50% party, 50% falling aparty

He blinks. 

There’s so much noise now, an overload of sensation ringing between his ears. Ripping and tearing, shouting, booming. The night lights with blue and green explosions, whistles of rockets singing through the sky. 

He blinks again. 

“Johnny, stay with me.” Simon’s calling to him, hands firm against his belly. “Eyes open, Sergeant.” There’s fear there, terror drenching each syllable. White-hot, mind-numbing pain radiates from where a palm presses against his wound, gaping hole torn through his stomach, river of blood spilling from his body. Pint by pint flows freely from him to the dirt. 

He’s never seen Simon like this before, the whites of his eye gleam like bone. Terrified. Frantic. 

It must be bad. He must be dying.

As he blinks, Simon slowly disappears, morphing into someone else, eyes and nose molding into another’s, Price’s face taking the place of his partner’s without preamble. Fire douses the air, red and purple explosions dancing above his head like a halo. Angelic light, falling from heaven to earth, just to take him away.  Fire and blood. Fitting end for a Catholic, he supposes.  Gaz yells something into a radio. A fruitless effort. 

“Si.” He tries to reach, tries to pull him close, but his arm is dead weight, along with the rest of him. “Ah love ye. Tell- tell her, Ah love-” 

“Stop.” The word is barked over another ricochet. “Lay still. You’ll tell him yourself.” 

“Simon.”

“No, Johnny. You don’t get to say goodbye. Not yet.” 

Hospitals are dreadful places.

For most people, hospitals hold the memories of the worst moments in their lives, loss of loved ones, loss of self, painful injuries, frightening medical procedures, or mistreatment by medical professionals. The sanitized, whitewashed walls and off-white linoleum even have a certain scent, a smell that people associate with fear, discomfort, pain. It's globally accepted that hospitals are not well liked. They're not popular or particularly enjoyable. No one wants to go to the hospital.

But to you, the hospital is everything.

It’s where you spend a large amount of your time awake, willingly choosing to be here over anywhere else. Picking up odd shifts on different units, offering to cover for coworkers, staying late or coming in early whenever it's needed. It's your place. Your only place. It's where you make connections, where you're good at something, where you can be seen but never noticed. It’s what you dedicate your life, your time to. It’s what you cling to. It’s where you find your own peace, your own solace. Where you can let go of everything at home and focus on what you’re good at, caring about your coworkers, honing your skills, taking care of your patients. It’s yours. A place where you’re sheltered, where you can be yourself and not have to look over your shoulder, or keep your voice down, or mince your words. Somewhere you know what to expect, where you can predict, most days, the outcome of most things. Where you can feel in control. Its consistent, solid. It’s your safety. Your sanctuary. Nothing can hurt you here.

It's everything to you.

The elevator dings, announcing its arrival, and you curl your hands around your coffee out of habit, warming your palms.

“Good morning?” The friendly face inside greets you, nodding towards your tall mug, steam wafting from the top, hot and fresh from the café. They're a rad tech, you're pretty sure. Day shift. Parker, maybe?  The elevator is always the same. Hellos, goodbyes, floor to floor. No one bemoans their outcomes or tallies their losses here. No one celebrates their successes or accomplishments either. It stays void, unfeeling, unknowing, except for the comings and goings. 

“Hey, yeah. Good morning. Good night?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.” They agree, and you bounce on your toes, stretching the front of your new sneakers, trying to get the bridge across the tops of your feet to loosen a little.

“Have a good rest of your day.” You give them a smile, and then hop off, ready to start your morning, as most of this side of the hemisphere gets ready for bed.

“You too.”

“And room two sixty-eight is stable, sedated, for now, but he bottomed out less than hour ago, so keep a close eye. I haven’t had a chance to orient him either, so give it a go, if you can.” Mal taps her passcode into the tablet with one eye closed, spine slowly relaxing downward with exhaustion. “Thank you again. For covering. I wasn’t about to be stuck on another long swing because Alexis decided not to grace us with her presence.” She rolls her eyes, and you incline your head in response, shrugging her off. Mal saved your ass six ways to Sunday when you were a baby nurse, and you’d do just about anything for her, and coming in when your coworker decides she wants to be a slag doesn't even count, considering you prefer to be here anyway. 

Shift change bustles down and up the floor, night shift coming on, days and others leaving. You make polite small talk with everyone, since you don’t know them as well. It’s their Friday. Tomorrow is your Monday; you’re just picking up. Everyone is thrilled to have you though, including the charge nurse, and you allow yourself to sink into the ups and downs of their conversation, back and forth about weekend plans, their kids, their relationships, their issues. 

In a group like this, you're seen. Not noticed. 

Just the way you like it. 

“Oh!” Mal calls out, breezing by the pit with her bag slung over her shoulder, watered down iced coffee in her grip.

“Go home.” You chide, and she sucks in a breath before opening her mouth again.

“I am, but one last thing-“

“Malaya. I got it.”

“I know, I know but this isn’t in the chart. Two sixty-eight, he’s military. There are three others here with him, two kind lurking in the hallway, and his partner is in his room, refusing to go home. He’s…weird. Got special permissions to bypass visiting hours.” She raises an eyebrow. “But they’re all quite fit. Caused a bit of a… stir.” Great. The last thing you needed in the ICU is a stir of any kind. You needed it calm. Peaceful.

“Okay, got it. Thanks. Now shoo.”

You check your email, skimming with speed, skipping over anything HR related, starring skills updates to look back at later, and casually replying to a request for a float to the PACU another day this week- Hi! I’d love to pick up a few hours if I can arrange it. What time are you needing? Before moving onto checks for your patients (too many, if anyone asked your opinion- which they wouldn’t, because why would administration want to ask a nurse their opinion on anything, right?) ensuring that everyone is in good shape, stable, relaxed, resting, or even better, fully sedated. Two of your patients are on vents, and you check in with the RT on shift before heading down the hall to your last, first stop of the day.

Two sixty-eight.

Two men are slumped over and asleep in the hallway chairs outside the room, arms folded, thighs spread wide, chins tucked to chest. One of them younger, probably closer to your age, chiseled jawline akin to Adonis, the type of rich beauty that would make anyone do a double take, and an older, albeit not by much, muscled, broad chested man with a distinguished moustache curling above his lip, eyes hidden beneath the rim of a hat.

These must be the guys causing the stir.

You stop outside the slider of two sixty-eight, drawing a deep breath before knocking and then pulling the slider, fogged glass parting to reveal your patient asleep, sedated, in the bed, and his partner, a hulking mass who sits at attention by his side. He’s broad, clad in black sweats, heavy arms and straight back showcasing his size- massive. The sweatshirt hides definition but judging by the appearance of the two in the hallway and your patient, you’d guess this guy was just as fit. He looks uncomfortable, body too big for the chair, brow creased with worry overtop the black cloth mask that covers his nose and mouth.

There’s something, in his eyes. Something devastated. Something you’ve seen before, in people who sit vigil like this, preparing for the worst, praying for the best, and something else, something that you recognize, but rarely see inside these walls. Something dark and severe, foreboding, even with part of a handsome face peeking out over the mask. 

He's already half lost to his grief.

He could be a ghost.

“Hi.” You whisper your name with a small smile and point to your identification tag. “I’m the overnight nurse.” You imbue the words with sweetness, kindness, but he doesn’t respond, just traces you from head to toe and gives a perfunctory nod. It’s not abnormal for a patient’s loved ones to be less than warm, especially to the graves nurse, the one who ends up interrupting their sleep at odd hours of the night, the one who’s usually here when the worst happens. You never take it personally. You’ve sat in that chair before. You’ve known the pain of this heartache, the way their hearts are cleaving in two, one half desperate to stay beating, the other begging to be lowered in a grave alongside their loved one.

You give the silent man an opportunity to speak when you step up to your patient’s monitor, and then motion to the man in the bed.

“This is John? Mr. MacTavish?”

John MacTavish. 

You’ve already read his chart back to front, memorizing his labs, his last vitals check, going over the scope of his procedure from this afternoon, and the tentative plan for the morning.

He’s a mess. Collapsed lung, hemothorax. Broken ribs, internal bleeding. Perforated liver. Broken wrist. Lacerations all over his body. Third degree burn on the entirety of his lower right quadrant. Shattered femur. Fractured hip. Triaged and treated in the field with less than stellar medical care. Came off the medevac and went right into surgery that lasted nearly ten hours long.  

Lucky to be alive. 

“Johnny.” He corrects, his Manchester accent sharp, rough. You type it into the chart, making a note that Johnny is the preferred name, over John, and duck down to check the bag that’s attached to his foley catheter. The man across from you tenses but doesn’t say anything, tracking your every movement like he’s nervous you might harm your patient.

“I’m just going to check this dressing. I would prefer not to wake him, so I’ll be as gentle as I can, okay?” You explain, motioning to the wrapped portion of his body. He doesn’t respond, just sits still as stone as your fingers nimbly move his gown to survey the would and it's dressing before putting everything back in place. You’re quick once you’re satisfied that it looks okay, tucking the blanket back in around him, careful not to jostle where his leg is immobilized, wrapped in gauze and elevated. “I know this has probably been a very frightening and difficult time for you.” You tell the man in the chair with a whisper. “If you need anything, have any questions, concerns, I’m here. For both of you. I’ll be here at least four, five nights a week as long as he’s on this floor, so we’ll get to know one another.” When he still doesn’t say anything, you try to fight the awkward feeling that’s vibrating up your spine. Okay, he clearly doesn’t want to talk to you. That’s fine. 

Your patient groans. His partner startles, body jolting, and then he’s on his feet, leaning over the bed, eyes searching, anticipating. He looks so… unsure. Worry etches across his face as he waits, and his hand hovers without purpose above the bed, flailing in the air like he doesn’t know what to do.

