Page 84 of Omega

I watched him through lowered eyelids; he snatched his pants off the floor, sat on the edge of the bed and shoved both feet into the legs at the same time. He buttoned them over his erection, which was finally starting to subside. Made quick work of his shirt, buttoning it up with lightning speed. Socks, boots. Dug something out of the black bag, a strap of some kind. A holster, which he buckled onto his torso, shoving a pistol into it at shoulder level.

And just like that, within thirty seconds, he was no longer Nick, my lover—he was Harris, the security expert. The killer. Hard, cold, calculating.

He strode across the room and unlocked the door, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Where are you going?” Suddenly I was afraid of being left here alone.

“Gotta call Thresh, see if the ride out of here is ready.”

“Will you be back?” Goddammit, I sounded needy, weak.

He glanced at me. “You think I’d leave you here?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Why wouldn’t you?”

He went into the bathroom and I heard him wash his hands. He returned, staring at me. When I said nothing, he shook his head. “You’re an idiot. For such an intelligent woman, you’re a fucking moron.”

That hurt. Fuck, it hurt.

He watched me for a second, but I couldn’t look at him.

Then, with a sigh, he walked out the door.

Truly alone, everything hit me.

Like hitting the ground from ten thousand feet without a parachute, the wall of emotions and memories all hit me, and I just…broke.

Shattered.

Crumbled.

I ugly cried. For the first time in my life, I ugly cried.

I didn’t ugly cry when Eric and I broke up. I didn’t ugly cry when Momma died, or when Mario died, or when Vic died. I didn’t cry when I got raped in my senior year of high school. Or when I had to get an abortion because I’d gotten pregnant because of it. I didn’t cry when I was homeless, or when Kyrie just fucking left me to go be with Valentine Goddamned Roth. I didn’t cry for fucking anything. Not even when I killed that asshole Cut with my bare hands.

But when Harris walked out that door?

I bawled like a baby.

Why?

Because I knew I’d really fucked up this time.

15

SAY IT

You know why I don’t cry? Because it’s exhausting. It just sucks the energy right out of you, leaves you a snot-encrusted, puffy-eyed, blubbering, lip-quivering mess.

But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t stop. It started with knowing I’d probably just messed up the one good thing that had ever happened to me, but then all the shit I’d just been through piled on. Getting kidnapped. Getting kidnapped in a thong and a T-shirt. Being locked in a tiny, cold, fish-stanky cell on a boat. Being forced to resort to hiding a Bic pen up my poon. Flaunting topless for Vitaly, never knowing when he’d decide to just rape me, or torture me, or kill me; not knowing was the worst part. Cut trying to rape me, and having to kill him. Jesus, that in particular sent me spiraling into a paroxysm of sobs, the awful visceral memory of the way it felt to smash that pen through his eyeball, the way it just…gavewith a nasty squish. Having to slam it deeper so he’d just fucking die, and stop twitching and thrashing. Running. Being fuckinghot, and hungry, and alone. The hike up that motherdick of a hill. The chase through São Paulo in the stolen car, culminating in Harris finding me, and then the ambush…killinganotherhuman being.

And then…Harris. Stealing my heart, blatant and brazen. Just snatching it out of my chest and claiming it like he had every right to it.

Hemade loveto me.

The bastard.

These thoughts caused me to sob even harder. I just couldn’t seem to stop.