Page 22 of Hunted Omega: Part Two

“Aren’t you though?” Willow counters, her gaze sharp enough to draw blood. “You stood up to them and challenged their alpha bullshit. You made them see omegas as actual people, not just walking incubators. That isn’t something everyone can do, sweetie.”

Her words linger in the air as we ramp up to more intense sparring. The slap of skin on skin, the squeak of feet on the mat, and the harsh rasp of our breathing all blends into a symphony of exertion and emotion.

“I get it,” Willow says, effortlessly dodging my roundhouse kick like she’s dancing instead of fighting. “You’re scared, and honey, that’s valid as hell, but what if they are genuinely trying to make amends?”

“Then why didn’t Malachi just tell me that?” I retort, blocking her counterattack with more force than necessary. The impact sends shockwaves up my arm, a physical echo of my inner hullabaloo.

“Did you give him a chance to? Or did you go full omega rage on him before he could get a word in edgewise?”

The question hits harder than any punch, and I falter. Willow takes advantage, pinning me to the mat with a swift maneuver that leaves me breathless and more than a little humbled.

“Okay, okay,” I rasp, tapping out. “Point taken. I might have… overreacted a smidge.”

Willow helps me up, her expression softening. “I’m not saying you have to trust them right away. Hell, I’m not even saying you have to trust them ever, but maybe give them a chance to explain. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.”

We cool down in companionable silence, the gentle stretch of muscles a welcome distraction from the weight of our conversation. As we finish, Willow nudges me gently.

“You know, Pack Clarke has a fundraiser coming up. It’s for omega rights. They’ll be there, talking about the new support program.”

I freeze, my hand hovering over my water bottle. “And you’re telling me this because…”

Willow shrugs, her expression carefully neutral. “Just thought you’d want to know in case you decide you’re ready to hear them out.” She pauses, then with a hint of steel in her voice, she adds, “But remember, you call the shots here. No pressure, no judgment. You say jump, and I’ll ask off which cliff.”

I nod slowly, not quite ready to commit but not dismissing the idea either. As we leave the dojo, I glance back at the space—its polished surfaces and open layout a testament to the strength and resilience of omegas everywhere. Maybe it’s what I need too.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell Willow as we step into the elevator, and to my surprise, I actually mean it.

That night, I lie in bed, my muscles singing a pleasant ache from the workout. The scent of lavender lingers from my evening tea. I replay the day’s events—the confrontation with Malachi,the cathartic ass-kicking in the dojo, and Willow’s words about change and second chances.

The anger and mistrust are still there, simmering under the surface like a pot about to boil over, but they are now tinged with something else—a glimmer of curiosity and a small, stubborn hope that maybe things aren’t as black and white as I believed.

I roll over, burying my face in my pillow. Tomorrow, I’ll decide what to do about Pack Clarke, but for tonight, I’ll let the day’s exhaustion pull me under into a deep, dreamless sleep where, for a few hours at least, I can escape the weight of everything that’s still unresolved.

As consciousness fades, one last thought flits through my mind as sharp and clear as a bell.

If I let Pack Clarke in, will I be opening the door to allies or inviting in the very danger I’ve been running from all along? And more terrifyingly, am I ready to find out which?

10

DASH

The neon signof the Grind Coffee Shop flickers like a dying firefly, casting a sickly glow on the rain-slicked sidewalk. I linger outside, my hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, wrestling with the familiar tangle of dread and resolve.

The AA meeting doesn’t start for another hour, but I can’t seem to walk in on time like everyone else. The early crowd’s the safest—fewer eyes, fewer expectations, and fewer chances to fuck up.

I inhale deeply, the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee mixing with the earthy tang of rain. It’s been four weeks, two days, and four hours since my last drink.

The length of time Aria has been gone.

Most days, the craving is a dull, gnawing ache, like a hungry beast pacing in my chest, but today, it feels like a tidal wave building on the horizon, threatening to pull me under and drown me in my own mistakes.

For a moment, I’m transported back to that night four weeks ago. I just had the best sex of my life. Never had I ever felt more connected to a woman, and I was riding high on adrenaline. Aria’s orange creamsicle scent lingered on me for days after. I remember the confusion and hurt… so much fucking hurt. Thelook of disappointment and fear in her eyes when Zane snapped is still fresh in my memory, and I didn’t have the balls to stick up for her.

I push the door open, and the bell chimes softly, the sound oddly soothing against the background hum of espresso machines and muted conversations. Then I freeze, my hand still on the cool metal of the door handle, when I see Aria standing at the counter.

Great. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. Except it’s coffee, and I’m the one who shouldn’t be here.

My heart stops and then kicks back to life with a painful thud, a jumbled rush of emotions crashing through me. Guilt, longing, and regret churn in my gut, making it hard to breathe. For a split second, I consider turning around and slipping back into the anonymity of the rainy street, but something keeps my feet rooted to the floor. Maybe it’s the last shred of courage I have left, or maybe it’s just the alpha in me refusing to back down.

---