Page 8 of Captive Omega

Behind me, shouts ring out, growing louder as I hobble faster.

My life before the abduction never veered far from my home, my job, the restaurants Henry took me to, and the free heat clinic I went to ride out my heat.

Until the last time when my usual clinic was full and I made the life-changing mistake of venturing to one in another part of the city.

I pass an endless line of gray factories.

I’m lost. Worse, as I hobble-run, I leave a trail of bloody footprints in my wake.

Like a movie stuck on repeat, my mind flicks back to Rupert falling.

Again, I see his arms windmilling, his wide desperate eyes pleading for me to save him.

The crack of his head hitting the ground.

And the blood.

God, there was so much blood. Even after my suicidal leap, it was still leaking out of him. Makes my stomach gurgle and churn. Almost makes me forget about the pain as my bare feet slap concrete.

When my lungs burn as badly as my feet, I feel myself slowing as I struggle to keep my pace. I didn’t get as big of a head start as I need, and I need a big one after two years spent being passed around by alphas. Freedom, when it came, had its limits. I was free to prowl around a walled garden or a room in a mansion.

Can you even call that freedom if it comes with all those conditions?

My side hurts and I press my fingers into the stitch, a sign I am badly, badly out of shape. The alphas who bought me ensured I ate enough to survive, not to thrive. And the only regular form of exercise I got was fighting off alphas. A fight I always lost.

My pace slows further. It’s more of a lurching, wobbly walk than a run at this point.

I tell myself to think of alphas like Nathaniel and Rupert Lang, and of how I intend to destroy every single one of them.

But to do that, I need to survive tonight.

The pain gets so bad, I stop, rest my palm on the nearest brick wall and lift my foot to see if there are shards of glass in there. It feels like there might be. When I swipe my fingers over the soles, my fingers are sticky with blood and they hurt, but I can’t find—or dig out—glass.

An alarm beeps somewhere behind me. My heart leaps in response.

I forget my burning feet and get back to my hobble run. I weave through the warrens of factories, passing abandoned cars. No one is around to wonder about the dark-haired omega in a stained white dress and bare feet hobbling through what must be the city’s warehouse district.

“Just get through tonight.” I make it my mantra.

I gasp it as I lurch and run, head down, my sole focus on the next step I have to take.

Lungs burning and stomach churning, I stumble into something and bounce off it. Nearly falling, I catch myself on the nearest wall as a brown paper bag flies out of a navy suited man’s hand. Which is when I realize I’m no longer in the factory district.

I’m on a main street with people and traffic lights flickering around me.

Smash.

The man growls as only an alpha can, face twisted in rage. Just as suddenly, his nostrils flare as his fury melts away.

A split second. That’s all it takes for this big alpha to take a good sniff and realize the woman who nearly tackled him to the floor is a thing all alphas crave.

He forgets about his bottle of red spilling across the sidewalk. His smile is confident. Assured. “Omega.”

And his scent: a nose-wrinkling spicy ginger and cinnamon that is downright unpleasant.

I peek over my shoulder, confirm O’Brien and his men aren’t right behind me, and step around the alpha I just bounced off.

I don’t waste any words on him. He doesn’t want to hear what I think of alphas. No one would. I hobble away from him, no idea where I’m going, just the need to get somewhere I can hide.

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