Page 2 of Pack Frenzy
“Fuck that,” I say, louder this time. “What’s your name? I’m Jess.”
A pause. “…Lily.”
“Okay, Lily. I don’t know what they’ve told you, but talking isn’t a crime. Neither is being an Omega.” My throat aches halfway through the words. God, she sounds like she’s given up. Was this what happened to Sabrina? “You’re not alone in here, okay? I’m right here.”
“They’ll hurt you.”
“Yeah, well.” I manage a small laugh. “I’m excellent at getting hurt. Ask anyone who’s met me.” The joke falls flat in the empty hallway, but I press on anyway. “Listen, Lily…remember you’ve got someone on your side. Even if it’s just a mouthy pain in the ass from cell… whatever number this is.”
A shaky exhale from down the hall. Then: “Thanks.”
It’s barely a whisper, but it lands like a punch. This girl’s thanking me for basic human decency, for acknowledging she exists.
What the hell have they done to her?
“Shut up,” another female snaps, murmurs echoing behind her. “Follow the rules like everybody else.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” Don’t talk. Don’t fight. Don’t be difficult. I outsmarted my teachers at the Omega Institute; I can out-stubborn a concrete bunker any day of the week.
Before I can say more, the lights overhead flare, flooding the cell with harsh white, and footsteps approach.
Three guards in black Nexus uniforms push food carts down the hallway. Trays clatter into the cells ahead of me until one stops at my door. An overweight guy with a black porn-stache smirks as he shoves a plastic tray through the slot. Steam rises from a bowl of gray paste.
I stare at the gray paste that smells like literally nothing. My stomach churns, and for a moment I’m back at Sunday dinners, Mom’s lasagna steaming on the table, Sabrina stealing garlic bread when Dad wasn’t looking.
“I can’t eat this,” I whisper, shoving the tray back. My hands are shaking.
“Eat. Lights out in an hour.”
“Wow. Hospitality’s off the charts.”
He leans closer, gaze raking over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “They always start mouthy. Don’t worry, Omega. We train that out.”
The air crackles as he pulls out his taser, and it powers up with a sharp whine. I stand, all five-foot-nothing of me, and meet his eyes.
My pulse hammers so hard I can hear it. The taser’s whine fills the cell, fills my skull, and suddenly I’m back on the ground outside the bus, the taser turning my body inside out.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. I force myself to look into his eyes even though my legs are shaking. I feel like I’m about to throw up. But if I break now, I’ll break forever.
Before he can raise his arm, another voice cuts in that’s calm, deep, controlled. “That’s enough.”
A second figure steps forward: taller, leaner, dark hair tied back. His uniform fits wrong, a badge clipped at the chest—Mercado.His presence shifts the air somehow, steadying it.
The guard hesitates, mutters something, and holsters the taser.
Mercado’s tone doesn’t rise, doesn’t need to. “She’s not a threat. Move along.”
The first guard spits on the floor and stalks away.
Mercado steps closer to the door, and somehow his presence takes the edge off my anger anyway.
His scent drifts through the bars: bergamot with a hint of a green note underneath that’s clean, bright, linen. Not the overwhelming charge of an Alpha, but something balanced.
Beta.
He’s all lean muscle and quiet authority packed into a 5′11″ frame. His skin carries a warm bronze undertone that catches the harsh light, and his dark hair’s pulled into a messy bun that somehow works on him. Square-framed glasses soften the sharp lines of his face, giving him an almost scholarly look that doesn’t fit the guard uniform at all. Figures the only decent face in this hellhole comes with a badge. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
“Jessica Mancini,” he says, reading from a tablet.
