Page 3

STORM-SCATTERED PREY

Amelia's POV

The storm hits like the fist of an angry god.

One moment we're winding through the treacherous mountain pass, the next the world erupts in primal fury.

Lightning tears across the sky with a violence that turns night into blazing day, then plunges us back into absolute darkness.

The afterimage burns across my retinas—jagged white lines that dance behind my eyelids like electric snakes.

"This route was supposed to be clear!" the driver shouts, his voice barely audible over the wind's howling rage. His feline ears lie flat against his skull, pupils blown wide with fear as he fights the steering wheel.

The van rocks on its suspension as crosswinds hit us broadside.

I brace my feet against the floor, metal cuffs cutting deeper into my wrists as I leverage what little stability I can find.

Through the rain-lashed windshield, our headlights catch the lead vehicle's taillights wavering like drunken fireflies.

I count heartbeats after the lightning flash. One. Two. Thr?—

Thunder explodes directly overhead—not the distant rumble of approaching storm, but the bone-deep crack of celestial artillery fired at point-blank range.

The sound waves hit the van like a physical blow, vibrating through the metal frame and up through my spine.

Windows rattle in their frames. The driver's hands slip on the wheel.

That's when I see it—a massive pine tree, ancient and thick as a house pillar, falling across the road ahead like a closing gate. The lead vehicle's brake lights flare crimson in the downpour, but physics and momentum have already written their verdict.

"Brake!" Captain Kain's roar cuts through the chaos, but it's too late.

The world fractures into a kaleidoscope of destruction.

Our headlights catch the lead vehicle's final moments as it clips the fallen tree, launches sideways off the narrow mountain road, and disappears into the void beyond the cliff edge.

Metal screams against stone, a sound like the mountain itself crying out in pain.

Our driver yanks the wheel hard left, tires shrieking as they lose traction on rain-slick asphalt. The van slides sideways toward the same drop, and for a terrifying heartbeat I can see nothing but empty air beyond my window.

Time dilates, each second stretching into eternity. The guard beside me releases his weapon, reaching desperately for his safety harness. Survival instinct overriding protocol—exactly what I've been waiting for, though not under these circumstances.

We slam into something solid—a boulder, a tree, I can't tell which.

The impact hurls me against my restraints with bone-bruising force, the metal cuffs slicing deeper into flesh already rubbed raw.

The van tilts up on two wheels, balances for an impossible moment, then tips past the point of no return.

The world becomes a nauseating carousel of violence.

Up becomes down becomes sideways becomes meaningless.

The guard beside me becomes a human projectile, his body slamming into surfaces with sickening wet sounds.

Glass explodes inward like crystalline rain.

My medical kit breaks free from its mounting, supplies scattering in a deadly hail of metal instruments and chemical bottles.

Something hard strikes my temple—a first aid box, maybe, or the guard's elbow. Darkness floods in like black water, and consciousness abandons me to the storm's mercy.

Awareness returns slowly, accompanied by the iron taste of blood and the pressure of gravity pulling in the wrong direction.

I'm hanging upside down, the seat belt cutting into my chest like a dull blade.

Blood pools in my head, creating a pounding pressure behind my eyes that makes every heartbeat agony.

Rain pours through the shattered windows, turning the overturned van into a waterlogged metal coffin. Each breath is a struggle against the harness cutting off circulation and the growing pressure building in my skull.

Lightning strobes outside, illuminating the devastation in stuttering snapshots.

The guard beside me hangs motionless in his restraints, head twisted at an impossible angle.

A jagged piece of window frame has opened his throat from ear to collarbone, the wound no longer bleeding—heart stopped, circulation ceased.

My clinical training catalogs the injury automatically: complete cervical severance, instantaneous death.

Lucky bastard.

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 might keep 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.

Lightning splits the sky directly overhead, the simultaneous thunderclap vibrating through the stone at my back. In that brilliant moment of illumination, something makes my blood freeze in my veins.

A massive winged silhouette banks against the storm winds high above, impossibly large and graceful despite the tempest that grounded our entire convoy.

Each powerful wingbeat defies the weather that turned military vehicles into twisted metal, demonstrating a mastery of sky and storm that speaks to apex predator confidence.

Prime. The size and distinctive wing profile could only belong to a Chimeric Dominator—one of the most dangerous apex species in the Convergence Peaks.

I shrink deeper into my pathetic shelter, willing the shadows to swallow me whole.

But another wave of heat chooses that moment to crash through my system, stronger than any previous surge.

A whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it—not just from the intensifying biological crisis, but from the desperate need it brings with it.

Slick dampens my thighs despite the fear flooding my system, my body's betrayal made worse by its timing. I clamp both hands over my mouth, but the damage is already done. The wind shifts, carrying my scent upward—unmated omega, injured, entering heat.

A beacon visible to any alpha within miles.

Above me, the winged shape abruptly changes course, powerful wings banking into a tight spiral directly overhead. Circling. Hunting.

The rain has transformed me from simple injured prey into something far more dangerous—a broadcast beacon announcing to every predator in these mountains that vulnerable, unclaimed omega flesh waits below, ready for the taking.