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The cat is nowhere to be found, but somehow that doesn’t surprise me.

I shut the door and cast out my senses to get a read on the room.

Two heartbeats. One of them is fast and steady—the cat’s. The other is slower, accompanied by the sound of soft, even breaths coming from the corner.

Sleeping, then. Or close to it.

The room is nearly dark aside from the moonlight filtering through the windows.

Luckily, my night vision means I can see as well in the dark as I can in the light.

I scan the room, looking for her bed. Then I scan it again.

And again.

No matter how many times my gaze darts around the open area, the reality refuses to change.

The whole room is fucking empty.

It’s not empty, as in, the Omega’s a minimalist when it comes to decorating. Empty like she owns nothing.

There’s no sunken mattress for her nest. No blankets and pillows. No photos, books, television, or clothes strewn all over the floor.

There’s nothing fucking here except a desk in the corner, where the cat is perched, blinking lazily.

I’ve been in Omega’s rooms before. I’ve never fucked one, and I’ve certainly never knotted one, but there were times our pack toyed with the idea of courting. Times when the fear that we’ll never meet our Fated Mate started eating at us.

I’ve seen the way Omega’s live, and it’s sure as hell nothing like this. There should be so much more here. The walls should be covered with photos or tapestries. They should be painted in soft, warm colors that scream safety. I should be tripping over cashmere blankets, not listening to my own breath echo around an empty void.

Omegas are the heart of a pack. Whether that’s their family, their Mates, or their friend groups. They need connection. They need physical touch. They need to feel wanted and cared for. It’s not only psychological—it’s a biological imperative.

This room should be covered with clothes, photos, books, blankets, and sweatshirts that belong to the people she’s closest to.

It’s… not.

It looks like an institution and feels like a fucking prison.

And it smells like nothing at all.

My instincts are rioting—my Alpha slamming against my insides, growling in confusion and disgust.

I knew she was on suppressants, but… fuck. Her room should smell like her. It should smell like safety.

I’m barely coming to terms with my shock when I finally see it. Her bed. Nothing more than a thin mattress, shoved against the far wall.

My fury skyrockets.

It’s not that the mattress is so thin it can barely be considered a mattress, nor is it the fact that there’s not even a fucking sheet on the bed.

It’s the small figure lying on her side, curled into a tight ball, using a fucking bath towel as a blanket.

A bath towel. As a blanket.

I want to scream. I want to rip this fucking place apart. I want to destroy her father and everyone else who’s knowingly allowed her to live in this fucking nightmare.

My vision is blurry. My heart’s pounding in my chest. There’s an uncomfortable pressure behind my eyes that’s strangely unfamiliar.

I take a step toward the mattress, knowing there’s no way I’ll be able to stay away now. I don’t even remember crossing the room. I blink, and I’m standing over her sleeping form.