Page 72 of Fallen Omega

“You…you were at the club. Reaper.”

She is stunning. From the flow of dark hair with the hint of wave, to her small frame with a tiny waist, flare of hips, and full tits. Her legs are fucking long, too, and the perfect shape that suggests velvety skin and a welcoming cunt at her apex.

The outfit is too tight.

I like it.

But the thing that catches me is the full lips, naturally pinkish red, and those dark brown eyes that hover on black.

Divine and pagan at the same time.

She’s a masterpiece in womanhood.

“Pack your things.”

She frowns. “I just got here. What do you mean, pack?”

Lizette doesn’t ask how I got in. She doesn’t move.

I do. The grocery bag hasn’t been unpacked, so I take it and put it in the hall with the backpack from the other day, next to the door with the lock I picked.

“What are you doing?”

I move about, purposefully, taking all the things I found which are important to her, and us. They’re not themostimportant. Those are in the pack and her leather bag. But I want all information on her and her father gone. The photos, all of it. She won’t be getting that in her new digs.

I put them all into a bag I find. It’s coming with me.

“Lizette, if you have anything else hidden, get it. And pack clothes. Now.”

I don’t raise my voice or harden my tone to an order. Instead, I keep it calm andflat and soft.

This tone is easiest. And it scares the shit out of most people.

Anger, fury, hate, lust, jealousy, fear; all of these are easy to ignore when they come at you. And it’s also easy to build a defense or a counter attack.

But with cold, calm nothingness, the smooth, implacable wall of reason in its base form? Of an unemotional situation? People obey or exhaust themselves or get themselves dead.

She isn’t most people, and I don’t think Lizette’s scared, which is good. I’m not setting out to scare her, just get her to do what I need.

Obey.

She does. When she’s done, she looks around in the living room, at the blinds I pulled down, at the remnants of a life lived.

This, I don’t understand. Having roots and a connection to a place that provides shelter. Even people.

I’m loyal to my pack, to Dante and Knight. But if something happened? I’d turn to the next page in the book of my life.

That isn’t to say I wouldn’t fight, wouldn’t go down in a battle for them, would ever betray them. Any of them.

Trust isn’t a tool I give out. It’s not, to me, a tool. It’s a gift, one that must be earned. And when I give it…

I look at her.

Is she pushing these thoughts out in me?

“Where are we going?” she asks. “Why? Your boss? Partner? Dante, he said I could go home.”

I nod, slinging the bag I want over my shoulder. I hand her the pack and her bag, and I take the wheelie fucking case of clothes, along with the groceries.

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