Page 10 of Primal (The Prey Drive #1)

Chapter 9

Noa

I t’s been an hour since I stopped crying long enough to recount everything that happened during my reunion with my childhood pack and Seren still watches me with open unease as I carry the basket of supplies down to our newest guest. Just as I assured her I could shower without needing her there for support or supervision, I told her I could handle delivering these essentials and introducing myself to the new Nightingale on my own. But my friend isn’t having it. She’s my shadow whether I think I need one or not.

I wanted to meet the girl as soon as I got home, but between my super-cute little breakdown and needing to shower off the scent of the males I’d come into contact with today, it’s taken me longer to get down here than I’d like. Using scent-neutralizing soaps or sprays before interacting with a Nightingale is something we try our best to adhere to but meeting this traumatized girl while reeking of alpha males definitely wasn’t an option. I don’t know her story yet, but so often, the omegas that come here have suffered at the hands of alphas. I want her to trust me, and that won’t happen if the possible familiar scent of her tormentors is clinging to my skin and clothes.

“What do we know so far?” I ask Seren over my shoulder as we descend the narrow stairwell that leads to the basement.

We have a few extra rooms in the manor, but omegas tend to feel most comfortable in dark, enclosed spaces. Being underground resonates with their wolf halves, tapping into the instinct to burrow and create dens. My mom knew this when she had the blueprints for this underground space made. Of course, it wasn’t an engineer who ultimately constructed the system that resides beneath the manor. The coven’s High Priestess herself, the highly gifted elementalist, used her power to shape and manipulate the earth. Every sturdy passageway and room down here was carved directly from the dirt and held in place by Amara’s ample magic. A coven member’s contractor husband then fitted the plumbing and wired the electricity because while the wolf half might enjoy being underground, the human side needs a running toilet and the ability to charge their phone.

There isn’t anything that documents these changes. As far as public records go, the manor only has the simple cellar that is original to the historic building, and unless you know what you’re looking for, that is all an uninvited guest will find down here. The Ashvale Coven’s illusionist, Vardis, ensured it. Her flawlessly crafted glamour shields the secret entrance to the underground, dwelling from prying eyes. With the constant threat of a Nightingale’s past coming to hunt them down, we do everything in our power to keep them protected.

We’ve seen many cases where some transition from needing the enclosed space of the cellar to feeling secure enough to move into one of the bedrooms in the main house. Seren herself is one of those success stories. Now she’s a permanent resident here and in my life.

“I haven’t been able to get her to say a word,” Seren admits, the sorrow she feels for this poor girl clear from the way her face falls. “Lowri also tried, since she was the one who found her after she crossed Amara’s shields, but the girl was unresponsive to the Alpha’s attempts, too.”

Around the entire perimeter of Ashvale, Amara has shields placed in the earth and air. Unless you’re an extraordinarily gifted witch or charmer, you wouldn’t be able to sense their existence. Which is exactly how we want it. Every time someone enters town, Amara feels it. Her shields are so finely tuned she can immediately sense what kind of person has arrived, too. Wolf, witch, or human. Alpha, beta, or omega. The High Priestess knows before she ever lays eyes on them.

Before Mom’s death, we didn’t have to rely solely on the coven leader for this type of additional security. Mom had her own alarms woven into the borders of town. Since I lack any magic, and Seren, like Zora, is blessed with her own unique empath gifts, we’re unable to create these needed radars on our own.

Between Amara’s shields and Lowri’s pack watching the borders, our Nightingales are well guarded here.

“Any visible injuries?” It goes without saying, the poor girl is currently riddled with all kinds of emotional scars, and we, well, mostly Seren, since she’s the empath, will address them in time, but right now, I can at least tend to any physical ones she might have.

We stand before the far wall of the cellar. Setting the hand-woven basket at my feet, I press both palms against the cinder blocks. Seren follows suit. Vardis’s magic stirs, reaching out like a staticky mist. As it recognizes us, sensing no threat, the illusion dissolves, taking the cinder blocks with it.

