Page 16 of Omega’s Fever (Prime Match #2)

Kellen

Milo’s been gone for about an hour. I spend the first half hour pacing back and forth, peeping out the drapes trying to catch a glimpse of him. I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly controlling person but it’s driving me mad not knowing where he is.

I opened the case file just to give myself something to distract myself with. It’s strange seeing myself through the eyes of the law.

My mugshot stares back at me from the arrest report. Dark eyes, broken nose, the scar through my left eyebrow from a bottle some drunk asshole threw when I was sixteen. I look like a thug.

The notes are weird too. It’s curious to see me through someone else’s perspective.

Suspect exhibited no resistance during arrest.

What was I supposed to do? Punch a cop. That would have been stupid.

Subject appeared unsurprised by charges.

I’d definitely been surprised, but I’ve spent years keeping my face blank. Never let anyone know they’ve caught you by surprise. They’ll only try to do it again.

I trace my finger over the witness statements.

There are seven people left willing to swear I ran the whole operation.

They started with fifteen. I should feel comforted that there are people who aren’t going to be lying about me, but I know for a fact that at least two of those missing eight witnesses are dead.

I’d bet the others have run. If they did, I hope they made it.

I know all of their names. Some are good people. Others are not. It doesn’t really matter. They’re all in trouble if they turn against me.

The vanilla scent clinging to these papers makes my chest tight. Milo’s been through every page, probably multiple times. He’s looking for truth in a haystack of bullshit.

My throat closes up. He deserves so much better than this.

There are police statements included. I wonder if I am supposed to be reading this. Probably not. Another reason for Milo to get into trouble because of me, but then this whole case is a mess.

The third witness statement makes me pause.

It’s Penelope’s. Her testimony is different from the others.

There’s almost nothing to it. She’s asked if she knows me and reportedly nods.

Every other question gets a “no comment”.

Something in me feels better at reading that. Wherever she is, I hope she’s okay.

Damon’s is similar. He’s marked as uncooperative in the police report.

Damon was the one person I already knew when I started fighting at The Pit.

For a time, we’d shared a foster home. He’d been a quiet kid who’d grown up big, just like me.

He’d been a good fighter too. Looking back, I suppose it’s not a surprise that we ended up in the same place.

It’s not like we were given a lot of options.

The apartment feels too quiet without him here. Just the hum of his fancy refrigerator and the tick of that minimalist clock on the wall.

I set the witness statements aside and pick up the financial records.

This is what they’re really hanging their case on.

Bank statements showing a $20,000 deposit from Mercer Enterprises two days before my arrest. The prosecution says it’s my cut of the trafficking profits.

Truth is, I have no fucking idea where it came from.

One day my account had nothing. Next day, twenty grand appears like magic.

I didn’t even know it was there until the police told me about it.

Cobb always did like his little jokes.

The police report details my arrest: suspect was found in office of establishment.

No attempt to flee. No weapons on person.

They make it sound so clean, so simple. They don’t mention the chaos, the screaming, the way some of the girls tried to run and got tackled.

They don’t mention how I stood there like an idiot, hands already up, because some part of me knew this was always how it would end.

I push up from the couch, bare feet silent on the hardwood.

The case file slips off the couch as I move.

I put the papers back as best I can. Milo will probably reorganize them later, put them back in whatever system makes sense to his legal brain.

He clearly likes things neat and orderly.

Unlike me, who just brings chaos wherever I go.

The window draws me like it always does.

Three floors up isn’t high enough. Any decent shooter could pick us off from the park across the street.

The building two blocks over has a perfect angle on this living room.

I’ve already identified six different positions a sniper could use. Old habits die hard.

But I can’t stop myself from looking out.

There. On the bench.

Milo sits with his shoulders hunched forward, hands clasped between his knees. Even from up here, I can see the tension in his spine. Grocery bags are piled at his feet.

What’s he thinking about out there? The case? The match? How to get rid of the criminal taking up space in his perfect apartment?

He’s avoiding coming back inside. He’s avoiding me. Smart omega.

I sink into the armchair I’ve positioned for the best sightline and settle in to watch him. It’s probably creepy, but I can’t help myself. In prison, you learn to pay attention to every detail of things that matter. And hell, does he matter.

He’s mine, sitting out there in the cold when he should be here where I can protect him, touch him, scent him properly. My hands clench against the chair arms.

The first time I stepped into The Pit, I was seventeen and hungry.

I’d been fired that morning from a warehouse job. Third one in two months. The supervisor didn’t like how the other workers looked at me, said I made people nervous just by existing. It didn’t matter that I never started trouble. Even that young, I was huge and scarred.

That night I was drinking cheap beer simply because no one in the Pit bothered to ask for ID, when the fight broke out.

Three guys cornering some kid. He was a university type, probably wandered into the wrong neighborhood.

They had him backed against the pool table, taking turns shoving him, laughing when he stumbled.

I didn’t think about it. Never do when I fight. One second I was nursing my beer, the next I had the biggest guy in a chokehold while his buddies tried to figure out what hit them. It took maybe ninety seconds to put all three on the floor.

