Page 84 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

“You’ve got a mark on your throat.”

I raise a hand to my neck instinctively, feel the tender strip of skin where her forearm pressed. I know I should explain it. I know Ethan is looking at that mark and trying to figure out what happened.

“Ethan.” I meet his eyes, and whatever he sees in mine makes him stop talking. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t push. That’s one of the things I’ve always valued about Ethan—he knows when to press and when to step back. He just nods, and leans against the counter, settling in for the long hours until morning.

Somewhere out in the dark, an intruder is running with a broken wrist, and in a few hours Max will be back.

But right now, in the stillness, all I can think about is the way she looked at me right before she broke.

The way, for one perfect, impossible second, she looked at me like I was safe.

And the silent promise that formed inside my chest as I watched her walk away, her shoulders squared against a world that seems to have given her every reason to never let anyone close again.

I will never hurt you, Sophie. And if I ever find out who did⁠—

The thought that follows is so dark, so foreign, that it stops me cold. I’m not a violent man. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone in my life.

But I would hurt them.

CHAPTER 23

Max

I’m home by nine thirty the next morning.

The house is empty. Finn and Ethan are already at Synthera, maintaining the routine, keeping the day running like nothing happened.

I drop my bag in the hallway, go straight to the security room, and sit down at the console.

I’d wiped the exterior feeds last night from the hotel in New York the moment Ethan texted—isolated the relevant files first, then purged the originals so the logs showed nothing but a routine system cleanup. But the copy is still here, sitting in a partition nobody else knows about.

The monitors flicker to life. I pull up the partition and find the files—three camera angles covering the west exterior. I drag them into a split-screen view and press play.

At first, there’s nothing. Just the grounds, dark and still, the loading dock a gray rectangle under the security light, the building’s west wall a pale slab against the night sky.

Then she appears.

Top right corner of the frame. A figure moving along the perimeter path at a steady run, ponytail swinging. She’s in leggings and a dark hoodie.

Then, suddenly, she stops.

I watch her head turn and her body go still. She must’ve just seen the intruder. Her hand goes to her hood, pulling it up and tucking her hair inside.

I lean forward, my hands gripping the edge of the desk.

The second camera picks her up as she rounds the corner. She stops at the edge of the frame, right where the coverage ends, and plants herself. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands at her sides. She’s facing something I can’t see.

For a long moment, nothing moves. She’s just standing there, staring into the gap in coverage, and I have no idea what she’s looking at.

Then a figure steps out of the blind spot. Full black, ski mask, taller than her by at least half a foot. And he’s pointing a gun directly at her chest.

My stomach drops.

She raises her hands. Slowly. Palms out.

Run. For the love of God, run.