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Page 66 of Generation Omega: Revealed

Am I just a pawn in his game to destroy her?

I almost ask about her, but I can’t give him that power. He’s a killer. He came to kill her. And then he saved me. A man like him probably doesn’t do anything without an ulterior motive. What’s his?

I’m so relieved that Gideon is the alpha with Tillie right now, not this glaring, demonic hell beast. I wonder how long I can keep him away from her. That would be a valuable use of my time and energy.

Tillie’s words resurface, along with her sweet tone.He’s lovely and wonderful and the best introduction to this new life that I could have had, but he’s not you. He can’t ever be you. You and me—we’re forever.

She’s with Gideon Blake and still loves me. That’s my girl.

I wonder if the burns on my hand are just worse because I always hold Tillie’s hand with my right. Lefties gotta leftie, and my left packs a punch so it always had to be free. Holding her hand, even when we were little, always felt like an honor. We did it more than we didn’t, especially when crossing streets or walking past strangers. No one was going to snatch her from me, then or now.

It’s telling that we always did that, clung to each other when faced with a hazardous world that we shouldn’t have recognized when we were so young. My dad taught me to protect others, but Tillie was the one who insisted on the physical connection.

I didn’t understand until much later why it was always so important for her to know she wasn’t alone. Because shewasalone, all the time when she was at home. Her parents just never got it, how to be parents, how to make Tillie feel safe and wanted. The storm fueled by that neglect is always with her, sometimes miles away and sometimes tearing at the windows and ripping off the doors.

I always checked her daily weather report to know what she needed. This year has been the worst. I thought I lost her. She didn’t answer my messages and I left work and drove to reach her, to see her, to find out whether she was drowning in a flood, burning in a wildfire, or freezing in an ice storm. As soon as I saw her, I knew it was worse. She was almost a ghost in her own life, every kind of storm surrounding her and she didn’t have even the smallest intention of trying to keep them out. No, she welcomed the storm and I’ve never been more terrified in my life.

I hate myself for it, but I’m glad she’s bound to Gideon Blake, and however many others, who will be biologically programmed to protect her. I would have done it all my life, with gratitude in my heart, but in some ways, this is better. They’ll know what she needs even better than I do, certainly better than she does. They will sense her, and though jealousy is a fire-breathing monster laying waste to my heart, knowing her needs will be met is worth whatever comes my way. As long as they can keep her alive… everything rests on that.

Onhim—the hell beast who stares at me.

“My jacket?”Fuck—I caved. “You didn’t get rid of it, did you?” Fuck. He got rid of it. He’d never care about something so trivial.

“It’s seen better days, but it’s in the other room with the rest of your clothes.” That’s right—the killer alpha is Russian.

But his nationality isn’t what causes my thoughts to hit a ramp and go airborne. I’m not wearing my clothes. My chest is bare other than all the bandages, and I’m wearing soft track pants. He changed my clothes, rather than leaving me in what I wore to almost die on the asphalt. Why?

Whyevery damn thing?

Why?

Why?

Why?

“What does the jacket mean to you?” he murmurs, his voice gravelly but fairly neutral.

Do I answer? Is there any harm? Will he destroy the jacket if I tell him how much it means to me?

“It belonged to my father long before he met me.”

I can see those pictures of my dad even now. He was so young, with his entire life to live. Ten more years… fifteen—that’s all he got and now his jacket has bullet holes in it, just like his son. It’s not the worst thing that can happen to a badass biker jacket or an MMA fighter. That jacket and I earned some serious street cred and we have the scars to prove it.

The killer leans back in his chair, and now I can’t see those shining eyes of death.

“How do you feel?” the killer asks.

“Like a hostage.” My traitorous stomach grumbles, and I’m so thirsty I can barely swallow.

“I shot you.”

I stare at the dark form on the chair, wondering how to respond to his declaration. I choose snark. “Do you want a cookie or something?”

“I expect the truth from you, and I will give it in return. I shot you the first time. My brother shot you the second. He’s dead now.”

“You killed your own brother?” I don’t miss the guy, but why would he do that?

“He had no honor—you do.”


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