Page 82 of Wild Omega

The hum of the engine as we accelerate out of a turn reminds me of Rickon’s voice as he chided me not to neglect Red. Did he know the truth? I don’t want my suspicions confirmed.

To distract myself, I give Rickon a call, but he doesn’t pick up. I flick over to messages, but he hasn’t even read the last one I sent. He’s never left me hanging before. Another unfamiliar pang adds to the mess in my chest, squeezing me. Maybe this is a kind of reflux?

I press a hand to my collar, trying to ease the thick, bubbly sensation. What if the OCB think Rickon’s kidnapped Red? I mentally run through all the cases I’ve ever heard of for successfully defending a kidnapper, like Stratton vs. Pauls where Pauls was acquitted due to the fact the door was never locked.

Ricky has an electronic door that opens automatically from the inside, so that should work. Or maybe Shefield vs. Dayten because the supposed victim asked for it as part of a kinky play.

Heat runs up the back of my neck at that idea. Are Rickon and Red into that sort of thing? I don’t even know Ricky’s preferences. He usually doesn’t talk about his boyfriends, but I figured that was because they don’t last long.

“We’re here, sir.”

“Thanks.” I don’t mean to sound so gruff, but the lump in my throat makes it hard to speak. I fling myself out of the car and into the building, flashing my visitor pass on all the scanners as I barrel up to my floor.

One of the lawyers flags me. “Callisto, I wanted to ask—”

“Sorry, George, later.” I keep walking, which is more like running.

I slam the door to my temporary office shut, making the blinds quiver and screech softly against the glass. The cardboard grates as I tear the lid off the evidence box and pull out the bag with a glass vial of haze. Something’s been bothering me about this for days. I hesitate, fearing the truth.

“Get a grip, Calli,” I mutter, unsealing the bag and tipping the vial into my hand. Get it over with. There’s a faint chance I’m wrong.

The vial rolls out of the bag, leaving a smear of oil across the plastic. Too late I see the chip in the bottle. The glass cracks as it hits my hand, splitting in half, and the fragrance releases in a powerful explosion that rocks my senses. All sugar and nuts.

Red. It’s hers. I should’ve recognized it the moment I met her, when this delicious scent wafted off the omega herself.

Red is O-11, the abused omega rescued from the illegal center, the one they took an unholy amount of haze from.

Red, the omega I rejected because I was too busy.

I cup my hands on the desk over the plastic film, trying to keep as much of the precious haze pooled in my palms as possible. As it spills over my fingers, tears overflow from my eyes. I’ve treated all these cases as clinical—a means to my expanding career bolstered by a sense of righteous vindication. But this is the first time I’ve stopped to consider the impact on the omegas’ lives.

My scent-matched omega’s life.

Red is beautiful and wild, but she had nothing. Not even a proper name. I thought it was a nickname, but her only name was a clinical designation. Pain squeezes my chest, and a heavy sob breaks loose through my throat. That look in her eyes as I pushed her away so I could hurry off to court reappears in my mental vision and I drop my head onto my forearms, the sobs deepening.

It’ll haunt me forever.

I should’ve done anything possible to cancel court that day. They would have postponed it for omega leave. Or at the very least, I should have bought her food and coffee and had her sit next to me until I was done.

Anything but leave her on her own.

As the priceless oil drips from my hands, I look over at the thick list of catalogued physical evidence taken from the illegal center. Red’s never had anyone on her side, no one to rescue her as they took vial after vial from her body. It doesn’t take a genius to guess they forced it from her. That beautiful, free-spirited woman would never give up her haze willingly.

I groan and glare at the arrested personnel files on my desk. One of these bastards put their hands on Red during her heat. Fuck, her heat. The paperwork swims as a fresh batch of tears shake loose and I squeeze my eyes shut. I’ve been in this business long enough to see brutal crimes, and I know for a fact that the only way to get that much haze is to edge her through a heat. Cruelly and painfully.

After all that, she came looking for her alpha, and I turned her aside like an unwanted appointment. Disappointed her just like the fuckers in these files.

The pain turns to blinding agony. I gasp and swallow my own tears. I can’t get air inside me, and it suddenly feels like I’ll never breathe again. The room closes in, too blindingly bright under the artificial lighting. My small gasps wheeze in my throat with every gulp. The dizzying sensation carries a hint of the effervescence that’s always motivated me to keep moving, to speak well in court. But now it’s overwhelming, squeezing my body and drowning me in a tidal wave. I grab at my chest as my lungs squeeze me. Am I having a heart attack?

Haze spills across my arms and shirt, drenching me in Red’s scent. I slide under the table, feeling a crushing pressure like the roof is sinking down on me. In the process of wiping my tears, I touch the haze against my lips and lick it off without thinking. The scent surrounds me, inside and out, and the harrowing pressure in my chest relaxes a little.

I can’t rescue the oil now, so I smooth it across my arms and neck and into my hair while I gasp in the powerful scent. Maybe I’ll never shower again. The cool liquid seeps into my body and my muscles respond, unwinding.

I lean against the table leg and let the tears spill down my cheeks while my pounding heartbeat slowly steadies.

Rickon didn’t refuse her. My beautiful, loyal friend did what he’s best at—being there without question, without judgment. He was the alpha I should’ve been, sheltering Red and meeting her needs. He’s a better man than I am in every respect.

As I sit under my desk, covered in Red’s dazzling omega scent, my sobs slowly quiet down, and I catch my breath. If I’m not too late, I’ll go crawl on my belly to ask her forgiveness. See what support Rickon needs. Be a true friend.

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