Page 35 of Awakened

The two Bastards closest to the Omega’s cage are slowly backing away, along with Calder, the Beta Doctor. He’s still close to her, though, murmuring words in a soothing tone that clearly aren’t working—and it’s immediately clear why.

It only worsens when he stops backing away and starts creeping closer instead, one hand raised in front of him to show he’s not a threat, which is pointless when his other hand is curled into a fist around a huge syringe.

Kane darts forward, shouting at Calder. “By Saint Andrew’s cross! What are ye doin’ to the lass?”

He tries to push past the doctor, but when Calder blocks his way, Kane plants one hand in the middle of his chest and shoves him, sending him stumbling into the wall. The Omega’s thrashing and screaming are in what sounds like French, but the screams thankfully fade away when Kane crouches down, making himself as small as possible, and starts speaking to her in a soft Scottish brogue.

Calder creeps up behind him, holding the syringe like he’s going to try injecting her with whatever’s in that needle, but Kane spins on him, his face a mask of fury. “Put that damn thing away, ye daft bastard. Can’t ye see she’s scared out o’ her head?”

Determination fills me, and I know I need to do something. I need to help her. I know what it’s like to feel like a cornered animal. Like prey. And if she’s here because of my father, then I have a responsibility to her.

I don’t know when I decided to move, but the next thing I know I’m less than six feet from her cage. No one stops me, and I slow my steps as I come to a stop next to Kane. He twists, glancing up at me before raising a questioning brow. I nod, giving him a soft smile of thanks as he pushes to his feet and steps back, giving us both some space.

Now it's just her and me.

Two Omegas, caught in a nightmare my father created.

Now that I can actually see her, I study her curiously. Like most Omegas, she’s small. Her hair hangs on either side of her face, shielding her like a long, thick curtain of beautiful dark curls. Even under the flickering lights, the strands shine like black silk and deepest violet.

A few silent minutes pass before she looks up, glancing at me through long lashes with wide, brown eyes almost too big for her face.

It’s clear she’s been here for a while. Her clothes are torn and ragged, her lips are chapped, and worse, her wrists are covered in angry red marks and bruises left by restraints.

My stomach clenches in remembered pain.

Her features have a sharpness—an awareness and intelligence that shines through the fatigue. She reminds me of a pixie, one of the otherworldly beings from my Mother’s stories. Delicate, but strong. Quick-witted and magical. Too alive to be trapped in a box.

I blink back my tears. She’s not crying, so I’ll be damned if I do. Instead of crouching like the males, I sit fully on the floor, cross my legs, and clasp my hands in my lap. With no other ideas, I say the first thing that pops into my head.

“Hello. I’m Idril.”

Not the best introduction, but I’ve never tried to make a friend before, so I’m cutting myself some slack.

With slow, painful movements, the Omega uncurls from her ball and stretches out her limbs. She studies me the way I was studying her, and I wait patiently, letting her take her time. When she gets to my face, she frowns, blinking slowly like she’s trying to bring my features into focus.

Then her eyes widen, and something like recognition sparks in their depths. With a burst of life, she leans forward, whispering, “Yes. I know you.”

Her throat sounds dry. Has anyone even bothered to offer her something to drink?

“Would you like some water?” I ask, praying someone has some. She bites her lip, then nods. I glance up to ask someone to get her a drink, but Gavran’s already there, a brand new, cold bottle of water in hand.

I take it, inclining my head in thanks as he returns to stand with the others. The Omega eyes the bottle warily, and I don’t blame her.

I know exactly how it feels, not knowing who to trust.

“It’s sealed,” I tell her, lifting the bottle so she can see it under the dim lights. “But I’ll take a drink first, so you know for sure nothing was done to it.”

She shakes her head, takes the bottle, and twists off the cap with shaking hands before lifting it to her lips and taking measured sips—even though it’s clear she wants to down the whole thing.

I know how that feels, too.

“Thank you.” Her voice is soft and feminine, with a British accent that makes it sound like a gentle melody.

“Where are you from?”

“Wales,” she answers, curling her arms around her legs, keeping one hand clutched around her water. She glances over her shoulder, eyeing the males warily. I follow her gaze, frowning at the way they’re all watching us like we’re exotic animals at a zoo.

When I catch Gavran’s eye, I brace for a denial but ask anyway.