Page 33 of Claiming the Pack's Omega

“How do you think?”

“I heard—I heard you’re a cop. From the Northside, is that true? Is that how you know my real name?”

His eyes tighten as he offers me a tight-lipped smile.

Ah, of course he wouldn’t answer my question.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I mutter. I scrub a hand down my face, biting back the bitter taste of betrayal as I stare up at the ceiling. “Was everything—were you—were you pretending?”

“Look at me,” he says, his voice low.

I find myself following his instructions, and kicking myself for it.

“No. I wasn’t.” His gaze is steady. I’m the first to look away when I can’t handle the intensity of his stare. “I want you to know that. It wasn’t all a lie.”

“Great,” I say, huffing out a bitter laugh. “Good to know, such perfect timing, considering you’re gonna die and I’m—” My voice breaks, remembering the current shit show that is Dom’s deal with the Sorel family and my involvement in the middle.

Obsidian seems to completely move past my mention of him dying. “You what? What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“Yes, everything is fucking going wrong,” I grit out, covering my face with my hands. I don’t know why I continue talking, I seriously shouldn’t. But I do. Maybe it’s because, with him hanging here in this torture chamber, knowing the Sorel family is coming to pick him up later tonight, it already feels like I’m talking to a dead man. “Turns out I don’t have a choice with being involved with the Sorel family.”

I shake my head, trying to clear my mind. I can deal with that bullshit later.

“That doesn’t matter,” I sigh. “Now, are you going to let me take care of your wounds or?—”

“It matters to me, what do you mean?” He pushes.

I clench my jaw, repeating my words slowly. “Are you going to let me take care of your wounds?”

He clenches his jaw in return, his eyes narrowing like he wants to fight me and push me to reveal more. But I’ve already said too much.

“Fine. Yes. I’d appreciate that,” he sighs. His expression shifts and he finally lowers his head. This is the first sign he’s showing of just how much pain he’s in.

“Do you want your shoulder first or last? I need to disinfect those knife wounds they gave you.”

“Last,” he grunts as he shifts his weight.

“Okay, cool.” I prop open my first aid kit and pull out a bottle of painkillers. “You want something to take the edge off?”

“No painkillers. I need to be aware.”

I shrug, tossing them back into the first aid kit. “Suit yourself. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be dragged away to the Sorel family’s clutches sober.”

“Are they that bad?” He says under his breath, his voice low. He doesn’t even flinch as I start cleaning the knife wounds in his side. Damn, he’s got a crazy pain tolerance.

“Whatever you’re imagining?” I stand and toss the bloody antiseptic wipe over onto the table. “It’s worse.”

“And you’re involved with them now?” He grits out.

“It’s looking like it,” I sigh, moving behind him. “This is gonna hurt like a fucking bitch since I can’t uncuff you. You want something to scream into?”

“I’m fine.”

I press my hands against his back and shoulder. His skin is hot to the touch.

“Brace yourself,” I whisper, before using all of my upper body strength to wrench his shoulder back into its socket.

I’m pretty sure I hear his jaw creak from how hard he’s clenching it. When I’m done, he slumps forward, his knees buckling from the pain. Even though I’m done setting his shoulder, I still keep my hands on him. The one on his back actually starts to rub in small circles.