With the passageway revealed, its walls made of smooth stone and the path illuminated with welcoming strings of lights, I place the basket back on my hip and we head through. Once we pass, the illusion falls back into place. It’s moments like these that I’m unapologetically jealous of the witches and their magic. I’m also deeply grateful to them and their willingness to help us build and protect this place.

“She’s got one hell of a black eye, and I didn’t get a good look, but I sensed that a couple of her fingers might be broken.” Seren gives me the rundown, speaking softly to ensure the girl’s sensitive shifter ears don’t overhear us. “She was barefoot when she escaped whatever hellhole she’d found herself trapped in. I have no idea how long or how far she ran, but her feet are ripped to shreds, Noa.”

It doesn’t matter how bad their condition is when they arrive or what drove them to flee in the first place, seeing an omega in distress is never easy. Whether they’re bloodied and broken, or simply down on their luck and in need of a helping hand, every omega’s story cuts deep. Omegas are meant to be loved and cherished, yet they’re the ones who are continuously abused and failed by society. Their smaller statures and sensitivity to an alpha’s dominant aura are exploited. A bond between an alpha and their omega is a gift and too often it’s twisted into something dark and ugly instead.

The sick reality is it's their innately submissive nature and ability to take an alpha’s knot that often makes them targets. Commodities. Too often over the years we’ve cared for omegas that were sold into various forms of sex slavery. Their bodies abused and used for an alphas pleasure. Of the three designations, omegas are the rarest and over the past two decades, their numbers have started to decline. With the population dwindling, alphas are getting more desperate to get their hands on omegas, which means they’re willing to pay or steal to do it. It’s disgusting and heartbreaking.

This was never the Goddess's intention when she crafted the intense and breathtaking bond between an alpha and an omega. These people have taken something beautiful and corrupted it.

Turning the corner, the passageway opens up into the main living space. A large, low-slung sectional sofa dominates the room. Its soft, indigo velvet cushions are deep, perfect for sinking into to watch your favorite comfort show. The corner spot is coveted and understandably fought over. Pieces of rich emerald fabric are draped meticulously across the already low ceiling, adding warmth, while a plush jewel-toned rug softens the stone floor beneath the couch. It’s a haven for omegas and every piece of décor selected reminds me of my mom, her personal style reflected in each element.

Across the open layout, the back wall of the room houses a long, fully stocked kitchen. Every Nightingale who comes to us is constantly reassured that they can help themselves to anything in the cabinets or refrigerator. For those who have had their food controlled or withheld, adjusting to this freedom isn’t easy. In the past, some have struggled to accept any food offered to them, even the meals the coven’s elders take turns preparing daily when we have guests staying with us. The older women, most of whom have retired from their day jobs, have essentially become den mothers. On rotating shifts, they cook and do light cleaning around the sanctuary, but, more importantly, they act as another safe and comforting presence for the recovering omegas to lean on. Even Eldrith, with her lethal hootch and no-nonsense attitude, is a fan favorite around here. Our Nightingales seem to appreciate the lack of coddling and blunt honesty they get from the crone.

“We’ve got a badass on our hands,” I note, leading us to the alcove that serves as our little medicinal workstation.

For our omegas’ privacy, we don’t actually treat anyone out here in the communal area, but the apothecary-esque table and the open shelving above are where we keep our stock of products, most sourced directly from Potion if you hadn’t been watching closely, you would have missed it.

Seren had remained in the doorway, adding to my one-sided conversation every once in a while, until the baby monitor on her hip had gone off. Before leaving to feed Ivey, my friend had reassured the scared female that she was safe here and that she was proud of her for finding her way to us. A sentiment I echoed immediately. Every time we’ve promised her that no one would harm her here, her stiff shoulders had relaxed a touch. We’d keep doing it until she believed us.

