Page 3 of Hunted Omega: Part Two

For a hot second, I can’t remember where the hell I am. My heart does its best impression of a jackhammer against my ribs as I wrestle with the lingering echoes of my nightmare—Pack Clarke’s hands reaching for me, their scents saturating the air like the world’s worst cologne factory explosion.

“It’s not real,” I whisper. “You’re safe now, Aria. Safe.”

Get it together, Aria. You’ve survived worse than this.

Noah was different. He hurt me, sure, but Pack Clarke… Pack Clarke broke my fucking heart, and isn’t that just the cherry on top of this crap sundae?

The words feel about as convincing as a politician’s promise. Memories crash over me like a tsunami of emotional baggage—Pack Clarke’s confrontation, the sickening revelation of my omega status, the frantic drive with Cayenne’s help.

Zane’s intense gaze burned into me, his voice a low growl that probably could have stripped paint.“You lied to us, Aria. How can we ever trust you?”The memory is so vivid, I canalmost feel the heat of his breath on my skin and smell the leather and sandalwood scent of his anger. It’s like a punch to the gut, but you know, the emotional kind.

Those are the worst.

I force myself to my feet, the cold floor biting into my soles like it’s auditioning for a role in a horror movie. I move through my apartment in the Omega Guardians building, feeling like a ghost in my own life. The place is sparse, practically barren, a space that still doesn’t feel like mine after four weeks. I haven’t gone back to my old apartment to gather my things. I can’t bear the thought of it, but here, at least, I’m safe—or so I keep telling myself.

Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll actually believe it. Ha.

As I wander the empty rooms, the weight of everything presses down on me. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and air freshener, futile attempts to mask the cocktail of omega pheromones that permeate the building.

My own scent—orange creamsicle—has only grown stronger without suppressants. I smell like a walking ice cream truck.

I pause at the window, staring out at the city slowly coming to life in the predawn light. Puritan City, my home for over a year now, feels like a maze of potential threats. Somewhere out there, Pack Clarke is going about their lives, and Noah…

The thought of him still out there, still hunting me, makes my skin crawl like it’s trying to escape my body.

The coffee maker beeps, dragging me back to reality like a grumpy teacher calling on a daydreaming student. I fumble with my mug, spilling a little. The scalding liquid burns my tongue, but I barely register it. All I can think about is how close I came to being trapped by Pack Clarke, and how easily I could lose everything again.

Because you want them.

The thought hits me harder than a freight train, and I shove it down, burying it under layers of denial and fear. I don’t have the luxury of wanting anything, least of all them.

Nope. Not going there.

A knock on the door startles me, jolting me out of my spiraling thoughts like a bucket of ice water to the face. “Ms. Aria? Is everything alright in there?” It’s one of the Omega Guardians’ security guards, Finn. Always the concerned beta, his voice drips with professional courtesy. “Your scent’s… off. Need me to call anyone?”

I take a steadying breath, forcing a smile that feels as genuine as a three-dollar bill. “I’m fine,” I say, the lie slipping out easier than it should. “Just a little jumpy this morning. You know how it is, waking up on the wrong side of the bed and all that jazz.”

Finn gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy it but nods anyway. His beta scent, neutral and calming, washes over me like a wave ofmeh. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call. That’s what we’re here for. The guardians have your back.”

I nod in return, shutting the door a little too quickly. It’s comforting, knowing the guardians are here, but the dependency grates on me like nails on a chalkboard. I glance at my reflection in the hallway mirror—pale skin, dark circles etched under my eyes, my pink-blonde hair a tangled mess that would make a bird’s nest look organized.

I barely recognize myself.

When did I become scared of my own shadow? I used to be the girl who laughed in the face of danger, but now I’m the girl who hides under the covers at the first sign of trouble.

In the bathroom, I reach for my heat suppressants, my hand closing on empty air. Panic claws at my chest like a caffeinated cat as I realize the bottle is empty.

How could I forget to refill the prescription? Smooth move, Aria. Real smooth.

Without those, my heat could begin at any time. I’ve put it off too long, and my heat will hit hard and fast if I don’t get more. I clutch the sink, breathing hard as the walls of my apartment close in like a trash compactor inStar Wars.

“I can’t do this,” I choke out, grabbing my phone with trembling hands. I call in sick to work, mumbling something about a stomach bug. As soon as I hang up, I retreat to my nest in the corner of my bedroom—a cocoon of blankets and pillows I’ve meticulously arranged—the only place that feels like it’s mine. I curl up tightly, inhaling the comforting scent of laundry detergent mixed with my own pheromones, trying to find some pretense of calm.

My mind keeps spiraling, a mess of fear and regret. Pack Clarke. Noah. Cayenne and Ginger, who moved here to keep me safe—or maybe to keep tabs on me. I’m not sure anymore.

Trust issues? Me? Never.

Stop it,I scold myself, but the words are as empty as the apartment.You don’t need them. You don’t need anyone.

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