Page 42 of Omega Untamed
“Is it really your suite?” I asked.
“It’s a guest suite. But Myre never lets anyone else use it.”
“He gave it to you.”
Bast nodded, sitting down across from me with his own plate of food.
“He likes you.” I took a bite of toast. “How old is he?”
Bast stopped in mid-chew, frowning. “I don’t know.”
“He looks about two hundred at least.”
“Hmm.” Bast continued to eat, not looking at me.
“I wonder if he’s been a murderer his whole life. That’s a long time. A lot of bodies.”
Bast swallowed hard, glancing up. That dark-dark look again. My cock actually twitched. It usually had somewhat better judgment. While I’d sleep with any Alpha who paid well, my cock showed interest in only a few. This Alpha worked for a killer, which by default made him one, too.
“Do you ever get tired of it? This life?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Bast sat back and took a drink of orange juice.
Of course he would say that. He could have asked the same question of me. And the answer would have been no. At least at first. It was my defensive retort, to always say I did what I wanted. I loved my life and I had better live it up because it would be a short one anyway.
Truth was, I didn’t want to die. I simply saw no alternative lifestyle to embrace. It always seemed I was too late for everything and anything.
“My father always used to say you aren’t what you do. That means you do a certain job to survive, but it doesn’t have to define who you are.”
“I know what it means,” Bast replied. “The actual quote is your job is not you. It’s from fifty years ago. The famous psychologist Doctor Yurbo.”
“It’s because people find themselves in shit situations. Getting out might be impossible for a while, or forever.”
“If you’re implying my situation is shit—“
I held my hand up. “I was implying mine is.”
Bast scooped up more eggs onto his last piece of toast and downed it in a single bite. He stood, taking his plate to the sink.
“I’ll do the dishes,” I offered. It was the least I could do. I was contributing nothing here but breathing, and even that was taking air, not giving anything back.
“You know the emergency text number. I will try to come home tonight but no guarantees.”
I wanted to salute him.Yes, sir!But I stayed seated at the table and watched him walk into the living room. He gathered his keys, wallet and coat and the last I saw of him was the hem of his long coat flailing behind him, almost getting caught in the door as it shut.
*
Bast did not come home that night. Or the next. And he sent me zero texts.
There was only so much TV a person could watch before they got a bit antsy. I’d slept a lot. The withdrawal was still happening in my body but at least I was eating again. When I wasn’t getting the shakes or feeling too hot, I felt excessive amounts of energy, as if it all built up in me at once about to explode.
I put on the TV to a music channel I liked, a bit lower in the volume since the first time I did it, and danced around the entire place, jumping on the couch, the coffee table, the chair where Bast last sat drinking tea. I would run into the bedroom and jump on the bed. When I got tired, I dragged myself back into the living room and flopped on the couch.
Sometimes I parted the curtains and peered out, my heart pounding in my throat. Bast had put a good and solid fear in me. I had the weird fantasy that every time I looked out I’d see a wrinkled, desert-wracked two-hundred year old face peering back at me.
If I were found, what would I do? I’d try to run, of course.
But no faces peered at me. No one seemed to notice I was even here in this silent, un-warm apartment. The front of the complex was green grass and dusty-looking bushes. The parking lot was nearly empty. This was the sort of place where people who weren’t rich lived. They worked every day just to pay the rent. I could feel it all around me. The other apartments were mostly empty during the day.
