying not to think about if I’m bleeding onto his pants.

Every now and then, I feel the faintest touch on my back and the ends of my hair. Mostly, I concentrate on breathing and not panicking. Garrison said everything would be okay and I’m trying very hard to believe it will be.

I have no awareness of time.

It felt like we only just piled into the car, then Blaine is pulling off the main road, down a narrower one and into a parking lot where three people stand in front of a set of double doors. Bright lights stream out, illuminating them.

From the dark hair and familiar build, I know one of those people is Sadie. The other two I don’t recognize. Maybe because my eyes have latched on white fabric and I can’t seem to look away. My fingers grip the front of Garrison’s shirt as memories snatch me into the past.

White jackets mean drugs and auctions. They make me wish all alphas weren’t just dead, that they never existed at all.

The car has stopped, and the doors are open before Garrison’s clipped voice lacerates my panicked brain. “The coat.” His breath stirs my hair as I lean into his chest, fingers clenching his shirt, huddling, like I’m trying to hide.

From a coat.

Pathetic.

Maybe I was right to think I was mad when I screamed at the alpha outside the liquor store.

“What?” The man in the terrifying white coat frowns.

“Take off your coat,” Garrison growls and I shiver at the order in his voice. The faint touch on my back is no longer a faint touch at all but a large palm. I steal a little more of Garrison’s strength, hoping it will bolster my own.

The man’s eyes flick to mine and without a word, he shrugs out of the coat and tosses it aside. Maybe the floor. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I just care that I don’t have to look at it anymore.

Sadie steps forward as I lift my eyes to Garrison. “How did you know?”

“I have some limited experience with trauma,” he says, so mildly I almost smile. The owner of one of the best security companies in the city has limited experience with trauma.

“Are you ready for me to move you?” he asks.

I nod.

And as he helps me out of the car, I realize I need to start paying more attention to my surroundings.

Details, Resa. Remember when we agreed details were important?

Blaine is standing at the back of the car, head swiveling from right to left, a handgun clasped loosely in his hands.

Vaughn is at the front of the beast that is this Hummer, barely visible, head also lifted. I can’t see if he’s carrying a weapon, but I don’t for one second believe he’s unarmed.

Garrison places me in a wheelchair, and the man who was wearing that hated white coat wheels me in. Sadie is on my one side and Garrison on the other. He’s explaining what happened, and I’m not really listening, even though they’re talking about me.

I’m probing the building I’m being pushed into, bracing myself for more white coats.

“Was she in pain?”

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