“One time, I was running through the shallow part of the creek, and I tripped.” Explaining the memory that’s suddenly resurfaced, I carefully use a swab to dislodge dirt and other small pieces of debris from the open wounds on her sole. “Totally face-planted. I think I was almost thirteen, and of course I was embarrassed as hell because those new teenage emotions are never anything less than dramatic, but when I’d managed to pull myself up, I found a sharp pebble embedded in my palm. Normally, I would have just gone to my mom since she was the pack’s healer, but we weren’t actually supposed to be down at the creek that day. My friend had to dig it out himself, so our parents didn’t find out that we’d skipped school.”

The image of a sun-tanned hand with defined veins cradling my much smaller, bleeding one reemerges from the depths of my mind it was buried in. I bit my lip to stop myself from wincing too loud as he’d gently removed the rock from my skin. When he was done, he’d lifted my chin, and his thumb had tugged my lip from my teeth…gunmetal irises that were basically metallic had locked with mine as he vowed I would be okay.

Those eyes.

I’d recognize them anywhere.

Rennick.

My body goes rigid, locking in place as the realization crashes over me. The person I’d secretly slipped away with that day was him. The memory unravels further, and suddenly, more fragments from my past rise to the surface. Different moments, different days, but at their core, they’re all the same. They’re all tied to the Alpha’s son and the time we’d spent together as pups. Time together I’d forgotten about until now.

How is it possible I didn’t remember any of this until now?

There’s a tugging sensation in my chest and my wolf keens, her quiet sorrow over the memories like a punch to the gut. Had she remembered these moments we’d spent with Rennick all along? Was that why she’d lost her mind when she’d picked up his scent? And if that was the case, why could she remember our time with the Alpha heir when I couldn’t?

These are the questions bombarding my brain when the omega, the person who deserves my full attention right now, shifts in front of me. Her hands, which have been held stiffly at her sides since I finished splinting the two broken fingers Seren had clocked, lift slowly to rest on her lap. The movement is hesitant, but the tension in her limbs seems to have eased tremendously.

Lifting my attention from her wounded foot, I’m equal parts surprised and relieved to find an expectant look in her eyes. When my brows lift, the omega nods her chin at me, silently encouraging me to continue my tale.

I can’t help the small smile that lifts my lips. “Right, okay then.” Clearing my throat, I allow myself to delve back into the memory of Rennick. “Thinking we could get away with playing hooky was so dumb. Like I said, my mom was the pack’s healer and his father was the pack Alpha. Word got back to them before our swimsuits were dry. It’s safe to say the Alpha was not impressed.”

Merritt Fallamhain had scolded us both, but more so Rennick, growling about how he didn’t need his heir to be acting like some kind of “delinquent”. You would have thought we’d stolen a car and robbed a bank by his reaction. I remember cringing and instinctively baring my neck to the furious pack leader, but Rennick remained steadfast. At sixteen, year before he’d present as an alpha himself, he had refused to bow to his father’s dominance. Looking back at this newfound memory, I think this was the moment Merritt realized his son was going to outmatch him.

Her eyes dart toward my hand that is currently carefully using a swab to apply an all-natural, honey-based antibacterial cream, and then she does the same to my other gloved hand. She repeats this twice more when I don’t immediately pick up on her unspoken question.

“It was this hand.” Holding out my left hand—my dominant hand, just like Mom’s—I gesture vaguely to the area on my upturned palm where the rock had embedded itself. “Obviously you can’t see it because I have gloves on, but it was here. I still have a scar to this day.” A scar I never really gave much attention to because it was simply just there . I guess, a part of me had assumed it happened when I was too young to really remember.

This has her wheat-blonde brows, the same shade as the long and mattered strands on her head, lifting in surprise. Not so subtlety, her nostrils flare as she tries to scent me. To scent my wolf.

“I’m doused in scent-neutralizing spray right now,” I explain when her face scrunches up in confusion. “But even without it, you wouldn’t catch my wolf’s scent. She’s locked away down deep. I’m latent, never been able to shift. Which is also why this scar is still hanging around after thirteen years. I don’t heal like you guys do without my wolf’s help, so any scars I get, they’re sticking with me.”

