Page 21 of Primal

Noa

It’s been an hour since I stopped crying long enough to recount everything that happened during my reunion with my childhood pack and Seren still watches me with open unease as I carry the basket of supplies down to our newest guest. Just as I assured her I could shower without needing her there for support or supervision, I told her I could handle delivering these essentials and introducing myself to the new Nightingale on my own. But my friend isn’t having it. She’s my shadow whether I think I need one or not.

I wanted to meet the girl as soon as I got home, but between my super-cute little breakdown and needing to shower off the scent of the males I’d come into contact with today, it’s taken me longer to get down here than I’d like. Using scent-neutralizing soaps or sprays before interacting with a Nightingale is something we try our best to adhere to but meeting this traumatized girl while reeking of alpha males definitely wasn’t an option. I don’t know her story yet, but so often, the omegas that come here have suffered at the hands of alphas. I want her to trust me, and that won’t happen if the possible familiar scent of her tormentors is clinging to my skin and clothes.

“What do we know so far?” I ask Seren over my shoulder as we descend the narrow stairwell that leads to the basement.

We have a few extra rooms in the manor, but omegas tend to feel most comfortable in dark, enclosed spaces. Being underground resonates with their wolf halves, tapping into the instinct to burrow and create dens. My mom knew this when she had the blueprints for this underground space made. Of course, it wasn’t an engineer who ultimately constructed the system that resides beneath the manor. The coven’s High Priestess herself, the highly gifted elementalist, used her power to shape and manipulate the earth. Every sturdy passageway and room down here was carved directly from the dirt and held in place by Amara’s ample magic. A coven member’s contractor husband then fitted the plumbing and wired the electricity because while the wolf half might enjoy being underground, the human side needs a running toilet and the ability to charge their phone.

There isn’t anything that documents these changes. As far as public records go, the manor only has the simple cellar that is original to the historic building, and unless you know what you’re looking for, that is all an uninvited guest will find down here. The Ashvale Coven’s illusionist, Vardis, ensured it. Her flawlessly crafted glamour shields the secret entrance to the underground, dwelling from prying eyes. With the constant threat of a Nightingale’s past coming to hunt them down, we do everything in our power to keep them protected.

We’ve seen many cases where some transition from needing the enclosed space of the cellar to feeling secure enough to move into one of the bedrooms in the main house. Seren herself is one of those success stories. Now she’s a permanent resident hereandin my life.

“I haven’t been able to get her to say a word,” Seren admits, the sorrow she feels for this poor girl clear from the way her face falls. “Lowri also tried, since she was the one who found her aftershe crossed Amara’s shields, but the girl was unresponsive to the Alpha’s attempts, too.”

Around the entire perimeter of Ashvale, Amara has shields placed in the earth and air. Unless you’re an extraordinarily gifted witch or charmer, you wouldn’t be able to sense their existence. Which is exactly how we want it. Every time someone enters town, Amara feels it. Her shields are so finely tuned she can immediately sense what kind of person has arrived, too. Wolf, witch, or human. Alpha, beta, or omega. The High Priestess knows before she ever lays eyes on them.

Before Mom’s death, we didn’t have to rely solely on the coven leader for this type of additional security. Mom had her own alarms woven into the borders of town. Since I lack any magic, and Seren, like Zora, is blessed with her own unique empath gifts, we’re unable to create these needed radars on our own.

Between Amara’s shields and Lowri’s pack watching the borders, our Nightingales are well guarded here.

“Any visible injuries?” It goes without saying, the poor girl is currently riddled with all kinds of emotional scars, and we, well, mostly Seren, since she’s the empath, will address them in time, but right now, I can at least tend to any physical ones she might have.

We stand before the far wall of the cellar. Setting the hand-woven basket at my feet, I press both palms against the cinder blocks. Seren follows suit. Vardis’s magic stirs, reaching out like a staticky mist. As it recognizes us, sensing no threat, the illusion dissolves, taking the cinder blocks with it.

With the passageway revealed, its walls made of smooth stone and the path illuminated with welcoming strings of lights, I place the basket back on my hip and we head through. Once we pass, the illusion falls back into place. It’s moments like these that I’m unapologetically jealous of the witches and their magic.I’m also deeply grateful to them and their willingness to help us build and protect this place.

“She’s got one hell of a black eye, and I didn’t get a good look, but I sensed that a couple of her fingers might be broken.” Seren gives me the rundown, speaking softly to ensure the girl’s sensitive shifter ears don’t overhear us. “She was barefoot when she escaped whatever hellhole she’d found herself trapped in. I have no idea how long or how far she ran, but her feet are ripped to shreds, Noa.”

It doesn’t matter how bad their condition is when they arrive or what drove them to flee in the first place, seeing an omega in distress is never easy. Whether they’re bloodied and broken, or simply down on their luck and in need of a helping hand, every omega’s story cuts deep. Omegas are meant to be loved and cherished, yet they’re the ones who are continuously abused and failed by society. Their smaller statures and sensitivity to an alpha’s dominant aura are exploited. A bond between an alpha and their omega is a gift and too often it’s twisted into something dark and ugly instead.

