Page 24 of The Omega Trials: Part One

Any hard-on I had deflates the moment she accepts my guidance without protest. That’s how I know whatever he implied about her grandma must have really scared her. After last night, I know that is not easy to do.

The Azurites and the Ceruleans

Ecker

We make it halfway back to our wing before Sinclair seems to shake out from her shocked state. She shrugs out from under my arm now draped over her shoulder. I’m hit with the urge to pull her back.

Comforting her comforted me. Soothed the dull yet grating ache in my chest that has been a constant ever since she seemed so appalled I would ask her name. Like a monster shouldn’t care about such trivial things.

I wish I could strip away the alpha inside me that cares what she thinks, cares if she’s hurting.

It’s a goddamn inconvenience.

I trust her even less than I did before that joke of a meeting.

I can’t help but think that it’s all part of their plan. Plant their little omega spy in our pack and use our alpha instincts against us.

If we’re not careful, she will become the center of our world. Our sun, our moon, even gravity itself. It’s simple biology, but there is nothing simple about the games the Echelon plays.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the ceremony, and she’s already got Bishop all fucked up. He hasn’t brought it up, but I know him better than I know myself. He’s spent his entire life hating his father, everything the man was and everything he did. But last night, consumed by the rut, he acted just like him. Now, he’s turning all that hate inward.

And Titus . . . Well, Titus is Titus. Constantly on the verge of madness, never knowing if he wants to fuck her or kill her. Perhaps one then the other.

Bishop and Ti reach our quarters first. They enter the common room and don’t bother holding the door for us. It’s swinging shut when we reach it, and Sinclair’s hand shoots out to catch it. Her palm slaps the wooden surface and instantly I notice one of her fingers is all crooked and fucked up. Staring at its mangled shape, my eyes catch on the sparkling green stone in her ring—

“What is this?” I grab her wrist and pull her hand closer to my face for a better look.

“Aring— Jesus christ, let me go!”

She yanks hopelessly in my grip as I drag her into the room, slamming her palm down on a side table next to a dark-green mohair couch. Using one hand to keep hers flat, I turn on the table lamp with the other. It illuminates all the dust floating in the air and the silver in the strip of hair that’s hanging across her face, having fallen out from behind her ear.

I notice these small details like all my senses are turned up to one hundred as my mind reels, connecting dots.

I whip out my pocketknife. She attempts to pull back as I flip open the blade and bring it to her finger.

“Okay,okay,”she talks rapidly. “You can have it. Is that what you want? My ring? You can have it.” Her voice rises the closer and closer to her skin I get.

“What is this?” I ask again, ignoring her stammering, and tap the stone with the tip of the knife. It looks like it’s been painted over with nail polish or something.

She sounds more confused than worried as she says slowly, “A ring . . . ?”

“No, no.” I shake my head, my thoughts going a mile a minute. Her ring didn’t look like this yesterday . . . . It was clear . . . . There was a flower. I’m an idiot for not recognizing it earlier.

Hurriedly, I scratch at the shiny green with the edge of my blade. As I suspected, the color chips away like the paint on our doors, revealing just what I remember: a small, pressed blue and white bud under a dome of glass.

I lift my eyes from the delicate flower to her panicked gaze, noticing how the pale blue of the petals match the color of her eyes. The others have come to look over our shoulders. “Bishop, you remember what a Dusk Daisy looks like?”

“Just like that,” he says slowly on a heavy exhale.

I release her and walk back. “Well played.” I clap, slow and patronizing. “Well. Fucking. Played.”

She clutches her hand to her chest defensively. “What are you talking about?”

Her eyes slice across the room, assessing us like an animal backed into a corner. She swallows deeply, her face straightening, and I realize she’s no longer looking for a way out. She’s calculating how much longer she has to live.

“How do you know about my ring?”

“Because thatring . . .”Titus can’t finish his sentence, his voice shaking with rage.

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