You stand back for a moment. Your patient, Johnny, will mostly likely be lucid for the first time in who knows how long, and you’d like a chance to orient him, let him realize his partner is here with him, tell him he’s going back in for surgery in the morning, before giving him some more pain medication.

The monitor beeps, signaling an increase in his heart rate, respiration, spiraling upwards until-

“Johnny?” The question is hopeful, nervous, and your patient grunts, tongue darting out to lick his lips before they crack open.

“Simon.” The name is a whisper, heavy with relief, and you make a mental note. Johnny and Simon. Room two-sixty-eight. “Whit happened?”

“You’re in the hospital.” Simon explains, anxiously glancing at you. “Can I… can I touch him?”

“Of course. Carefully.” He lowers his face to Johnny’s so slowly, so gently your heart skip a beat, tapping their foreheads together cautiously.

"Yer here." Johnny whispers, the fingers in his good hand barely lifting, reaching out to try to touch Simon, even though his body won't cooperate. "Thought Ah dreamed ye." You can see it, the heavy burden of love that lays between them, the thing that's brought them to this point, the thing that shines in Johnny's eyes as he tries to drink in the frame of Simon's face, tracing his features over and over, painting a picture to take with him... wherever he goes. 

What is it like, to be loved like that? To be known like that? To be held in someone's heart, cherished and protected? 

You had no idea, but these two did. Just one look, and you knew these two had something people all over the world would kill for. 

“I'm here. I'm right here." Something wet and desperate is caught in Simon's throat, and Johnny’s lips tug into a weak smile before it fades away with a grimace, his partner straightening with a wide hand tight on the bed railing, knuckles turning white with the strength of his grip. 

“Hi.” You tell Johnny your name quickly, eager to get the less important stuff out of the way and start working towards getting him some relief. “I’m your overnight nurse. How’s your pain?” He frowns in consideration before groaning.

“’s alright.”

“Don’t be brave.” Simon says, and you nod in agreement.

“I’d like to get you some relief now so you can sleep, if we can.” Pain management can be a delicate conversation with patients, and you never truly know how they’re going to respond until you get to this point for the first time. You smile down at him, and he gives you one back, sleepy and sweet, bright blue eyes peeking out beneath drooping lids.

“Bad.” He croaks, and Simon glances at you in expectation. You nod to reassure him, reassure them both.

“Alright. Let’s get you something, yeah?” You log his vitals with a few taps on the tablet. The order’s already in the chart, and you ready the dosage, turning your back to give them some privacy.

“Where’s-“

“At the Price’s.” Simon murmurs, voice low, it’s deep rumble vibrating around the room.

“Ach.” Johnny groans something out, but it’s lost to his discomfort, and you wince in sympathy, wiping the hub of his port with an alcohol swab.

“Okay. So, this should go a long way with your pain.” you tell him, disconnecting his line to replace it with the flush. Simon tenses, again, practically flinching in the chair when you approach Johnny with the first syringe of saline. His eyes crease in concentration, watching your fingers, trying to keep up with your movements. “I’m flushing the line.” You explain gently. “Then I’ll push the medication, like this,” You’re quick with your hands, swapping the syringes and then slowing down to administer the medication at the correct push rate. Simon visibly relaxes, only a fraction, after the explanation, and once you’re done, you attach a new flush. “It’s saline. Compatible with the body, we use it to make sure that all the medication is moved through the tube.” He’s focused on your movements, and you reattach the fluids line before patting Johnny’s shoulder softly. “There, all done. He should be feeling much better here in a moment or two.”

“Cheers, bonnie.” Johnny slurs, and you huff a laugh.

“I’ll be back in a half hour for a vitals check, and then after than I’ll leave you be for a while. You do have another surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning, early-“ you glance at Simon, hoping that someone came by to already talk to him, and he nods. “So, I’ll see you before then too. I’m always a click away, if you need something.” You point to the button on the side of the bed. “If either of you need anything, I’m here. Okay?”

“Whit surgery?” Johnny grunts. Simon’s jaw flexes behind the mask, but he hesitates. It’s long enough that Johnny tries to rouse himself, and you rush to answer, to settle him.

“You have a broken hip, and your femur is shattered.” Nothing like ripping the band aid off. “Orthopedics will come by in the morning to talk about the plan, but they have to go back in to continue to work on the repair.” You don’t mention that his leg is still partially open, packed for reentry in six hours, that the damage to his lung and liver took priority when he came in, and by the end of that, the swelling in his leg was too severe to continue. You’re not the doctor, so it’s not your job to advise your patient or his family of his prognosis, really. You need to keep him calm, comfortable. Alive. Advocate for him, for both of them. That’s the job. Simon can tell him what he wishes, when he’s lucid.

Johnny’s lashes flutter, and he mumbles something, fingers curling in Simon’s grip. You take your cue, checking your watch. “I’ll let you get some rest.” You enter a quick vitals check, and then turn to leave.

“Thank you.” Simon murmurs to your back, and you pause half step, head turned over your shoulder.

“Of course.”

Six hours later, you’re slipping back into the room to say good morning to a groggy, but still somewhat alert patient.

“Good morning.” You whisper, and then frown a little at where Simon is still sitting in the same spot, upright with heavy eyelids and mussed hair peeking out from the black hood. He looks like he hasn’t slept for a single moment, blue black circles shining under his eyes, stiff and uncomfortable in the too small chair.

 Maybe we could get a recliner in here. 

A big recliner. 

“How’re we feeling this morning?”

“Alright.” Johnny grumbles.

“He’s in pain.” Simon snaps at you abruptly, insistent, and irritated, and your muscles tense instinctively before you forcibly relax them, un-bunching your shoulders from beneath your ears.

Deep breath. 

Simon’s head cocks, just slightly, and then his attention is back on Johnny, two hands cradling one another, fingers intertwined like they’re afraid to let go.

“Okay, let’s see if I can get you a little bit of medication.” You pull out your phone, flicking open your work app to message his doctor. “They’ll probably order a small dosage of dilaudid, have you ever had that before?”

“Na.”

“Might make you a bit loopy. I’ll have them give it to you when you get upstairs.” You glance at Simon. “Did you get down to the café, grab something for breakfast?” He shakes his head no, and you briefly considering encouraging him before realizing it will probably go over like a lead balloon. You smile at Johnny instead. “Your partner tells me you prefer to go by Johnny?”

“Does he?” He blinks, blue eyes alight behind sleepy lids, looking over to Simon like he’s caught a kid in a cookie jar. “Aye, ah jalouse ye kin ca' me Johnny, bonnie.”

“English, MacTavish.” Simon murmurs, stroking a soft semi-circle into his arm with his thumb.

“Ye can call me Johnny, pretty girl.” He speaks slowly, dragging his consonants and vowels until he gets to the last two words, an impish smile twisting his lips.

Pretty girl.

It’s suddenly incredibly warm in this room.

You roll your eyes on instinct as you’ve trained yourself to do whenever a patient lobs a compliment or a flirtatious quip at you, but it’s usually only ever old men. Or women.

Not beautiful, sculpted Scotsmen with sleepy smiles, stunning blue eyes, and mysteriously handsome, brooding partners.

You clear your throat, self-conscious, and startle just a bit when you hear the door opening, OR team sidling through to bring him upstairs.

“Alright, well. This team will take great care of you, and I’ll see you tonight when I’m back.” You pour positivity into your words, a practice you’ve maintained during your career, thinking good things for your patients, being positive for your patients. A good attitude can go a long way, especially for patients who may have a long road ahead of them, like Johnny.

Slipping out the door, you turn your head to where Simon listens to the surgeon intently, brows lowered, nodding occasionally, and splitting his attention between the (what you’re sure is) a one-sided conversation and where Johnny is half awake in bed, a nurse and two techs busy around him, prepping for the walk and elevator ride, their hands still clutched together. 

Johnny looks over, small sigh expanding across his chest, locking eyes with you for a moment. You freeze, taken aback by the clarity in his gaze, his face shifting from uncomfortable and pained into a small smile, lopsided and sweet.

You give him one back and disappear down the too-white corridor, new soles squeaking against the floor.

Badging out always twists your stomach with the same kind of dread. It's Tell-Tale Heart kind of dread, something that starts in your mind and spreads through your bones, a symptom of malignancy, sickness that ties you in knots, tips you over into dark waters with waves that break too close to the shore. It keeps you rolling your neck and shoulders over and over to release some of the tired tension that’s been building in your back, trying to relax and ease the anxiety that's building up inside you like a tea kettle.

You’re half sleepwalking, mind already wandering when your shoes squeak to a halt outside of two sixty-eight on your way to the elevator, in front of the door parted to reveal Simon sitting in the chair by Johnny’s empty bed, arms crossed, head tipped backwards.

Is he asleep? 

You purse your lips and tap against the glass with your knuckle.

“Hi.” You call to no response. Probably asleep. “Simon?” you whisper his name, and once he doesn’t respond, you turn the dimmer all the way down, satisfied that he’s getting some rest. You set your uneaten banana and protein bar on the little table by the bed before sneaking away, sliding the door shut with a satisfying click.

The weather this morning, this evening, is gorgeous. The sun is a golden orange orb peeking over the horizon, spraying a myriad of colors ranging from pinks to yellows across the rooftops of the city, dipping the morning commute in an effortless glow. It feels good on your face, the warmth, and you roll the long sleeve shirt that you wear under your scrubs up to your elbows to soak it in through your forearms too, stopping to stand still for a moment, for the first time in hours, in front of the back entrance to the hospital. 

