Page 18 of Daisy (Omega Chosen #3)

August

T he silence after Daisy's revelation sits heavy in the room.

The Governor's niece.

Holy shit.

My chest tightens as I stare at her small form curled on the bed next to Gunner.

Still wearing that oversized terrycloth robe.

Still looking like she might shatter if someone breathes wrong.

This isn't just any omega we've rescued—this is someone who's been broken by the very people who should have protected her.

The Governor's niece. Promised to strangers like a prize to be won. The full weight of a corrupt system bearing down on her shoulders since she was a child.

And she's terrified of going back.

Gunner lies perfectly still beside her, eyes closed, but tension radiates from every line of his body. His scent carries that protective edge that makes my beta instincts settle. He's already claimed her in his mind. Political consequences be damned.

Cassian shifts in his chair by the window, and I feel the movement through our bond before I see it. The slight tension in his shoulders as he tries to make himself smaller. The way his amber eyes track Daisy's reaction to his presence from across the room.

She flinches. Actually flinches when he moves, her scent spiking sharp with anxiety. Sweet honeysuckle turning bitter. Vanilla curdling with fear.

I understand her reaction. It still breaks something in my chest to witness it.

Cassian is six-foot-eight of barely contained intensity, scarred and towering over her barely-five-foot frame like a mountain of controlled violence.

I was scared of him too, at first. Before I learned that underneath all that dangerous energy is someone who'd rather hurt himself than let harm come to anyone he cares about.

But Daisy doesn't know that yet. All she sees is the threat.

Where Gunner—the shortest of the alphas but more muscular than even Cassian—radiates this inherent safety that makes you want to trust him, Cassian's presence feels unpredictable.

Dangerous. I can understand why she pointed at Gunner this morning and whispered that he felt safe.

There's something about him that just screams protection without threat.

Through our bond, I feel Cassian's immediate response.

The overwhelming urge to comfort, to protect, to gather her close and prove he's safe.

But beneath that, something darker. Pain.

Raw and cutting. The devastating realization that his very presence terrifies the omega he desperately wants to shelter.

The knowledge that she's somehow connected to all of them—this scent match phenomenon I've only read about in academic papers—pulses through my thoughts. It should be impossible. But the evidence is right here in how they all responded to her.

"I need to go get you some clothes," I say, keeping my voice level and calm. The way I would speak to a startled animal. "And food. Real food."

Daisy nods quickly, but I catch the flash of panic in her dark eyes. The thought of being left alone with alphas—even ones who've saved her—clearly overwhelms her.

Fascinating. And heartbreaking.

"I'll be okay with Gunner," she whispers, but her voice wavers.

Cassian hears it too. I feel his response through our bond—a sharp twist of pain and protectiveness. He stands abruptly, and I watch Daisy's entire body tense.

"I'll stretch my legs," he says quietly, his voice carefully modulated. "Give you some space."

The immediate relief in her scent is like a knife through our bond.

I feel Cassian's heart clench. Feel the way her obvious fear of him cuts deeper than any physical wound ever could.

Through our connection, I experience his internal battle—every alpha instinct demanding he stay and prove he's safe, while his desperate need to protect her requires him to be the threat she needs to escape from.

Through our bond, I send him what comfort I can. Understanding. Reassurance. The feeling that this isn't permanent, that she just needs time.

But I feel his response too. The hollow ache of knowing that his scent match is afraid of him. That his presence causes her pain when all he wants is to take her pain away.

He nods once and heads for the door.

I gather my jacket and wallet, already calculating what we'll need. "Lock this behind me. Don't open it for anyone except me, Cassian, Hawk, or Dante."

"Okay," she breathes.

"Gunner's here if you need anything."

The conversation outside confirms what I already suspected—we're not just dealing with a rescue anymore. We're dealing with a political incident of massive proportions.

Hawk leans against their van, ever watchful. Dante paces like a caged animal. Cassian sits on our cabin steps, head in his hands.

"We need to talk," I say, approaching the group with the measured calm I've learned to project in crisis situations.

