Page 31 of Shadowlands Omega

The vegetable farmer charges me with his rake. I trip and fall on the cobblestone, bruising the heels of my hands and cutting a bloody streak across my right palm. The weaver throws her shed rod at me so hard it breaks skin where it connects with my forehead. Blood leaks into my eye. The pig farmer is the kindest — the one who sent the maggot-infested pig skull. He only throws dung. I use Yaron’s cloak to block most of it, but he’s persistent and he’s got a big shovel. If I still had hair, this would have been a catastrophe. As it stands now, I can wipe most of the shit off of my head with the backs of my wrists.

I’m sure I can find some way to clean myself up when I get back to Yaron’s room. I haven’t had the courage to ask yet for the staff to draw me a bath, but I’ve been wanting one. Sponge baths are all my family has, though, so even though I’ve been in the Lord’s private chambers, I still find solidarity with them in this. It’s one way that I can.

A group of Beta children whisper as I walk by. A pack of Alpha boys heckle me lasciviously in a way I don’t like. I make it to the fountain in the center of the marketplace, a stone statue of a Berserker beast lunging out of its center, water spraying from its massive maw. Children play here during the warmer months, but even though it’s a warm day and the fountain is running, there aren’t any children out today. I cup the water in my hands and splash some on my face to try to clear the blood and — I’m going to go withdirt— hanging from my eyelashes. I’m still staring up at the stone Berserker when I hear a loud blast. I freeze and jerk back, eyes wide, searching for an explosion.

Instead, my gaze snags on the blacksmith shop, a stone structure built right on the square. Its wooden door hangs open, looking like it’ll fall right off of its hinges as the blacksmith barrels through it. He charges straight at me and the distance between us disappears so quickly, it feels like time leapt forward, leaving me behind. Maybe it’s just the shock of it. Because even for as hated as I am right now by the town, I never expected Olac to put his hands on me.

He grabs me by the neck with both hands and lifts me off of the ground. He shakes me, spewing hate as he whips my body around. I’m distantly aware that I have Omega gifts now and that I could save my own life right now if I wanted to, but maybe it’s the wanting that’s the problem. I don’t want to die, that’s for sure, but I also don’t think he’s wrong for wanting to hurt me. He knew the family.I deserve this.No, I don’t. But I still don’t stop it.

The sound of whooshing in my ears is all I can hear, until the sounds of shouting override them. There’s a push and a pull and my body is flung from the grip of the blacksmith. I hit the fountain, my body slamming into cold, hard stone at the waist. It knocks the breath out of me and though I try to clutch the fountain to keep upright, I’m shaken and drop to my knees. For a second, I panic. I can’t breathe. Then air slowly returns to me. It burns like fire, but it returns. I thank the ancestors and inhale again, feeling grateful and ashamed. On my next inhale comes a greater whooshing, which finally makes way for the sounds of a vengeful world.

“…shows her leniency just because she’s an Omega… Where was leniency for Gwyn? For Yonel? For Gretchen? Gwyn was just a kid! They were a happy family. I hammered the wedding bands for Yonel when he got down on one knee and proposed to Gretchen when they were just wee children themselves! I was there when Gwyn was born. I was Gwyn’s godfather!” His rage dwindles from there and when I open my eyes, I see a man in a red cloak holding Olac by the wrist. His body is jolting forward, but when his gaze meets mine, I can see no real fight in him. Only grief.

“I’m sorry, Olac,” I mean to shout, but my voice comes out raspy and weak. “My family didn’t…”

“They may not have lifted the axe, but they did not need to. Your bloody, conniving parents — your sister worse than the lot of ‘em — ruined lives all the same.”

He’s right and I know it. His leathery brown skin is worn with lines that are always smiling. But not today. “I’ll make it right, Olac.”

My response only enrages him further. He surges against the grip of the Crimson Rider, who looks back over his shoulder at me with disdain. “Leave, Omega. Lord Yaron may have released you temporarily from your punishment, but if you don’t hurry back, I’ll have your ass here over the edge of this fountain.”

Olac’s fury momentarily shifts from me to the Rider. He shoves the man off and says angrily, “This quarrel has nothin’ to do with you.”

The man’s face twists, expression becoming more hawkish as he stares the other Alpha down. “No? Then perhaps our Lord would like to know who bruised his precious Omega.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him who offered to rape his Omega in the town square, too. We’ll see which he finds the greater offense.”

The Crimson Rider stands as tall as he can, but the tips of his spiky black hair don’t even come up to Olac’s meaty jawline. He’s a slender male besides, where Olac is pure muscle. “Fine. I’ll drag her back myself.”

