Page 4

The driver slumps forward against the collapsed steering column, the dashboard caved into his chest cavity. From the unnatural stillness and the angle of compression, I'd estimate multiple rib fractures, probable lung puncture, massive internal bleeding. Also dead, though his death likely took longer.

Captain Kain is nowhere to be seen—either thrown clear during the rollover or already escaped to begin hunting survivors. Neither possibility gives me comfort.

I test my restraints with deliberate care, fighting through the disorientation of inverted hanging. The crash has damaged the cuff mechanisms—stress fractures in the metal, the locking pins displaced by impact force. For the first time since capture, luck favors me over my captors.

Working my right wrist free takes precious minutes, torn skin catching on bent metal with every movement. I bite down on my lower lip to muffle any sounds, tasting fresh blood as I work. The left cuff releases more easily once I understand the damage pattern, leaving me suspended only by the seat belt.

The buckle mechanism sticks, clogged with blood and debris. I fumble with it as red-tinged rain blurs my vision, finally hammering the release with my fist. My body crashes down onto the van's crumpled roof with an impact that drives the breath from my lungs.

Pain explodes through my right leg like liquid fire. Lightning flickers again, revealing the damage in merciless detail: a deep laceration running from just above my knee to mid-shin, muscle tissue exposed through skin split like overripe fruit. Significant blood loss, obvious contamination from road debris and glass fragments.

The nurse in me assesses with professional detachment: severe laceration requiring immediate pressure, irrigation, sutures, broad-spectrum antibiotics to prevent infection, tetanus prophylaxis, probable nerve damage assessment, physical therapy for muscle rehabilitation.

The survivor in me knows I'll get none of those things.

I tear strips from my uniform with shaking hands, the fabric already shredded beyond recognition. The makeshift pressure bandage won't win any sterile technique awards, but it mightkeep me mobile long enough to find real shelter. Blood soaks through the cloth within seconds—I'm losing more than I can afford, but not enough to incapacitate me immediately.

The driver's side window offers my best escape route, the opening large enough to accommodate my frame. I drag myself toward it, glass shards slicing my palms as I pull my body through the twisted metal frame. The mountain wind hits me like a physical assault, rain so dense it's almost like breathing water.

Lightning reveals the crash scene in chaotic fragments: our van overturned and steaming, the rear escort vehicle crumpled against a massive boulder fifty yards back. No sign of the lead vehicle—it must have gone over the cliff entirely, taking its occupants into the darkness below.

I force myself upright, testing my injured leg's capacity. It holds my weight, barely, sending fresh waves of agony shooting up to my hip with each step. Pain becomes a secondary concern now—mobility matters more than comfort.

"Survivor check!" A voice cuts through the storm's chaos—feline, commanding, definitely Captain Kain. "Sound off by number!"

I press myself against a jutting outcrop of stone, heart hammering against my ribs. The mountain slope rises steeply to my right, offering both concealment and tactical advantage. Without hesitation, I begin climbing, using the sparse mountain vegetation for handholds and support.

But something far worse than physical injury sends ice-cold terror through my veins.

As the rain penetrates my clothes and soaks into my skin, I feel it beginning—a dangerous warmth building beneath the surface, spreading outward from deep in my core. The storm is washing away the emergency suppressants, stripping away the chemical barriers that have kept my biology in check.

Heat builds under my skin like a slow-burning fuse, starting small but growing stronger with each passing minute. Eight years of chemical suppression beginning to unravel in the space of hours.

"Focus, Amelia," I whisper through gritted teeth, forcing my injured leg to carry me farther from the crash site. "Shelter first. Everything else second."

My medical training catalogs the progression with clinical precision: elevated core temperature, increasing tactile sensitivity, preliminary hormonal cascade activation. I can feel my pulse quickening, blood pressure rising, the first subtle changes in my scent as pheromone production shifts into pre-heat mode.

The prognosis makes my blood run cold: sudden heat onset after years of suppression can trigger seizures, dangerous hyperthermia, cardiac arrhythmia, even complete system failure. Rebound heat syndrome—a condition that kills more underground omegas than Prime enforcement ever has.

A roar cuts through the storm's fury—definitely feline, definitely not thunder. Captain Kain, shifting to his more bestial form to track survivors through the chaos. The rain will compromise his scent tracking, but not eliminate it entirely. And soon, very soon, my changing biology will broadcast my location more effectively than any tracking device ever could.

Another pulse of heat rolls through me, stronger this time. Between my thighs, I feel the first treacherous dampness that has nothing to do with rainwater. My inner muscles clench involuntarily around emptiness, already beginning the biological preparations my mind desperately wants to reject.

I need shelter. Need distance from the crash site before my scent changes enough for Kain to track me regardless of weather conditions. Need someplace defensible before my own body renders defense impossible.

Lightning tears across the sky again, the brilliant flash revealing the mountainous terrain in stark monochrome. Dark slopes rise in all directions, exposed granite faces offering no protection from the elements. Then I spot it—a shadow darker than the rest, a shallow depression beneath an overhanging cliff face.

I alter course, gritting my teeth as each step sends fresh agony through my leg wound. The makeshift bandage is already soaked through with blood and rainwater, but it's holding for now. Twenty yards becomes ten, then five, then I'm collapsing beneath the stone overhang as my leg finally gives out completely.

The shelter is pathetically minimal—barely deep enough to accommodate my huddled form, offering little protection from the wind-driven rain. But it's concealed from casual observation and away from the road, which makes it the closest thing to safety I'm likely to find tonight.

I press my back against the cold stone, trying to make myself as small as possible while my medical training takes inventory. No supplies beyond what I'm wearing. No weapons except whatever I can improvise. No communication, no backup, no plan beyond surviving the next few hours.

The heat wave hits harder this time, radiating outward from my core like ripples in a pond. My skin becomes hypersensitive—even the rough fabric of my torn uniform feels abrasive against my breasts, my nipples hardening to painful points beneath the wet cloth.

I examine my leg wound by touch, lightning providing intermittent illumination. The laceration runs deeper than I initially assessed—likely down to the fascial layer, possibly nicking the underlying muscle. Without proper irrigation and closure, infection becomes almost inevitable. Without antibiotics, that infection could go systemic within days.

But those clinical concerns fade beside the escalating biological crisis. I've treated omegas experiencing rebound heat syndrome—watched their temperature spike past safe limits, seen the seizures that can cause permanent brain damage, witnessed the organ shutdown that kills when a suppressed system surges back to life all at once.