In the sun, in the light, it's easy to close your eyes and pretend that you're something, somebody else. Easy to tilt your face to the light and let it wash over you, bathe you in fire, burn you clean like a witch on a pyre. 

Your watch beeps, dragging your focus to where it displays the time, a stark and devastating reminder that you have to get going, and you give the hospital one last look before beginning your trek to the train. 

You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.

You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.

You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.

But you know you had it.

Which means…

You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.

It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.

The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.

“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.

“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”

“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.

These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.

It’s torture, being here.

And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.

Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.

A craving that can never be satisfied.

It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.

That you can’t find.

You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.

And in order to do that-

you need your phone.

Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.

It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.

You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”

Stop.

What are you doing?

“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.

“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”

“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.

You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.

“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.

“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.

He says none of those things.

“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.

“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.

“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”

“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”

“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?

“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.

“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”

You hate him.

He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.

You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.

“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.

“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.

“Yes.”

“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.

He moves.

It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.

Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.

Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.

You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.

“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.

But it doesn’t stop there.

He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.

Subharmonics.

It almost brings you to your knees.

“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”

Alpha.

You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.

He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.

You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.

No, that is what you mean.

You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.

“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.

Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.

Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,

“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.

“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.

It’s not fair.

“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.

“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.

Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.

The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.

He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.

“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.

“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.

“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.

“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.

“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”

“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.

Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.

It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.

It’s late when the knock comes.

“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.

You don’t answer. He sighs.

“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.

But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.

He knocks again.

You meet it with silence.

The water in the white tub is tinged pink from blood. It’s warm, almost too warm. Your skin tingles, prickling with the heat. You can’t say anything.

The shock is still rendering you useless.

Fingers bite into your arms, squeezing tight across your chest, almost as if you might hide it from sight. Nudity is not something to be ashamed of in your culture, but now it feels almost violating to have one of them looking at you.

Your eyes are locked on your knees in the water, the claw foot tub just deep enough for the water to cover the joints. One of them is swollen, the right leg already dark with bruising. Your ankle is just as bad, and between the joints teeth marks leak red into the water. It stings and throbs but no words leave your lips.

There’s a slow drip of blood, sliding over your lips to your chin before it plops quietly into the water. It’s a steady stream from your nose, has been since it hit the floor.

Screaming, body flailing in a weak attempt at breaking free. Nails rake across skin, the smell of blood. Falling headfirst, face smashing into the wood. A crack, blood seeping. Stunned, unable to see.

A hiss leaves your lips as the rag is pressed against your nose. Broken, you think. Ragged nails bite into the skin of your arms, chipped and broken.

Hands on ankles, dragging. Nails digging into wood grain. Pulling, pulling. A pop. More pain.

“Sorry.” His soft voice reaches your ears over the screaming in your head. His hand is gentle, dabbing softly at the inflamed cartilage. Beta, you think, the only ones capable of such a gentle touch. His words are just as soft, but there’s still an edge to them.

Are you? You think bitterly.

The blood slows its dripping, already healing. The rag passes over your mouth and chin, wiping away the rest of the blood. It’s dropped with a wet plop into the pile, the white stained pink with your blood. A fresh one is dipped into the water, already taking on a pinkish hue thanks to the bloody water.

He doesn’t hold back as he presses the rag against the wound on your shoulder. You whimper, jerking away from him, but his hand grips tightly, keeping you still. It burns, the pressure against the raw, open wound. It’s steadily seeping blood, staining your white hair pink.

Struggling, weight pushing, hot breath. The sharp burn of breaking skin, the deep ache of teeth sinking into muscle. Screaming, blood pouring.

“Took a chunk out.” He says, applying pressure to the aching wound. “Must’ve hurt.”

If you’d had the energy, you might have said something. Now you can’t even manage a glare. You’re nothing but a shell, being bathed by a stranger in a strange house, watching the bath water turn pink with your blood.

The wash cloth dabs at the mutilated skin, tears blurring your vision in pain from the pressure against such an injury. It’ll heal, just like the rest, leaving a scar in its wake.

A scar that represents the finality of your situation.

Tears slide down your cheeks, dripping into the water as he finishes, pulling the plug. Slowly the water starts to drop, gurgling as it’s sucked down into the drain. There’s a pink line on the side of the tub, stained by your blood. It’ll be easily cleaned, just as easily as you were. Evidence wiped away leaving a blank slate in its wake.

A towel is draped over your head, blocking out the world for just a moment. Just a quick moment where you can forget everything that’s happened and imagine yourself back somewhere safe.

***

The fire is warm, logs cracking as they burn. The side of your body, the side facing the fire is hot but you refuse to move. Your leg has been propped up on a folded blanket, elevated to help the swelling. A white fur pelt has been draped over you, giving you a modicum of modesty among prying eyes.

Your broken nails have been trimmed, blunted down to almost nubs. You can’t hurt yourself, you can’t hurt them. Your face no longer hurts, but there’s an intense throbbing in your shoulder, matching in time with the throbbing of your knee.

You’re not going anywhere. Not in this state.

Not that you’d really try. Not with them sitting right there.

Two of them. They’re sitting there, scarily still as they watch you. You refuse to look at them, to acknowledge them. Acknowledging opens too many doors, doors you’d prefer remained closed.

That’s not your choice anymore.

Instead you lay there, listening to the thumping of your heart, feeling the pulsing aches in your body in time with that steady ba-bump. Ba-bump. Slow, even breaths to keep yourself from showing any fear. You’re not sure you have any left to show. You’ve gone numb inside, your brain a blank space to push the trauma aside for now. It’ll come back later, but for now, there’s nothing.

You’re not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

The two on the couch stiffen a bit, the first movement you’ve seen from them since they sat on the couch. You can feel the shift, your breath hitching as the strong scent of alpha fills the air. It’s the volatile one, the big one with tattoos. He moves to stand behind the couch, between the two betas sitting there watching you. They know how helpless you are. They left you in the care of betas. His sharp eyes fall to you, piercing through your skin like he’s trying to see the muscle beneath.

Goosebumps prickle your skin under his gaze, your eyes still glued to the wood beams on the ceiling. You won’t look at him, you won’t give him that satisfaction. The last act of defiance you can manage in such a vulnerable state. Left that way on purpose to make you feel weaker, smaller, more helpless.

You’ve felt what those hands can do, the destruction they’re capable of bringing. Guiltless, soulless, merciless.

The executioner.

The three of them turn their heads, seamless and consecutive as they glance at the hallway behind you. You don’t need to see yourself. You already know.

You refuse to lower your gaze, refuse to move as he approaches, footsteps heavy on the creaky wood. Tension brews in the air, suffocating like the heat starting to prickle painfully under your skin. You’re too hot under the fur but you won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you move, exposing yourself to their eyes more than you already have been.

The creaking wood gets closer and closer to you. You can almost feel the floor shifting, rocking with every step. They’re not stealthy, instead meant for brute force. Big and heavy and relentless.

The floor cracks beside you, nearly making you jump. Your hands close into fists under the blanket, fingers clenching into your palms. A hand closes around your jaw, forcing your head down and to the side.

The grizzled face comes into view, thick beard peppered with grey. Bright, icy eyes stare into your soul, seeping past the front of indifference you’ve put up. The attempt at being strong and defiant against them. His eyes gaze into yours, boring holes in your skull as he forces his way past your defenses. A battle of wills and you have little will left. Not with him around.

His eyes leave yours to rove your face, burning a trail across your skin.

“You’re healing well.” His voice rumbles in the quiet, paired with a cracking of a log in the fireplace. It makes you flinch, pushing against his fingers which offer no give. Steel limbs holding you in place.

Those limbs let up, a big paw of a hand sliding down your throat. Your breath freezes in your lungs, body tense as his hand pushes the soft fur down slightly until his hand rests against your chest. He can feel the racing of your heart against his palm, the rush of blood through your limbs, the throbbing pain in your knee and shoulder. You’d wish this pain, this discomfort on him if only to bring him to your level, lower him on his pedestal just a bit.

You could only be so lucky.

“Bit warm under there.” He murmurs, fingers curling around the edge of the fur blanket.

The protest dies on your tongue as he rips the fur from you, shame heating your body as you’re suddenly exposed to the room, naked and vulnerable. It’s not like they haven’t seen you already, but this is so different. Here they can look, they can criticize.

He sits back on his heel, dragging his eyes across your body. Goosebumps prickle at your skin under his gaze, muscles flexing as you tense. You dare not move, hide yourself from his gaze. There would be no use in fighting, no matter how much your brain screams at you to retaliate.

The inhale catches in your throat as his palm comes to rest flat against your stomach, fingers dimpling the skin as he tags weight into the press of his hand against you. It’s possessive, tagging you like a fresh kill. He sits there, staring down at you with his hand pressed against your womb. It’s silent in the room, the three others watching the exchange curiously with rapt attention. Waiting, seeking the answer to the question of what’s going to happen next.

He’s dismantling you, breaking down those last few barriers of self control. He wants you angry and humiliated, broken down and malleable. You’re waiting, clinging to those last few shreds of sanity, hands still curled into fists as you prepare yourself for what’s going to happen next. What his next move will be. He’s the one in control, he’s the one they’re all looking to for direction.

He could do it now, while you’re in a weakened state. Invoke that right, partake of that offensive ritual. Strip you of the last of your decency, your resolve, your humanity. You’re trembling under his hand, breaths shallow as you wait, you anticipate.

You’re helpless, completely helpless. 

He removes his hand, resting it on his bent knee. He rocks back onto his heels, pushing himself up to stand. You shift for the first time, sweat making the blanket under your back soggy. 

“What?” You ask, your resolve beginning to come back now that the direct threat is gone. Anger is starting to bubble inside of you, the last bit of your honor still intact. “Not going to rape me in front of them? Not going to let them take turns?”

