Page 87

I tilt my face into the spray, eyes closed as droplets pelt against bruised flesh with gentle insistence. The simple pleasure of a hot shower feels almost criminal after years spent taking military-quick rinses in lukewarm water.

Part of me wants to laugh at how something so basic now feels like the height of luxury.

My fingers work shampoo through tangled strands—real shampoo that smells like coconut and vanilla rather than the harsh chemical cleanser that stripped both oil and dignity during institutional confinement. Foam slides down my shoulders, caressing skin that bears fresh wounds alongside old scars—a physical map of survival etched into flesh.

When was the last time I enjoyed something this simple?

The question forms unbidden, tugging at memories I usually keep carefully compartmentalized. Six years of external existence spent in someone else's life—living in my sister's place,wearing her clothes, answering to her name while pretending institutional horror didn't shape every reaction and response.

The life of privilege my family insisted I should appreciate.

"You should be grateful,"my mother's voice echoes through memory, elegant fingers tapping manicured nails against expensive tabletops."While your sister languishes in that dreadful place, you're enjoying every comfort money can provide."

A bitter laugh escapes me, the sound swallowed by rushing water before it can fully form.Grateful for what, exactly? For living a lie?For the designer clothes and private tutors and carefully managed social appearances that constituted Nyx Blackwood's life?

For the knowledge that my sister remained trapped in sterile halls while I walked free, bearing her name like a shield against institutional recapture?

I wonder how they're doing now—the family that was never truly mine, despite sharing blood and name.Are they satisfied with the payments that continue flowing into offshore accounts? Do they sleep peacefully at night knowing their daughters' suffering funds their lavish lifestyle?

Not for much longer.

The truth hits with crystal clarity as hot water sluices over my body. Once I reclaim my pack, once we escape these institutional walls with bonds intact, the whole carefully constructed system collapses like a house of cards in hurricane winds.

No more willing omegas sacrificed to the Parazodiac's insatiable appetite. No more Blackwood children to serve as research subjects or entertainment for the wealthy and powerful. No more exorbitant payments to ensure parental silence and continued compliance.

The cycle ends with us — with me and whatever future we forge beyond these walls.

Someday I'll have to tell Nyx everything.

Explain the truth of our shared heritage and the twisted experiment that separated us for so many years. Reveal the parents who traded their children for financial security and social standing rather than protecting them from institutional predation.

That reunion looms like a distant storm on the horizon—necessary but potentially devastating. How do you begin healing wounds that span decades and involves betrayal at a most fundamental level? How do you rebuild a connection with someone who shares your face but lives an entirely different existence?

My hands scrub harder at skin already clean, as if physical pressure might somehow wash away heavier burdens of guilt and responsibility. The shadows that guided her are different from the darkness that accompanies me—her guides carried notes of protection while mine whisper strategies for survival and vengeance.

Different paths, same origin.

We'll need extensive healing—both of us carrying scars visible and hidden.

But that's a concern for another day, another time when institutional walls don't loom and Press's agents don't watch our every move with calculating assessment.

Right now, survival takes precedence over reconciliation. Escape over reunion. Immediate tactical objectives over long-term emotional recovery.

Strong hands settle on my shoulders, fingers kneading tense muscles with gentle insistence that draws an involuntary sigh from my lips. The touch registers as immediately familiar—not threat but comfort, not danger but security.

My body recognizes his presence before conscious thought confirms identity, omega instincts humming with quiet satisfaction beneath tactical assessment.

I don't startle or tense—just lean back slightly into the contact, allowing tension to flow from my frame under skilled manipulation of muscles knotted from combat and stress. The press of callused fingers against bruised skin creates exquisite counterpoint—pain and pleasure intertwined in perfect harmony that speaks to survival rather than mere existence.

"You were far away," Riot murmurs, voice carrying genuine curiosity beneath surface observation. "What's got you so lost in thought with that expression on your face?"

My eyes open slowly, blinking away water droplets as I turn to face him. Steam has fogged the glass enclosure, creating a dreamlike quality to our shared space—a momentary sanctuary carved from institutional reality through nothing more than heated water and transparent barriers.

His naked form steals my breath despite injuries marring his skin, body honed through years of enforced combat to carrying both terrible beauty and undeniable power. Tattoos dance across muscles that shift with each movement, the artwork somehow enhanced rather than diminished by scars accumulated through institutional existence.

"The truth I haven't really broken down about yet," I admit quietly, the confession emerging without tactical calculation or strategic consideration. Something about the steam and privacy, and momentary safety, creates permission for vulnerability, typically sacrificed for survival requirements.

His head tilts slightly, encouraging continuation without demanding it. The gesture carries such careful respect that it makes my heart ache with unexpected tenderness.