Page 54 of The Omega Trials: Part One

I reach for my shirt, but my fingers lock up before I can pick it up, his alpha command still ruling my body.Alwaysruling my body.When will I learn . . . ?

My jaw grinds and I ask bitterly, “Can I put my shirt back on,Alpha?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. But Ican’t.”He sounds so hurt, disappointed even, disappointed withhimself.It tugs on whatever remaining sympathy I have for these men. But I’m still standing here exposed with my bloody heart.

“My. Shirt,” I repeat coldly.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He waves his hand, looking away, then pinches the bridge of his nose while I tug my shirt over my head.

He roughly pulls up his shirt once more and gestures frustratedly at his impossibly healed side like he’s lost for words and these rough motions are all he can manage.

“Bishop.”

“What they gave me—” His fists clench and unclench. He breathes in deeply, then restarts, “They gave me these alpha hormones to speed up my healing and it has me so wired that if I went into rut, let alone tried to claim you, I’d . . .” He scoffs, shaking his head.

“You’d what?” I demand, that same disappointed look shadowing his hazel eyes.

“I-I’d—” Suddenly, he rushes me. His hand wraps around my throat. Gold flashes in his irises. My pulse hammers and my stomach swoops.

As he talks, he walks me back until my thighs hit the bed. “This is as gentle as I’ll be able to be,” he growls through bared teeth.

My body involuntarily hums at the threat and warmth pools between my thighs. My stomach cinches as he inhales, his eyes growing half-lidded. His fingers around my neck tighten. “Just smelling the way your pussy reacts to my hands wrapped around your throat makes me want to tie you to this bed and tear youa-fucking-part. I won’t be able to stop myself from hurting you,breakingyou. Do you understand?”

I place my hand over his. He loosens his grip, expecting me to try to pry it off. Instead, I squeeze. “You can’t break what’s already broken.”

We are standing in front of what looks like a nondescript closet in the same wing as the Great Hall. I reach for the knob and Bishop’s hand shoots over my shoulder and lands splayed on the door. His fingertips grip the wood. There’s a stirring in my gut as I trace the path of the veins on the back of his hand.

His breath feathers on the back of my neck as he speaks. “This isn’t a good idea. We can wait until the hormones are out of my system.”

“We don’t need to wait.” I turn around, his arm caging me against the door. The stirring in my stomach turns into a rip current when his eyes drop to my mouth and his tongue swipes his bottom lip. “Do you trust me?”

“No,” he breathes, taking a half step forward so our hips nearly kiss. My heart skips at his scent of leather and bergamot, yet I can’t help but frown at his answer. My breath catches as he reaches out with this other hand to smooth the crease between my eyes with his thumb. “I don’t trust who you turn me into, Omega.”

I force a chuckle, but it’s more of a husky exhale that makes his eyes flash. “I promise I can take it, Alpha.”

I spin around and open the door before he chickens out. A dark staircase descends into an even darker basement, and without delaying any longer, I begin down the steps.

He follows me down, closing the door behind him and turning the space pitch black. I wave around above my head for the pull-chain light I saw last time I was here. It only illuminates the twenty or so steps to the bottom but not much farther.

At the base of the stairs is an unlit wall torch like the ones at the underground arena. A flint striker hangs on a hook next to it. After a few tries, the torch roars to life, unveiling cans of rust-colored paint.

“I was wondering how you knew about this place.” I’m surprised by the hint of amusement in his voice given the outcome of myart project.

“Avoiding you three gave me a lot of time to explore.” I grab the torch from the sconce and continue deeper into the basement, which opens up into what can only be called a dungeon.

Medieval-looking torture devices made of thick iron hang on the stone walls alongside rusty blades and sharp wooden spikes. The dungeon is circular, like it’s at the base of one of the turrets, with a domed ceiling. I walk around, lighting the three other torches.

“Jesus.”Bishop exhales, looking dumbstruck as he takes it all in.

In addition to the wall of horror, there are a few cells, some so small, I’d consider them cages. Sets of chains and shackles are bolted into the walls, and an old wooden table is stained by decades of spilled blood.

“This is what you’re fighting so hard to be a part of,” I say flatly.

His footsteps echo in the macabre chamber. “Is this why you brought me here? To show me this?”

I walk to the center of the room where a chair is bolted into the ground with cuffs dangling from its arms. “No, this is.” I kick the hanging chain. “Should stop you from going too far.”

He circles the chair, testing the chains and inspecting how they are secured to the floor. He stops in front of me. His eyes float between my wrists and where my shirt covers my chest carvings. I can feel his desire for me, but there’s a sense of duty when he agrees. “Okay.”1

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