A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, his chest shaking in a chuckle. “Not yet.” 

The words strike a chord of fear in you despite your attempts to remain indifferent. Not yet. He would sink so low as to partake in such a ritual. He's already taken you, stripped you of your freedoms and your pride. He's dangerous, they all are, and they've made sure you know that.

***

“C’mon lass. Don’ make me do it.”

The one with the god-awful hair is speaking to you. You had decided not to take him seriously because who in their right mind has a mohawk willingly? Deep down you know you should take him seriously. Big, stocky, meant for power not speed. You might have thought him an alpha, if it wasn’t for the playful glint in his eye. He doesn’t hold himself like an alpha, no domineering scent overpowering your senses.

His scent is surprisingly soft. You’re getting a strong whiff of it with your close proximity.

He’s pulled you up so you’re sitting, the fur pooled at your waist. He’s trying to get you up, but you’re trying your best to make it as hard as possible. You could probably get up on your own if you had to, even with one and a half usable legs. You’re being stubborn on purpose. Not out of hope he’d give up and let you lay there, but instead you do it in your weak attempts at defiance. They probably find it amusing, but to you it’s the only shreds of your hope and sanity you have left.

The situation hasn’t quite registered yet. It still feels very surreal. Despite the painful reminders your injuries conjure up, there’s still a delightful cloudiness in your brain when you think about your new reality. It still feels temporary, like your parents will walk through the door at any moment to take you back to your home, your pack.

You’re not stuck in this nightmare, you’re just waiting for the moment when it all gets revealed as some kind of sick joke.

It’s not a joke. It’s very real.

The hand groping your chest brings you back into that nightmarish reality.

“Stop.” You say firmly, trying to bat his hand away where it squeezes your bare breast.

He doesn’t stop, not like you expected him to. Instead he grips you harder, his fingers pinching your nipple. You swing at him, hitting his bare chest but it doesn’t phase him in the slightest.

“Stop!” You shriek, and he finally does let go, only to catch your hands.

He grips both of your wrists in one of his hands, the other closing around your jaw, cheeks squished as he holds your face. That playful glint has been replaced by an intensity in his gaze, the back of your neck prickling as the sense of danger rolls through you.

“Yer our omega.” He grits out through his teeth, baring them at you. “I can damn well touch ye if I please.”

“Ease up, Johnny.” The rough voice of the big alpha cuts through the tension.

Johnny.

It’s the first of their names you’ve heard. It fits him, you have to admit. You wonder what the others’ names are. They won’t come easily, you don’t think. They’re not likely to do a meet and greet with you.

“I don’t want no sniffling bird at the table.” The big alpha says, continuing on his path into the kitchen.

Johnny releases you slowly, lowering his hands. Your chest is heaving from the adrenaline that had coursed through your body. Your poor adrenal glands are probably exhausted and it’s not even dark outside yet. There’s tears in your eyes, but the words of the big alpha come back to you. The last thing you want to do is anger him. Your knee throbs as a reminder as to why.

“Can I get a shirt?” You ask quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself. The fire is hot against your back and you know as soon as you’re away from it you’ll be cold.

“No.” Johnny says before tugging the blanket off you completely.

Tears prick behind your eyes, tears of shame as you’re lifted off the floor and into his arms. You refuse to look at him, refuse to hold on as he begins to move, carrying you from the living area over to the table.

The light is on above the table, casting a bright, warm glow around the nook. You’re placed in a chair on the far side of the table facing the door. The way out so close, but yet so far. There’s no way you could get out. You can’t run, not in this state.

It feels so cruel.

The others join you, the other beta and the big alpha bringing steaming bowls of soup to the table. They’re all still bare chested, clad in only bottoms of varying sorts. The big alpha sports jeans, the other beta having chosen sweatpants. Johnny wears a pair of basketball shorts, and the head alpha sports a pair of cargo pants. You can’t help but wonder if they’re wearing them simply for your comfort, if they’d otherwise be walking around naked.

No, they wouldn’t have given you such a comfort.

If nudity was the norm for them, they wouldn’t have stopped it on your behalf.

The don’t seem to hold the same care for you, though.

The wood of the chair is cold against your skin that had been heated by the fire under the fur. It has your nipples pebbling, your arms still crossed in front of your body as a bowl of soup is placed in front of you. It’s brothy, and you can see various vegetables floating in it. There’s a biscuit on the side, butter and jam placed on the table.

You watch them sit, the big alpha taking the lone seat on the right side of the table, the two betas taking the chairs on the left, Johnny sitting closer to you. The head alpha takes the seat at the head of the table, directly across from you. It’s a purposeful placement. Second alpha to the right, the beta closest to the alpha on the left, the omega across at the other end of the table. Positions based on rank of power.

You doubt you’ll be allowed such power in this pack.

“Something wrong?” The head alpha says, and you quickly realize you’ve been staring. You’re tired, your brain exhausted from fighting. It’s purposeful. It’s all so purposeful. Put you through the ringer until you’re exhausted and forced to submit.

“I’m cold.” You say quietly, arms still wrapped around yourself as you hunch in the chair, trying to give yourself some modicum of modesty.

“Soup’ll fix that.” He says simply, picking up his spoon.

The others follow, the clinking of silverware starting to fill the quiet cabin. You continue to stare at the soup, your eyes filling with tears. You’re not hungry, but you know they’ll force feed you if you don’t eat. It’ll only heighten the shame already burning through you. You feel violated, embarrassed, vulnerable. The worst part is none of them seem to even care. Not one of them seem bothered by this treatment of you.

There truly is no mercy to be found here.

You pick up your spoon, one arm still across your chest as you stir the soup. Chunks of meat kick up to the surface. You wonder if they grow and hunt themselves, or if they go into town for food. You’ve never seen them in town, but then again, you never get to go to town often. Too many eyes, too many possibilities. You were to be hidden away, kept secret and protected.

Now look at you.

You try not to cry as you lift a spoonful of soup to your mouth. I don’t want no sniffling bird at the table, the big one had said. You don’t want to test him, scared of what he might do. Instead you shove the emotions down, focusing on the soup. You are hungry. You can feel the beginning pangs deep in your stomach as the savory scent of the soup fills your nose. You haven’t eaten since this morning.

How long ago that feels now.

The soup is good. Decent flavor. The biscuit is a bit dry, but that’s what the soup is for. It’s quiet at the table, though, no conversation to drown out the sound of silverware and chewing. You wonder if that’s normal, or if no one really knows what to say in this situation. They all eat, none of them looking at each other. None of them look at you either. It’s a small relief.

Your hand is shaking by the time you finish your soup. Nerves are still eating away at you, your brain still hypervigilant of the danger you’re in. You’re sitting with an unknown pack in an unknown place, injured and frightened. You can’t overpower them, you can’t even outrun them. They had proven that. They’re bigger, stronger, faster than you. You’re just an omega, forced to be at their mercy.

You wrap your arms around yourself again, trying to seem as small as possible in your seat. All you want to do is lay down and sleep but you’re too aware, too afraid. You don’t want to know what kinds of things they might do to you as you sleep. Nothing would stop them anyway, but the prospect of you being unaware has your skin crawling.

You’re shaking as you sit there, wrapped in your own arms. Your knee is throbbing from the position it’s been forced into. You can’t wait for that to heal. It’s a nuisance and it’s inhibiting your ability to run. If you’re going to escape and get back home, you need to be able to sneak around and run when you get the chance.

You don’t know when that chance will be.

You’re not sure it will ever come. You’d have to get past all four of them, which you doubt they’ll make an easy task for you. One of them will always be hovering, always near the door. A window is a possibility, but you haven’t seen much else of the house besides this main area. There have to be windows you could possibly climb out of if you can just get a moment alone.

You don’t know when that will be either.

First you need your knee to heal. Then you’ll deal with creating an escape plan.

Sweat is beading on your forehead from the deep throbbing in your knee. You try to shift, straightening it as best you can even as the edge of the chair bites into the back of your leg uncomfortably. You’d love to lay back down, but you’re not sure what their next move will be, what their plan is.

The head alpha is staring at you, no doubt having sensed your discomfort. He doesn’t say anything, his elbows resting on the table as he watches you. Maybe he’s waiting, testing how strong your resolve is, how far he can push you before you break. You refuse to give in that easily, refuse to let him win. It’s what he wants, your full submission. You’re not going to give him that pleasure.

Your skin prickles as his gaze darkens, his eyes trailing down your front to where your breasts peak out above the table. The urge to cover yourself is strong, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. You won’t give him any satisfaction.

You’re going to make this as hard for him as possible.

“We’re going to lay down some ground rules.” He finally says, breaking the tense silence around the table. All eyes flicker to him, waiting, ready to obey. “You’re not to leave this house.” He says, staring pointedly at you. “The world is a dangerous place for an omega. You never know who’s lurking out in the woods.”

He’s taunting you.

“We’re nowhere near civilization, and I won’t have you getting lost in the woods.”

You doubt he’d let you go far enough to even touch the door, much less pass through it.

“You’re part of this pack now, so you’re going to pitch in.” He continues. “I know you have skills. Cooking, cleaning, mending. You do your part, we won’t have any problems.”

He speaks as if you’re going to be here forever. Well, in his mind you are.

“You’re the lowest rank in this pack. You’re here to serve. My boys ask something of you, you do it.” He says. You ignore Johnny’s smirk. “There’s punishment for making trouble. I’d hate to have to enforce that upon you.”

No you wouldn’t.

“This is your home now.” He says. “The sooner you accept that, the easier this all will be.”

You doubt it.

