Page 101 of Unhinged Omega

My breath catches in my throat.

He's younger than I expected, likely not much older than I am, and devastatingly beautiful in a way that makes my heart stutter. Stark white hair falls in choppy layers around a face that looks carved from marble, save for the jagged scar all the way from his left eyebrow, down over his eye, and across to the right side of his mouth, tugging his lips up slightly into a perpetual smirk.

Nearly every merc and outlaw in the Outer Reaches has his share of scars—and usually a few missing digits, too—but this one seems exceptionally vicious. And yet, it's his eyes that hold me transfixed behind red circular lenses. Gunmetal gray, and so intense, I feel like he's staring straight through to my soul.

Except… Something is off about the left one. It's not quite as bright as the right. Is it real?

"Interesting," he murmurs, studying me with that piercing gaze.

I can't look away. Can't even breathe properly. Old stories from one of the kinder guards float through my mind. Tales of avenging angels descending from the heavens with flaming swords to deliver divine justice. This man, with his otherworldly beauty and dangerous grace, seems too intense to be merely human.

"Are you an angel?" The question slips out before I can stop it, barely more than a whisper.

He throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and dark like aged whiskey. Not the cruel mockery I'm used to, but genuine amusement that transforms his severe features into something even more striking.

"Now, why would you ask that?" he questions once his laughter subsides, that one gray eye sparkling with curiosity. The other doesn't.

I find myself fidgeting under his gaze, dropping my eyes to the carpet again. "You look like one," I mumble, heat rising to my cheeks. "I thought… maybe you were here to save me."

The words sound even more stupid and childish out loud than they did in my head.

I stare at the man, waiting for the mocking laughter that usually follows any display of vulnerability on my part. But it doesn't come. Instead, he leans forward in his chair, those mismatched eyes glinting with something unreadable.

"What's your name?" he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle.

I hesitate, my throat tight.

"Robin," I finally whisper.

It's not my real name—I don't even know if I ever had one—but it's the one Madame gave me.

"Robin," he murmurs, his lip curling in distaste. "Robin is a shit name for a boy. Even a pretty one."

Indignation that surprises me flares in me. Even though it's not my real name, it'smine.

The only thing in this world that is.

A grin spreads across his face, transforming those severe features. "There it is," he says, satisfaction evident in his tone.

"What?" I ask warily, unsure what game he's playing. I thought I'd learned them all by this point.

"The spark she hasn't managed to kill yet." His voice is soft now but filled with something that sounds almost like pride.

I don't know what to say to that. No one has ever looked at me like this before. No one has ever talked to me for this long without giving me a command.

It's fucking terrifying.

He stands suddenly, and I fight the instinct to flinch away. For some reason I can't explain, I want to hold his gaze. Want to be an alpha in his presence, not the broken thing Madame has made me.

"Do youwantto be rescued, kid?" he asks, studying me intently. "Or do you want to save yourself?"

The question catches me off guard. It's the first real choice anyone has offered me in... I can't even remember how long. And the answer that rises to my lips surprises me.

"I want to save myself," I whisper, the words feeling foreign on my tongue.

He nods as if this is exactly what he expected, then strides to the window. With one fluid motion, he throws it open, gesturing to the night beyond.

"There you go. There's your way out. Nothing's stopping you."

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