Page 39 of The Omega Trials: Part One

His normally golden undertones are gray in pallor as we wait anxiously in the Great Hall for the emergency disciplinary hearing the Elders called.

I’m not delusional. I know it’s about us.

Well,her. But she’s one of us now. For better or for worse . . .

And it looks like it’s going to get much, much worse.

A chain hangs from the balcony like the one that suspended the dead woman. Instead of a body, thick shackles dangle at the end.

My nerves steady when I see a man next to it running a cat-o'-nine-tails through his fist.

A lashing.

The anxiety of not knowing dissipates, and I steel myself for what’s to come.

Two Elders stand in front of the Trial packs like judges ready to hand down a sentence. It’s the same two men we’ve come to know, the Azurite and Cyan.

“Today, someone defaced the Cyan wing,” the Azurite begins, and I watch Sinclair.

Her throat bobs on a slow swallow. It’s not quite a flinch, but every time the guard lightly slaps the whip against his palm, her jaw pulses.

She never takes her eyes off him, even when the Elder continues to speak. “A crude depiction of a bear with a dead stork caught in its maw was painted on their door. Based on this imagery, we have an idea who is involved, but you can save us all the time and energy an official investigation would take by coming forward now—thehonorablething to do.”

Bishop and Ecker both look at Sinclair, who responds with a silent, slight lift of her chin. I sense their conflicted emotions, their alpha instincts grating at the idea of her being punished.

Even I have to admit, the thought of letting her go up there is as uncomfortable and unnatural as turning my skin inside out. But the vindictive, hateful part of me says to turn her over.

I already saved her from one lashing yesterday. Maybe now she’ll actually learn. That would be the logical and wise thing to do—especially with the games tonight.

I swallow the knot in my throat and straighten. I clear my throat, and her gaze strikes me like an arrow to the chest.

“I did it.” The voice echoes, and I think I’m more surprised than anyone to realize it’s mine.

Her delicate gasp at my declaration twists the arrowhead a little deeper. I force my feet to move toward the front. If I spend a second longer looking into those confused, beautiful eyes, I might throw her over my shoulder and not put her down until we’re far, far away from this place.

“My omega was publicly and profanely insulted at breakfast. While I acted rashly, I did it for her honor.” I speak as I walk.

“Petty quarrels between families will always occur during these tense times when so much is at stake. Being able to work through those incidents diplomatically and independently is part of belonging to the Echelon. But when you desecrated this property, you disrespected the entire Echelon, and for that ten lashes are due.”

As the Azurite sentences me, the Cyan Elder’s slimy smile tips up under his mask.

“I understand.”

Low murmurs whisper at my back as I step up to the dangling shackles. A potent reminder that the goal of this punishment isn’t pain. It’s humiliation.

I can feel the other packs’ eager attention like circling, hungry wolves just waiting for me to weaken enough for them to make their attack.

The hushed whispers continue the entire time my wrists are being secured and the rope is hoisted until I’m balancing on tiptoes with my arms stretched above my head. It’s only when the enforcer moves directly behind me, dragging the tails of his whip along the ground, that silence finally falls on the crowd.

I’ve been participating in illegal alpha fighting rings since before I fully manifested. Even with noble blood, a sixteen-year-old at the start of his transition was no match for a fully matured alpha with a decade more experience. Rarely was there ever silence like this during those fights, but the same kind of moment existed in my head. I’d step into the ring, whether that be a sandpit in a junkyard or a properly caged hexagon, and find acceptance. I’d accept the pain, the fear, and the adrenaline that I knew was coming.

But I’d also accept that it would end. No matter how bad it got or how long it seemed to stretch on, it would always end. And when it did, I would still be there, having survived and endured.

The whip hisses through the air, and before it finds its target, I find my acceptance.

Each lash sends me rocking forward, straining my shoulders. It’s this sharp stretch that I try to focus on rather than the fire at my back. The knots and metal beads on the tails strip my skin. The warm blood that trickles down feels cool compared to the raging heat from each strike.

I don’t make a sound until the eighth one, when an exhale turns into a rough grumble. Sweat drips into my eyes, and I clench my jaw as hard as I can, determined to take the rest without a sound.

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