Your gaze leaves his as Johnny stands, your eyes flickering to watch him as he starts to gather bowls. He does so wordlessly, the other beta standing to join him. The meeting is adjourned, the conversation over. He takes your empty bowl, the spoon clacking as he drops it inside before taking it from in front of you. Your eyes flicker back to the alpha, his eyes still on you. You feel more exposed now without the safety of the bowl before you. How strange that such a little thing could offer so much security.

The other alpha pushes his chair back before standing. You can’t stop your gaze from lifting to stare at his hulking form. He’s not any taller than the head alpha, but he seems bigger. He carries himself differently, with more power. If you hadn’t known, you would have assumed he was the head alpha just by looks.

The head alpha stands as well, looming over the table. You lower your gaze to the wood in front of you, not wanting to stare at him as he slowly approaches you, stalking towards you like a predator hunting his prey. You suppose you are his prey. He hunted you down like you were.

How stupid you were going so far into the woods.

Tears prick your eyes as his hands slip under you, arms looping under your knees and around your shoulders. He lifts you easily, hoisting you up into his grasp. He doesn’t even seem to struggle with your weight, a show of power. How easily he can control you. If he can’t break you mentally, he will break you physically. His words had bordered on that threat, the double meaning not lost on you.

He had proven that to you already.

He lays you back down in front of the fire, head pillowed on the cushion, his hands propping your knee back up on the stack of pillows and blankets. That hand drags slowly down your thigh, rough skin catching on yours. A worker’s hands. He pauses for a moment, big hand gripping your thigh before he removes it, grabbing the white fur and draping it back over you.

****

It’s the head alpha that carries you to bed. You hadn’t slept any, even as the night crawled on. It’s late, the moon already up and drifting through the sky. How you wish you could see her, beg her to fix this, to take you away from this nightmare. Instead you’re met with a small window above the bed reflecting the light fixture on the ceiling in the inky blackness.

You’re laid down on the bed gently. Wood framed, hand-made you think. The mattress is soft, the pillows fluffy. Feathers, you think. He’s nice enough to tuck one under your knee, moving the blankets down out of the way. The white fur has come with you, draped over your form as you lay there on the bed. You wish you were home, you wish you were being tucked in and kissed by your mother. You were too old for that but she still insisted. You’re her baby, her only child.

Does she think you’re dead​?

They’ll be looking for you. All night they’ll search. Maybe they’ll find the blood, maybe they’ll assume the worst. Or maybe they’ll know. Maybe they’ll come looking. Maybe you won’t have to escape at all.

The alpha moves away from the bed, heading towards a door on the far wall. It opens, a light switching on inside. A bathroom. He doesn’t close the door as he goes in, your eyes floating to the ceiling as you listen to him. Running water, a toothbrush, a stream of piss into the toilet, the light switch flicking as he comes back out. Your eyes dart to him before quickly jumping back to the ceiling.

He’s nude.

It’s not unusual, but this feels different. It’s intentional. Degrading.

You continue to stare up at the ceiling as he approaches the bed, cock swinging between his legs. If you had the strength you would have stared at him, fighting that dominance he’s engaging by presenting himself in such a state. He’s testing you, showing you where the boundaries lie. There are little boundaries between the two of you. You’ve been claimed, a shackle of ownership placed around your throat where his teeth dug into your skin and tore out a chunk. You’ll wear that shackle for the rest of your life, a constant reminder of who you belong to, who you answer to.

He turns on the lamp beside the bed before turning off the overhead light, bathing the room in the soft glow of the yellow light bulb.

Tears prickle your eyes as he climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your leg twitches as his hands touch your skin, pressing against your bruised and throbbing knee. You hiss, your eyes squeezing closed at the pain as he pushes lightly against the swollen joint.

“It’ll be healed by tomorrow night.” He says, releasing your leg to lay against the pillow again.

You keep your gaze up, fighting tears as he settles onto the bed next to you with a sigh. He pulls the blankets up, covering you with them before he settles on his side facing you. He’s staring at you but you’re not brave enough to stare back. All that strength you held at the dinner table is gone, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. You’re too afraid to sleep, laying next to a stranger. A stranger who attacked you, forced you to be his mate, forced you here into his home, into his pack.

Why did you stray so far from home?

His fingers close around your jaw, forcing your head to the side. A tear slides down your cheek as you stare at him, his eyes lidded. “You’ll be happy here.”

It’s not a question, not even a suggestion. He’s telling you what you’re going to feel. You’ll be happy here because you have no choice. This is your home, your family now. These men who stole you away and forced you to be one of them, these men whose hands only know violence.

The rough grips on your body, hands pinching and twisting and breaking, teeth sinking in deep, ripping and tearing you apart.

His thumb wipes the tear that slides down our cheek. Such a soft, tender caress compared to what you know he’s capable of. He stares deep into your eyes, digging, searching, reaching in to find your very soul tucked safely away. That’s one thing he can never have. He can take your body and your mind, but he can’t touch your soul, no matter how hard he tries.

He pulls your head forward, leaning close to you. Your breath hitches, your heart racing hard in your chest. There’s a moment of stillness before he closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours. It’s shockingly soft and gentle, a small peck of the lips, but it does nothing to quell the fear rising in you. How contradicting his actions are. The tight grip on your jaw keeping you in place, the soft almost tender press of his lips.

Danger! Your mind screams. He’s dangerous and he’s only further proving it right now.

He pulls back, holding you there for a moment before he releases you. He rolls over onto his back, laying there in the bed next to you. In bed with a stranger, wounded and claimed. Not an ideal situation, and certainly not how you expected your night to end. You want to be back home, back in your bed, back safe with your parents. You’ll never see them again.

More tears cascade down your cheeks as you lay there, the reality of your situation hitting you.

“Can I ask you something?” You speak quietly, your voice trembling.

“Hm?” He hums, already half asleep.

“What’s your name?” You ask.

He’s silent for a moment, and you’re worried he might have fallen asleep already. Instead he speaks, giving you his name in the darkness.

“John.”

Blood graces the tips of your fingers.

A few fresh drops form hairline rivers, the rest is darkly dried and flaking, drifting to find a home on the back of your hand. Simon’s face is the worst of it. Bruising mars his upper jaw near the lobe of his ear. A large, stitched gash stands stark against his skin above his right brow, the edges of the wound inflamed and puffy from the needlework and initial blow.

“This will need ice.” Your thumb grazes over the mark. “The area is swelling.” Dropping your hand, you reach for the damp towel, removing the blood from your fingers. The fresh stuff wipes clean. The dry bits stick, forcing you to scrub. “What the hell hit you?”

“A food tray,” answers Simon, monotone.

“A food tray?” you repeat, disbelieving.

“Made of hard plastic.” Simon shrugs. “Cleans easy. Won’t break if used as a weapon.”

“Unbelievable,” you huff, checking under your nails.

Simon rolls his neck with an audible pop. “Had worse injuries.”

Perched on the edge of the coffee table in the living room, you stare dumbly at your husband. Simon sits on the floor, leaning against the edge of the couch. One leg bent, the other outstretched. A first aid kit lays open beside you, the contents spread out on the table.

Grasping Simon’s chin, you guide his face to the right. “I know.” The bruising will only deepen with time. “Still need to take care of it.” A bit of gauze and antiseptic will clean the area. “Should have this done at the hospital.”

As you add pressure to the afflicted spot, Simon inhales sharply. “I like your hands better.”

You snort, dabbing at the wound. “My hands aren’t meant for this.”

“Not meant for taking care of me?”

You drop your hand quickly. “This isn’t funny.”

Simon grasps your wrist, bringing your fingers back to his face. Palm upward, Simon rests his cheek against it, eyelids closing as he inhales deeply. “Didn’t say it was.” Those gorgeous brown eyes reappear, striking and sharp. “Should see Fields. That man needs the hospital.”

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, not drawing your hand away. It’s warm where his cheek rests, radiating into your arm. As strong as Simon is, this is the most vulnerable you’ve seen him, seeking comfort with a gentle touch.

“Don’t regret what I did,” he says, firmly. “Do it again given the chance.”

“Simon,” you sigh. “Are you not worried? About what will happen to you?”

His voice is firm. Nonnegotiable. “Nothing will happen.”

The finality in his voice gives you pause. You’re not ignorant of the roles and rules of a military force. Regardless of who, to strike another soldier, to strike one of your own, results in punishment.

“Nothing?” you exhale, wanting nothing more than to roll your eyes but thinking better of it. “They punish soldiers all the time for this. What makes you any different?”

Simon slowly draws your hand away from his cheek. Clutching your hand in his, he brings it down to his lap. “Captain Price decides what happens to us.”

“I doubt that very much.”

His hand squeezes, drawing you closer. “I’m not some grunt, dove.”

That you know. You’ve been victim to it firsthand. “Real convenient then. Sounds like you can do whatever you want.” You don’t mean to sound as snarky as you do. Frustration, and concern for Simon’s injuries, outweigh your neural processing.

Simon leans in, shortening the small sliver of distance between you. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”

Not a lecture, even if it feels like one. The delivery is gentle, like a brush of wind against the cheek.

“I know you nearly beat a man to death.” Try as you might, your voice cracks. The emotion isn’t for Fields, it’s for everything else, and how scared you were.

“Fields deserved it. Plenty of witnesses heard him. What he said. I had every right to do what I did to him.”

You shake your head. “I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he says, as if that makes it better.

Yanking your hand out of Simon’s grasp, you bolt up from the table, stepping over him. “You let yourself get carried away.”

Placing his hand on the sofa behind him, Simon pushes himself to standing. “I’ve killed enough men to know when they can’t take another hit. Fields had plenty left in him.”

That’s not the point. It was never the point.

