Page 68 of Generation Omega: Revealed

He ignores me but thankfully leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I practically fall onto the toilet, but manage to do all that needs to be done without taking a header into the wall or further embarrassing myself. When he returns, I’m seated on the side of the tub, exceedingly grateful that I don’t have any injuries on my ass.

The killer’s focus is intense as he begins unwrapping my bandages, checking and cleaning my bullet wounds. He has a whole med kit all ready to go.

“Looks good. I already gave you IV antibiotics, but I’ll also use topical for your burns.”

Mentally, I try to go somewhere else. Being this close to him while he tends my wounds like he gives a shit whether I live or die is… it’s a mindfuck, that’s what it is. Instead of thinking about what he’s doing, I consider how he’s doing it. He’s confident, knows his way around wounds and burns. I wonder how many he has. Did anyone ever get close enough to make him feel as vulnerable as I do right now?

On some level, I know I could still fight him. I could gut it out. But I couldn’t win like this. I could only lose worse than I did. Ilosta fight. What is wrong with me that my bruised ego stings as much as my hand?

His jaw clenches as he works on the burns on my left hand, as though he’s forcing himself not to say anything. What would he say? Something unpleasant about Tillie? I could clock him with my elbow that’s nicely undamaged, at least until he punches my bullet wounds to put me in my place. It’s not the time for that. He hasn’t harmed me or insulted my best friend. I’ll bank all my irritation so I can explode when I need to—there, logic wins.

After he finishes with my left hand and wraps it, he stares at my right hand. I’m cringing inside even thinking about him touching the gauze. The pain is already radiating up my arm and unsettling my stomach.

“I want to wait untilafter…”

After we eat? After we talk? Then I’ll get the epic reveal of my possibly permanent hand injury? Oh, shit… the blood drains from my face and he’s suddenly staring at me, studying me like he can figure out my thoughts just by looking at me.

When that doesn’t work, he uses words like non-killers do. “What’s wrong?”

Dammit. I don’t want to show my weakness, but the first glimmer of a panic attack has arrived. “Is it permanent? Will I heal?” I grimace. “Will I be able to fight?”

“It means that much to you? The fights?”

“Yes.” I grimace harder. “Please, just tell me if it’s going to heal.”

“It will heal.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. “Food.”

The killer ensures I’m steady and helps me back to the cot where a tray is waiting, with a sandwich, chips, and a bottle of water.

“What about you?” I ask, noticing the absence of any other food in the room.

“I’m fine.” He’s not fine. I can feel it. There’s a horrendous ache in him, like that barbed wire from earlier is now tightening around him.

I finally remember the poison that was in that dart, courtesy of his dead brother. He had no honor—that’s what the killer said. That guy couldn’t beat me in a fight and only won because he poisoned me. So the killer killed him? That makes no sense. Since when are killers so big on honor? Especially assassins sent to kill an innocent, vulnerable omega, and who shot me in the back—yeah, fuck him.

“Eat.”

“If I eat, will you talk?”

The killer deliberates a ridiculously long time, but then nods and drags the chair closer to where I sit on the cot with the tray on my lap.

He waits for me to take a bite before he begins.

CHAPTER33

KAZIMIR

Nothing in my life has ever soothed me more or set me more on edge than listening to Ethan’s thoughts. I don’t like people. They are tedious and predictable. He’s not, and I like him. I like being in his mind. I didn’t think I would. I thought it would be too much emotion and confusion for a man who loathes both. I was wrong, and I’m grateful for it.

With bullet wounds and burns, waking in an unfamiliar setting in the company of a violent stranger, he’s the same as he was with his girlfriend at the event. I pulled the feed and watched them together and he wasthis… kind, thoughtful, strong, funny, and, most of all, capable of great love.

I like him, and I don’t want him to hate me. Never in my life have those two thoughts existed, let alone at the same time. The confluence is fueling this edginess that’s rattling me. I have something in this world, which means I have something to lose.

“I’meating,” he reminds me as he finishes half the sandwich.

“I’m gathering my thoughts.” That’s not a lie, but I’m also considering his thoughts. He finds peace in the corner of the ring when a fight is about to begin. He feels safe with rules. I can use that.

I quickly catalog his questions and his thoughts that need challenging, but I can’t delay because now he’s holding the remainder of the sandwich away from his mouth, while giving me a warning glance. Either I talk or he stops eating, a silent and charming ultimatum.

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