Page 72 of Run Omega Run
Chapter 31
Heather
Iwoke with ash in my throat, each breath scraping like sandpaper. Above me, oak beams crossed a ceiling I'd never seen before. It wasn’t the patched plaster with water stains like the orphanage's reconstruction. This bed swallowed me whole. My arm stretched until I couldn't reach its edge, the frame built for six adults and whatever small bodies might crawl between them in the night, seeking the scent of pack, or the warmth of an Omega's protection.
They were everywhere. Small bodies arranged around me like sleeping satellites orbiting something they'd decided was worth protecting. Limbs were splayed at impossible angles, soft exhalations warming patches of the sheets, tiny fingers curled into loose fists. Loubie Lou had somehow migrated during the night until her small form pressed against my left side, her threadbare bunny with one missing button eye clutched between us with the desperate grip of someone who'd learned that beloved things disappeared if you didn't hold them tight enough. Her shortbread cookie scent, with that particular mix of vanilla and warm butter, emanated from her pores, and mixed with the lingering traces of acrid smoke that still clung to all our hair.
Tomas had claimed the space near my right shoulder, his blanket finally released from its death grip but still within easyreach should nightmares return to steal his carefully constructed sense of safety. Dylan, Denson and Manny flanked the foot of the bed, their positions unconsciously protective even in sleep, while Susie—
Susie wasn't there.
The realization hit me with cold panic that made my heart pound against my ribs like a caged bird desperate for escape. Then what followed was another memory, the one that felt like swallowing broken glass every time my mind touched its edges. Mom was gone. Not just dying anymore, not just slipping away one peaceful breath at a time, but gone in flames and smoke and violence that had stolen our final moments together. That had left me with nothing but the bitter knowledge that I'd failed to save the woman who'd taught me everything about love, strength and never giving up.
I bit my bottom lip hard enough to taste copper, using the sharp physical pain to bring myself back to the present moment, where children still breathed around me and safety existed within these walls. The tears that threatened could wait until I was alone, until small faces weren't depending on me to demonstrate that survival was possible, that families could be rebuilt from rubble and love.
Extracting myself from the bed required patience and stealth. Loubie Lou stirred when I shifted her away from my side, her small face scrunching with distress that made my chest ache with protective instincts I couldn't afford to indulge right now. I eased her bunny more securely into her arms, whispering sounds that weren't quite words but carried enough comfort to settle her back into deeper sleep.
Each movement felt like defusing a bomb; one wrong shift and I'd wake the entire collection of traumatized children who needed rest more than they needed their surrogate mother's presence. Tomas's breathing hitched when I carefully movedaway from his position, but his hand found the edge of his blanket, and he settled with a small sigh that carried exhaustion deeper than his young body should have known.
The bathroom attached to the master bedroom was larger than the entire kitchen had been at the orphanage, all marble surfaces and gold fixtures that spoke of wealth I'd never imagined, let alone experienced. The shower itself could have housed a small family, with multiple heads positioned at different heights and controls that looked more complex than the heating system we'd struggled to maintain through the winter months when donations ran thin.
I closed the door, stripped off, and turned the water on hot enough to hurt, needing the physical sensation to cut through the numbness that had settled into my bones like winter cold that no amount of external warmth could chase away. Steam began to fill the enclosed space, creating a private world where the sounds of my breaking wouldn't carry to sleeping children.
The first touch of water against my skin released something I'd been holding back since awakening at the bottom of our burning staircase. Soot and ash swirled down the drain in gray spirals that carried with them the physical remnants of everything we'd lost. But no amount of scrubbing could wash away the memory of orange light flickering behind windows where my mother had died alone.
I scrubbed until my skin turned red, using soap that smelled like vanilla and honey instead of the harsh industrial cleanser we'd made last as long as possible at the orphanage. The luxury felt wrong, almost insulting, when weighed against the magnitude of what we'd lost. How could I stand here surrounded by marble and gold when Mom would never see anything beautiful again?