Inside your chest is a twisted nest of vines, shredding your heart and ribcage, caving it in.

“You worried me.” You turn on him, voice rising slightly. “Receiving a call like that? I dropped everything and went to the hospital looking for you.” Your chest heaves, adrenaline spiking. “Jesus, Simon. Thought you were seriously injured.”

“Dove—”

“And then you weren’t at the hospital,” you continue right over him. “No one could tell me where you were. And I didn’t even find you. You just,” you gesture vaguely into the air, “appeared. After I searched everywhere you could possibly be.”

Simon’s shoulders soften, gentleness easing in. Rage would be preferable. Have a screaming match and fuck each other afterward.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmur, all the energy deflating like a slashed tire.

A slow saunter and he’s right there, on you, resting his hands on your hips, squeezing, drawing you in until you’re pressed against him. Simon’s arms slide up, and you melt, wrapping your arms around his middle as Simon encircles your shoulders.

“Don’t make me worry,” you say into his chest, eyes watery.

Simon kisses the crown of your head. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You still haven’t said what will happen to you.”

“Already told you,” he chuckles, “nothing.”

Leaning your head back, you stare into his face, searching for a hint of a lie. “That’s impossible.”

Simon releases your shoulders, cradling your face with both hands. “Not repeating what Fields said. But he said it loudly. Enough for everyone to hear. Left too many witnesses. Can’t defend himself.”

“What did he say?”

A pause blooms, and a muscle in Simon’s face twitches. Whatever Fields said, Simon is still angry over it.

“He said things about you. What he’d do to you if you were his. Couldn’t let that stand.”

Simon doesn’t just swing on anyone. His dislike for the Fields is thick like cooling tar, but Simon has never struck out at the man with his fists. What the fuck did Fields say about you? Enough for Simon to nearly beat him to death?

“I still don’t see how you won’t face consequences.”

Dipping his head, Simon comes in for a kiss. It’s slow and soft, more tender than he’s ever been.

“Price will drill me about it. Assign me grunt work for show. Keep me out of sight until we leave. But it’s Fields that’ll face a harsher consequence. To publicly say what he did, loud enough for me and everyone else to hear, that’s seen as disloyalty, and provoking conflict.” Simon rests his lips against your forehead before continuing. “He also has a record. It’s an embarrassment to Graves. He’ll want it swept under the rug and forgotten.”

You snuggle closer. “That’s not comforting.”

Simon seeks a few more kisses. These are deeper than the last and just as sweet.

“I was defending you. That’s how it’ll be seen. If Graves demanded punishment for bloodying one of his men, everyone would question his leadership. A drunken scuffle is one thing, but to not punish the soldier that talked about assaulting another’s wife?”

You jerk backward. “He said what?” Simon exhales through his nose. “That is not what you said a minute ago.”

“See why I couldn’t let it stand? Man deserved it.”

Burying your face in Simon’s chest, you breathe deep, lingering in his scent, filling your lungs with him. As much as you’re frustrated, having Simon here, holding you, is calming.

“I’m just happy you’re okay,” you whisper.

“I’m fine, dove. Promise.”

Tucking you against his chest, Simon sways, rubbing your back. Closing your eyes, you settle into him, silently counting your inhalations and exhalations, finding a place of calm, or a semblance of the concept.

“Still upset with me?” asks Simon.

“Only a little.”

“A little?”

You hold up one hand, bringing your thumb and forefinger close together but not touching. “Little bit.”

“Little bit,” repeats Simon, playfully kissing your fingers.

Laughing, you pull away, slipping out of his arms. Simon allows you to take a few steps before he’s on you again, grabbing, diving in for more kisses as you attempt to flee. This is a different side to Simon, a playfulness you didn’t think he possessed. Of all the times you’ve seen him smile, it’s never been with his whole mouth or even his teeth.

But this man is enraptured with you. Completely happy. It is soft and sweet and perfect enough to bottle. Let it be your perfume, or the honey in your tea.

“Simon,” you chastise, slapping at his hand. “Enough. You’re hurt.”

“Just my face,” he replies, a flirty drawl creeping in. “Not my dick.”

You burst out laughing, unable to contain yourself. Simon chases, herding you to the bedroom, dispelling you of clothes until you’re completely bare for him. Simon’s demeanor shifts from teasing to seductive, cradling your face in his hands, kissing you with a ferociousness that steals your breath.

“Want my mouth on your cunt.” Simon’s words are blunt. “Need your taste on my tongue. Need to hear you scream my name.”

A twinge seizes your thighs, pussy clenching like he’s inside you.

“Can I do what I want?” he asks, hushed.

Simon has controlled this entire relationship, but he’s seeking permission this time, laying it before you to take or reject. He’s asked you what you’ve wanted before, yet this is different, a desperateness that lingers beneath the surface.

The fight. The looming deployment. The idea of the two of you being separated for a month or more.

“Have your way with me,” and your voice is a whimper.

Simon seizes your mouth again, consuming until you’re clawing at him, needing to be within and without. His mouth descends, finding jaw and throat, shoulder and breast, stomach and thigh. Burying his face between your legs, he inhales, his hands supporting your ass as you fist his hair.

One minute you’re standing, and the next you’re on your back, the bed sinking beneath your weight. Simon is precise, turning you onto hands and knees, forcing your ass up and your legs wide.

You choke on your next inhalation as Simon tongues your pussy, using the tip of his tongue to trace lines that may very well be his name. A branding all its own.

“Fucking love your taste, dove,” groans Simon. He draws back, inserts a finger. It slides in easily. “And how your body takes me.”

A few strokes and then it’s gone, replaced with his tongue. You fist the bedding beneath you, squirming as Simon switches between fingering and tasting, coaxing your orgasm to the surface.

“Don’t fight it,” he says. “Don’t fight.”

Simon brings both into play, forcing the orgasm out. It’s harsh. Searing. You burst into a brief sob in the unrelenting pressure. Ceaseless, Simon continues to fuck you with his fingers, running his tongue over and around, sucking on your clit.

Another. Another.

The withdrawal is sudden. Suddenly full, then empty. Cool air and nothing, lasting but a moment. Lifting, pressed up against him, Simon slides his cock between your thighs, rocking back and forth in an easy motion. Not inside you, simply grinding, keeping you still as he coats himself in your slickness.

An urge crawls forth, of wanting to sink to your knees, to take him into your mouth, have him spill down your throat.

“Simon,” you gasp. “I want—”

Your words are stolen as Simon’s fingers slide into your mouth. His arms around you tighten, keep you aloft and on your knees at the edge of the bed, your legs pointed outward as he stands between them.

“You can suck my cock later,” he growls, knowing exactly what you desired.

His hips draw back, and the head of his cock finds its home. It’s a slow ease as he feeds you his dick, bringing more of him inside until there’s no more space between your bodies. Simon bites down on your neck, not hard enough to break skin, but the area will be tender. Might even leave little indents from his teeth.

Another slow move as he withdraws, leaving just the tip. Simon stays like that, the two of you simply breathing. His teeth are still on your skin, still pressing, causing a twinge of pain. A release, and an absence of teeth, followed by lips.

“Hold still, dove,” he murmurs.

Simon thrusts. It’s all fast, all rough, all primal need. You’re caged against him, the little sounds you make muffled by his fingers. Whatever this is, Simon needs it, desperately. To claim you, perhaps, to make them understand you’re his, even if no one is watching.

Your head falls back, resting against the top of his shoulder. There is no place for you to go to, no way to escape, not that you want to. His strokes are rough and deep, the penetration alone hitting somewhere that sparks with intensity, increasing with his thrusts.

Muscles relaxing, you remain weightless, eyelids fluttering as another orgasm rolls in, this one less intense but just as venomous. Behind you, Simon is all feral grunts and groans. It’s right in your ear, puffs of air that brush over your earlobe and across your skin.

All you can smell is sex and sweat. It mixes with your pathetic moans and Simon’s animalistic noises, and the slap of skin. Your thighs are wet and sticky, growing drenched by the second, likely to leave a small pool on the bed.

With a grunt, Simon’s arms shift. His fingers retreat and you gasp for air. The arms holding you grab your own, seizing your upper arms, drawing them back. Your top half is bent slightly, hanging over the bed. And Simon is still fucking you, rough and wanton.

He doesn’t cease, even when he fills your pussy with his cum. Your husband fucks it into you, only stopping to bring your bodies together, holding his dick inside you. The air is thick with breathing and sticky bodies.

Simon’s arms become a cradle, guiding you both down to the bed. Draping himself over you, still nestled in your cunt, he begins again.

“I’m out.”

Your stomach flips, threatening to spill your breakfast onto your feet. “I thought there was one left. What happened to it?”

Hannah frowns. “Didn’t you use it?”

You try to think, to roll back in time and recall when, or if, you used the last emergency contraceptive. The fact that they can make it at all is an accomplishment, which is why they’re rare and only ever given to women who have a history of complications or the potential for a difficult pregnancy. Hannah managed to snag what she could but that doesn’t mean the supply is endless. There are thousands of others that might need it.

“Maybe I did,” you laugh awkwardly, brushing it aside, even though the room is fucking tilting. “Can’t remember.”

Hannah quirks an eyebrow. “I can get you condoms. There are lots of those. Plenty to supply. They’re easier and cheaper to make.”

Simon might be hurt if you brought them home. He understands your reasons for wanting to delay, but he desires to be a father. He’d listen to you now, hear you out, even talk about it, but it would still cut.

“I’ll take a few,” you smile, accepting the box from Hannah. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Not like it’ll help now.

How many times did you and Simon fuck last night? You won’t even count this morning in bed, in the shower, and then in the kitchen because you’d need more fingers. Even now, as you stand here, you feel his cum leaking out of you to dampen your underwear. If you didn’t have that it would be all over your thighs.

