Page 32 of Claiming the Pack's Omega
I wrench open the thick metal door, letting it shut completely behind me with a slam.
I blink, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the dark shadows in the room, cast by the single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.
“Shit,” I whisper, my breath catching in my throat at the sight in front of me.
Obsidian’s hands are cuffed and wrenched up by a rope tying him to a beam in the ceiling, leaving him hanging.
His back is to me, giving me a clear view of the really detailed tattoo of a biblically accurate angel. It’s wings span across his entire back, shoulder to shoulder, wrapping around to his ribs.
My eyes are also drawn to his back because his right shoulder is at a horribly ugly angle, like it’s been dislocated.
I take a weary step around him, keeping out of the distance that his legs could reach me at, if he were to kick them out. Though that would probably be agonizing for him, considering it’d put more weight on that shoulder of his.
I wince when I see the way they’ve carved up his torso, leaving methodical slices. Those’ll need to be disinfected. Luckily, it doesn’t look like they’re deep enough to need stitches, considering all of them have stopped bleeding.
He’s also already starting to bruise. Pretty much everywhere.
His spicy pepper scent is thick in the small room, and bitter, probably from the pain.
God they really fucked him up.
“What’re you doing here?” He grunts out, his voice hoarse.
My gaze jumps up to his face, and I jump backward, bumping into the table with all the things they used to torture him.
I was so focused on his body and the damage they did, I didn’t realize he was awake.
My heart starts racing when I meet his deep blue eyes. They aren’t as bright as they normally are, but I’d honestly be worried if they were, considering the amount of pain he’s probably in.
“I’m—I’m here to make sure you don’t die,” I say, swallowing hard.
His gaze is assessing. Analytical. He’s seeing a lot more than I want to show him, right now.
“They sent you in here alone?” He growls. His voice is normally deep, but the hoarseness there makes a shiver run down my spine.
“Does it look like there’s anyone else in here but us right now?” I snark back before snapping my mouth shut.
“They’re fucking idiots,” he says, letting out a soft chuckle that turns into racking coughs.
Shit, they probably fucked his ribs up too.
“You going to do anything that’ll make me call them in here?” I ask warily, still making sure to keep out of his reach.
His expression softens just the slightest bit. It confuses me.
“No.”
“They’re right outside, so don’t try anything funny?—”
“I’d never hurt you,” He lowers his voice so I can barely hear him. “Reyna.”
I jerk myself backward at the sound of my name—my real name—like I was hit with a physical blow.
My hand comes to rest on the torture tool table behind me, gripping the handle of a knife. I don’t know why, I have no intention of hurting him, but the sound of my real name hasstripped me of any of the carefully curated defenses I have for when I’m at work.
He doesn’t miss the way I flinch or where my hand landed. He doesn’t seem to miss anything.
“How—how do you know my name?” My voice is barely above a whisper, but I can still hear the tremor of fear there.
