Page 52 of The Omega Trials: Part One

Alphas aren’t supposed to ask permission. But this goddamn fluttering in my stomach has me all tongue-tied and I try again, quieter in case Sinclair can hear, “But does shewantto see me?”

Seventeen pauses. My palms start sweating. Then, diplomatically, she answers, “You’re her alpha, sir.”

“Right.”

She takes a few steps toward the exit before turning around. “The fact that you asked what she wants . . . I don’t think she’ll mind.” She gives me a small nod in parting and leaves.

I look in from the threshold of Sinclair’s bedroom. She must still be in the bathroom since I don’t see her. The hole Titus left in the door the night of the ceremony is still gaping, but someone’s long since cleaned up the splintered wood from the floor.

I find I’m soothed by this discovery, picturing her cutting her feet on the debris. I can’t help but think I should have already thought of the potential harm and been the one to clean it up.

After a moment, I realize the small lump under the comforter is Sinclair. She’s curled up in such a tight ball that she nearly disappears. The covers are pulled up so high that I can only see the top of her head. She seems so fragile like this.Breakable.

Is that what happened?My stomach sinks and my chest tightens.Did they break her?

She doesn’t stir when I walk into her room even though my footsteps are intentionally heavy so as not to startle her. She doesn’t appear to move a muscle, but I hear, “I wondered when you’d come.” It’s more despondent than snarky and makes me curl my hands into fists.

She’shurt.And the urge to hurt whoever hurt her is so powerful I have to grab onto the wooden banister at the foot of her bed. I want to rip open my sternum to free this feeling in my chest. I want to barricade every piece of furniture in this room in front of the door so it’s just me and her, and no one can ever hurt her again.

The wood cracks in my grip.Jesus,these hormonesare fucking with me more than being around her usually does.

I could probably snap wood like this on a normal day, but never accidentally.

“Sin—Omega.” Saying her name sounds too intimate, too precious.

She rolls over and pokes her head out. “Bishop?”She sounds breathless and surprised.

“Yeah.” My voice sounds like coarse sandpaper. “How are you?”

“Me? How areyou?”She sits upright, her silver hair mussed, and she tucks it behind her ears. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want—I didn’t mean for—Christ.”She rolls her eyes with a frustrated huff at her own stumbling apology. She sighs and tries again, “I just wanted out. I didn’t want you dead.”

I haven’t been able to move from the foot of her bed ever since the sheets fell to her lap and I could see her braless tits pushing against her T-shirt. My cock jerks and I tamp the growl rolling in my chest as I imagine sucking one pert nipple through the thin fabric.

“Are you okay? In pain?” There’s concern in her voice, and I realize I’m now gripping the banister with both hands as I fold partially over, breathing in slow, heavy drags.

“No, no, I’m fine.” I straighten and try to relax the tension in my jaw and down my back.

There’s a weight to the slump of her shoulders. I want to go to her. I want to lift the burden. But I don’t trust myself. Especially not like this—god,my cock throbs. I wouldtear. Her. Apart.

She looks at me with weary suspicion. “You’re fine?”

Words evade me as I struggle to push this burning rut down before I lose control, so instead, I lift my shirt and show her the healed wound. Her eyes widen then they slowly move lower and lower. The fluttering in my stomach returns as her gaze burns my skin then settles at my hips.

Her pink lips part ever so slightly, and I can hear a hitch in her breath. I know what she sees without glancing down: my dick tenting my shorts. I can’t look away from the way hertongue flicks out the smallest bit before her throat bobs on a dry swallow.

My voice is strained and deep. “Look at me.”

Her eyes jump to mine and instantly that heady, heated quality to her gaze cools. She tugs the sheets closer as if embarrassed. That’s when I notice.

Her hands clutch the covers and the red band of damaged skin around her wrists stands out against the white fabric.

I’m at her bedside in an instant, pulling her hands into my own. I flip them over and back again with a low growl. The injuries encircle both wrists . . . like the rusty shackles on the victor’s prize would.

“What did they do?”

Her voice is quiet and defeated again. “They made me pay.”

My stomach roils, and my chest pangs. My bodily instincts want me to rage against whoever did this, but my mind knows it was my brothers doing what they thought they had to . . . forme.

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