Irony at its finest: CEO of Holt Enterprises announces support of anti-alpha administration.
Judge Michaela Walters publicly admits feeling "unsafe" following Darius Holt's sudden political entrance.
Owen Mitchell let his bag slide from his hand as the hotel room door latched shut behind him with a secure click of metal sliding together. He did not make it to the bed before his knees gave out. With a groan, he accepted his fate and sat on the floor, leaning his head back against the side of the bed. What was he doing? He had only been able to afford this room because of the money he had slowly but surely pilfered from Darius Holt's wallet over the past five months. It had not been hard to take the money, but the fact that he had stolen from the man who adored him had not let his conscience rest easy. But now that he knew exactly what kind of man Darius Holt was, why did it still bother him? Why was he still trying to justify stealing from the man who had stolen his whole life? That did not need any justification.
It did not matter anyway. Darius Holt would not be bothered by the absence of several hundred dollars. The man was a CEO of a wildly successful company. He had millions of dollars to his name. There was nothing Owen could take that Darius would not be able to replace.
Except maybe himself.
Every time Owen closed his eyes, he remembered that torn, anguished look on Darius' face when he walked out. He had not meant to look back, but he had. And now his nightmares were filled with Darius' desperation. "I hate you," he whispered. "I hate you for everything you did to me. I hate you for all the lies you told me. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" His voice rose until it cracked, and then he sobbed, huddled against the hotel bed with his face in his hands. His body already hated him for leaving Darius. It had grown accustomed to Darius' scent, care, and coddling. And yes, his body craved the way Darius had claimed him with filthy words and naughty teasing even though he was almost seven months pregnant and should not even want to think about sex.
That was another thing, the whole reason he had walked out of Darius' apartment. The baby. The baby growing in his body was Darius' child. The side of him that adored Darius had rejoiced that the alpha it had become attached to was the father, while the side of him that still feared Darius simply because he was an alpha had recoiled in terror and disgust. How had he fallen in love with the man who had hijacked his mind and will with pheromones and raped him until he had remembered absolutely nothing except pain-laced pleasure? Just because he had liked it and had been unable to resist, that did not make it right. He could not go back to that man who had so unapologetically trampled what little rights he had left to him. He was already an omega. He would not make himself a slave to Darius' desires.
His jaw clenched and he bit back a cry of pain as agony shot up his sides and down his legs. He pressed his fists into the floor and gritted his teeth to keep from screaming at the claws ripping his body open. This isn't labor. It can't be. It's still too early. He forced himself to breathe through the rising panic. I just overexerted myself. I'll rest, and then I'll be fine. As the pain faded, he relaxed. Another wave caught him by surprise, and he cried out before he could stop himself. He slapped a hand over his mouth and stared at the closed door with wide eyes, scared of who or what might come in to take advantage of a weak, pregnant omega. As far as the societal hierarchy went, an unclaimed pregnant omega was down even below the level of the masochist hookers. Alphas would pretend to hate them and act disgusted, but they would still take whatever they wanted and no one would bat an eye.
He breathed through his nose, taking deep breaths until the pain and panic subsided. He was okay. It had been a false alarm.
Thud.
The heavy sound shook the door and shot Owen up to his feet. It took him a few seconds to realize that no one was trying to get in.
Someone had been slammed up against the outside of the door.
Without even really thinking, Owen went to the door and yanked it open, ready to act like a Karen if necessary. He could complain that this was unprofessional and he was a paying guest and—
A kid about Owen's age fell into the room as the door was flung open, and standing out in the hall was a very surprised alpha. But the alpha recovered quickly and planted his hand on the doorframe. "Well," he said slowly in a voice that immediately sent shivers down Owen's spine, "look what we have here. Two omegas in one room. Double the reward for half the price."
Without a word, Owen pulled the pistol he had bought out of his pocket and pointed its barrel straight into the alpha's face. The message was silent but clear: Clear out or I'll blow your brains out.
The alpha cleared out.
Owen shut the door and bolted it, slipping the gun back into his pocket. He held out his hand to help the other omega to his feet. As the omega took his hand and stood up, Owen noticed scars of all sorts– thin like knife cuts, thick like lash marks, red and mottled like brands– scattered across his body where the torn clothes did not hide his skin. Owen grabbed the robe off of the bathroom door hook and offered it to the other omega, who took it and draped it over his shoulders. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.
The omega nodded. For someone who had almost been raped, he was acting strangely. He did not hug himself or pull the robe close around his shoulders to shield himself. "I'm fine, thank you." He sounded polite but vaguely distant, like he could not afford the time and effort to care about anything.
"I'm Owen."
The omega raised his eyebrows like he was surprised that Owen was introducing himself. Then he replied carefully, "I'm Camille."
Owen tried for a smile. "Do you have a room here, Camille?"
Camille shook his head. "No." He did not elaborate in the slightest.
So Owen asked another question, hoping he did not sound too intrusive. "So what are you doing here?"
Camille offered a tight-lipped smile that Owen could have spotted as fake from the moon. "Working."
Owen put the pieces together and smiled awkwardly. "Ah. Did I threaten to shoot your client?"
Camille snorted. "No. That asshole cornered me in the elevator. Didn't understand the word no."
"That's why I take the stairs," Owen muttered.