"About the fact that we just kidnapped the Governor's niece?" Hawk asks with a grin that's half charm, half trouble. "Gotta say, we don't do anything halfway."

"About the fact that we saved her," I correct, though I understand his concern. "From a system designed to break her."

Dante stops pacing. "You don't understand the scope of this. Governor Crane doesn't just influence policy. He controls infrastructure. Law enforcement. The entire Omega lottery system." His ice-blue eyes are sharp with worry. "When he realizes she's missing..."

"He'll mobilize everything," Cassian finishes roughly.

I study their faces, seeing the same fear that's been eating at me since we left the city. We all understand what we've taken on. What we're up against.

"So we adapt," I say simply. "We become harder to find."

"With what resources?" Dante asks sharply. "We're talking about evading one of the most powerful men in the country."

Hawk's laugh holds no humor, but there's a cocky edge to his voice. "Baby, we've got charm, good looks, and a van. What more do we need?"

Despite everything, I almost smile at that. I'm starting to like this alpha. "Then we get creative," I say, building on his confidence.

Silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of what we're facing.

Dante runs a hand over his short hair, the gesture sharp and frustrated.

"There's context you need." His voice carries the weight of years of observation.

"Her uncle hasn't just arranged her marriage.

He's conditioned her since childhood. Broken down her sense of self until she believes her only value lies in the alliance he can create. "

My chest aches listening to this. I've read about psychological conditioning in textbooks, but hearing what they did to her makes it real in a way that turns my stomach. Years of someone destroying a child's sense of self. Making her believe she's only worth what others can use her for.

"How extensive?" I ask.

"Years of conditioning. Since presentation." Dante's jaw tightens. "Same methods used on her sisters. Both placed with strategic packs." Dante's jaw tightens. "Intimidation protocols. Dominance displays during preparation sessions. Public correction techniques."

"Systematic abuse," I say quietly.

"And Daisy was next," Cassian adds, lifting his head from his hands.

"The Fairburn pack," Dante confirms. "They've already negotiated terms. Already made decisions about her reproductive timeline."

The way he talks about it. Like she's a breeding schedule instead of a person makes bile rise in my throat.

"Well, they'll need to renegotiate," I say dryly.

Understanding passes between us. Whatever the cost, whatever the risk, she's not going back to that system.

"The scent match complicates things," I observe, watching Dante's confusion. "You really don't know what that means?"

"Enlighten me."

"That compulsion you felt to protect her," I explain, falling back on my research background. "The way your instincts overrode rational thought when you saw her in danger. It indicates biological compatibility. Genetic matching that's supposed to be exceptionally rare."

Understanding dawns in Dante's expression. "All of us?"

"All of you," I confirm. "Which is why we don't tell her. She needs to choose based on her own feelings, not biological programming."

Nods all around.

The walk to town gives me time to think. To process what we're really dealing with.

The main strip is exactly what I expected from a beta town - practical, no-frills, built for working people.

I head toward a small service center that doubles as a grocery store, the kind of place that sells basic clothing alongside snacks and necessities.

A hand-painted sign in the window reads "Betas Welcome" - the polite way of saying alphas aren't.

I approach the shopping with the same methodical care I'd use for research.

What does someone who's never chosen her own clothes need? Basics. Comfort. Warmth for the cold, wet weather we've been having. Nothing that would make her feel exposed or performative.

The ATM dispenses my entire savings. Three hundred and forty dollars. Everything I have.

In the clothing store, I select items based on texture and practicality rather than fashion. Soft cotton sweaters. Warm jeans. Comfortable underwear and thick socks. A waterproof jacket for the rain that's been constant lately. Colors that seem gentle rather than demanding attention.

The grocery store is where I see the television.

"...no casualties reported in last night's attack on the Crescent City Omega House," the anchor reports. "All omegas have been accounted for and are safe..."

I stop moving entirely.

Processing the implications.

If all omegas are officially safe, then they're lying. Daisy was absolutely in danger. The guys pulled her away from a rogue alpha who was attacking her. But they're covering up that she was taken.

