Page 15 of Wild Omega

Certainly none of the alpha features she’d crave during heats or aggression to keep her safe.

I lean my head back against the wall with a groan and slide a hand down to my flexing cock. A whiff of Callisto lingers on my shoulder where he touched me, and I turn my nose into it as I stroke myself. Faint purple bruising blushes my wrists and I make a mental note to wear leather bracelets tomorrow.

Then I submit to my desires and shove everything else away, tears and broken pants falling in equal measure.

Chapter six

O-11

I grunt with effort as I scramble to find the zipper on the cushion practically glued to my fingers. Zippers are a must-have because we omegas make such a mess in our heats. Everything needs to be machine washable.

The fact I’m coherent enough to think this way means my heat must be ebbing. This hell always last for three days, or so I’m told. I wouldn’t know because to me they’re just a never-ending blur of pain, screaming, and needles. And a fucking bastard who edges me with his knot until my scent glands are drier than the Ohara desert and burn like someone filled them with molten glass.

Fun.

I work the zipper into position and saw at the leather strap. It falls into a ridge on the inside of the cuff, which I’ve been carving at every time I got locked in here the past six months. Could be a year. Time doesn’t mean much in this tiny box of a room that presses in on me with every breath. I’m lucky the bitches haven’t noticed the fraying on the base of the leather yet.

If I don’t get loose, I’ll end up drowning in my body fluids one of these days when they leave me strapped down for too long. I already have bedsores on my back and hips.

I pant from the effort of twisting my fingers sharply around to reach the leather, but I tell myself it’s flexibility training. Anything can be accomplished with the right mindset, and I’m the master of mindsets—I have at least three separate mental voices besides my own, after all. Not counting the dozens of movie roles I’ve studied over and over.

The out-of-reach whispers of my alphas keep me company as I cut at the leather with the zipper’s tiny metal ridge, panting with exertion. One murmur has a bold voice, oozing confidence with a melodic tone. Sometimes I feel sure I’ll catch a few words, but I never do.

Woven through that honeyed voice is a second tone, gentler, which likes to laugh. At least, I think he’s laughing. Could be crying.

The third? That one’s like me. Living with a permanent snarl vibrating through his skull. Or hers. Who knows?

Sweat makes my skin slippery and the tiny metal shard skids, cutting the quick on my nail. I grimace and adjust my grip. I saw again. The leather edge snaps apart and I laugh with victory before working my arm back and forth to tear the pieces open. I won’t be able to hide the damage when my tormentors come back, so escape is now or never.

My skin’s rubbed raw from the sawing by the time I get the cuff loose, but it’s so worth it. I yank my arm free and roll to one side, jerking on my other arm restraint. The loose neck restraint bobs against my shoulder as I drag myself upright, working the blood into my aching lower back. My haze stench stifles my nose as I find my clothes heaped in one corner and drag them over my aching limbs.

Omegas reek so bad during heats. Even me.

I dig one of the stolen Uno cards out of my pocket. It’s a Wild. I snort softly as I jimmy it through the door lock, and it slips open. Not my first rodeo. Okay, might technically be my first successful escape, but when I think about all the action and spy movie roles I’ve absorbed, I’m an old hand at this. The Bitches think they’ve shut down all my avenues of escape, so I doubt they’re even monitoring the hallways closely. They’ll think I’m still at the mercy of my heat, and I haven’t tried anything for several months to lull them into a false sense of security.

This time, I’m getting out.

I sneer at the empty room that stands witness to my torment before sliding out into the deserted corridor. The nest wing is a long walk away from the main compound, so it stands to reason it’s gotta be located on an outer fringe of the compound.

If I can find the exit, I can disappear out into whatever wilderness is outside—be it manmade or natural.

My heart flutters with sick nervousness as I creep down one hall and turn a corner. The big metal door at the end looks too bulky to be an internal door and my breath catches with hopefulness. The little scarred omega, O-18, said whoever gets out first needs to check with the authorities to see if this place is legitimate, so that’ll be my task.

O-4, who’s missing, won’t be able to—no way do they have anything good planned for an omega like her with such a powerful scent. My heart aches. I should’ve warned her about the dark underbelly of this place, but then I’d have been punished and her fate woulda been sealed sooner. It’ll be a shock to her system to learn how depraved mankind truly is.

But right now, I only have enough energy to worry about myself, and precious little of that. Escape first. Get help second.

A surveillance camera presides over the door, and I drag a broken chair out of a pile of junk to balance precariously on as I cover the viewpoint with the Uno card while I turn it to face down the hall. That done, I attack the deadlock, which thankfully is all manual and none of this modern digital shit. They’ll probably save that for the main entrance. It doesn’t want to turn, so I shove my shoulder against the door to release some tension, setting off a fresh batch of aches.

A few moments later, the lock gives, and I heave the heavy door open. I grunt and stumble. My heat might be waning, but the effects still linger in my body, making me sluggish and dizzy. A gust of icy wind rushes in through the opening, cleaning the foul, stagnant odors from my nose. Light filters in at an odd angle, highlighting a big drain in the floor that smells of moss. A whine slips between my teeth as I follow the light beams upward. Way upward.

Shit!

A silo tunnel towers above me, slits of light filtering around a lid or rain cover ninety feet overhead. Rust flakes peel from the rickety ladder scaling the slimy concrete wall and I swear rungs are missing higher up. Will my jelly arms hold me for a climb that high?

I laugh softly under my breath. Who do I need to be to make that climb?

Olivia Hunston could do it, playing the femme fatale Aurora in Alpha-Spy 15 with a stab wound in her side. I gather my actress’s aura around me and nod with conviction. I haven’t come this far to give up now.

---