Page 27 of A Murderous Omega

Through the earpiece, Emile was quiet, too quiet.

They’d kidnapped me, drugged me, and taken away the freedom I’d fought long and fucking hard for.

I swore I’d never been anyone’s prisoner ever again.

Tomorrow we’d kill together.

After that, I’d run.

Even if it broke my heart.

12

CONOR

Something was off—wrong. I tossed and turned, unable to put my finger on what was bothering me, only that I couldn’t find peace and drop off to sleep. The sensation crawled under my skin, like electricity before a storm.

Finally, I threw off the blankets and grabbed a towel to wrap around my waist. The cool air hit my overheated skin, but it did nothing to relieve my restlessness.

Emile reached for me in his sleep. Even unconscious, he sought connection—an urge I understood deep in my bones.

“I’ll be back,” I murmured, and rubbed my cheek against his, leaving him covered in my scent. His breathing evened out, comforted even in his dreams by proof of my affection.

Silently, I padded to the open space that looked over the forest gorge. Nothing. The alarms were set, our weapons were hidden, after one disastrous incident where Lark thought she’d test how bulletproof the windows really were. My lips twitched at the memory. She’d been gloriously furious when the glass held, denying her intended escape.

The moon cast shadows across the floor, peaceful and still, but the feeling of wrongness persisted, prickling at the base of my skull. My alpha instincts screamed at me.

Fuck. Maybe my desperate need for Lark was truly driving me mad. Two years of hunting, of planning, and now she was here—close enough to touch but still miles away behind walls I couldn’t breach without becoming the monster she expected me to be.

I’d check on her anyway, just in case. I walked down the stairs to her room, keeping my steps soft and silent. I stopped outside the door, listening.

She whimpered, then cried out, “No!” The word tore from her throat, raw and desperate.

Terrified for her, I wrenched the door open, only to find her alone, twisted up in her sheets as if they were trying to strangle her. Her dark hair was plastered to her face with sweat and her hands clenched into fists so tight I could see the white of her knuckles, even in the darkness. She cried out as she fought demons in her nightmares—demons I’d give anything to destroy for her.

“No, please,” she begged, and the broken sound of it made my chest cave in. Her voice was younger, sweeter, stripped of all the armor she wore during waking hours. This wasn’t the fierce killer who’d taken down a dozen alphas. This was a terrified omega, reliving trauma that never should have happened.

I gently gripped her shoulder as tremors ran through her body. “Lark, baby, wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

She continued to whimper, thrashing harder now, her breath coming in panicked gasps. A sob caught in her throat as she fought against unknown assailants in her sleep, as she begged them to stop.

“Lark!” I shook her harder, hating myself for it but needing to pull her from whatever hell she was trapped in. “Wake up!”

She jolted awake, her eyes wide and frightened, pupils blown with terror. For a heartbeat, she didn’t see me—she saw them, whoever they were. Her body coiled, ready to fight.

Then recognition flickered across her features, and the fight melted out of her. She slipped back into her blankets, making herself smaller, and it took everything in me not to gather her into my arms.

“Sorry,” she muttered, her voice rough with sleep. “Nightmare.”

I stroked the side of her face, unable to stop myself from offering comfort, my thumb brushing away moisture at the corner of her eye I pretended not to notice. She nuzzled into my hand, inhaling deep, as if my scent calmed her. Even with all her walls, all her resistance, her instincts recognized me as safe. I felt a thousand feet tall, like I could battle monsters, slay dragons, burn the world down if it meant keeping her safe, if only she’d let me in.

“Want to talk about it?”

I waited for the flat refusal, the walls to slam back up, but instead, she flopped into her back and stared up at the ceiling. “My first pack—” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “The nightmares are the worst the night before a kill,” she admitted softly, her fingers tangling in her sheets. “Like my brain needs to remind me where it all started. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” I asked her, standing, swallowing hard, every instinct screaming at me to stay and comfort her, but not wanting to impose, not wanting to be like the assholes who’d abused her. We were different.

Weren’t we?