The sob that tore from my chest was raw and animal-like, carrying grief that felt too large for my body to contain. I pressedmy hand over my mouth, desperate to muffle the sound that wanted to echo off these perfect walls and carry my breakdown to ears that didn't deserve to be burdened with adult pain. Water mixed with tears as I sank against the shower wall, my knees like jelly beneath the gravity of loss that seemed to compound with each breath.
She was gone. The woman who'd held me when nightmares stole my sleep, who'd saved money she didn't have to buy chocolate croissants that made Sunday afternoons feel magical, who'd taught me that family was built from love rather than blood... she was nothing but ash and memory and the hollow space in my chest that would never stop aching.
But even as grief threatened to pull me under completely, I could hear the soft sounds of children breathing in the next room. They needed me whole, needed me functional, needed me to be the family they'd chosen when their own worlds had been torn away by earthquakes, abandonment and the casual cruelty of adults who should have protected them.
I forced myself to stand, to finish washing away the physical remnants of our catastrophe, to prepare myself for another day of being strong enough to carry whatever came next.
When I finally emerged from the shower, wrapped in a soft towel, my reflection in the mirror showed eyes that had seen too much and a face that was trying to hold it together despite the cracks running through everything I'd thought was solid.
But my hands had stopped shaking, and that would have to be enough.
As I dried, I noticed a pile of clothes had been laid out for me on the cabinet, near the mirror. Skinny jeans that looked like they'd actually fit rather than the donated hand-me-downs I'd grown accustomed to, and a sweater in deep purple that felt like cashmere against my fingertips still raw from scrubbing away soot and ash. A note rested on top of the folded fabric.
*Gone to bring Susie home. Back soon. Don't worry. - B*
The words hit me like cold water despite their intended reassurance. Don't worry. As if worry was a choice I could decide not to make, as if the men who'd claimed me as their own weren't walking into danger. My hands shook as I held the note, reading it again as though the words might change, might offer some guarantee that they'd all return whole and unharmed.
But they were out there in the darkness, facing men who'd burned down our home and stolen a child from her bed, and I was standing in a bathroom that cost more than most people's entire houses, wearing clothes soft enough to be sinful. The contrast felt sharp enough to cut.
I bit my bottom lip until I tasted copper again, using the pain to focus my thoughts away from all the terrible possibilities that crowded my mind like vultures circling something dying. What if they didn't come back? What if Jude and his pack were better armed, and better prepared? I could wake tomorrow to silence instead of their familiar scents, to emptiness where their protection should have been?
The sweater slid over my head like liquid comfort, its softness a stark reminder of how much my life had changed in just a few days. A week ago, I'd been scraping together donations to keep the orphanage running, making porridge stretch to feed growing children, and watching my mother fade away one labored breath at a time. Now I was standing in a mansion that could house three families, wearing clothes that cost more than I'd ever owned, all while the men I loved were fighting for our family.
Guilt twisted in my stomach, sharp and bitter. But beneath the guilt ran something else, something that felt like gratitude. These men, my pack, though the word still felt foreign on my tongue, had given me more than shelter. They'd given me safety, protection, a future where the children could grow up withoutfear of knocks on the door or men who saw them as obstacles to be eliminated... and I loved them. Did I mention I loved them? A faint smile creased over my lips, and I took a deep breath. This was really happening. This was my life now... not fighting for survival every day, but living in luxury and giving the children everything they needed and more.
The mansion revealed itself gradually as I made my way downstairs, each room larger and more carefully appointed than the last. Hardwood floors gleamed under lighting that seemed designed to welcome rather than expose, and furniture that looked both comfortable and expensive. Windows stretched floor to ceiling, offering views of grounds that extended far enough to provide privacy and security in equal measure.
But it was the kitchen that stopped me in my tracks. My eyes widened at the sheer scope of what lay before me. The room was larger than the entire ground floor of the orphanage had been, all granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances that looked like they belonged in a restaurant rather than a private home. An island dominated the kitchen area, big enough to serve as both workspace and gathering place, while cabinets stretched to ceilings so high they required rolling ladders to reach the uppermost shelves.