Eloise bursts through the door, her hair windswept, arms full. She drops the mess onto her desk, muttering under her breath in French.

“No cart?” asks Hannah.

“No,” Elose emphasizes, digging through the loose papers like she’s desperately searching for something. “The bastards.”

As she digs, she sorts. Pushing her hair out of her face, Eloise holds out a small stack of envelopes to you. “Yours,” she says, clipped.

Rushing over, you take them before she can throw them at you. Not that you think she would, but Eloise appears irritated enough to do anything.

“Thank you,” you say brightly. The fakeness hurts.

Eloise is still muttering to herself as Hannah tries to calm her when you plop down into your office chair, staring down at the small letter from the family planner you haven’t seen since you first signed your marriage contract.

If you weren’t at work, you’d fucking scream, rip the letter apart into thousands of little pieces. Doubtful they’d send a letter to Simon. He’s not the one with a womb.

“Everything okay?”

Your head snaps up into Hannah’s concerned face.

“Course. Yeah,” you lie, folding up the piece of paper with the appointment time and sticking it into your bag.

The clock on the wall is two hours off.

You consider saying something, then think better of it. Claire’s face is serious despite her smile; her clothes ironed to smooth perfection. There isn’t even a single hair out of place.

“This is just a follow up,” she says, hands clasped and resting on top of her desk. “To check on our progress.”

Simon remains impassive, a solid wall. “Progress?”

To her credit, Claire’s smile doesn’t waiver. “On a baby.” Her tone gives her away, because why else would they be there?

That is Claire’s purpose. She’s not for the singles but the newlyweds, to play up all the joys and benefits of pregnancy. Contribute to the population, and all will be well. The first Pillar is the most important. Scratching the woman’s eyes out isn’t an option, so you settle with silence. Your opinion is not wanted, and Simon has enough presence for both of you.

“Already?” he questions. “Last we spoke, we discussed my job. Trying for a baby while I’m expected to be gone isn’t ideal. And it’s not good for her. I should be here.”

Claire sighs like she’s about to correct a child who confidently rattled off an answer. “Yes. I agree with you. It is important you’re here. But you don’t need to be here while she’s pregnant.” She smooths her hands over the wood, clasping them again.

“I’m right here,” you retort, because why won’t Claire look at you? Why is she only addressing Simon? “And I’d like my husband present.”

Claire’s gaze shifts to you and then reverts to Simon. “I’ve already spoken to a few of your superiors—”

“You spoke with Price?”

Claire cocks her head. “Who?” She quickly waves away the question. “No. It doesn’t matter. From what I can gather, you’ll only be gone, at max, two months.” She turns, finally addressing you. “You really won’t be showing then, and something might happen.”

You swallow, your tongue growing dry. “Like a miscarriage.”

Claire nods. “Exactly.” She turns to Simon. “There’s no reason for you to worry over that. Your wife is in good hands here. She’ll be looked after. Cared for.”

“That may be true, but I’d rather be here. Especially if she were to miscarry. A husband shouldn’t be away if that happens.”

Simon is without the balaclava, but you sense the Ghost you meet all those months ago. There is a dangerousness lurking under his skin, awaiting the trigger to burst forth and devour.

Claire is still dismissive. “Even so, there have been changes. The counsel overseeing the first Pillar are concerned about numbers. We sustained significant loses over the tragic fighting that happened at one of the Safe Zones.”

The same Zone Simon is leaving for in less than a week.

“They’ve raised the goal birth count to counteract the loss. I’m afraid I must insist on this. You’re also a new couple, without children. Eyes are on individuals like you.”

Without thinking, you reach out and place your hand on Simon’s thigh. He glances down and then covers your hand with his own.

“But he’s leaving,” you say. “You can’t expect this of us now.”

Claire’s expression is unmoving. This is not an argument. It’s an order. Not from her, but from people far above them. People at the top. People who have a say on what happens. The old fear, the one you thought you unburdened yourself with, seeps in, taking root in the folds of your brain. Choice is what you want, even veiled, even fake, you’ll take it. This is not choice. Funny to think you could circumvent the inevitable.

“As I said,” she sighs. “There have been some changes. For couples like yourselves,” and she opens her hands wide, “we’ll be closely monitoring your progress.”

Simon snorts, showing more emotion than he has this entire meeting. “By giving us a tracker? Keeping tabs on creampies?”

Claire’s left eyelid spasms. “Not in such crass terms. But yes. In a sense.”

“I’m not comfortable with it,” you state, loudly and with conviction. “Sex is private. That should stay between Simon and I.”

“We have no intention of being present for it. Whatever you do on your own time is between you two. But twice a week, starting today, and then resuming when Lieutenant Riley returns, you’ll come here. There are private rooms where you’ll copulate, and a doctor will discreetly confirm that Lieutenant Riley’s sperm—”

“No.”

Simon’s voice cuts through the air. It is cold, tinged with anger. Ghost is back, ready to emerge, to show fang and claw.

“I’m sorry?” coughs Claire, clearly startled.

Simon delivers each word slowly. “You heard me. No.”

Mouth open like a dead fish, Claire blinks rapidly. Always the professional but even she has her limits. “This isn’t negotiable.”

“I don’t care,” and Simon’s voice remains lethal. “Not happening.”

“We could track at home,” you offer. The safest route is compromise, and tracking at home means things can be faked.

Claire makes a sound of disgust. “I’m sorry but it’s out of the question. This is from top. There are no allowances.”

Simon stands abruptly. “We’re leaving.”

Claire rises, too. “Lieutenant Riley.”

“Piss off,” he snaps, and Claire’s face goes beet red. Reaching for your arm, you allow Simon to guide you out of the chair, and away from this mess.

“You can’t say that to her,” you say to Simon as you exit Claire’s office. “No matter how angry you are.”

“I did,” he growls. “Deserved it, too.”

You walk together, hand in hand, your mind spiraling. There’s no way the woman is serious, but why does she have any reason to lie. Family planners spin the truth all the time, but Claire was upfront about this. Confident, if you had to put a word to it.

“Simon.”

A grunt.

“Simon,” you hiss. “You’re squeezing too hard.”

His grip eases. “Sorry, dove.”

With your free hand, you gently grasp his bicep, squeezing with soft reassurance. “You’re angry.”

“How’d you guess?”

Before Simon can open the front door to the building, you come to a halt, stepping to the side. “Hey,” you murmur, tugging him along. “Listen to me.” He goes to you without hesitation, and you draw him close, placing one hand over his heart. “It’s fine. Okay? Everything is going to be fine.”

Simon’s knuckles brush against your cheekbone. “I promised you a year. Not walking back on that promise.”

“No. I know. I believe you.”

The pain is so vibrant it nearly gives you double vision, broken pieces of memory hanging just on the cusp of consciousness.

Things come together. The soft embrace of a bed, the golden glow of the morning sun. The morning sun-

You shoot straight up. Oh fuck. What time is it? How late did you sleep? You never sleep this late... oh my god... work. The sun is up, you're late.

It takes a second for you to fully understand you're not in your own bed. You're not in your tiny rundown flat. You're in a room you don't recognize, king bed spread out beneath you, grey curtains billowing in a breeze. The windows, the walls, stretch taller than you've ever seen, deep ocean blue painted floor to ceiling, a fancy chair pulled directly to the bedside.

You're not even in your own clothes, instead a pair of ridiculously comfortable sweatpants and oversized t shirt, the dress you went out in nowhere to be found.

Where the fuck are you?

There's a pain in your arm, the inside of your elbow, and you look down in shock to see a cotton ball taped to your skin. What the fuck?

Fear floods you.

You roll, feet and calves twisted in the sheet until you kick them free. Your bladder needs attention, desperately, and you need your phone to call Galaxy's.

"Hello?" It's an odd thing to do to an empty room but... what else are you supposed to do?

There's a door to your right, wide open and revealing white tiled floors, beginning appearances of a bathroom all you need to get up and moving across the incredibly plush carpet.

You squint as you flick the lights on, blinking in disbelief at the grandiosity.

The bathroom is the size of your flat. Glass walled shower, double vanity, white tub triple your size, ends curved upwards. It's not white tile under your feet at all, but marble, rivulets of gold running through each square like rivers.

Holy shit. You navigate to the toilet in a daze, passing the back lit mirror, catching a glimpse of yourself and swallowing your wince.

You look... awful. Exhausted. Hung over. Your face is clean, at least, though you don't remember washing it. You don't remember much of anything.

The Rook. The room you didn't belong in. The men you recognized. A warm arm around your waist-

Oh god. Did you... did you leave with them?

After using the bathroom, you burst back into the bedroom in a frenzy, tearing through the pile of blankets for your phone. Under the pillows, the sheets, everywhere. You check both bedside tables, the bathroom again...

only to come up empty.

The next option is the door. The one in the middle of the wall, farthest away from you. It's different from the other doors, the ones you assume are closets, and you turn the door handle, expecting it to tug downward and grant you an exit.

It doesn't. It's stiff. Unyielding.

Locked.

Nausea tips forward in your stomach, fear drenching your spine, and your fists fly at the wood before retreating, staring back at the door in horror. Air is trapped in your lungs and you stumble, dropping to your knees in the carpet.

Footsteps echo. A lock clicks open.

"Shite." Someone curses, padding over to where you kneel, black spots forming across your vision. Hands curl over your shoulders, forcing your spine straight, though you flinch backwards, trying to get away. "Breathe, little doe, breathe."

"Wh- who-"

"Shhh, jus' breathe for now. Catch yer breath." It's slow, but it comes, eventually tugging and twisting through your chest until it flows easier, no longer stop gapped by your panic.

