Page 24 of Omega on Fire

My body jerks upward, a scream building in my throat. Strong hands press me back down, gentle but firm.

"I'm sorry, Sweetness," a deep voice murmurs, laced with distress. "This will help."

A sharp prick in my arm. Cool liquid spreads through my veins.

"No more," I manage to rasp. "Please, no more drugs."

"It's just to help you rest," the voice soothes, and there's something about it that makes me believe him. "Just rest now."

The edges of the world blur further, the scents of the pack growing stronger as my consciousness fades. Their voices drift around me like leaves on a stream.

". . .should take shifts watching her. . ."

". . .fever's rising again. . ."

". . .hope she doesn't hate us when. . ."

The darkness claims me once more, but it's different this time. Softer. Safer. I surrender to it, letting it pull me under like a gentle tide.

When I finally claw my way back to full awareness, I'm staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. Cream-colored with delicate crown molding. Sunlight filtersthrough gauzy curtains, casting the room in a warm glow. I'm in a bed that feels like it's made of clouds, wrapped in sheets that smell of lavender and fresh air.

Not my bed. Not my room.

But for the first time in what feels like forever, I don't immediately panic.

Instead, I take inventory. My body aches in places I didn't know could ache. My throat feels raw, like I've been screaming for days. Maybe I have. The memories are fragmented, shattered like glass across the floor of my mind. Dangerous to step on, to examine too closely.

The room is dimly lit, a soft ambient glow lining the baseboards like a runway guiding me through unfamiliar territory. The king-sized bed beneath me feels like an island in a sea of plush pillows and comfy furniture. Everything is tasteful, elegant, and expensive. Nothing like the cold concrete cell where?—

No. Don't go there.

My fingers trace the silky sheets, anchor me to the present. I'm here, not there. Wherever ‘here’ is.

The drapes are drawn tight, and suddenly they feel suffocating. Like they're hiding something from me—or hiding me from something. I need to see. Need to know where I am.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and immediately regret it when the room tilts sideways. My muscles tremble, protesting as I push myself to stand on wobbly legs. Like a newborn colt, I stumble forward, one hand outstretched to steady myself against whatever I can find.

My nightgown—when did I get a nightgown?—flows around my thighs as I make my way to the window. The fabric is soft, expensive. Someone dressed me. Someone touched me while I was unconscious.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, I feel protected? The scents from earlier still linger in my nostrils. Alpha scents. Pack scents. Centering myself I reach the window and grip the heavy drapes with both hands. For a moment, I hesitate. What's waiting for me on the other side? Another prison? Another nightmare?

Only one way to find out.

I pull back the drapes with one swift motion and immediately squint against the assault of daylight. My eyes are sensitive, too used to darkness, I guess. But I force them open because of what I see.

The New York skyline sprawls before me, a concrete jungle gleaming in the morning sun. Skyscrapers reach toward the heavens like steel andglass fingers. Tiny yellow cabs crawl like insects far below. People, so many people, scurry along the sidewalks, going about their daily lives.

I press my palm against the cool glass. New York? I was in Houston. How the fuck did I end up in New York?

My breath fogs the window as I lean closer, mesmerized by the normality below. All those people, rushing to meetings, grabbing coffee, arguing on phones. Living. Just living. While I'm up here, trying to remember how to breathe without feeling like my lungs are filled with broken glass.

I wonder if they know. If any of those tiny figures below saw my face on the news. ‘Omega Rights Activist, Charlotte Matthews, Missing’. Did they notice? Did they care? Or did they just keep moving, keep breathing, while I was—a sob catches in my throat. I swallow it down, refuse to let it escape. Not yet. Not until I know where I am. Who brought me here. Why I'm dressed in silk instead of chains.

My reflection stares back at me from the glass—a ghost of the woman I used to be. My dark skin is sallow, my eyes sunken. My curls hang limp around my face. But I'm alive. Somehow, against all odds, I'm alive.

"Okay, Charlotte," I whisper to my reflection, myvoice raspy from disuse or screaming or both. "One breath at a time."

I inhale deeply, counting to four. Hold. Then release slowly to the count of seven. An old trick Brookes taught me for anxiety attacks.

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