by V T Bonds
More harsh words fill the room and a bit of the weird haze recedes. I register my body, the weird disconnect dissipating.
Clean, cool softness surrounds me. It’s glorious. I’ve felt nothing so comfortable. Unable to resist, I move a little, enjoying the slight stroke of the fabric.
Reality snaps into me. Pain flares throughout my body, but well within tolerable measure.
The fabric I am surrounded by is loose, and I realize that under the blanket I am naked.
My skin has a smooth, almost slimy sensation to it, reminding me that men had their hands on me while I could not defend myself.
Worms crawl in my belly and my throat tightens, but my skin doesn’t revolt like it did with the Chieftain's touch. An odd sensation sits within my flesh, one so foreign that I don’t quite know how to categorize it. It isn’t abhorrent and dreadful like when the Chieftain forced his attention on me. And it most certainly is not like the wild and explosive fire that coursed through me with his touch.
The thing I can most liken it to is that sound they made in the alley; that baritone vibration that carried away the worst of my agony.
It is as though their otherworldly reverberations soaked into my skin and calmed my wretchedness. I’ve never been this weird mix of hurt and comfortable before. I don’t know how to handle it.
A loud, anger-filled roar cuts through my ruminations and my heartbeat skyrockets. Uncertainty fills this reality, but there is nowhere else to go. He saw to that when he pulled me away from the abyss.
Despite not wanting to gain attention, I move. I curl into the smallest position I can manage, pulling my knees up to my chest and burying my face against them. Laying under the sheet, curled on my side, I shake and grimace in fear and pain. Violent sounds fill the air, things crashing and colliding. I can’t tell where they come from, but they are close enough that I expect something to hit me at any moment.
Abrupt silence is not the outcome I expect. The eerie silence, devoid of even the slightest hint of movement, including breathing, makes my trembling cease in abject terror. I freeze in horror, expecting the worst.
Are they all dead? Did they murder each other? If I pull the blanket from my face, will I see bodies absent of life? Will puddles of their blood creep closer to me, threatening to soak my haven?
The silence stretches on and my body screams in distress. My lungs demand oxygen but my diaphragm refuses to move, making my heart feel heavier as the blood in my veins slows. My ears ring with the effort of searching for noise.
As my eyes sting, I force myself to draw in a breath, slow but uneven. With the influx of nutrients, my organs’ strain lessens.
The silence continues.
I must not cower any longer. If they are all dead, then I must leave. I’m too vulnerable here with all their fancy things. Poachers are sure to arrive any second to retrieve whatever they can, at whatever cost. A weak, naked woman would be a boon.
If they are dead, then I need to get out of here. Now.
As my heart hammers, I reach my fingers to the edge of the sheet. With tentative movements, I lift the blanket in front of my face, making a hole just big enough to see out of.
Gigantic tan boots made of the nicest, newest material I’ve ever seen frame my vision. Attached to them are legs that travel higher than I can see, covered in a fabric that I don’t recognize. This sturdy looking material isn’t as loose as the garments I’m accustomed to.
Between the massive boots is a sight only slightly better than their death. Blood streaks throughout the different surfaces of the room. Knives glint in the dim lighting.
Two enormous men stand as still as statues, muscles locked in battle. Their expressions are the fiercest I’ve ever seen. Little nicks in their skin drip blood, creating tiny rivulets of crimson.
Seeck has his back to the wall but shows no signs of backing down. In fact, I cannot tell who has the upper hand. With shock, I realize that no one does.
Vander’s left hand holds a knife poised at Seeck’s lower abdomen while his right holds another to Seeck’s throat.
Seeck is almost a mirror image, with his left blade pointed just below Vander's ribcage and the tip of his right knife where Vander’s throat reaches his jaw.
I feel the other men’s presence in the room but dare not take my eyes from the deadly stalemate in front of me.
There may not be visible motion, but the currents of power and struggles for domination push through the air like a sandstorm. It grates against my skin and batters my insides.
A strange sensation wakes within my abdomen. It hurts but feels good too, almost like stretching a sore muscle or washing a cut. It is reminiscent of the pleasure-pain he stole from me, but not the same.
More of their aggression pummels into me and I hold back my gasp. The twinge worsens, but this time feels more like how my back hurt after I hit the counter.
The living statues in front of me pulse with testosterone. My stomach cramps so hard I cannot smother the resulting hiss of pain.
My exhale of breath breaks the whirlpool of struggle between the two men. In fact, it destroys the ambiance of the entire room.
Five massive men direct their attention to me. The deadly auras change to concern as suddenly as if someone flicked a switch. Their faces swing in my direction, but otherwise their muscles stay engaged.
I huddle under the blanket, too afraid to do anything except breathe. The pulsing pain in my abdomen dissipates, allowing my other injuries to complain.
The boots framing my view move, blocking the battle, and a knee fills my vision. Weight settles on my head and through the thin blanket a palm strokes my scalp.
I shrink into myself on instinct, not knowing who is touching me. I know it isn’t Seeck or Vander, and now that I’m conscious I realize how awkward this situation is. Strange men have run their hands all over me—men I’ve never met before touched every inch of my flesh.