The kid ran. He didn’t even say thanks. That was smart of him.

That’s when Cobb appeared, materializing from the smoke like the devil himself, his smile like a shark scenting blood.

“You fight like that for free?” he’d asked. “You could make real money doing it for an audience.”

“What kind of money?”

“Five hundred for a win. Two hundred just for showing up.” He’d blown smoke toward the ceiling, watching me through the haze. “More if you put on a good show.”

I should have known but when you’re desperate, you see what you need to see. And I was fucking desperate.

“When?”

“Tonight, if you want. Downstairs.”

Of course, I’d said yes.

The basement of The Pit stank of years of alpha pheromones, spilled beer and blood. The walls were concrete and painted black to hide the stains. The ring was rope and construction stakes. It was nothing fancy, but it didn’t need to be. The crowd came for the violence, not the decor.

There were maybe fifty people clustered around the ring that first night. Men mostly, but some women too. All of them with that hungry look people get when they’re about to watch something brutal. Money changed hands faster than I could track, bills folded and passed with practiced ease.

“Fresh meat,” someone called out when Cobb led me through the crowd.

“Hayes here thinks he can fight. Time to prove it, “Cobb had said.

My opponent was already in the ring. He was a good looking guy, heavily muscled. He bounced on his toes, loose and ready.

“Rules are simple,” Cobb explained, voice pitched to carry over the crowd noise. “No biting, no eye gouging, no groin shots. Everything else is fair game. Fight ends when someone can’t continue or taps out. Winner takes the purse.”

No gloves. No rounds. No referee except Cobb, who clearly didn’t give a shit if we killed each other as long as the crowd got their show.

The guy came at me fast, leading with a jab that would have broken my nose if it connected. But I’d started fighting bigger kids when I was eleven. I’d already learned to read how they moved, and this guy might as well have sent a formal announcement.

I slipped the punch and drove my knee into his ribs, feeling something give under the impact.

He wheezed but didn’t go down. Tough bastard. His elbow caught me in the temple on the backswing, making stars explode across my vision. The crowd roared approval.

We traded shots for six minutes. He had decent technique. But technique doesn’t mean shit when you’re fighting someone who learned to fight to survive, not to win trophies.

I left him unconscious on the concrete, blood from his broken nose pooling under his head. The crowd went wild. Money changed hands again, bills flying like confetti. And Cobb counted out five hundred dollars in twenties, pressing them into my hand with that shark smile.

“Natural talent,” he’d said. “Stick with me, kid. We’ll make something of you.”

And for a while, it was good. I fought twice a week, sometimes three. Won more than I lost. The money was steady. I got an apartment, a real one with a door that locked and hot water that worked.

But there were signs that I should haven’t have ignored. Girls who worked the upper floors with hollow eyes and track marks. Fighters who showed up looking scared instead of eager. The way certain people disappeared when they asked too many questions.

I told myself it wasn’t my business. I kept my head down, did my job, collected my pay. Like always.

I did try distance myself from it. I took other jobs but I struggled to get anything to last. I’ve just got the wrong look for anything honest. Whenever I was short on cash, there were always the fights and they were easy.

But then there was Penelope.

She was older than the other dancers, maybe thirty, with laugh lines that suggested she used to find things funny.

The first time we really talked was after a particularly brutal fight. I’d gone up against this Russian monster, six-eight and built like a refrigerator. He’d nearly taken my head off with a haymaker in the second minute. I’d won, barely, but my face looked like hamburger meat.

She’d found me in the alley after, trying to stop the bleeding with my shirt.

“Wow,” she’d said, not sounding particularly shocked. “You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.”

“Come on.” She’d taken my elbow, gentle but firm. “Can’t have you bleeding out in the alley.”

She’d led me to a storage room upstairs, away from the noise and smoke and produced a first aid kit from somewhere, then went to work with surprising skill.

“You a nurse or something?” I’d asked, wincing as she cleaned a particularly deep cut.

“Or something.” She’d smiled, sad and knowing. “I used to be an EMT. Before.”

“Before?”

“Before a lot of things.”

She’d patched me up in silence after that, professional and efficient. When she finished, I’d caught her wrist gently. “Thank you.”

We’d chatted regularly after that. She was good people.

Movement catches my eye. Someone approaching the bench. Not just someone, it’s an omega. Even from here, I can see Milo’s relief as he stands to greet him. They hug.

They’re talking now, the omega’s hands moving animatedly while Milo nods. Probably telling him what an idiot he is for getting involved with me.

He’s not wrong.

I watch them for another minute, noting details.

I’m about to turn away, give them privacy, when movement on a bench behind them catches my eye. A man reading a newspaper, except he’s not. His eyes track Milo and the other omega.

Ice floods my veins.

I know that profile. Know the way he sits, casual but ready.

Know the expensive leather jacket he thinks makes him look like a businessman instead of what he is.

The same easy posture he had when he counted out bills for fighters who’d never be seen again.

The same false casualness when he’d pat someone’s cheek and seal their fate with that shark’s smile.

Cobb fucking Sewell.

My body moves before my brain catches up. He’s not here for me. He’s here for Milo.