The political ramifications hit me like ice water. The Governor knows she's gone. He has to know, she's his niece. But instead of admitting one of his omegas was taken during the attack, he's telling the public everything is fine.

Which means he'll be looking for her quietly. Privately. Without admitting his security failed.

My hands remain steady as I pay for groceries, but my chest tightens with understanding. This makes him even more dangerous.

Back at the cabin, I knock in our agreed pattern. Gunner's voice calls through the wood, careful and alert.

"It's August."

When the door opens, I'm immediately hit with the complex scent dynamic in the room. Daisy's natural sweetness, now mixed with stress and uncertainty. Gunner's protective sandalwood. The lingering traces of Cassian's presence.

"I brought you some things," I tell Daisy gently, setting bags where she can see them.

Her reaction is immediate and telling. She stares at the bags like they might vanish. When she asks "For me?" in that whisper of disbelief, I understand we're dealing with someone who's been taught she doesn't deserve basic consideration.

Heartbreaking.

I watch her discover the grey sweater, the way her fingers trace the soft fabric with wonder. It's like watching someone encounter a new language. The language of personal choice.

"Thank you," she says, and the gratitude in her voice tells me more about her conditioning than hours of analysis could.

While she showers, I show Gunner the news article on my phone. Watch him process the same implications I did.

"They're saying all omegas are safe," he says quietly, his green eyes darkening.

"But we know that's not true," I finish. "Which means the Governor is covering up that she was taken."

When Daisy emerges wearing clothes she chose from the two bags I bought, the transformation is remarkable.

Not just the obvious changes, the way the soft fabrics complement her coloring, how the comfortable fit allows her to move naturally.

It's subtler than that. Her posture has shifted. Her scent has warmed.

Choice, it seems, is transformative.

"This feels nice," she says, looking down at herself with wonder. "I don't know how to pay you back. I don't have a job."

"Your job right now is to heal," I tell her firmly. "That's it."

She nods, but I can see she doesn't quite believe it. Her eyes dart away when I look at her directly, and she pulls the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands.

I can see how they've tried to break her down, make her believe she's only worth what she can give others. But they didn't succeed completely. She's still curious about the world around her. Still responds to kindness, even if it confuses her.

There's hope here.

Over food, I watch her navigate the simple pleasure of choosing what to eat. Each bite seems to surprise her, as if flavor is something she's forgotten to expect.

When I tell her about the news, that all the omegas are safe. The relief that floods her scent is immediate and overwhelming. But I frame it carefully, focusing on her need for hope rather than the political implications.

She doesn't need to know yet that her rescue has been erased from the official record.

"What's your favorite color?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Her confusion at the question tells me everything. "I was never asked what I liked. Just told what was appropriate."

Of course. Personal preferences would be irrelevant in a system that views her as a political asset.

"But I think... I think I like this. Grey. It's soft. Quiet."

I smile at that. "What about you?" she asks suddenly, like she's testing whether she's allowed to be curious about others.

"Amber," I tell her. "Like Cassian's eyes."

Her smile at that is small but genuine. "That's nice. That you have someone you love."

"You could too," I say quietly. "Someday. When you're ready. Someone who sees you. Really sees you."

The wonder that crosses her face suggests this possibility has never occurred to her.

We talk for a while longer. Simple questions, careful answers. I'm gathering data, in my way, learning how deep the conditioning goes, where her natural personality still exists underneath it.

She likes soft textures. Dreams of reading freely. Has a beautiful laugh when she's not afraid to use it.

Progress.

"What happens now?" she asks as afternoon light fades.

"Now you rest. We keep you safe. Tomorrow we figure out our next move."

"Together?"

The hope in that single word is like finding something precious you thought was lost forever.

"Together," I promise.

Her smile is small but real. Her scent blooms with something that might be happiness.

And watching her discover what choice feels like, I know we've done the right thing. Whatever the political consequences, whatever the personal cost.

Some things are worth the risk.