Page 18 of Omega on Fire
We move like shadows across the desert floor, our boots barely making a sound on the hard-packed earth. Years of military training and black op missions have made us efficient, deadly. But I've never felt the stakes as high as they are right now.
"Joker," I murmur into my comm. "We're going in. Have the extraction team ready."
"Already in position," he says, voice steady and calm. "Just give the word."
I take one last look at my pack, my brothers, each of them locked and loaded, faces set with determination. We only get one shot at this. If we fail, Charlotte disappears forever into some Alpha's private collection, and we lose something life-changing for us all.
"Joker, kill their lights on my mark," I say, feeling the Alpha rise in me; that primal protector ready to tear through anyone standing between me and what's mine. "Three, two, one, mark."
The distant compound plunges into darkness. We move.
CHARLOTTE
I hate the smell of antiseptics. It reminds me of hospitals, of clinical coldness, of something trying to wipe away what it can't actually clean. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel clean again. Stop, Charlotte, I scream at myself as I try to keep my thoughts focused on the present. The sharp scent burns my nostrils as cold water blasts against my naked skin.
"Arms up!" barks a guard, his face an expressionless mask as he sprays me down with a pressure hose like I'm cattle being prepped for slaughter.
Maybe I am.
The concrete floor beneath my bare feet is slick with water and whatever scent suppressant soap they're using. I guess they don’t want a frenzy when they parade us in front of our potential buyers. The scent of flowers and bleach burns my nostril andmakes me want to gag as it lingers in the back of my throat.
There are five of us Omegas lined up against the wall, all being hosed down simultaneously. None of us look at each other. It's easier this way, to pretend we're alone in our mortification.
"Turn," another guard commands, and I mechanically rotate, letting the water hit my back, my ass, the backs of my legs. I've stopped shivering. Stopped feeling much of anything except a dull, persistent rage that keeps me breathing. I let the numbness spread and encompass me, like a weighted blanket, giving me comfort against the pain that threatens to overcome me.
Weeks. It's been weeks since they drugged me and threw me into a van. I've endured the poking and prodding, the tests and examinations. I will never get over the way my veins burned as they pumped the vile heat inducing serum into me. The days that followed will forever taunt me, my body betraying me while my mind screamed. All this happened while vile spectators watched from the confines of their safe warm homes. It’s too much to contemplate, nowhere to run from my shame. I want to shut down, but I can't.
Dr. Locke walks into the room. Cruella cruelty onfull display in a white floor length gown with a clipboard clutched in her hands. "Number 42 is clean. Get her dressed." She sneers at me as she points her boney finger in my direction.
I'm Number 42 now. Not Charlotte Matthews. Just inventory. I want to clap back but I press my lips into a thin line and bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. The taste of blood in my mouth keeps me from making things worse for myself.
A bundle of fabric is thrust into my hands as I'm pushed behind a flimsy partition. It's a dress, if you can call it that, sheer black material with strategic opacity in just enough places to technically not be pornographic. I stare at it, wondering how the hell it's supposed to fit over my curves.
"Hurry up," Dr. Locke snaps. "We're on a schedule."
I step into the dress, tugging it over my hips with difficulty. The fabric stretches painfully across my thighs and chest, cutting into my skin like dental floss.
"Jesus, they couldn't find something in my size?" I mutter, trying to adjust the neckline that's threatening to expose more than it covers.
A guard laughs. "The buyers like to see whatthey're getting. Trust me, plenty of Alphas prefer something substantial to hold onto."
His eyes rake over my body, and I resist the urge to cover myself. I won't give him the satisfaction.
"You should be grateful," he continues, grabbing my arm to lead me to a row of chairs where the other Omegas are being prepped. "We've got some serious players out there tonight. Saudi princes, tech billionaires, even a few celebrities. Your life could get real comfortable, real quick, if you play nice." He winks and blows me a kiss.
"Fuck you," I whisper, but he just laughs again.
I'm pushed into a chair where a woman with dead eyes begins attacking my face with makeup brushes. Another works on my hair, yanking and twisting it into an updo that pulls painfully at my scalp. My hair. How long has it been since it’s been properly washed and maintained? It’s the last thing I should be focused on, but I love my wild curls. This isn’t right. Everything feels distant, like I'm watching it happen to someone else.
"The last Omega that went to the Sheikh sold for four point five million," the makeup woman says conversationally, like she's discussing the weather. "He keeps them in a compound in Dubai. Gold-plated everything I hear."
I don't respond. My mind is racing, calculating. This is my last chance. Once I'm sold, once I'm out of this country, I'll disappear forever.
Once the makeup woman finishes with us all, they line us up by our numbers, not our names. The scent of fear is thick in the air, mingling with perfume and the lingering antiseptic. My legs feel weak, but I force myself to stand straight. I won't go to my doom slouching.
"Remember," a guard says as we're led down a corridor, "smile pretty for the nice Alphas. The more you bring in, the better we treat the next batch."
My stomach turns. The next batch. How many Omegas have they processed through here? How many more will there be after we're gone? I ponder as the corridor opens into what looks like a converted ballroom. A runway stretches down the middle, surrounded by plush chairs filled with men and women in formal wear, sipping champagne like they're at a fashion show instead of a human auction.
