Page 47 of Omega Hunted

It’s okay.

The ache in my chest that had been constant since Raff died loosened by a fraction, enough for me to feel the difference because for one impossible moment it wasn’t crushing me. I couldn’t understand why the simple sight of this frightened omega asking for comfort made my throat tighten so hard I wanted to cry. None of this made any sense. I barely knew him. I shouldn’t need this any more than he did.

But I did.

“Can I hug you?” I asked.

“Please.”

I opened my arms to him, and he crossed the space between us so slowly it was almost painful to watch, giving me every chance to change my mind. When he finally stepped into my arms, he rested his forehead against my chest while his fingers fisted the front of my shirt. Then something inside him seemed to give way. The last inch disappeared, and he leaned his full weight against me with a shaking breath. I wrapped my arms around him with care, conscious of the baby between us, one hand settling high across his back and the other resting lightly against his side. Beneath the wool blankets and the soap from the shower, Soren smelled of peaches and the faintest trace of warm vanilla. It was gentle and made my wolf settle instead of pacing. Soren trembled for a few seconds before the tension began to drain from him, his breathing slowing until it matched mine.

He swallowed hard. “I don’t remember…”

“What?”

“I’ve never been hugged.”

Safe, my wolf murmured. Our omega knows he’s safe.

I hated that somewhere along the line, he’d learned not to expect kindness. Soren made the smallest sound, and his grip tightened. He stayed where he was for another few breaths before whispering so quietly I almost missed it.

“Thank you.” His shoulders shook once, and then he went very still. “I could stay here forever,” he admitted, embarrassment creeping into his voice. “Or I mean… for a little while. Is that all right?”

“It’ll always be all right,” I heard myself say, and there wasn’t a single part of me that didn’t mean it.

My wolf nudged at me, wanting to nuzzle his hair, to lick away every trace of fear the way wolves comforted their own. The human equivalent was a kiss, soft on his temple or the top of his head, and for one bewildering second, I ached to do exactly that, to show him that gentleness existed, that he never had to flinch from me.

We stood there for some time—I don’t know how long—but it became obvious I was supporting his weight, and his breathing was slow and even. I think he was falling asleep, and I scooped him up in my arms, then placed him in the center of his nest, his eyes closed as he cuddled into my sweatshirt.

Beautiful, my wolf said.

Or was that me?

Soren woke early the next morning, socked feet on the stairs before I’d gotten the fire going, and by then I already knew what he’d eat. Small portions. Nothing heavy. Toast cut into pieces, which he could manage when his stomach was fighting him. He’d found a spot on the first landing where the afternoon light came through the east window, and he’d sit with a book, not really reading it, just holding it in his lap while he watched the snow.

On the first day I’d seen him do this, I’d assumed he was keeping watch for intruders, and my wolf bristled at the idea because that was our job. By the second, I wondered if he was just comfortable, which my wolf approved of. By the third, I wasn’t so sure what he was feeling. Sometimes I’d find him there, sunlight catching in his hair, and for a few seconds he’d look almost peaceful. My wolf was happy, and I had to admit I was too.

I spent a lot of time digging into the Kastor family, specifically Patriarch Emric, careful not to touch anything that might trigger someone’s security logs and inevitably found myself back on Skinside. The site was still what it had always been: conspiracy for the masses, but mixed with genuine intelligence, rumors buried alongside leaked documents, and just enough truth for the ORT never to dismiss it outright. If something was moving in the bloodline world, Skinside usually caught the scent before anyone else.

My old login still worked, one that Raff had set up on my behalf after one too many refusals to go anywhere near computers and do it myself.

IRONPINE authenticated.

The screen sat blank for several seconds before a private message slid into the corner.

THE ARCHIVIST: That’s a username I haven’t seen in years.

I flexed my fingers over the keyboard.

IRONPINE: Usual fee?

THE ARCHIVIST: Yes

IRONPINE: I need information.

A pause.

THE ARCHIVIST: Go on