Page 20 of The Omega Trials: Part One

“Your name. What is it?”

“Sinclair.”

He sucks on his teeth with a click then turns away, nodding. “Sinclair.”

As he leaves, he repeats, “Sinclair.”As if testing the sound of my name on his tongue.

At last, I’m left alone.

I open the towel, facing the mirror. I look at the red and raw carving of a flower on my sternum and think about all the things these men did to me.

All without knowing my name.

That night, despite being more tired than I can ever remember being, I can’t sleep. I drift off but wake every time the ancient building creaks or the wind outside my window whistles against the glass. Even my own breathing feels too loud.

I’m jumpy and skittish. My pulse can’t seem to find a steady rhythm.

The king-sized bed is way more than I need. Something that is supposed to provide comfort feels monstrous in this place. I sit against the headboard, feeling like a small fleck of dirt on the expansive mattress and luxurious down comforter.

I’m tempted to check the lock on the bedroom door again, but I know it won’t provide any sense of security. They’ve more than shown they can get to me no matter what. There’s not a door or lock in the country that could keep them out.

I wonder if that’s the real reason they busted the bathroom door, just to show me that they could. To make me feel as insignificant as the splinters of wood left discarded on the floor.

As alphas, especially noble alphas, they’re fueled by the dominance they can exert over others. My fear right now is just another power they hold over me, even when they’re not here, and I hate it.

I hate this feeling and I hate them.

I hate them so fucking much.

I let this brewing hate turn my fear into resolve.

They can dominate my body, but that takes nothing more than brute strength and biology. True dominance comes from one's submission, putting claim to their soul as well as their body.

The ring blocked the heat from ravaging my mind. It didn’t fail me; it saved me.

They can have my body, but they will never have my soul.

1. Play “Spooky Girls” by Devil’s Music, The Black Reaper

Dreams

Bishop

As I climb into my bed, my body is somehow both sore and loose after the intensity of that rut. I look at the photograph in my hand. It is so worn, the texture resembles cotton more than paper.1

One of the many creases cuts through my mother’s face, eerily scratching out her eyes. Even so, she still radiates warmth, her smile beaming and candid. My small, three-year-old arms are wrapped around her neck as she gives me a piggyback ride. I have an equally bright smile, my chin resting on her shoulder.

The print is intentionally folded in half, and for the first time in years, I’m tempted to spread it open. When I do, my father stares back at me. I’m taken aback by his genuine smile,his green eyes crinkling in the corners. I don’t remember him looking so . . . kind. Like a happy family man. Something about this misleading moment frozen in time pisses me off.

I search his face for the angry man I knew, but I can’t find him.

Instead, I just see a beautiful, young family. His olive skin and jet-black hair are handsome on his lean face with a square jaw and prominent cheekbones. My mother’s skin is a few shades darker, but her hair is a lighter brown with an auburn hint. Where his face is cut and angular, hers is round and heart-shaped.

I’m an even mix of the two of them. In the photo, my short curls hang looser than my mother’s tight coils but are lighter in color than my father’s straight hair.

I shake my head and refold the picture. I don’t like seeing any part of myself in my father. I tuck the photo away. I don’t even know why I took it out. Maybe in some way, I feel like I need to apologize to the woman in the picture.

Laying my head on the pillow, I close my eyes and immediately my thoughts return to the bathroom. To her soft skin and parted lips. How her wet hair stuck to her back and her breasts swung with each of my thrusts, her pebbled nipples dragging against the counter.

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