His mouth had gone dry long before he understood what he was hearing.
âWhat I want from you, ValĂ©ry, requires your body to be whole.â
His words dripped down his spine like ice water, seeping into his bones until his entire body felt numb. ValĂ©ry stared at the hulking man draped in coyote fur, his silhouette gold and black under the flickering lamp light. The smell of burnt tobacco, expensive cologne, and Alpha musk pressed down on him with suffocating weight, but there was something else underneath it all, weaving throughout the room, thick and musky and darkâ it made the Omegaâs skin crawl. The scent coiled down his throat, thick as oil, catching there until he tasted bile. It made the fine hairs on his arms prickle upright, a feeling he could only describe as disgust and dread flooding his veins.
HeâsâŠaroused. Because of me. Because Iâm scared.
It was absurd. It was grotesque. It wasâ
ââRumors spread. Iâve heard more than just one about the pretty Desrosiers Omega who fucks so good itâs a sin.â
The words hit him like a slap in the face. Val flinched again, this time back in his chair, his breath snagging in his chest, his eyes widening to the point his irises looked like two small sapphires swimming in pools of white. Heat rushed through his veinsâ not the flush of embarrassment, but the jagged burn of humiliation and horror. His stomach twisted with nausea so suddenly that he nearly gagged. Sourness rose to the back of his throat again, burning, and he swallowed it back down, tasting acid.
No. No no no no no no no.
His mind screamed with it, loud and frantic, but his body couldnât move. He felt pinned in place by those steely eyes, nailed down through the chest like a butterfly in a display case. His lungs strained; he felt like he couldnât breathe. Shame burned low in his belly as his fatherâs voice rose up in his head, taunting.
â
You were born to be used, boy. Thatâs all Omegas are good for anyway. Might as well get paid or get a decent meal out of it.â
He was going to be sick.
The words came out of him in a shaking whisper before he could stop them.
âYou canâtâŠyou canât justâ I-Iâm notââ ValĂ©ryâs voice broke and he clamped his mouth shut, tears burning hot down his pale cheeks. He ducked his head, staring down at his trembling hands, fists clenched so tightly his fingernails dug half-moon gouges into his palms.
He felt dirty. Like the man could see straight through his worn clothing to every hidden softness and curve of his body. His scent glands burned under his skin, the heat of his shame prickling there. He wanted to scrub himself raw. He wanted to vanish.
He wants me. Like that. Heâs going toâ
It was then that the Alpha had spoken that final, damning phrase:
âIâll give you twenty-four hours to tie up any loose endsââ
ââso that when I come back for you, thereâs nothing standing in the way of you becoming my little live-in fuckpet.â
Valâs stomach dropped. He wanted to scream. To rip his own scent glands out with his bare hands, tear the Omega from his body so no Alpha could ever want him again. He swallowed back a broken sob, his chest shuddering with the force of it, biting down on his bottom lip until he tasted blood. The pain grounded him for one single, dizzying moment.
No. I canât. I canât let this happen. I wonât survive it.
When the manâ no,
monsterâ finally stood with lazy, predatory grace, looming like a towering eclipse before the dim lamp, and began moving towards the door, the Omegaâs eyes followed him like a trapped animalâs, wide and unblinking, pupils blown in terror. Each heavy footstep across the floor vibrated his bones, rattling him right down to the marrow.
Valéry sat in silence long after the door clicked shut.
The house felt emptier than it ever had despite how small it wasâ a cramped kitchen with peeling laminate countertops, a narrow living room strewn with his fatherâs leftover cigarette butts and unpaid bills, a small closet of a bedroom with the worn twin mattress he used as a bed tucked in the corner. It felt emptier because he knewâŠit was no longer his.
His body didnât even feel like his anymore.
But heâd be damned if he didnât at least
try to make sure that Alpha didnât claim it as his own.
ê§ ê„ ê§
By morning, his mind had been made up.
ValĂ©ry hadnât slept. He couldnât. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw him: that monstrous silhouette covered in fur, sprawled in his motherâs chair like it had always belonged to him. Smoke curling around sharp teeth and glinting eyes that pinned him where he sat like prey.
His chest ached as he stuffed the last of his belongings into his rucksack. Each breath burned under his ribs, shallow and rapid, as if he couldnât get enough air. The silence of the house pressed in around him from all sides, suffocating and thick. His fatherâs slippers were still kicked off by the couch, one turned on its side. A coffee mug sat on the end table, ringed with stale brown residue. A half-empty whiskey bottle lay on its side atop the kitchen table, a thin coat of dust collecting on the glass.
He left me. Valâs teeth ground together so hard his jaw hurt. Didnât even look back. Didnât even take his shit. Just left me to rot.
He shouldered the rucksack, the weight of it tugging at his tense shoulders. The orange pill bottle of heat suppressants rattled faintly at the bottom, mocking him with every step he took. The cold morning air bit into his scalp, his hair still damp from the shower he had taken before packing, as he pulled up his hood, the frayed cuffs brushing his knuckles as he zipped the thick, clean cotton up to his chin.
