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He's also completely naked, his clothes apparently lost to the river's fury. Rivulets of water trace paths down defined musculature, highlighting the contrast between burned tissue and untouched skin.

"Why?" The question emerges as barely audible rasp. "Why save me?"

His head tilts slightly, considering the question with unexpected depth. When he speaks, his voice carries surprising gentleness despite its rough texture.

"Because you were falling."

Three words.

Simple.

Direct.

Yet somehow carrying profound truth beyond their syllables.

Not because I was some valuable research subject or because he needed an omega to complete pack dynamics. Simply because I was falling, and he could catch me.

"You shouldn't have," I manage, struggling to sit upright as my body protests every movement. "You've ruined everything. They'll find us now. Take us back."

His expression shifts minutely, something that might be amusement touching the corners of his mouth.

"They have to catch us first."

A distant shout from the ridge above confirms the continued pursuit. Guards visible as tiny figures against the sky, pointing toward the river's course. Their voices carry faintly on the wind, orders being issued and coordinates shared.

My rescuer rises with fluid grace, water sluicing from scarred skin as he extends a hand toward me.

"Can you walk?"

The question seems absurd given our circumstances. I've nearly drowned, been separated from my carefully assembled pack, and now face recapture by forces with superior numbers and resources. Walking seems the least of our concerns.

Yet something in his steady presence suggests possibilities beyond immediate defeat. This alpha radiates certainty that transcends our desperate situation—as if the game hasn't ended but merely entered a new phase I haven't yet grasped.

"I need to be stronger," I whisper, the admission slipping out before I can contain it. "Smarter. Better. This shouldn't have happened."

His scarred hand remains extended, neither withdrawing nor demanding.

"Then we'll work on that. After we survive today."

The simplicity of his response carries unexpected comfort. No false reassurance or empty promises—just acknowledgment of current reality and determination to move beyond it.

My fingers close around his with surprising strength, accepting both his help and the unspoken alliance it represents. As he pulls me effortlessly to my feet, realization crystallizes with perfect clarity— this is the final alpha I need .

Not just for escape, but for whatever comes after. His capacity for sacrifice, for protection without possession, for seeing value beyond immediate utility... these represent essential components in the strategy forming beyond conscious thought.

The world spins momentarily as blood rush affects my still-recovering body. His arm slides around my waist with careful support, his scarred skin surprisingly warm against my soaked clothing.

"Rest now," he murmurs, lifting me effortlessly into his arms. "I'll get us somewhere safe."

The absurdity of our situation— him naked and scarred, me half-drowned and defeated —would be comical in any other context. Yet as consciousness begins to fade again, I feel safer than at any point since our ill-fated escape attempt began.

The last thing I register before darkness claims me completely is his scent—s moke and ash giving way to something deeper beneath. Something that speaks of protection and possibility, of burning away what's broken to build something stronger from its ashes.

The perfect final piece to complete my collection of broken alphas.

My last coherent thought carries quiet certainty: Next time, we won't fail.

"Jinx? Jinx, can you hear me?"

Maverick's voice shatters the memory, pulling me abruptly back to present reality. The executive office materializes around me with jarring clarity—polished wood and tasteful decor replacing rushing water and desperate survival.

"I'm here," I respond, fingers unconsciously touching the star mark beneath my eye—Corvus's claim, his promise of recognition no matter how long separation might last. "Just... remembering."

"Your vitals spiked," concern edges through his typically detached tone. "Are you having a stress response? Should I alert medical?—"

"I'm fine," I cut him off firmly. "Just impatient. How much longer before this charade moves forward?"

The silence that follows carries weight beyond mere pause in communication.

Maverick knows as well as I do what lies ahead—the carefully orchestrated dance of power and submission that Charles Press expects to unfold according to his design.

If only he understood that I've been choreographing a very different performance these past six years.

"You don't have to do this," Maverick's voice drops lower, genuinely confidential despite our electronic connection. "There are other options. Your sister is safe now. Your debt is paid."

A bitter laugh escapes before I can contain it.

"Is that what you think this is about? Debt? Obligation?"

"Then what?—"

"Destiny," I interrupt, certainty flowing through the word with unstoppable force. "This was always the path. Six years ago, I was too weak, too unprepared. Now I know exactly what needs to be done."

"At what cost?" His question carries unexpected emotion. "The things they'll do to you... the experiments they'll restart... Jinx, you barely survived the first time."

My fingers trace the pristine white fabric covering my legs, remembering the countless scars hidden beneath.

Evidence of years spent as their favorite test subject, their most promising anomaly, their greatest disappointment.

"I didn't come back to survive," I tell him quietly. "I came back to burn it all down."

Before he can respond, a soft knock breaks the silence.

The door opens with deliberate slowness, the sound of expensive shoes against hardwood marking measured approach of the man who orchestrated all of this from the beginning.

I don't turn my head, don't acknowledge his entrance. Instead, I maintain perfect stillness as he crosses to the massive desk, settling into the high-backed chair with practiced authority.

Only then do I finally lift my gaze, meeting eyes I've seen in countless nightmares across six years of separation.

Charles Press smiles with surgical precision, his expression containing neither warmth nor genuine welcome—just calculated assessment of a valuable asset returned to his control.

"Patient 496," he greets with cultured cruelty wrapped in professional courtesy. "Welcome back to Parazodiac. Are you finally ready to embrace your destiny?"

The real games start now.