Unless a wound is caused by an exceptionally dominant alpha, a shifter’s advanced healing will knit flesh back together until the skin is once again smooth. Any evidence of damage is washed away. Some injuries take longer than others for the scar to vanish, but if given time, most will heal completely.

But like any other kind of trauma, just because there’s no physical reminder of what you’ve endured, it doesn’t mean you don’t remember the pain.

She stares at me, unmoving, tension thick between us. But as the seconds stretch, I can feel her slipping away. Her eyes grow distant, her already gaunt face paling more. Slowly, with a shaky, almost mechanical motion, she lifts her arms in front of her. Her deep blue irises are haunted as she studies the smooth expanse of her exposed skin. Any evidence of whatever she lived through has been smoothed away.

As if a swarm of cicadas has taken up residence in my skull, a near-deafening buzz erupts between my ears. My body flinches, instinctively trying to shake it off, as if I could escape the sound, but it’s useless. It keeps growing, amplifying, until, like a glass bowl with a fissure, everything cracks.

Shattering.

Making way for another sound.

No, not sound.

A voice.

“Broken. Dirty, omega whore. That’s all I am anymore. Just like he promised I’d be.”

Like a scratched record stuck on the most painful part of a song, the words keep looping. I don’t know where they came from, only that they consume me. Drown me. Repeating, repeating. I lose myself in them.

The sterile gauze in my hand is long forgotten, my task momentarily neglected.

It’s the choked sob that pulls me back, snapping me out of the fog and anchoring me into my body once again.

Before me, the Nightingale presses her trembling hands to her ears, wincing slightly at the contact of broken fingers against her skull. Her knees pull tight to her chest, her whole body racked with shudders. She bites down on her lip, desperate to hold in the sobs, but it only lasts a second before the dam bursts.

She starts rocking, her movements uneven. Between the tears and gasping breaths, her lips move, whispering.Her voice is so quiet, I can barely make out the words.

But some cut through, clear as day.

“Dirty, omega whore.”

The same words rattling through my own mind.

Tossing the supplies cradled in my palm to the side, I rip off the gloves and scramble to my knees. Normally, I wait, watching for the signs an omega is ready for physical touch, but not this time. I can’t bring myself to summon that kind of patience for this one. She’s breaking before my eyes and the only thing I can think of to stop her from unraveling completely is to wrap her up in my arms and hold tight. She flinches at first, her body instinctually rejecting the contact, but then slowly she melts into me.

It's an awkward angle and my knees are screaming at me from being pressed into the stone floor, but I refuse to move until she’s ready to. She’s a wolf shifter, a pack animal, how long has she gone without physical touch that offers comfort and not pain?

Bruised knees forgotten, I settle into the discomfort and hold her tight.

The string of self-deprecating thoughts gradually quiet in my mind until only a single one remains.

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Following a gut feeling, an instinct I didn’t think I had, I swallow down the emotion that’s bubbled up in my throat and whisper, “You are not who he tried to make you, omega. He didn’t win. You’re here. You’re safe. And I swear, I’ll hold your hand until you remember who you are. Until you remember who you’ve always been.”

She stiffens in my arms for just a moment before another choked sound slips from her. Then, slowly, almost shyly, she pulls back, just enough to look at me. The same mix ofwonderment and confusionswirling inside me is reflected in her eyes, because, yeah, holy shit, I’m pretty sure I just heard her thoughts.

And a twisting ache in my chest is gnawing away at the denial I’ve been clinging to since I woke up in the pack’s den. Whatever this is with the Nightingale, it isn’t the first time it’s happened today.

“Mate. Mate. Mate.”

That’s what his thoughts had said. The thoughts I’d repeated in a daze.

I may have unintentionally claimed Rennick aloud, but the voice in his head had claimed me first.

How is this possible? I’m not a charmer. I don’t have gifts. No wolf, no magic. Right?

Reaching inward to the place she’s locked away, I search for my wolf, hoping for answers, but she’s still and patient, like she’s waiting for something just out of my reach.