Page 21 of Pretty When She Breaks
But instead of an omega to dote on, we’d matchedher.
Once you scented your mate, it was locked in. That was it; you wouldn’t get another unless someone died. So for better and worse, she was ours.
Laurel Fairchild was the exact opposite of everything I’d dreamed of.
I’d never even seen her smile in all my time in the Blood Well. They’d show her on the big screens from time to time, or she would parade past us in the cages with the same air of cool detachment.
She was no doubt rich and spoiled, spending her father’s money on expensive dresses and jewelry.
She was cold.
Even when her brother was in the Sink, fighting for his life, she hadn’t flinched. A duchess was someone who’d proved she didn’t care about mates. If she even found out we were her scent matches, she’d immediately think of how shecould use us, and we’d be chewed up and spat out the other side, more broken than before.
If there was one thing I was sure of, it was that the Crimson Duchess wasn’t capable of love.
Whatever sadistic being was weaving our fate seemed to get a real kick out of our suffering.
NINE
OCEAN
I thought I’d been prepared to see the fights, but I doubted anyone could have prepared for this.
Two snarling alphas, more beast than human, were released into the ring. The scraps of clothes they had on were dirty and torn.
Ruts drove alphas into a hyper-aggressive state. There were two options for riding it out; fighting, or having an omega’s touch to soothe you. There weren’t any omegas down in the Sink.
I couldn’t look away as the screen next to me showed the close-up of a face. His skin was pale, a yellow tint to it that I wasn’t sure if I was imagining. He had deep bags under his wild eyes, and his teeth were yellow and grey.
How long had he been here?
How long had they treated him like an animal?
It had taken Kaos months to speak again after he’d left.
When was the last time these men had spoken? Or were spoken to?
Their bodies were covered in bruises and scratches, some teeth marks scattered in as well, but I knew those would heal. Whatever emotional damage was being done to them cut far deeper.
“So, they’re all amped up on rut rage?” I asked Jag.
Rut rage—rofetamine—was a drug that had only recently made its way to New Oxford. Part of my journey here had involved moving the drug through the city, mostly to other gangs looking to pump up fighters or set an alpha loose on someone.
“Yeah. Real useful. Can make ’em rut on command. Every night if we want to.”
My own memories of rutting were distant and unpleasant. I couldn’t imagine doing that every night.
“They can tolerate it every night?”
Jag barked out a laugh. “Depends what you mean by ‘tolerate.’ Physically, yes. But most of ’em go feral after a week or two.”
I gripped my phone tightly under the table, trying not to react. I could feel the echoes of shock and anger blazing down the bond from my packmates.
“It makes them all feral?”
“Yeh. Lot easier to manage ’em. No more whining, then, eh?”
I swallowed, nodding.
