Page 72 of Into the Fire: Before

It had taken more than a day to fully emerge from the omega catatonia, that amorphous place where my omega dragged me after the attack. Where I couldn't speak, or see, or stand. All I could do there was hold on to any piece of solid ground I could find—Brea, which wasn't surprising. And Caine, which was.

When I'd read about OC before, whenever I tried to really, academically think about what the experience of a catatonic episode was, I'd always thought it was a retreat. The omega diving so deep into her own soul so as to escape whatever was outside it. Self-preservation. Defense mechanism. And maybe, on some level or for some omegas, that was the case.

Not mine, though.

I didn't want to go back there. Couldn't go back.

So after I'd emerged, after I'd spoken with police, I shut down the part of myself that felt. The fear was less then, but so was everything else. Even my mate and this new pack that had done so much for me—for us—I barely felt any comfort laying in their arms. I'd numbed myself to the bad and lost the good with it.

As excitement and arousal bloomed in my chest, so did hope. "Haven't you been listening?" I asked, stepping closer. "I'm looking for a maniac."

He groaned deep in his chest, very nearly a growl for a beta. His curls fell over his forehead as he dipped his head and, so gently, so gentlemanly, brushed his lips over mine. "There's my girl,” he said through a sigh as his kiss became harder, like he'd finally been let off the leash that had been keeping him back for the last several weeks.

I pulled him closer to me, letting the want and need now burning through my skin take over.

Engulf me. Incinerate me. Eviscerate me.

A long buzzing sound broke the moment, and we both snapped apart. "Fuck," he whispered before walking to the phone still silently-not-so-silently ringing on the coffee table.

"Ignore it." I very nearly whined.

He bent to grab it. "Could be the hospital."

He picked it up and looked at the screen. His brows drew together.

"Brooks?"

He swallowed. "It's your phone." It buzzed again in his hand as he held it out to me. "It's FPD."

Ice replaced fire in my veins as I stared at his outstretched hand. It buzzed again.

"Taryn?"

In the space of five steps, I rebuilt my numbing cocoon. I took my phone from Brooks's hand. I hit the green button. "Hello."

"This is Detective Vikki Banerjee calling for Taryn Maddox."

Hearing my correct name was a small relief as I silenced a sigh. "Speaking."

"Ms. Maddox," Vikki continued, "I have some information for you."

Nine

Taryn

Halfadozenmissing-presumed-deadomegas stared up at me from the coffee table in the boys’ living room. Their smiles—bright, unknowing—morphed in my mind into death grimaces. Grotesque circus masks that brought goosebumps skittering over my skin.

Detective Banerjee at least had the courtesy to remove Clint Hooper’s photo from the table after it nearly brought my lunch up onto her shoes.

Clint Hooper. Otherwise known as my attacker. My would-be rapist and kidnapper.

I’d looked away from the photo as fast as I could. Not quick enough to shield my eyes from the gray-blue lips, or the little black hole centered on his forehead. I’d hidden my face in Brea’s shoulder, shivering. Caine, cursing, had confirmed that it was the right guy.

Clint Hooper. Bounty hunter. Hired on the dark web to bring me, alive—small mercies, I guess?—to the client. Clint Hooper,who’d wanted just a little bit more than the fifty grand he’d been hired at.

The printouts showing us all this had also been cleared from the table. Now all that remained was a bunch of ghosts. Vikki’s voice barely cut through the heavy mist clouding my senses, isolating me from the others.

“Lyla Kinsey, age fifteen, disappeared four years ago.” Her finger pointed to a photo of a petite girl with a dark pixie cut and shimmery eye makeup. It moved to the next one. Cori Conner, fifteen, blonde and beaming, disappeared six years ago. Nova Morgan, sixteen, demure and blond, who’d vanished six years ago.

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