Bones’s deep voice cuts through my words, and I turn my furious gaze onto him. I thought he was on my side with this, but it seems like he’s caught up in whatever bullshit sob story Delilah has been spinning, too.
“I’ll be speaking with Delilah in the morning and reminding her of our agreement. I suggest that, in the future, if you don’t want her in your room, lock your door and leave your laundry where she can get to it like the rest of us.”
I shiver as I feel the chill of his alpha bark behind his words. The compulsion element of it doesn’t affect me, but I grit my teeth with barely contained fury over him even trying.
“Is that an order, sir?” I spit, each word laced with as much venom as I can muster.
“It is. Now everyone, back to sleep. No one say anything to Delilah until after I’ve spoken with her.”
There’s a general grumbling, but I simply turn on my heel and slam my door in their faces, turning the lock firmly. I pace the room for a while, trying to purge the anger from my system. Normally, I’d get this out in our little gym, but someone decided to turn it into the omega’s bedroom. And even with Bones’s order, I don’t think I could be around her without wanting to wring her scrawny little neck.
I keep replaying the argument over and over, and something Cross said sticks with me. Yeah, I compiled Delilah’s medical records and anything I could find about her on the web, but I didn’t really do anything more than skim it. Especially after what I saw front and center. I want to brush off our medic’s comments, but damn it if I’m not curious now.
I throw myself down at my computer set up, gritting my teeth as I pull up the file, skipping past the first few attachments until I find the notes her therapists made about her treatments.
My face falls as I read report after report of all the different things they tried to get her memories back. Electroshock, hypnosis, multiple drug cocktails, exposure therapy. The list goes on and on, each with a transcript of the doctor’s notes and Delilah’s responses. All the while, constantly referring to her as simply “subject” or “omega.” What I had to pull Joker away from stopping pales in comparison to the shit they did to the trainwreck currently living in my pack’s house.
I close the file halfway through the transcripts, physically sick. I put my system to sleep before going to the bathroom, splashing water from the sink onto my face. I don’t know why I didn’t put the pieces together before, but seeing it laid out like that…
My instincts are at war again, this time wrestling with my stubborn pride and regret. I refuse to admit weakness in front of her, but I think I may have overreacted. No. I said what I said, and I’m not going to undermine myself byapologizing. She needed to learn the lesson, and everyone else was just too soft to teach it.
When I finally crawl into bed, not even my noise machine can push out the images that follow me into sleep, my dreams full of screams and faceless men in white coats.
Chapter twenty-nine
Idragmyselfoutof my room, such as it is, once again waking well before the rest of the house. It’s become a habit over the last week or so. The encounter with Bones was enough to put the fear of God into me, and I never want to repeat that. And I’ve been actively avoiding Siren, determined not to give them another reason to yell at me, which has been mostly successful. Besides that, I’ve found I function best with a routine, and, for all the harm the facility did, at least it provided a consistent structure.
I brush out my hair with my fingers, throwing it up in a high ponytail as I make my way to the kitchen, keeping my steps silent on the hardwood floors. I pass all the closed doors to the other bedrooms, my heart twinging slightly withmisplaced longing. I shove down the feeling, like I have so many times since I’ve come to be in this house. This isn’t my pack, and they aren’t my alphas. They owe me nothing. Be grateful for what you get.
I start working on breakfast, deciding on something simple rather than the fancy meals I’ve been preparing up to this point. I doubt they’ll even care for all the notice they’ve paid to my cooking.
I set to work chopping peppers and onions, working quietly and efficiently, enjoying the silence in the house for once. Mornings are one of the few times when there aren’t people talking or training or anything else, and I can be in the common spaces without feeling like I’m in the way.
The silence does allow my mind to wander, and as it has several times since it happened, I think back to the moment with Joker. I’ve been living off the memory of his sweet and musky taste on my tongue, using it to comfort me when I’m alone in the makeshift nest I made for myself. Everyone is keeping me at such a distance that I’m not even sure they know I’m here half the time. And I honestly don’t know if that’s worse than outright hostility. But I don’t have the time to unpack that thought as I continue working.
Once the vegetables are chopped, I start on the potatoes, prepping them before throwing all of the things I’ve cut up into a big skillet to cook down. That gives me enough time to clear away the mess into the garbage, which I note is overflowing. I take the bag out and replace it, setting the full one aside to take out in a few minutes. After I wash my hands, I set to work on cooking the bacon and sausage.
I’m transferring the first batch of meat out of the pan and onto a plate when I hear movement down the hall. I keep my head down, but the footsteps sound like Phantom, which I confirm as his scent drifts to my nose moments before he enters the common area.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he groans, stretching.
“Good morning,” I reply, my voice low.
I turn my attention to the home fries, flicking my wrist to flip the contents of the pan with practiced ease.
“Did you get any sleep?” Phantom asks flatly.
I nod, not looking at him to prevent him from seeing the lie in my eyes. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months, and last night was no exception.There’s something restless in my chest, and the feeling is only getting worse the longer I’ve been out of the facility. It doesn’t help that I’m constantly on guard, not wanting to oversleep again. I haven’t been in a deep sleep in days, and certainly not deep enough to dream.
“That’s good,” he replies, though he doesn’t sound convinced.
But thankfully, he doesn’t push, heading toward the couches and turning on the television. He keeps the volume low enough for me to tune it out for now, keeping my focus on making breakfast. I start on the eggs, cracking them with one hand as I flip the sausages with the other. Once I’ve got enough in my bowl, I flip the bacon. The entire time, I can feel Phantom’s eyes on me, but I refuse to look up and lose focus.
Cross is the next one up, appearing out of the hallway in his usual black sweatpants and gray blanket hoodie, the hood pulled up around his face. He doesn’t acknowledge me, just going to the couch to flop down beside Phantom. I try to pretend the dismissal doesn’t bother me, turning my attention to cooking the scrambled eggs. I start the coffee machine brewing as I wait for the eggs to cook a little, the machine whining loudly right as Siren appears. They all but shoulder me out of the way to pour themselves a cup. I step back toward the stove and keep my head down, finishing the home fries and removing the last batch of bacon. And right as I’m finishing up the eggs, Bones and Joker join the group, the alpha dragging the omega to the table by the hand.
The rest join him at the table, and I move quietly, placing the food in the center and backing off as they start to eat. I ignore the twist of hunger in my belly, working on cleaning up my mess. They chat about things I don’t understand, which is easy to ignore. Once I’ve finished with the dishes, I dry my hands and pick up the garbage to take it outside to the dumpster. No one even calls me back to the table, or acknowledges I leave the room, though I do feel a pair of eyes on my back as I retreat.
When I make it outside, I take a deep breath, sniffling slightly but swallowing the burning in the backs of my eyes. This is my new normal, and I should get used to it sooner rather than later. I take a few steps toward the porch but stop when I see a box on the edge of the steps. It doesn’t have any postal markings on it but is sealed with packing tape. And when I approach it, I tilt my head curiously whenI see that it has my name written on it in bold, black letters. I finish taking the garbage out, grabbing the box and bringing it back inside with me.