Page 71 of Fallen Omega

But Dante’s wrong.

He miscalculated because he isn’t me. I’m wrong at times, too, but I also like to observe, think. Not talk.

People open up. They give themselves away.

Like Lizette did today.

She’s defiant, soft, yes, but defiant, and at the core of her softness is steel. She looked at me like she saw me.

Not the ink. Not the ex-con. Not the psycho. Not the man with the scarred face.

The creature I truly am inside, the one I was before my name change.

And she looked at me with lust.

She’s complex. More than I think Knight or Dante see.

It could be because they’ve been in such close proximity with her. I don’t know. I don’t care.

I do know he’s wrong. There’s more to her.

Christopher leaves the building, pulls out his phone and makes a call as he gets in the car, closing the door. He murmured low so I couldn’t tell who he spoke to.

Probably Dante.

Still…

The car pulls away, and I look around, but apart from a couple walking down the street who head into the building three doors down from her, there’s no one else.

There are pedestrians, cars that drive by, but no one of interest to me.

No…I know Dante is wrong.

He sent her back where she could easily be taken. Too easily, if I wasn’t here.

Which changes dynamics.

But even if no one comes for her, and she gets to pack a bag and go, and I implement the scare campaign, it might give her enough push to defy us.

Because she’s going to soak up the memories and comfort of that apartment. Take it all in as nourishment for her steel.

I’m going to up the timeline of the campaign and change the rules. I pull my hoodie on.

There’s a place I use that no one else knows about. Utilitarian. Away from what she knows, in an abandoned building.

I need to take her out of her comfort zone and leave her there, with her apartment off limits, and she’ll come running to us, desperate for some sort of familiarity.

Especially when she learns how we met her father.

I don’t bother texting Dante. I make my move.

Now.

Glass shatters as I step into the kitchen, the cup tumbling from her hands and cracking into pieces on the floor.

“Lizette.”

Her hand trembles, eyes dilate, and pulse beats faster in her throat as she stares up at me. The air is thick with possibilities. Parts of us recognizing the other. That instinctual reaction no one can hide.

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