Page 33 of The Omega Trials: Part Three

Me?I bite my lip, waiting to respond, hoping he’ll give me more than that single word.

“When I think about the way I treated you . . .” He looks away, full of disdain. He picks up another stone and rolls it in his hand. “When I think about that . . . it hurts. It hurts so fucking much and . . .” He drops the stone without throwing it.

I don’t let go of his other hand. I don’t squeeze it either. I don’t want him to feel like I’m pushing him, even a little. I just hold it, and eventually he starts talking again.

“I know I’ve given you nothing but pain, shown you nothing but a monster . . .” His throat seems to close up, his words strangled. “But I can be gentle, ya know. I can be . . . soft.” He turns to look at me, and the mournful weight in his eyes lands like a thousand pounds in my stomach.

“Is this because of the other day? When I told you to . . . like you hated me?” I felt like I needed that at the time, but if I had known what it would do to him, I would never have asked. “That wasn’t to punish you or because—”

“I was before, ya know. Gentle. You were sleeping and it was just a dream, but I wasn’t a monster. I wasn’t . . . ,” he mumbles, dropping his gaze again as if in shame. “The way I am.”

I want to tell him he’s not a monster, that I don’t believe he ever was one. He was cornered; we all were. Put in an impossible situation with only bad choices. But I’m not sure he’ll be able to hear those words right now.

Instead, I say, “Tell me about that dream.”

He takes my hand off his and turns it over. Tracing the lines of my palm with his rough fingertips, he tells me, “You were sleeping, and it made sense that it had to be that way. You know, soft and unconscious, unable to fight. Not because I wanted to force you,” he quickly clarifies, then adds more softly, “But because we didn’t know any other way to be with each other.”

He looks at me as if checking to make sure I understand. “We didn’t know how to be if we weren’t fighting. Is that what you mean?”

“Yeah, exactly. I could take my time. I could show you a side of me I never could if you were awake. I know it’s fucked up. I know that.” He sighs in defense. “But I was gentle. I was . . . sweet.” He stares out at the lake, the sunset now coloring the slowly rolling surface. “And I know it was just a dream, but . . .” He folds my hand, cradling my fist between the two of his, and looks me in the eyes. “But I also know I can be that again. For you.” He swallows deeply, and I’m afraid to move, to breathe, to do anything that might scare him into closing himself off again. “I don’t always have to be your pain.”

1. “Don’t Let Me Go” by Paul McDonald, Nikki Reed

Chapter 19

Frozen

Titus

Sinclair stays with me until the sunset’s last rays dip below the horizon. She asks if I want to go back with her, but I turn her down. Instead, I finish the bottle and stay on the shore until I, unfortunately, sober up. As an alpha, it takes a lot to get me drunk. Our bodies metabolize the alcohol too quickly, which is great for hangovers but shitty when you don’t want to face reality.1

It also means my liquor blanket goes to shit. By the time I decide to pack it in, the moon is high in the sky and I am sober, cold, and fucking miserable.

One of the reasons I stayed out so late was so I wouldn’t have to answer any of Bishop’s mother-hen questions. I should have known I wouldn’t get so lucky. Despite being well past midnight when I get back to the wing, he and Ecker are still awake on the couch.

“I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going to bed.” I throw my hand out before they can say anything, going straight to my room.

“You have unconditional permission,” Bishop says.

I hesitate at my door. “What?”

“She made us give it,” he continues, standing up to look at me over the couch. “Right before she shot herself up with the paralytic.”

“What?”I ask again.Maybe I’m not as sober as I thought . . .

On the coffee table, I spot the medicine case Seventeen brought for Merigold. A second syringe is now missing.

I tip my head toward my room. “She’s in there?” I practically whisper, as if I’m worried I’ll scare the possibility away.

Ecker nods. “She wanted us to tell you to be gentle, but I know you will, bro. We don’t need to tell you that.”

Now, I’m stone-cold sober. Because there’s no way I would be able to feel this massive storm of butterflies in my stomach if I were drunk.

They think her message is a warning, but I know it’s not.

The paralytic, telling me to be “gentle” . . . it’s an invitation.

“Yeah, okay,” I mumble in response as I slowly turn the knob, tuning them out and tuning into the déjà vu waiting for me.

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