Page 2 of Omega in Love
Mistake.
Pretty thing.
Pawn.
Freak.
Freak.
Freak.
Just when I think it's over, just when I think maybe this time I'll black out earlier, find some mercy in unconsciousness?—
I hear her name.
"Charlotte's gonna watch you die," Blaine says, low and pleased, his fingers tracing the bruises blooming on my chest. "And she'll know it was her fault. That her precious little Omega friend paid the price for her rebellion."
The pain is almost nothing after that. I float in it, broken and weightless, the sound of my breath rattles in my ears like wind through a shattered window. I feel myself detaching, drifting away from my battered body.
I beg myself to wake up. I plead with whatever part of my brain is still functioning to pull me out. Of course, it never works.
Not until?—
"Brookes."
A different voice. Familiar. Gentle. Like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog.
"Brookes. You're dreaming. Breathe for me. Just breathe," he whispers.
I jolt up, choking on a scream, fists flying, ready to defend myself against phantom attackers.
Hands catch mine, solid and warm. Not restraining, not hurting. A calm presence steadies me, presses gently at my wrists, grounding without pinning. Thumbs trace small circles on my pulse points.
"Hey. You're safe. It's me. You're in your bedroom. You're home."
The slight Southern accent. Tonight, it's Hero.
My chest heaves, lungs clawing at the air like I've been underwater. I'm drenched in sweat. My shirt sticks to me like a second skin, cold and clammy. The sheets are like restraints tangled around my legs, and I kick at them frantically. My heart's beating too fast, a drum solo against my ribs. My mouth tastes like copper. For one breathless second I swear I hear Blaine's voice echoing in the corners of the room.
Still smell blood in the air. Still feel the zip ties biting into my skin. Still see the warehouse shadows stretching across my bedroom walls.
"You're not there anymore," Hero says softly, his voice a low, steady anchor. "You're here. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."
I want to believe him. I desperately want to let his words wash over me and cleanse away the nightmare.
Even as I gasp and blink and fight for air, the memory stays lodged in my throat like a shard of glass.
It always stays.
Because some nightmares aren't just dreams.
They're echoes. Replays. Memories with teeth.
Hero starts to rise, slow and quiet, just like he always does. I see it in the roll of his shoulders, the careful way he shifts his weight, the way he eases off the bed without jostling me. It's their routine. Wake me, ground me, and leave me to catch my breath while they stand guard in the hall. Out of sight. Out of reach. Professional. Distant. Safe.
This time. . .this time, something breaks inside me. Some wall crumbles.
I reach for him.
