Page 51 of The Omega Trials: Part Three

Standing over the Elder Cyan, I order, “Look at me.” Realizing I have the gun trained on him, my alphas let him out of their hold, but not before ripping off his mask.

Pitifully, he rolls onto his back like a giant bug, tangled in his cloak, and I see his face for the first time. I expect chills or a jumping pulse at seeing this monster revealed. But instead, his extraordinary mediocrity is nothing but anticlimactic. He’s an older, crueler-looking version of Yves.Completely forgettable.

“What type of sick son of a bitch goes after an old lady?” I demand.

He tries to laugh, but his attempt at nonchalance is completely unconvincing with his eyes unable to look away from the barrel pointed at him. “My legacy will live on.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Your legacy will be nothing but that of a small, pathetic man.” I train my aim at the same place on his body where my grandmother was shot. "And no one remembers small, pathetic men."

Then, I pull the trigger.

1. “Monster 2.0” by Jacob Banks, WESTSIDE BOOGIE

2. “White Flag” by Bishop Briggs

Epilogue

Titus

Four years later

The repetitive sound of gloves hitting bags and mitts has become white noise. Even in my office with the door closed, I can still hear thethwack, thwack, thwack. I don’t mind the constant soundtrack. It reminds me of everything we’ve accomplished.

I opened Cerulean Boxing Club a year after we’d dismantled the Echelon. We started in a small basement lease but quickly had to expand to a bigger place. We have self-defense and workout classes, but our bread and butter is training fighters, including a youth team. Turns out, all those years of underground fighting taught me a thing or two.

Ecker also took his years of experience and started a high-class alpha escort service. In a strictly managerial role, of course, or Sinclair would be leaving a bloody trail through the city. And Bishop, always the Renaissance man, tutors in between poker tournaments and renovating our dream house—white picket fence and all. Sinclair bounces between helping all of us. She’s been the strong backbone that has allowed all of us to pursue our dreams.

My office door flies open, and Penelope’s harried face pops in. Now the gym manager, she is unrecognizable from the frightful ghost-mouse we first met. She’s filled out her petite frame, gaining weight and muscle, and her dark hair, currently pulled into a high ponytail, is streaked with a vibrant burgundy. But the biggest difference is in how she holds herself, her confidence when she speaks.

Like right now, without any preamble, eye contact avoidance, or sirs, she shouts at me, “Her water broke!”

As if struck with a bolt of lightning, I launch out of my seat so excitedly, I bash my knee on the underside of my desk.

“Fuck, fuck,” I curse as I hop around it, hurriedly grabbing my keys and coat.

As Penelope and I rush out the gym, I holler at one of our coaches to hold down the fort. I thought I prepared myself for this moment. I knew it could come at any time. Especially being pregnant with twins, Sinclair was bound to go into labor early. But now that it’s here, it’s surreal.

There isn’t a single word that can encapsulate this wild storm of emotions whipping around inside me. I’m nervous, excited, scared shitless, happy beyond belief, giddy, and frazzled. When I hold out the key fob to unlock my truck, my hand shakes.

Penelope spots it too. “I’ll drive,” she says decidedly and swipes the keys from me. Too many thoughts are racing through my mind to formulate any kind of protest.

I haven’t been to a hospital since . . . since the Fortitude Trial. That hospital in my mind was as real as any made of brick and mortar. Memories I haven’t thought of in years come flooding back. That feeling of hopeless heartbreak crushes down on my chest as we make our way through the hallways. The smell of antiseptic makes my stomach churn.

My feet stumble and I fold over, hands on my knees. Penelope turns around at my sudden stop.

“I can’t—I can’t bre—I can’t breathe,” I wheeze.

She rubs my back supportively. “Yes, you can. C’mon, Titus, you’ll feel better once you see her. Everything is going to be fine,Dad.” She smirks out of the corner of her mouth. I stand up, and she gives me an encouraging nod. “Ready?”1

I suck down a deep breath then exhale. “As I’ll ever fucking be. Let’s do this.”

Those same near-crippling feelings linger until we reach her room. But the moment I see my beautiful omega sitting atop a yoga ball with my brothers at her side and our children in her belly, everything melts away.

All their faces light up when we enter.

I can’t resist going straight to Sinclair. I clasp her face between my palms and swoop down for a deep kiss. The rapid pounding of my heart calms at the feel of her lips. I pull away and push back the sweaty strands of hair that have spilled out of her bun. I soak in her bright blue eyes.

“Hi,” she says breathlessly.

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