Page 52 of Brave New Omega, Part 2
Chapter 52
KATIE
I lay with my cheek pressed against the cool ground as a wave of dizzying heat rushes through me. The floor is the same smooth wood of the ballroom, which is a good sign. It means I can’t be too far from the party. It’s nearly as dark as the desert on a cloudy night, with no moon or stars to soften the oppressive blackness around me.
Here, at least, there is a soft glowing hum that peeks out from the threshold. I test the lock. Of course it’s locked, and the keyhole is one of the strange square kind that I’d seen at the Conservatory. Not something I could easily pick.
A spike of pain shoots up my leg and I adjust, favoring my knee more. Usually I can swallow down my knee pain, but Genevieve’s kick ensured that I won’t be pain free for a while.
“Goddamnit!”
I grab fistfuls of my skirt, bunching the fine fabric until it is taut in my grasp. Who thought it was a good idea to dress me up like some kind of porcelain doll, anyway?
“Just breathe, Wilder,” I coach myself. “You were a Captain in the United States Army. You lived through combat deployment. You lived through getting your fucking knee shredded by a bomb blast. This mean girl vendetta is a piece of cake.”
A really shitty cake.
But Genevieve isn't just a mean girl who wants revenge on Callum and Loren. No; she’s part of something much bigger than the guys realize.
“Can’t worry about the master plan. Stay focused on the present.”
Right. The present. I scoot around the small space. It’s like a large walk-in closet, barely longer than me with my arms extended over my head.
A plush, velvety couch sits against one corner, but the room is barren otherwise. Not a housekeeping closet, which is too bad because if I had a sturdy broom handle I could do some serious damage. No, this couch is low and doesn't have arms, almost like a child’s bed covered in a thick stage curtain.
“Rich people,” I sigh and lean against the little couch. This must be one of those “pleasure closets” Max told me about.
I side eye the couch, which I can hardly see because of the dim light. I’m too tired to care about what has happened on this couch.
“Okay, I’m locked in a pleasure closet, the poison pixie has my phone, and my guys don’t know where I am. Maddie is locked somewhere else–I need to find her. And we need to get to Layla before she lands in another one of these makeshift cells.”
Whatever I do, I have to make sure we don’t leave the premises. If we’re taken, the chances of us ever getting back are next to nothing.
“Think, Wilder!”
My knee aches, but I push the feeling aside. Genevieve will assume my knee is out for good. But I have lived with the pain of this ruined knee for over a year. I have lived . Maybe it was survival living, but dammit, I lived.
“I have so much more to live for now.”
Images of my Pack parade across the empty screen of my mind’s eye. Loren looking up from a book, shaking his blond hair out of his eyes to offer me a warm smile. Max, covered in a sheen of sweat, close to my face and coaching me through my deadlift, helping me find my limits and push them. And Callum, dressed in his uniform coat, the collar pulled up against the weather, filling the doorway of my hospital room the first time I saw him.
Holy fuck, I miss them.
My core tightens painfully, an ache so deep and sharp it nearly lays me out flat. My body trembles as a rush of heat erupts under my skin, sweat beading along my hairline. I need them, my Pack. My guys. Not just for my heat, or for the ways their bodies so perfectly fit mine, though I definitely want them plenty for that. But I need them for them .
“I fucking love you,” I moan, muffling the sound the best I can with my fistful of dress. I want to cry, to scream at how unfair it is that I could meet not one but three incredible men, and still end up locked away from them.
I love them. Not because I have to, but because they are worth loving. Because they are all I’ve ever wanted but never been brave enough to ask for. Because they are tough and gentle, constant and also freeing. Loving my Pack wasn’t just another list of responsibilities to shoulder. No, loving Loren, Max, and Callum is like finding all the freedom, support, and deepest comfort my soul has sought since childhood and never found.
Until now.
A wave of need rolls through me and I clench my thighs tight, my panties wet with unsatisfied arousal. The need inside me fists into a painful ache. I need to be knotted. I need to be kissed and touched and cared for.
“Breathe through it,” I coach myself, blowing a shaky breath out. I had breathed through a medic digging glass out of my only partially numb knee. Breathed through the ache of losing my dad, then my mom. Breathed through every failed relationship and fractured friendship.
I could breathe through pain.
“I need you, my loves,” I whisper as the pain recedes enough for coherent thought.
Needing them didn’t make me completely incapable. I don’t have a phone; I don’t have a weapon; I don’t have…
“Wait!” I push myself upright as chills erupt across my torso and arms. With trembling fingers, I pry my hidden knife free from where it’s tucked into my bodice.
“I need you to come for me, my love. Come for me, and I promise to be ready to fight for you.”
I hoist myself onto the couch and stretch out my leg. I need to keep my blood moving to prevent further cramps. There has to be more in this room –something I can use to escape, or to at least even the odds when the Betas come back.
I could try to break the couch, but that would take more upper body strength than I can manage at the moment. I shudder, my core tightening with another excruciating wave of need. My insides twist around nothing and the ache of it stabs through me. My chest squeezes and I lean my head back against the cool floor until the wave of pain passes.
It might have been just a minute or two, or it could have been an hour. I curl into myself, hugging my knees and trying to focus on my breaths, to take my conscious pain-feeling mind out of my body.
When the pain subsides enough for me to think in complete sentences, I slowly roll onto all fours. I blink into the gloom, barely able to see the outline of the little couch ahead of me.
“Focus, Wilder.” I say as I shuffle forward, letting my palm graze the floor. Anything would be useful – a hairpin, loose change – anything might be used to aid my escape. I slide my hands over the couch, feeling for anything that might be tucked into the crevices of the cushions.
“Don’t think about what’s on these cushions.”
I slide my fingers over the soft velvet, then down one of the legs. I lean forward, running my palm under the couch.
Bingo!
A box is shoved deep under the couch and I wrap the tops of my fingers around it and pull it toward me. I dig inside, pulling out a handful of silk scarves.
Great, a dress up bin.
I drop the scarves to the floor. They might come in handy later, but they aren’t going to break me out of here. I dig through the rest of the contents. A bottle of some kind that is slightly sticky and coated with fibers from the scarves.
I bring it close to my face trying to read the label, and give the bottle an experimental sniff.
“Strawberries?”
I drop the bottle and hastily wipe my hands on my dress. It was lube. This is a fucking sex box in a pleasure closet in a mansion of rich nymphomaniacs. Christ, what a world.
But there’s still stuff in the box, and I can’t be shy now. Anything might prove to be the tool I need for escape.
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” I wrap my hands around my prize. It’s thick–thick enough that my thumb and middle finger don’t meet around its girth. It’s ridged with a large round ring on one end. And, most importantly, it’s heavy . Made of some kind of dense yet smooth material–like marble or quartz.
Were those even safe to go inside you?
My thighs tense at the thought of how good it would feel…
“You are going to be my salvation,” I whisper to the dildo. “One way or another.”
“Now I just need to get that door open.”
I drag the little couch to the door. Hoisting myself up, I run my fingers around the edge where the door and the frame meet. The hinges are on the outside. That's peculiar. And unfortunate – I could probably rip them off if they were inside.
I press my face against the crack at the top of the door, straining to catch any sounds from outside. The room was designed to muffle sounds from within, so I hear nothing but my own throbbing pulse.
Then, just as I’m ready to collapse on the couch and massage the cramping muscles of my knee, I hear it. The faint murmur of voices in the hall. Then, footsteps, slow and relaxed as they approach.
I lift my dildo over my head.
“Show time.”