Page 28 of Primal

“Siggy.” I softly say her name to redirect her attention to me. Yesterday, during a quiet moment at breakfast, she’d found her voice and whispered her name. I’m still trying to uncover her last name and where she comes from, but, for now, just knowing her first name feels like a victory. Calling someone“omega”for too long starts to feel impersonal, bordering on dehumanizing. Siggy deserves more than that. “We don’t have to do this today. This is all at your pace, love. No one will mind if you want to wait a few more days.”

Her head shakes, her thick wheat-blonde hair falling forward into her face. We’d spent a good hour the day before last detangling the strands and then trimming the dead ends away. She’s still far from looking healthy, but it’s incredible what a good shower and the safety of a warm, secure place can do for the body.

“It’s not that.” Her voice is still painfully soft, just an octave above a raspy whisper. “A week before I was taken, I presented. I never even had the chance to try making a real nest as an omega. I have no idea where to start…what if I mess it up?”

With plenty of sleep and a steady diet, Siggy’s broken fingers have healed, but that doesn’t stop me from being overly gentle when I reach out and grasp them in mine. “You can’t mess this up because it’syours. Your omega instincts will guide you, showing you exactly what you need and where everything belongs. All you have to do is trust yourself and listen.” I give her hand the faintest squeeze. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She takes a deep, soothing breath, her attention flicking between all the varying shelves and bins. We try to keep the basics stocked here, but if there’s something specific a Nightingale wants, we have no problem ordering it for them. We shuffle into the room, and I grab her one of the empty rolling bins. The whole thing will be like a little shopping spree, but without the price tags for her.

Siggy’s quiet for a moment while she explores the first shelf, thin fingers dragging over the soft materials that are all in different shades of blue. I stay back, leaning against the doorframe, letting her process this however she needs to. My role here is to support her in whatever capacity she needs me, but nesting is such an intimate process, there’s not much I can do other than lend her my silent reassurance.

She glances at me over her shoulder. “Noa?”

“Yeah?”

“What does your nest look like?”

Her question has me shifting on my feet, a long-buried yearning flaring in my chest. An inaccessible instinct itching beneath my skin. “Oh,” I start, standing up straighter, my movements feeling awkward. “Well, I don’t have one. I have a really cool room, though. It’s the attic of the manor and it has these kick-ass vaulted ceilings and windows on every wall…”

This has her turning fully around to face me. “Youdon’thave a nest? Why not?”

“Nesting is something omegas do, and I’m not an omega.” My shoulders shrug in a falsified show of nonchalance.

Dark blue gaze, wise beyond her eighteen years, scrutinizes me before she makes a surprisingly sassy huff. It’s a small thing, but it’s wonderful to see traces of her personality coming back to life. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” I chuckle, thoroughly enjoying the moment of levity between us.

The past five days have been hard and heavy. Between the chaos at the Fallamhain territory and tending to Siggy, it’s been a lot. I haven’t stopped moving since I got home, and I know why. Deep down, I’m afraid of what will happen if I give myself even five minutes to think abouthim. It’s hard enough ignoring the persistent tugging in my chest, the beckoning pull in my heart. My poor imprisoned wolf has been beyond restless within her glass cage. If I stop and focus on him—his stormy gunmetal gray eyes and his effortlessly messy dark hair—that fissure that formed five days ago will only deepen, tearing apart a piece of me I never even knew was there.

And on top of all of that, I’m still trying to get to the bottom of why I’ve been able to hear a handful of other people’s thoughts. So,yeah, to say I’ve had a few things on my plate would be a freaking understatement.

“Noa, I’ve spent a lot of time around omegas these past months.” Some of the lightheartedness that’d graced her face only a second ago falls away, memories of the horrors she’s recently escaped—horrors she’s yet to share with me—no doubt filling her poor head. Siggy blinks rapidly, head shaking ever so slightly as she attempts to disrupt whatever darkness that’s crept in from her subconscious. “You’re built just like one of us.”

One of us.That’s the thing. I’ve never fully belonged anywhere. I exist on the edges, close enough to brush against acceptance but never quite fitting in. I’m a wolf shifter withouta wolf. The daughter of a charmer living among witches, yet powerless myself. My life is devoted to the care of omegas, though I don’t bear that title either. Always close, alwaysalmost, but never enough.

Caught between worlds, never truly a part of any.

“Maybe I’m just short,” I deflect, but the blank stare I get in return tells me she’s not buying it. Okay,fine. “We’re supposed to find out our designations during our first shifts. But, as you know, that never happened for me. Alpha, beta, omega…whatever I was destined to be, I’ll never know.”

But she’s right. Of those options, omega is the most likely. I can stand up for myself and others when it matters, but I don’t thrive in confrontation. I can lead and take charge when needed, but “dominant” isn’t a word I’d ever use to describe myself. Deep down, at my core, I’m a nurturer. And, shit, I do love my collection of fluffy blankets—not that this is the be-all and end-all of being an omega, but, let’s be real, comfort items are kind of their thing. Any genuine omega instincts I may have are locked away with my wolf.

Siggy’s pale hand waves me off. “You’re definitely an omega.”

“Perhaps, but we’ll never know for sure.”

I don’t think she consciously knows she’s doing it, but she reaches for an incredibly soft pillow in a shade that matches her irises almost perfectly. Her fingers stroke the fabric for a heartbeat before she tosses it into her empty cart. Siggy’s just selected the first item of her nest and the action has me silently applauding her. I know the second she realizes what she’s done because her body locks up and she glances between the pillow she’s selected and the shelf she pulled it from, as if she’s trying to figure out how it got there in the first place. Slowly, her focus lifts back to me, a flicker of shy excitement breaking through the dullness still lingering in her features.

“You’re the one who told me to listen to my instincts.” With more gumption, she selects a matching pillow in a lighter shade and enthusiastically adds it to her collection. “Maybe you need to take your own advice and listen to yours.”

“She feels lighter,”Seren murmurs softly behind me as she watches over my shoulder. “There’s obviously a lot she still needs to work through, and we’ll get there but, right now, she’s not drowning in the darkness the way she was when she first got here. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still scared shitless, but who could blame her?”

“Not me,” I utter back just as softly so we don’t disrupt the Nightingale who’s diligently placing her new nesting materials around her room.

Once Siggy chose that first pillow, there was no stopping her. It was like flipping a switch. She moved through the space in a trance-like state, picking out more items without hesitation. Her omega instincts took over completely, even driving her to scent mark a few things before adding them to her ever-growing collection of goodies. It was cute as hell.

“She said earlier that she spent a lot of time around omegas. With everything else we know, I’m starting to think she was trafficked.” I don’t have to verbalize the rest. We’re both already thinking it.

Sex slavery.

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