The Crimson Rider is on me. He fists the front of my tunic and drags me down the road. My feet kick up loose stones as I fight to stay on my feet. I still have my gaze trained on Olac and a fiery sense of misguided righteousness fills me up when I say words I want to mean, but can’t possibly. “I’ll find Trash City. I’ll make sure Lord Yaron holds the guilty party responsible.”

Olac just laughs spitefully, his shoulders jolting up by his long earlobes, the wrinkles in his face flattening in defeat. “Who are you to hunt killers? You’re just a killer yourself. And come the Red Moon Festival, you’ll be even less than that. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, Omega.”

He turns away from me, and the crowd that I hadn’t even noticed gathering parts around him. Warm hands of villagers that I used to call friends coalesce on his back, offering him encouragement and comfort. Tears well in my eyes as it hits me then — the true magnitude of what my family has done. They’ve made us among the most hated people in all of Gatamora. We’reruined. Not just our reputation, our chances to ever find partners and husbands and wives and have kids — our chance at happiness. To have what that Alpha family had before Trash City took their lives from them. And my family helped.

The ancestors won’t help me now, will they? We’ve ruined their entire line and tarnished their legacies.There are no ancestors for me, now.

I’m sick to my stomach as the Crimson Rider escorts me out of the village. He’s handsy and it hurts where he gouges his nails into my stomach and ribs. He whispers nasty things into my ear the whole time. It takes too long for the last of the buildings fall away and the highway line to open up before us, leading up to the next cresting hill before it descends and crests again at the keep. But the strange thing is…traffic here between the edge of the village and the next crest has thinned. The sky is dimming and the highway line is empty. The trellises of the castle loom too far away, peeking up over the crest of the following hillside. We’re alone and the rage he radiates causes a short, sharp panic to spike within me.

“I can walk…” I tell him, but he abruptly pushes me away from his body and as I turn to face him, heslapsme.

I fall, hitting the ground hard enough to choke on my next breath. As my vision comes to, I still struggle to make sense of what’s happening… I’m on my back, my legs splayed. The Rider is looking down at me with disgust, but it doesn’t seem to have done anything for his erection, which pokes out of the slit in his trousers, angry and veined and red.

I turn and try to run, but he catches my cloak easily, the pin I found to clasp it cutting against my windpipe. He releases me with a kick to the backside and I collapse into a muddy depression on the side of the road. Pain lances through my back and through my wrists, which buckle under my weight. “That’s right,” he says, no humor in his tone at all. Only menace. “Present for me, like a good little whore.”

I look over my shoulder and I don’t feel as afraid or angry as I should. I don’t even know what’s going on. My brain is firing slowly, my thoughts struggling to understand as the Rider flings his cloak back and tugs his trousers down further. “Lord Yaron may be bound by his oaths to protect Omegas, but I’m not.”

Ancestors help me, I’m going to have tofight.I’m not…not prepared. I gulp, tasting mud on my bottom lip. Yaron’s cloak is heavy, weighing me down. My fingers are slick as I try to unclasp it so I can better crawl away, turn around, and fight him. But even if I could right myself and turn to face him…there’s no magic here. I can’t feel it anywhere.

I can feel the jerking at the front of my already bruised throat as the Rider grabs the bottom of the cloak and tosses it to the side, exposing my backside. I yelp as his hand finds my trousers. He pulls my tunic free of my pants and the breeze that touches my lower back gives me the chills. I feel a strange and distant yearning to present in the presence of an Alpha, but even my Omega nature knows that this is not the Alpha it wants. It wants Yaron.I want Yaron.

I open my mouth to say something — anything I can think that might stop this — but a crisp, calm voice cuts between us just as he touches my bare hip. “Ugaros.”

A full-body chill runs through me. I keep my gaze pointed to the ground and I blink slowly, several times. I don’t dare look over my shoulder at the owner of the voice, because it is unmistakably Yaron. The Shadow Lord will punish me for this. So I stare down at the mud between my fists. As still as I am, I can see my reflection in the small pools that have formed in the divots. My eyes are wide and round and white around the edges. My ordinarily round face looks slimmer than usual, gaunt. I’m not well, comes the distant thought.

“M-m-m-my Lord.” The Rider, with all his confidence, now stutters like a boy caught torturing animals behind the school yard. Evil little cretin. Evil little coward. “You…you’re here.” I can hear the sound of fabric rustling, of his trousers being retied. The latch of a buckle.

“I am.” Lord Yaron doesn’t say more.

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