Camille looked vaguely interested. "Stairs? You take the stairs in your condition?"
Owen narrowed his eyes at Camille. "I'm perfectly capable of taking the stairs, no matter my condition."
Camille held up his hands at the clear bitterness in Owen's voice. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to be offensive."
"Whatever." Owen walked back over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it.
To his surprise, Camille joined him there. "I'm sorry. I really am. I just…" He hesitated, looking awkward. "I've never actually had a conversation with someone who's pregnant before. I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing or saying. Just know I'm not trying to be mean."
Owen could not help the smile that curved his lips. "That's okay. I guess in your line of work you stay as far away from pregnancy as you possibly can."
Camille's face twitched into something that looked almost like an expression of pain before his features smoothed with professional speed. "Yeah, I do. It's kind of a dealbreaker if you don't."
Owen was not going to push any deeper into what was obviously a tender wound, even though he was still curious. He was not curious about Camille's work; what he did was obvious. Internally Owen wondered how Camille had ever gotten signed to a downtown nightclub in the first place. Had it been his choice? Or had he been sold into it, even though that was technically illegal? Owen shook off the thoughts and put his hand gently on Camille's arm. "Are you hurt at all? I have some first aid supplies."
Camille very deliberately removed Owen's hand from his arm. "As I said before, I'm fine."
Owen nodded to the various scars still visible. "You don't look fine."
Camille's eyes drifted down to the scars, and Owen could see the trauma flash across his face. "I'm just bruised this time. It's nothing new. I've dealt with worse."
"I can see that."
Camille looked up at Owen, his gaze sharp. He seemed ready to defend himself, but his expression shifted as Owen said nothing. "You've got to think I'm the type of twisted bastard who actually likes getting hurt. That I think it's fun."
"I never said that," Owen inserted quietly. "I'm curious, yes, but I'm not accusing you of anything." He pushed off the bed and grabbed his bag from the floor. "If you want to tell me, you'll do it when you're comfortable. Do I look like I'm in any place to judge you?"
Camille shifted on the bed, looking uncomfortable. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Owen smiled bitterly. "I'm a single omega who got laid in a nightclub downtown seven months ago."
Camille's forehead furrowed, and he stood up. "How is that your fault? It doesn't seem like you chose that. You don't look like the type to fucking throw youself at an alpha and beg him to violate you."
Owen realized the conversation was no longer about him and slowly set the bag down. "Camille," he began softly.
"No!" Camille interrupted. "You're not!" He shoved both of his hands into his chest in a fierce, desperate motion. "I am! I do it every day, and I'm paid to like it!" It took him a moment to realize that he had overshared. Then he schooled his face back into a flat, emotionless mask. "Forget I said any of that. I just met you. You didn't sign up for trauma dumping from a stranger."
"We did just meet, but we're not strangers. We know each other's names. I would say that makes us acquaintances rather than strangers."
Camille frowned. "How are you so positive about everything? Do you ever see anything in a bad light?"
Owen raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I wasn't terrified just now when I saw that alpha out in the hall? Do you think I didn't imagine all the worst-case scenarios? I was having one hell of a bad day even before all that happened. So no, I'm not positive about everything. I'm human, Camille, just like you."
Camille shrugged like it did not matter, but there was something in his eyes that said how much it had mattered. "I'm not going to compare days. That seems unfair."
"Why? Do you think you'll lose?" Owen teased, putting his bag on the chair in the corner of the room and beginning to sort through its contents.
Camille laughed under his breath. "Sure, keep thinking that way."
Owen smiled until a faint wave of Darius' scent hit his nose. It had been wrapped up in a shirt he had just unfolded. Now he remembered: he had stowed this shirt in the bag the day Darius had done the laundry a couple weeks ago. No wonder the fabric smelled like him. And now his head ached and his knees were threatening to give out. It was as if his body could not decide whether to punish him for leaving Darius or make him long for Darius until his heart broke.
Camille's hand grabbed his elbows just as he was about to collapse. "Woah," he began, sounding like he was trying to be comforting, but he grunted as Owen's knees really did give out. "Fuck, you're heavy." He fumbled for a few moments but then got his arm around Owen's body and pulled him over to the bed. "You…really…need…to…rest," he managed in between efforts to get Owen up into the bed.
Owen sighed when he was able to lay down. He had not even noticed how much his feet hurt until the pressure on them was removed. He settled his arm over his eyes with a quiet groan. "I feel awful."
"No shit, Sherlock," Camille muttered. "You would've fallen and hit your head if I wasn't here." He went into the bathroom and came back with a cup of water. "You're probably dehydrated. Drink something."
Owen sat up as best he could, but he had to let Camille tip the cup up to his lips. If he tried to hold anything besides himself right now, he would fall over.
Camille's nose wrinkled slightly as he set the cup down on the nightstand. His eyes darted around the room, like he was trying to figure something out. Finally, his gaze returned to Owen, who had lain back down. "Were you with an alpha recently?"
Owen covered his eyes with his arm again. "Yes," he replied, not caring that his exhaustion clearly marked his tone. "I just broke up with my boyfriend of five months."
Camille's hand gently brushed an annoying piece of hair out of Owen's face. "I'm sorry." He did not say anything more, and he did not need to.