Outside, the street was empty. Early dawn cast everything in a bruised grey-violet glow, the last sodium street lights flickering off as the city began to stir. Valéry gripped the handlebars of his battered bicycle so hard his knuckles blanched, his breath puffing out white into the frigid air as he rode down the silent road, tires crunching over asphalt and old gravel.
Donât think. Just move. Faster. Faster.
His thighs burned with every push of the pedals, calves screaming as his ragged jeans scraped against tense muscle. Tears blurred his vision, caught on his lashes before they could scorch down his cold face.
He didnât have a destination. Just
away. The bus terminal, maybe. A coach heading south. A coastal city where no one knew his name. Heâd slept under boardwalks before, over a decade ago when he had run away from home as a teenager; hidden in alleyways behind seafood diners, eaten leftover fried clams out of bins lined with wax paper. Heâd survived worse.
If he hadnât been reported missing all those years ago, if the cops hadnât found himâŠhe wouldnât have had to run away again.
Iâll find work under the table. Wash dishes. Serve old men greasy eggs and weak coffee. Change my name, dye my hair. Disappear.
But dread twisted under his ribs like a hooked blade.
Monsters like himâŠthey donât just let prey slip away.
ê§ ê„ ê§
By the time he reached the cracked asphalt leading down to the depot, the sun had begun to rise in earnest, brushing the low-rise rooftops with warm, sickly gold. His breath came in ragged gasps as he skidded to a stop beside the chained bike racks. His hands shook as he fumbled with the lock. Finally, he just abandoned it, letting the bike clatter against the concrete post. Someone else would make good use of it, he hoped.
The rucksack felt unbearably heavy on his slender shoulders as he sprinted across the sidewalk. The depot doors yawned ahead, flickering neon flashing
GREYHOUND in erratic pulses of pink and blue. Val nearly sobbed in relief, his sneakers slapping against the pavement as he ran. Warm stale air hit his face as the doors slid open with a hydraulic whine, thick with diesel fumes and burnt drip coffee.
He staggered inside, chest heaving. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed harshly against the dingy ceiling tiles. The terminal was nearly emptyâ just a janitor mopping near the benches, an old woman curled up on a metal seat with her purse clutched to her chest.
He was almost there. He just needed a ticketâ any ticket.
ValĂ©ryâs fingers fumbled for the zipper of his rucksack, searching for the crumpled heâd hidden at the bottom alongside his suppressantsâ just enough to get him a few cities over. He forced his legs to move toward the line of ticket counters, vision tunnelling at the edges. His pulse beat in his ears like a war drum. His breath rattled, each inhale shallow and burning.
But every instinct in his body screamed at him then. That primal, Omega-born intuition that somethingâ
someoneâ was lurking behind him. A chill prickled at his nape, sinking deep into his bones despite the heat of panic flooding his veins.
His knees went weak. His chest cinched so tight he couldnât breathe. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring the flickering neon and the grimy tile floor.
Somethingâs wrong. Someoneâs here. Heâs here. Run.
Valâs legs were shaking so badly he thought theyâd collapse beneath him. Every instinct screamed at him to
move. And move he did. Instead of approaching the ticket window, he veered sharply to the left. His damp sneakers squeaked across the linoleum as he bolted down the dim side hall, ignoring the janitor who jolted at his sudden sprint. Tears cascaded down his face as he shoved open the dented metal door marked âRESTROOMSâ, the scent of bleach and cheap pine disinfectant wafting over him in a suffocating cloud. He could only hope that would be enough to mask his scent.
âFuckâŠfuckâŠfuckââ
He bent over the counter as he dropped his bag, retching dryly into the sink, his stomach clenching painfully with nausea and fear. He nearly collapsed as he clutched the cold tile of the sink, chest heaving with broken gasps.
Think. THINK, Val. Donât just stand here like a fucking idiot.
The bathroom lights flickered overhead, buzzing in discordant rhythm with his hammering pulse. Somewhere beyond the door, the muffled announcements of departing buses crackled through old intercom speakers. The sound felt a lifetime away.
Suddenly, instinct seized him by the throat.
Hide.
The Omega staggered sideways, knees nearly giving out as he grabbed his rucksack and stumbled down the row or chipped metal stalls. He shoved one open with shaking hands, wincing at the shrill squeal of rusted hinges, and he half-fell inside, the heavy metal door shutting behind him.
The lock stuck. He fumbled with it, his breath hitching in desperate, wet gasps. Finally, it scraped into place with a harsh metallic
clack. Valéry slumped back against the cold tiled wall, pressing his fist to his mouth to stifle the sob that tore through his chest. The smell of industrial bleach and stale urine burned his nose; his sneakers squeaking quietly against the dirty floor as he pulled his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself as tightly as he could. His rucksack was pinned between his thighs and his chest, clutched desperately like a lifeline.
I canât do this. I canât. I just wanted to live quietly. JustâŠpay off his debts, keep the landlord happy, keep my head down. Why the fuck did you leave me, Dad?
Acid rose in his throat. His teeth sank into the white flesh of his knuckles to keep from vomiting or sobbing out loud, his shoulders shaking with each silent heave of his chest.
PleaseâŠplease donât find me. Just let me go.