Page 67 of Generation Omega: Revealed

I wish I could see his face and, as though I made a wish to a genie, he leans forward and allows the light to catch his face. I’m honestly struck by his appearance. He could be a calendar model if serial killers were into that kind of thing, possibly posing while swarmed by fluffy kittens. Or he could be if he didn’t look so run-down.

Dark half circles are practically etched beneath his eyes. He’s pale, the scruffy beginning of a dark beard the only thing preventing him from looking like a corpse. His thick, black hair is slicked back away from his face and the sides are cut short. His eyes are dark, almost as black as his hair, and almond-shaped. His lower lip is slightly fuller than the top, but it’s difficult to tell with the way his lips—and the rest of him—only seem to express disgust. Basically, he’s an attractive man who ruins it by not concealing how much he hates the world and everyone and everything in it.

He scrubs his hands roughly over his face, seeming irritated to a near-fatal level. “Food and water. Bathroom. Wounds checked and cleaned. Rest.”

I’m hungry and thirsty. I definitely need to use the bathroom. The wound cleaning makes sense, though I’m not super excited about it. Rest… yes, but I need to talk to Tillie first. I need to make sure she’s okay and knows I’m alright. I need to apologize.

The killer’s eyes squint in a more epic expression of disdain—he truly has an aptitude for looking constipated.

He coughs abruptly and appears to choke. If he needs the Heimlich maneuver, he should get it from someone he didn’t shoot. That’s only fair.

He loudly clears his throat and then resumes his glaring. “I was giving you the agenda. You pick the order.”

“Hostages get to pick?”

“If they choose quickly—otherwise, they’re getting drugged and fed through a tube.”

Ugh. “Fine. Bathroom. Bandages. Food and water. Phone call. Rest.”

“No calls until after we talk.”

“We’retalkingnow.” I feel like a huffy teenager, but I’m going with it.

Oof… the scowl of doom arrives, but his voice is uncertain, conflicted even. “There are things I need to explain. Things that affect you and will also affecther.”

“Her? Your omega, you mean?”

If his eyes could shoot darts, I’d be in more pain than I already am. He doesn’t inflict his rage on me, but rubs his own neck like it’s an animal he’s trying to slaughter. “Do you want me to drug you?”

“No.”

“Then let’s deal with what needs to be done and then we’lltalk.” He seems less thrilled with chatting than I am about him checking my wounds. “Can you stand on your own?”

“Yes.” I have no idea, but I’ll find a way.

“Prove it.”

He remains in his chair while I slowly coax my limbs to respond to my commands. I manage to sit with my feet resting on the floor and feel some pride, but also a truckload of agony. The burned skin hurts when I move and my shoulder is throbbing, but my hand is still the worst.

“What happened to my hand? Is it just the burns or did you shoot me with a nail gun for kicks?”

“It’s more than the burns, but…”

I almost sense what he’s not saying—that it’s complicated and he will explain. “Okay, I get it. We’ll chat.”

He flinches slightly and his expression locks into an impassive mask. “Show me you can stand.”

Here’s goes… and I’m up and dizzy as fuck. Then I’m wavering and about to sit back down, when he moves swiftly toward me, his hands steadying me. The second he touches me, I can’t breathe. I don’t understand it, but I’m hit with waves of safety and care… from thekiller. This is like warp-speed Stockholm syndrome. What the hell?

“The bathroom is this way.”

He guides me toward the small bathroom that’s clean but lacking any character, just like the room. “Do you need help?”

“No.” I’m adamant this time. Iwillconduct my business on my own.

“Then sit.” My captor is insisting I sit to pee. I get it, but it’s still weird. “I have sandwiches and bottled water. I’ll get them. Stay here and I’ll clean your wounds after you’re done.” When I don’t say anything, his intense eyebrows demand answers.

“Fine. I’ll sit and stay.” I mumble, “Next, you’ll have me playing fetch.”

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