Page 10 of Bonds of Pain
“—protect her?—“
Protect me? My lips twist into a bitter smile. The only person who’s ever truly tried to protect me was me. And I’ve failed spectacularly.
The Enclave taught us that Omegas find fulfillment in service to their Alphas. That we’re made to nurture, to submit, to please. Even before she sent me to the Enclave, Charlotte drilled those lessons deeper any chance she could, sharpening theminto weapons against any ridiculous ideas I might get about independence.
My mother had been so sure of my eventual designation. Despite our perpetual financial struggles, she bought subscriptions to Omega magazines and entertainment holovids when I was still young enough to be years away from presenting officially.
On my sixth birthday, I had the nerve to ask for construction toys to use in the playground surrounded by trees at the center of our housing complex. It was the only excuse I could think of to be allowed outside, preferably while not being forced to wear the uncomfortable dresses with itchy lace collars that Charlotte always put me in.
“No Alpha will want an Omega with dirt under her fingernails,” Charlotte pulling my hair so tightly into my signature pigtails that my scalp burned. “You may play with your dolls in the window. The view of the trees is excellent from there.”
Brainwashed little thing that I was, I had been ever so grateful when Prince Logan showed interest in me. Such an honor, Charlotte had gushed. The others in my class at the Enclave made no secret of the way they oozed with jealousy.
When Logan and his pack revealed themselves to be bullies and brutes, I thought swearing off Alphas altogether was the best way to protect myself.
Then came the doctor with his false promises and scientific curiosity, offering me a somewhat nontraditional mating contract with the assurance that I would never be sexually forced against my will.
Silly me, thinking that sexual violation was the only kind that mattered.
One nightmare traded for another.
Now this, unwillingly claimed twice over in a heat I barely remember, my body used as territory in their power struggle.
Heat rises in my chest, bubbling up my throat like magma. My hands clench into fists.
I am not a prize.
I am not a vessel.
I do not belong to them.
The rage explodes without warning. My fist connects with the mirror before I even realize I’ve moved. Glass shatters with a satisfying crash, fragments raining into the sink and across the counter.
Blood wells from my knuckles, bright red drops pattering on the white porcelain. The pain feels clarifying, honest in a way nothing else has been.
My fractured reflection stares back from dozens of broken pieces. Somehow, this distorted version seems more accurate than the whole had been.
Once this is all said and done, how many pieces will even be left?
A large shard catches my eye, the piece longer than my hand. Even at a glance, one edge appears wickedly sharp. I reach for it, holding the smoothest edge gently between two fingers, mesmerized by its potential. The weight of it in my palm feels significant.
What would they do if I took control in the only way left to me? Would our bond snap like a cut thread or fray like rope suspended with too much weight? How long would it take for them to feel the loss, the ragged hole I left behind?
Would either of them even care?
I turn the glass, watching light dance along its edge. One decisive movement. One choice that would finally be mine alone.
The bathroom door crashes open.
Logan surges forward, his golden eyes wide with alarm. His hand clamps around my wrist, yanking me away from the broken mirror.
“What the hell happened in here?” he demands, his gaze darting between my face and the bloody shard in my hand. “Are you hurt? Let me see.”
He pries my fingers open, sending the glass fragment tumbling into the sink. His grip is bruising, adding one more mark to my collection.
Logan makes a point of bandaging the cut on the palm of my hand personally. He sits me on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, while he fetches the first-aid kit from the wrecked bathroom.
Cillian has retreated, likely back to whatever hole in the wall Logan makes him sleep in. His absence creates both relief and yearning, enough that the warring emotions make me want to scream in frustration.