The sick reality is it's their innately submissive nature and ability to take an alpha’s knot that often makes them targets. Commodities. Too often over the years we’ve cared for omegas that were sold into various forms of sex slavery. Their bodies abused and used for an alphas pleasure. Of the three designations, omegas are the rarest and over the past two decades, their numbers have started to decline. With the population dwindling, alphas are getting more desperate to get their hands on omegas, which means they’re willing to pay or steal to do it. It’s disgusting and heartbreaking.

This was never the Goddess's intention when she crafted the intense and breathtaking bond between an alpha and an omega. These people have taken something beautiful and corrupted it.

Turning the corner, the passageway opens up into the main living space. A large, low-slung sectional sofa dominates the room. Its soft, indigo velvet cushions are deep, perfect for sinking into to watch your favorite comfort show. The corner spot is coveted and understandably fought over. Pieces of rich emerald fabric are draped meticulously across the already low ceiling, adding warmth, while a plush jewel-toned rug softens the stone floor beneath the couch. It’s a haven for omegas and every piece of décor selected reminds me of my mom, her personal style reflected in each element.

Across the open layout, the back wall of the room houses a long, fully stocked kitchen. Every Nightingale who comes to us is constantly reassured that they can help themselves to anything in the cabinets or refrigerator. For those who have had their food controlled or withheld, adjusting to this freedom isn’t easy. In the past, some have struggled to accept any food offered to them, even the meals the coven’s elders take turns preparing daily when we have guests staying with us. The older women, most of whom have retired from their day jobs, have essentially become den mothers. On rotating shifts, they cook and do light cleaning around the sanctuary, but, more importantly, they act as another safe and comforting presence for the recovering omegas to lean on. Even Eldrith, with her lethal hootch and no-nonsense attitude, is a fan favorite around here. Our Nightingales seem to appreciate the lack of coddling and blunt honesty they get from the crone.

“We’ve got a badass on our hands,” I note, leading us to the alcove that serves as our little medicinal workstation.

For our omegas’ privacy, we don’t actually treat anyone out here in the communal area, but the apothecary-esque table and the open shelving above are where we keep our stock of products, most sourced directly from Potion & Petal, and any other medical supplies like bandages and sterile gloves. Beingraised by someone so gifted in healing they could mend near-fatal wounds encouraged me to become an expert in non-magical healing. Endless research into both holistic and modern medicine ensured I had real skills to bring to this joint venture, that I wouldn’t just be in my mother’s way while she worked. My herbalist knowledge is something well-known within the community here in Ashvale, and word of it has steadily been growing. I have regulars who travel hours to visit me at Potion & Petal for my herbal remedies and I’ve been slowly building a lucrative online retailer presence over the years.

“I’ll see if she’ll let me patch her up, but considering she refused to say a word to Lowri or you, I’m not very optimistic she’ll allow me to get close.” That doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying, of course. It just means I’ll have to have patience, and that’s something I’m more than happy to give her. I’m reaching up for the glass container that has the blue nitrile gloves when I spot the very obvious worry my friend wears. “What? Why does your face look like that? Stop it.”

“Hmm?” Seren hums, blue gaze flicking up for only a second before it darts away again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is just my face. My regular, everyday face. If you’ve got a problem with it, take it up with my mom. She’s the one who passed it down. What’s wrong withyours?”

I scowl as she tucks the icy blonde strands of her long-bob haircut behind her left ear, a clear sign of her bottled-up nerves. It’s also her poker tell, for those of you who were wondering.

“Ser.”

She takes an amber glass spray bottle down from a shelf and fiddles with it. “I just want to make sure you’re up for this, that you can handle taking on someone else’s emotions right now. You’re already running pretty high, sugar, and we both know how intense it can get when we’re admitting an omega. I just want you to know you don’t have to do this right now. I can takecare of her tonight, and you can introduce yourself tomorrow when you’re feeling more…grounded.”

I take the bottle from her hands. It’s an antiseptic wound spray made of tea tree oil and witch hazel, and based on what Seren said the Nightingale’s feet look like, I’ll need it. I add it to my growing pile of supplies before turning to my closest friend.

“Seren, I may have met my scent match today. My Goddess-given fated bond. And I’m so broken, I can’t be sure he’s mine. There are two fundamental things a shifter should be able to do. Shift and sense their mate without there being any doubt. I can’t do either, and even if I could be sure? It wouldn’t fucking matter. He’s already chosen his mate.” It’s a fight to keep my voice steady, low, when there’s an all-too-familiar and unwanted burn in my eyes, but I push through. “I can’t do those things, and honestly? I can’t handle thinking about them right now either, but what I can do is go in there and help this omega. This is what I do. This is my purpose in life and I’m not going to let Rennick Fallamhain ruin that.”Despite the fact that it’s felt like everything within me has been crumbling since I drove away from his house. Since I drove away fromhim.

Simply speaking his name has my trapped wolf whining, the longing she has to return to pack territory, to Rennick, amplifying. I swallow hard, determined to not let my first ever whine slip out. Before, I may have celebrated the fact I’d made a sound that came directly from my animal half, but I don’t want now to be that moment. And I certainly don’t wantthisto be the cause.

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