You see him clearly for the first time.

The man who spilled coffee on you. The one who picked you up off the floor.

"Much better." He coos, and touches your face, thumb brushing your temple. "Let's ge ye up." He guides you to your feet, back to the bed, where you sit in front of him, eyes wide. There's some sort of warmth in the way he comforted you, some sort of care you're sure you've never felt. It scares you. It warns you, cautions you. Danger.

You're in danger.

"Where am I?" Your first question bursts free, and he settles in the chair at the side of the bed.

"Ye're in our home."

"Why?"

"Ye were drugged last night, at the Rook." Oh god. Is that why you feel so awful? "Dinnae worry, sweet thing. We'll find who's responsible."

"Why am I here though?" It's still not making sense, and he gives you a strange look, like the answer is obvious.

"Ye couldnae get home on yer own." His accent is soothing, soft and melodic. Gentle. "An' we couldnae leave ye on yer own."

"My- my friend..."

"She was... indisposed." Your head snaps back.

"Where's my phone?"

"It was dead, so we plugged it in for ye. Have ye brushed your teeth?" He nods to the bathroom. "There's a new toothbrush, razor, soap in there. Shampoo and conditioner too, for ye to shower. I'll put out some fresh clothes." No. What?

"I... I have to get to work. Thank you, for... making sure I was safe but-"

"Ye're no longer expected at work today. An' if ye were, it's long past the time ye'd need to be there."

"Did you call me out?" He nods, and then gestures to the bathroom. "Get cleaned up. Door will be open for ye, when ye're finished."

The clothes provided are your size. Leggings, a shirt, even underwear. You tuck the suspicion away in the back of your mind, logging it along with everything else, before taking a deep breath and pulling the bedroom door open.

There's a man on the other side of it. His shoulder at the frame, back turned away. A big man. Broad. "Erm... hello?" He turns, and gives you a nod. He's dressed casually, jeans and a t shirt, but your mouth dries as you spot the gun tucked into his waistband.

"I'll bring you downstairs." The gun frightens you into submission, and you gulp.

"Okay."

The house is monstrous. Hallways twisting and turning, sprawling out in front of you as you pass room after room until you reach a staircase, following dutifully behind the man escorting you... somewhere.

You come to a stop in front of a panel of sliding glass doors. They stretch the length of the wall, revealing an expansive patio and a sparkling blue pool.

And two men, seated at a table.

Your escort pulls one of the glass panels wide and they both turn. The one that came to the room before gives you a warm smile, while the other regards you with keen interest, like a black cat under a full moon.

You swallow. Audibly.

They thank your escort and wave you over, and your feet carry you forward, nearly against your will.

"Sit. We'll have breakfast." The man who came to your shop to give you the cash gestures to the only empty chair, and you perch on it, straight backed, strung like a live wire.

"Who are you?" It's a multi layered question, but they take it at face value, whether they know better or not.

"Simon. And this is Johnny." You start to give yours in return, the polite custom, but Simon interrupts you. "We know your name, doe."

"Okay..." you trail off. They're both fixated on you, Simon with his head cocked, dark gaze focused like he's picking you apart.

Danger.

"Poached eggs an' bacon okay? Toast?" Poached eggs are your favorite. How are you going to turn them down?

"Uhh... sure?" Johnny smiles, and stands, disappearing back into the house. You take a deep breath.

"Why am I here? Where is my phone?" Simon leans back, broad chest and shoulders relaxed in the chair.

"It's here." He pulls it from his pocket, and you're relieved to see it fully charged. Immediately thumbing through your notifications, you see a text from your boss wishing you well with your stomach bug, and another from Case.

>Hey, idk where you went but I'm going home with someone. You good?

You grit your teeth. Some friend. Off chasing dick or pussy while you were being drugged. Simon cocks his head. "You're upset."

"No. Yes. I'm irritated she abandoned me." He smiles, feline and formidable.

"Not many can resist Kate Laswell once she sets her sights on them. Don't be too cross with her." You glower at the same time a plate is placed in front of you, poached eggs, grilled tomatoes, toast, bacon, avocado, healthy glass of orange juice by it's side. The works.

The drool reflex is nearly instantaneous, and your stomach growls. You can't remember the last time you've eaten a meal this big.

"Please." Johnny coaxes, eyes soft. "We know ye're hungry." The way he says it fills you with shame, like you're some kitten plucked off the street, small and stray.

You are, you suppose. A stray. A castaway. A sore thumb inside this wealth.

You are, unfortunately, not too proud to turn down a meal, though your hand trembles as you grip the fork.

The first bite is perfect. There's something to be said about an immaculate poached egg, whites wispy, yolk dark orange, rich from a nutrient packed diet. You finish the first without looking up, forgetting, for a second, where you are. Who you're with. What's happening.

Johnny chuckles, eyes bright and beautiful, gazing at you with that perfect shade of blue, jolting you from your enthusiasm, and when you glance over, you find Simon's expression subtly pleased.

Something akin to heat, to want, flares in your blood.

No. Stop. You do not want them.

Johnny clears his throat. "Do ye know anyone who might want to hurt ye?"

"What? No..." Hurt you? You're a nobody.

"There were drugs in your system, benzodiazepines. A heavy concentration." You blink.

"Wait... how, how do you know that?" Simon's eyes flicker to your arm, the one with the cotton ball. "Oh my god. Is that what that is? Did you take my blood or something?" He nods.

"We had to know what it was. Your breathing was slow, shallow, and you couldn't stay awake."

"Why were you were in that room? I saw you." They exchange a look.

"You did see us." Simon confirms.

"I was looking for the bathroom." You whisper, shards of memories coming back in foggy clips. "I saw... you had a gun. That man... the one who brought me downstairs, he had a gun too." It comes tumbling out, laced with fear.

"I have gun now. We both do."

"Why?"

"You know why, little doe. Don't you? You're a smart girl." The 141. It's obvious. The Rook belonging to them, the back room meeting.

"You're a part of the 141."

"Very good." He answers, praise flushing your skin hot. No. Stop.

"Eat yer breakfast." Johnny instructs, but you shake your head.

"No. I want to go home."

"We're not a threat to ye, doe. Ye're safe with us."

"I d-don't believe you. You're... you're the 141. You're-"

"Dangerous." Simon finishes for you. "But not to you." The silence is a stalemate, your pulse rocketing past resting.

"Please, eat-"

"No!" You slide the chair away from the table and jump to your feet. "No... I can't be here... with you. I'm supposed to be at work. I w-want to go home." Tears brim, trying to fall, and you wipe your eyes hastily. Johnny's brow creases in concern.

Fuck this.

They can't keep you here. They can't kidnap you, force you to stay. You glance at the fence around the pool, a gate nestled in the shadows of some butterfly bushes.

"Do not." Simon warns, coming to his feet, like he can read your mind.

You take off running. Sprinting, as fast as your legs will allow. The gate is unlocked, thank god, and you blow through it, out to a driveway curving through a forest, towering trees flanking black pavement on both sides.

You're not very fast, but you don't stop. You don't stop until your legs ache and your lungs burn, though there's still no end in sight.

When you pull up, you turn wildly, watching, expecting them to appear in the bend.

They don't, but a car does instead.

You dart left, into the woods, scrambling away from the driveway, tucking yourself behind a tree. Your heart beats in your ears, frenetic, the pace nearly making you dizzy.

You can just barely see it from your hiding spot, and inwardly curse when both Simon and Johnny get out, flanked by the man who escorted you to breakfast, and another.

They start towards the trees.

You take off.

You're spent, and loud, crashing through the brush like a herd of elephants, giving away your position. You do the only thing you can think of, crouch down behind the base of another tree, and hold your breath, scanning the forest and listening. Minutes pass, enough to convince you to move again. You sneak away, one step after another, growing bolder-

Fingers sail through the air and latch onto your wrist. You scream, trying to rip away, glancing up to see Simon's lips pressed into a grim line. Your efforts are nothing compared to his strength, and though you thrash like a wildcat, it's not long before you're pressed up against his body.

"Told you not to do that." He murmurs, free hand cradling your face. His thumb runs along your bottom lip, and you breathe through your nose, jerking backwards, still trying to escape. "An' I wouldn't do that, if I were you. I'll just catch you, and you're not ready for what would come after, little doe." You shiver. His eyes are heated, heavy lidded, dark liquid pools.

"Si?" Johnny shouts.

"Got 'er." The reality of his words sink deep. Got her. They've got you.

You burst into tears.

"None of that, sweet girl, c'mon." He wipes your cheeks furiously, trying to keep up with the pace of your waterworks as Johnny appears at your shoulder and clucks.

"Poor thing. I know, ye're scared, I know. Let's get ye back."

"P-please, please don't. I want to go home."

"Let's get her in the car." He talks to Simon like you're not even there, and then he lifts you, cradled against his chest like a baby.

They put you back in the room. Your room, they tell you, where you'll stay until you can be good.

"We're not goin' hurt ye, sweet thing. But we need ye to cooperate."

They said, again, you might be in danger, out there. At your home. Your job. That someone may be trying to hurt you.

"You were drugged. At the Rook. Neutral territory. Only someone with broad connections and of importance could get drugs inside."

You scream at them to let you leave. You'll call the police, you protest, you'll call someone. They only shake their heads, and lock the door behind you, leaving you to your heaving sobs, ones that zap the life from your body and leave you crumpled on the floor in a wrung out heap.

Hours, minutes, days later, there are arms beneath you. You wake, barely, blinking blearily in the night. They carry you to the bed where you're tucked beneath the covers, warm, deft fingers smoothing over your forehead and your hair, humming something soft until you start to slip back into the darkness of sleep.