Dirk’s rumbly noise eases down into my eardrums and I relax.
I’ve had more interaction with him than the others. He saved my life and was the first to aid me. He scares me, but he’s also never harmed me.
A growl splits the air and I clutch my middle, my insides cramping so violently that a sob wrenches from me. The sensation is absolute misery.
“Shut up, Seeck!” Dirk booms above me.
My insides release as soon as that horrible noise ends.
“Don’t you dare fucking purr for her, motherf-” “You don’t get to deny her comfort. If you won’t tend her yourself then shut the hell up,” Vander interrupts Seeck.
Dirk steals my attention by stroking my head and resuming that comforting sound. Somehow, it’s less potent than it was before. It feels a little less comforting, but my aches still fade at the edges.
“It’s okay, beautiful. They just need to work a few things out. Can you show me your face?” he asks, and I realize I dropped the blanket when I grabbed my stomach.
After a moment of consideration, I reach up and pull the sheet back. I tuck it behind my ear so it won’t fall forward, but refuse to show more than my face.
“There you are. So gorgeous. Is the medicine wearing off?” he asks.
After a moment, I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. I feel parched, the fear and pain abating enough for me to notice body requirements.
“What medicine?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth I feel like a humongous idiot. Of course they gave me something.
“We gave you a few injections to help you rest, but they can make you feel a little out of it. The ointment also makes you feel funny, especially if you aren’t used to it,” he explains.
“Oh,” is all I can manage. I wasn’t expecting an explanation.
“Here, drink some water,” he urges, pulling a backpack over and offering the weird straw contraption. Of its own accord, my hand shoots out, grabs the straw, and directs it to my lips. I greedily suck it down, my mouth still dry after a few swallows. My stomach complains, but I keep pul
ling more water into my system, my parched cells urging me to consume more.
“Whoa, slow down, little Omega,” Dirk warns.
I can’t. I need more.
A vague part of me notices the wisdom of his words, but the mistreated woman doesn’t want to heed a man ever again.
Through the sheet, his massive hand grips my head and pins it in place against the floor. His other hand grabs the straw, his fingers brushing against my lips.
Fear blooms within me and my heart rate spikes. I swing my gaze up to his, fearful of repercussion. Not a trace of anger resides in his eyes, just a concerned sternness.
Pressure on the straw makes my teeth ache. My stomach feels full to bursting. Sense slams into me and I release the drink and move my lips away from his fingers. My skin tingles at the connection and I don’t like it, but his massive hand on my head stops my retreat.
“Let go of me,” I whisper, no power in my voice.
Even though my volume was minuscule, he stops touching me. He pulls the water straw away and moves the backpack out of my reach. It is huge, but he lifts it with ease.
I don’t like the raw power on display, and my body’s reaction makes me feel dirty.
“This is going to suck, sweetheart, but we have to leave soon,” he informs me.
“Wait, leave? With you? To go where?” I ask, my brain stumbling over the news. His chest rumbles out a sweet noise and my worry decreases.
“It isn’t safe here. The entire city is imploding. You don’t belong here anyway. We'll keep you safe, little Omega,” he promises.
I feel his sincerity, but I cannot trust him. I’ve never viewed men as anything other than enemies, and they’ve always proven me right. Except for maybe this man. Time will tell.
It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out why the town is imploding. Mixed in the fragrance of our little shelter, I catch a hint of a smell I’ll never forget. The past steals my eyesight and I see the Chieftain’s disgusting blood running through my fingers. I’m smothered in the odor, misery, and agony of his attack.
The other scents invading my nostrils chase away the memory—making me remember gentle hands and soft reverberations.
Wait, am I going insane? I’m recognizing people by their smell? What is going on?
Before I can ask Dirk, his fragrance barrages my nostrils. Seeck’s wild, robust scent thickens in my nose until I can taste it. I swallow and push it away, perturbed by this new ability.
Seeck murdered the Chieftain. That’s the only reason he’d carry the smell of his blood around.
The tiniest sliver of gratitude wedges under my breastbone. Unable to deal with it, I ignore it.
There’s nothing for me here. Whether or not I stay with these men isn’t a question for today. I’m battered and weary and would no doubt meet a nasty end if I were on my own. I will go with them and hope that it won’t end in a terrible death.
But I’m naked under this sheet.
Mirth brightens Dirk’s visage, but he hides it away. His eyes study me as he says, “Let me check your healing and dress your wounds. Your back will need to stay sterile for a few more days while we travel.”
My heart thumps in distress.
“Out. Now,” Dirk booms.
Seizing until I realize he’s telling the men to leave, and not for me to get out from under the blanket, my heart aches from the strain.
The argument happening on the other side of the room pauses, then footsteps move toward the entrance. I shake in nervousness, my stomach threatening to expel the water I just drank.
Dirk stands to retrieve supplies and my gaze meets Seeck’s. His face emanates icy fury, directed straight at me.
My hatred rises to the surface even as a quiet part of me wails in distress. I glare at him as memories of his skillful tongue in unmentionable places heats my cheeks. He stole from me. Took something I wasn’t willing to give. He molested me, yelled at me, and abused me. My hatred for him is a seething mass of hot tar underneath my skin.
