Page 22 of Storm
Chapter8
Storm
Iwake up with a splitting headache, every beat of my heart echoing in my skull like a hammer against metal. Jonathan's scent is still everywhere—in my hair, on my clothes, imprinted into my skin. Smokey cedar and black pepper. It's suffocating, wrapping around me like invisible chains, and I hate how my body responds to it. I hate even more that part of me doesn't want to wash it away.
The morning light filters through the thin curtains, casting the sterile white room in a pale glow. Even after four years, this place still feels temporary. I've kept it that way on purpose. No personal touches, nothing that would mean accepting this as home.
I rub my temples and squeeze my eyes shut, cursing Jonathan with every breath before swinging my legs over the side of the bed and forcing myself up. The cold floor against my bare feet grounds me. A small discomfort to focus on instead of the lingering scent of alpha that makes my omega instincts hum traitorously.
This is the first morning I haven't touched myself in four years. I glance at the camera in the corner of the room, its lens staring back at me like an unblinking eye. Defiant, I flip it off. No more shows for Jonathan. Not when my body is betraying me like this. Not when his scent makes me want things I shouldn't want.
I shuffle to the bathroom, my feet dragging against the floor as I go. The mirror shows the toll of last night’s encounter—dark circles under my eyes, my wild auburn curls a tangled mess. I splash cold water on my face, hoping to clear the fog from my mind and erase the lingering trace of Jonathan from my skin.
"Thirteen days," I whisper to my reflection, counting down to Choosing Day, to freedom. "Thirteen more days and I'm out of here."
Four years in this place, surviving, biding my time. I can make it through two more weeks if I take my blockers and heat suppressants. I'm so close to seeing Rook again. I don't want to fuck that up now, not when freedom is finally within reach.
I grip the edge of the sink, the porcelain cold against my skin, and force my thoughts back to those old promises. Rook's promises. It's the only way I've survived this long. I think of him, of the way he looked at me back then with that mix of adoration and hope.
We planned a future together, just us against the world. That's what's kept me going. Even when I wanted to scream and tear this place apart with my bare hands.
I brush my teeth vigorously, as if I could scrub away more than just morning breath. I need to focus today.
There's a sudden knock on the door, and I freeze, toothbrush still in my mouth. No one knocks here. They just barge in, usually Jonathan or one of the betas letting themselves into my room like they own my entire existence.
I spit quickly, wiping my mouth as I strain to hear any clue of who's outside. Is it Jonathan? My pulse quickens at the thought. Fuck. I'm not ready for that, not today. Not ever. I scramble over to my bed; the panic rising in my chest despite my best efforts to squash it. I have to prepare for what he's about to say about yesterday, about how I responded to him.
I stop, holding my breath, when I hear a small voice.
"Storm?" It's Harley.
Relief washes over me, my shoulders slumping as the tension drains away. Not him. Thank god. I rush over and open my door.
Her eyes dart nervously down the hall, filled with worry and a touch of excitement. I part my lips to speak, to ask her why she knocked, but she beats me to it.
"I need to tell you something," she whispers, leaning in close as she glances sideways like she expects Veronica or one of those beta bitches to appear any second. Her breath is quick, matching my own. "Let's go to the garden."
My mind races. What the hell is she going to tell me? I raise an eyebrow but nod. There aren't as many cameras in the garden as there are inside, so you can talk a little more freely out there without it being picked up.
"Give me a minute," I say, ducking back into my room. I splash more water on my face, and try to look like I didn't just have a minor panic attack at the thought of seeing Jonathan. I throw on a pair of old jeans and Rook's hoodie—my armor against this place.
As I follow Harley down the hallway, I can tell by the set of her shoulders that whatever she has to say, it's big. My heart beats a little faster, hope and fear wrestling in my chest. Maybe today is the day things finally start to change.
Harley waves me over to a large tree, and she's practically swallowed up by it.Like this isn't gonna be sus.It's the most obvious hiding spot in the entire garden, but I duck under the branches and join her, curiosity bubbling up inside me. Her eyes dart nervously around, making sure we are alone. "Quick," she urges, "before someone sees us." Her voice barely louder than a whisper, she leans in, the words tumbling out of her mouth too fast to catch. "I know how to rig the lottery."
My heart skips a beat. "How?" The thought of being able to control even a small part of this whole nightmare is almost too much to believe.
Harley pushes wild strands of hair out of her eyes. "Dahlia showed me," she says. The excitement in her voice has me vibrating. "Yesterday, before she went on stage, she pulled me aside and showed me a ticket—a lottery ticket, with 'Pack Kingston' written on it."
My stomach flips at that name. Kingston. Dahlia's pack. I can't help the flood of hope mixed with adrenaline. I dig my fingers into the bark of the tree, trying to stay grounded. Dahlia's winning ticket was in her hand the whole time? If she rigged the whole damn lottery, then I could… "Are you sure?" I gasp, the words rushing out before I can stop them, my voice barely more than a breath.
"When she reached into the barrel, she pretended to pick a ticket, but she already had the one she wanted in her hand."
My heart beats so loudly I can almost hear it as I process the magnitude of what Harley is saying.
"Holy shit," I breathe. "So the whole lottery is a sham? The omegas choose the packs they want?" My world spins with the possibilities, with the sudden brilliance of this new knowledge.
"Not all of them," Harley says, shaking her head with the weight of experience. "Remember Marigold? She was genuinely upset about her pack. I think some omegas know how, and others don't."
