"Sorry," she squeaks.
The sound that comes out of her mouth is nothing like what I expected. High-pitched, breathless, almostcute. Like a startled mouse. Like prey.
But the blood drying on her shoes tells a different story.
Old blood. Maybe an hour old. The kind of stains that come from close combat, from getting your hands—yourfeet—dirty.
This mouse has teeth.
I tilt my head, studying her. The movement is deliberate—a predator's assessment, a cataloguing of strengths, weaknesses, and everything in between. Her body language screams chaos: the rapid blink of those mismatched eyes, the twitch at the corner of her mouth, the way her free hand is flexing in a pattern that looks like counting.
Unstable.
Fascinating.
My nostrils flare before I can stop them—drawing in more of her scent, drowning in cotton candy sweetness, trying to understand why my body is reacting like this.
Why my chest feels tight? Why my arm doesn't want to release her waist?
She smells like frosted sugar underneath the candy.
Clean linen.
And something metallic—the stress note, the sharp edge that says she's not as calm as she's trying to appear.
Not that she's trying very hard.
Her face is flushed now—a delicate pink spreading from her cheeks down her neck, probably extending beneath that black bandeau top that shows off more bruises than fabric. She looks like she's been fighting. Like she's been surviving.
Like she belongs in this nightmare just as much as I do.
"You smell like cotton candy," I say.
The words come out before I can filter them—low and deliberate, the kind of statement that's really an assessment. A claim. A declaration ofI see you, and I'm not looking away.
Her flush deepens.
Interesting.
Most Omegas in this place are broken. Hollowed out.
Reduced to survival instincts and nothing else. But this one...
This one blushes.
Squeaks.
Looks at me with those mismatched eyes like she's never been caught off-guard before and doesn't know what to do with the feeling.
A pout forms on her lips—pink, glossed, slightly bitten from what I assume is a nervous habit. It's such ahumanexpression. Such a contradiction to the blood on her shoes and the killer's mark near her eye.
"You—" she starts, her voice higher than before. She clears her throat. Tries again. "You're still holding me."
I am.
I look down at where we're connected—my pale fingers against her paler skin, the steady beat of her pulse against my palm. She's warm. Soft. Real.
I should let go.
