Page 227 of Unhinged Omega

"What kind of favor?" she asks, wariness evident in every syllable.

I set aside my cigar, suddenly needing both hands empty. Vulnerable. It's not a feeling I'm comfortable with.

"I know you hate alphas," I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. "And I'm sure we've given you damn good reason. But Raven... he's different."

She keeps watching me.

I look away, unable to meet her gaze as I continue. "You could destroy him if you wanted to, and he'd probably thank you for the privilege. But I'm asking you not to, all the same." My throat feels tight, the words alien in my mouth as I add, "Please."

I can't remember the last time I said "please" to anyone. The word sits between us, awkward and exposed, like a raw nerve.

Cosima doesn't respond immediately. When I finally look up, her expression is unreadable. She studies me, seeing too much. After what feels like an eternity, she moves toward the hatch leading back into the black market.

With one hand on the metal door, she pauses. "You're right," she murmurs, not looking back at me. "Idohate alphas. Mostly because you have your heads shoved too far up your asses to see what's right in front of you."

A bitter laugh escapes me. Can't argue with that assessment.

"You're right about before, too," she adds, her voice softer. "It's dangerous out here. Nothing is certain." She glances over her shoulder, meeting my gaze. "You should tell Raven how you feel while you still have the chance."

Fuck. Going right for the jugular again.

The worst part is it hits too hard to dismiss it outright as bullshit.

Instead, I grunt an acknowledgment, unable to form actual words. She disappears down the hatch, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind her with finality.

For a long time after she's gone, I sit there staring out at the wasteland, thinking about all the things I've never said. All the chances I've never taken. All the ways I've fucked up what might have been good in my life.

The cigar burns down to the nub between my fingers, forgotten. The vodka sits warm and useless in my glass.

Tell him how I feel.

The fuck does that even mean? What the helldoI even feel? What would I say?

"You're a giant, blond thorn in my ass and I've got an ulcer and a few dozen gray hairs from worrying about all the ways your dumb ass is gonna get yourself killed?"

For now, I just sit in the dying light, watching the darkness creep across the desert like ink spilling across the sky, wondering how much time any of us really have left. My money was that I wouldn't get to thirty, so everything since then has mostly been one long, uninterrupted string of gray days, each one blurring into the next.

Except for a handful of golden ones. Those are the only ones that really stand out.

Maybe I could tell him that.

Chapter

Forty-Nine

NIKOLAI

Ifade in and out, caught between burning heat and bone-deep chills. My back feels like someone's still digging around inside it with a rusty spoon.

Fuck, I hate infections. Give me a clean shot through the shoulder over this shit any day.

Voices drift around me, sometimes clear as a bell, sometimes warped and distant like I'm underwater. Raven's voice is the most constant. Always there, always talking. To Geo, to Cosima, to people on the radio whose voices I can't fully make out.

"...need you to check every outpost between here and the Surhiiran border..."

His voice is sharp. Commanding. Not the flirtatious purr he uses to get his way, but the voice I taught him. The one that makes people listen.

"I don't give a fuck if he hasn't been seen in three months. Find him. The name's Azarel..."

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