Page 113 of Claiming the Pack's Omega
I don’t know what drugs the hospital gave me—probably the heavy and hard kind, since I left the hospital early—but they’re definitely not helping me pull myself out of this God damn nightmare.
It’s one of those nightmares where you know you’re dreaming, but you’re frozen, unable to pull out of it.
It’s like sleep paralysis, except my sleep paralysis demon is my sister. A white nightgown so thin you can see the bruises that cover her skin. They’re a mix of mottled fresh purple and blue and older yellows and greens. Bruises left by her shitbag mates.
Beyond her bruises is her pale skin. Deathly pale skin. Because she’s dead.
The only thing I can see is her body, swinging in the pale light of that dusty garage. When I found her, she looked like she was sleeping. I didn’t believe the doctors when they told me she was brain-dead.
Now, in this stupid nightmare I can’t fucking escape, her face is swollen and contorted, her lips turning blue. Her face twists,mixing with the imagery of all the dead bodies I’ve had to see in my career.
I’m sorry, Jade. So fucking sorry.
I should’ve noticed the signs, seen the way she would flinch at loud noises, the way she only wore long sleeves, the way she begged my parents to help buy her a flight to Europe because she “just needed some space.”
I think their guilt over saying it wasn’t a good idea to jet set to Europe on a whim was one of the biggest reasons they kept her on life support for so long, even though she was brain-dead.
My sister opens her eyes, but instead of the vibrant blue I grew up looking up to, they’re a milky white.
“You failed me. Just like you’ll fail your omega.”
Her words feel like a knife to the chest. They sink their claws into me and twist, exposing my insides and showcasing the cowardly son of a bitch I am.
And then she starts getting smaller and smaller, like I’m getting dragged away from her.
No! Jade, I’m sorry! Don’t leave me here alone!
I wakeup with a startled gasp, the sharp inhale making my ribs ache.
Sunlight shines on my face.
Fuck, what time is it?
I reach up with my good arm and rub my eyes, trying to shake off the lingering effects of that drug-induced nightmare.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
My gaze jerks to my bedside. Reyna stands there, her hair tossed into a messy bun, her face bare of any makeup. She’s carrying what looks like a bunch of medical supplies in her arms.
She glances at me when I don’t answer her question and I see the dark circles under her eyes. She looks exhausted. Like she didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.
“Are—are you okay?” I ask, gritting my teeth against the pain as I do my best to sit up against the headboard.
“I should be the one asking you that question," she says, shrugging.
“You look… you look like…” How do I word this without offending her? Most omegas I know hate any form of negative commentary on their appearance. It’s not like I still don’t think she’s fucking stunning, without makeup, I’m just concerned there’s something going on.
You failed me. Just like you’ll fail your omega.
Those words echo in my brain, making panic sit heavy on my chest.
“Like shit?” She answers. “Yeah, I know.”
“No,” I shake my head.
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t do that. The world is spinning a little.
“You don’t look like shit. You just look tired.”