But an unnamed part of me yearns for him. It misses his hypnotic purr and strength. It demands that I return to him for more.
He turns and walks out of sight.
Chapter Seventeen
Seeck
I know I’m losing this battle, and it angers me. I am not accustomed to losing.
She’s cradled in Dirk’s arms, clinging to his shoulder as we trek across the desert. The pull to retrieve her grows with every step. She should be in my arms. I should be the one that gets to hold her close.
But I can’t stain her with these deplorable hands. She deserves someone kind and caring like Dirk. Not someone who will snarl and berate her when she’s at her weakest.
I grit my teeth in frustration. The beast inside me roars every time I look forward and see Dirk lower his head to speak with her. It wants to tear his throat out and mount her right here in the dunes.
But the worst part isn’t that my internal monster wants such dark and depraved things. No, the worst part is that I want that. I’m so desperate to claim her I’d slaughter my teammate to get to her.
A sand-filled wind slaps me in the temple and I absorb the pain, using it to center myself. I yank down my face covering and let the harsh gust abuse my nose, lips, and chin. It brings me her scent and my body lunges forward without my consent. I gain control after two steps, demanding my strides to slow.
A hand on my shoulder incurs my reflexes. I whip around, knife prepared to disembowel the idiot that snuck up on me. Kwame stands beyond reach, expecting my rebuttal. His skin has darkened since we started this mission, but his shrewd eyes remain as golden as ever.
“We are all killers, Seeck,” he states. My ears ring with that truth and my mouth goes dry.
When Kwame speaks, you listen. When he uses his voice, you hang on every word. His message is always profound, even when his sentences are simple.
“Dirk has just as much blood on his hands as you do. She is your mate. You have done her wrong. Fix it, don’t run away,” succinct and brutal, his words hammer into my brain, one blow after another.
He takes a few steps, then throws over his shoulder, “Who is more capable of protecting her than you?”
The heap of landmines he just triggered blasts my view of the situation to smithereens.
I am not worthy of her, but no one else has the skills to defend her like I can.
Even the Grim Reaper should be allowed a mate, right?
I’ve been such a blind imbecile. In my shock of finding her, I treated her worse than trash. In my doubt and self-pity, I’ve further injured our bond.
How the hell am I supposed to fix this? I’ve always just fucked and left, never intending to settle on one female—never believed that I could have an Omega of my own. I trudge on, contemplating my options and trying to plan.
The urge to grab her and mark her continues to grow with every step, but with less of the swirling mass of self-depreciation clouding my mind, I’m able to register how sick and hurt she still is.
It’s the distinct lack of slick and telling waves of pain rippling from her that keeps me from decapitating my teammates as Dirk passes her to Kwame. My muscles still draw my knife to attack them during the transition, but I force my blade back to its sheath. Damn, they test my control. I know it would be foolhardy to have one individual carry her all day, but it’s extremely difficult to see her in yet another Alpha’s arms.
∆∆∆
After leaving that disgusting town after sunset, we move through the night in relative monotony. The darkness of night gives way to the light of dawn, and then the sun crests the horizon in a brilliant array of golds, purples, and pinks.
One foot in front of the other, battling the sand, wind, and sun, we keep pace with one another in an ingrained rhythm. As the bright orb reaches its highest point in the sky, we bunker down to escape its heat for a few minutes.
We close formation and huddle under a reflective tarp, tucking the edges under the sand and creating a
bubble. Kwame sits with her in his lap on the other side of the circle. After a few moments the high-tech tarp expels the heat clinging to the sand and our clothes. We use careful movements to take off our packs and retrieve food. By the time we’ve begun eating, our makeshift tent is cool. She refuses food from Kwame's hand, her gorgeous features set with stubborn wariness. She won’t eat in his lap, wanting him to set her on the sand.
I fight back a satisfied purr, pleased to see she isn’t a husk devoid of attitude. Her desire to be off his lap pleases me, and I want to project that to her, but doubt she will receive it well.
She sits with her arms wrapped around her shins, more towards the center of our circle since Kwame refuses to let her near the edge of the tarp. She’s better sheltered in the middle, but she gives off an edgy air of frustration and unease, surrounded by alpha males with nothing else to distract us.
Kwame offers her the food again, and she takes it. She sits staring at the packet in her hands, turning it to and fro, and realization settles over me. She has no clue how to open it. I can’t tell if she’s too scared or too stubborn to ask.
Jumoke shifts as though to help her, and I snarl. She jumps and hunkers tighter into her knees with a grimace.
Fuck, I’m such an ass, but I can’t handle another Alpha getting close to her. Frustrated with myself and going crazy because of her scent, I snatch the meal from her, slice it open with my knife, and place it back into her trembling hands. Wanting to ease her, sorry for being so unbalanced, I cup both of her hands in one of mine, helping her support the food for a moment.
My heart stops. Her almost white eyes dart up to mine, and she snarls. A dainty, feminine little noise, but full of hatred and pain.
