“I want her to know that there’s nothing she can do to stop it. Because there isn’t. I will not stop until I’ve done what I’ve set out to do. And when the light behind those perfect fucking eyes of hers finally dims, the three of us will be the last thing she sees before she joins her precious daddy.”
Holden nods, “Done.” He pauses for a moment, squinting his eyes. I know he’s about to say something that’ll either piss Sasha off or worse. Actually, no. I already know what he is going to say. I had been thinking about it myself, but I’m not saying that out loud.
“Are we still allowed to have a taste of her?”
There it is.
My eyes shoot to Sasha, his body now deathly still and it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. Eventually, the corner of his lip twitches.
“A taste? No, brat. We’ll have more than just a taste. We’ll have all of her in every way imaginable.” His blue eyes darken, years of hatred and grief warring with something infinitely more dangerous.
“She will look even prettier when she is broken and bloody at the end of my knot.”
Chapter Four
Lennon
Idon’t want to move.
I am safe in my nest.
In here, there are no threatening text messages from unknown numbers. No photographs of myself taken while I was at my most vulnerable.
In here, I can pretend even for a moment that my father is still alive. That I am not back in Vadena. That I am not the new majority owner of my father’s team, or at least I will be once this is all over. Here I can pretend that the world doesn’t exist. But as my third alarm blares through the room, I know that I can’t escape reality forever. Eventually, I will have to get up and face whatever fresh hell is waiting for me today.
My first coaching session.
I already went through the game plan with the rest of the coaches yesterday, learning the practices that had been put in place long before my arrival, and adding my own knowledge of the game to the schedule. Dad trusted me for a reason, and I have to remember that in case things go to shit today.
Finally, I grumble, wiggling my way out of the layers of blankets and pillows I had buried myself beneath, as though they will protect me from the world. And they did. At least for a little while. Unfortunately, soft cotton can’t shield me from a rink full of barbaric Alphas and Betas. One especially grumpy Alpha comes to mind. If Sasha’s reaction yesterday is anything to go by, the surly defenceman is going to make my life a living hell.
Finding a pair of comfortable slacks, my brand new Vadena Cardinals training shirt that still has that ghastly new polyester scent attached to it, along with a blazer, I get my own version of a game face on.
My makeup remains minimal for the most part. A swipe of mascara and chapstick, nothing like the full beat I paint on daily back East for work. I feel like makeup is a part of my armor, and right now it feels like I’m voluntarily setting that armor aside. Letting down one of the walls I built to protect myself. But I know my audience and if I’m going to gain the team’s trust, I need to level with them in a more natural, stripped back sort of way. I am their coach and I need them to see me as one. I just hope the reaction I got when I met them yesterday wasn’t fueled by adrenaline, because I could use every bit of support I can get if this is going to work in my favor. Because when it’s all said and done, I am an Omega. Can’t hide that fact. No amount of blazers, hockey knowledge, or confidence is going to change what I am.
I’m not my dad.
I can already hear the testosterone-filled Alphas and their snide remarks about where Omegas belong. That I don’t belong.
But fuck that. I refuse to let that be the thing that brings me down. I am not putting that energy out into the world. This is me simply thinking of every possible scenario so I can prepare myself. The ice runs through my veins just as much as it does in theirs. Maybe even more so.
I glare down at my phone, contemplating whether I even want to take the device with me today. I have already considered just changing my number. Only giving it to people that I trust. Which is a depressingly small list now that Dad is gone. But I’m not a runner. Lennon Gilmore doesn’t hide from her problems, and I refuse to let this troll be the thing that changes that. The thing that makes me second guess the sheer spite that’s going to make this group of NHL stars my bitches. I was raised to be a winner. And so I will be.
Turning my phone on, I see an array of text messages from the same unknown number, and against my better judgment, I read them because…well, apparently I’m a masochist with zero self-preservation skills.
Unknown:Do you ever feel guilty for the things you do not know?
Unknown:Do you think that ignorance is enough to absolve you?
Unknown:This isn’t a fairytale where the main character comes out on top. Because in this story, Little Bird, there are no heroes. Only casualties. And you die in the end.
Unknown:You will regret coming here.
By the time I finish reading the text messages, all I can feel is rage. I can feel my hands trembling. Fear twists low in my stomach, ugly and unwelcome, but the anger simmering beneath it burns far hotter. I won’t take this bullshit lying down. Who the hell in their right mind picks a fight with a lawyer? Cyberstalking. Harassment. Breaking and entering.Intimidation. Revenge porn. I could tie their asses up in court for years, and I’d smile while doing it. Whoever they are, they clearly don’t know who they’re dealing with. Lucky for them, they’re about to find out.
Me:I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, and frankly, I don’t care. You know nothing about me. You may think anonymous numbers and cryptic messages make you intimidating, but all I see is an asshole with way too much time on their hands. Tell me, was it neglect, disappointment, or did your parents simply fail to teach you that actions have consequences? Can’t say I’m surprised. Game on, fuck face.
I wait for a beat to see if I get a reply, and when I do, I’m almost shocked at the sudden glee that fills my chest.
