Page 11 of Storm

"Let me go!" I growl, pushing against his chest. My hands meet solid muscle that doesn't budge an inch. "I need to find him."

I need to save Rook.

Jonathan leans closer, his face inches from mine. The scent of smoky cedar intensifies, wrapping around me like a physical thing. My omega instincts—the ones I've been fighting since presentation—respond traitorously, urging submission.

"You won't find what you're looking for, Storm. He’s lost to The Pit." His voice drops to a whisper now.

The words hit harder than any physical blow could. I go still. The fight draining out of me momentarily.

I presented right in the kitchen of our foster carer Mrs Jennings. Rook was there and so were two other alpha teens who lived there with us. All hell broke loose.

I flinch at the memory, the pain still fresh. Rook had been there when it happened—watched as my beta scent transformed in one agonizing wave. The dark chocolate notes had burst from my skin, filling the kitchen with undeniable omega sweetness. The other two alphas had advanced, eyes dilating, instincts overriding reason. But Rook had protected me, horror etched on his face as he fought to keep the two boys from attacking me. He told me he would wait for me. On Choosing Day. He promised.

"You're lying," I whisper again, but there's a hollow feeling spreading through my chest. What if he is telling the truth? What if I escape my alpha pack on Choosing Day and he isn’t there because he died in The Pit?

"Why would I lie?" Jonathan's voice is almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse.

"He promised," I whisper, more to myself than to Jonathan. "He would never fight in The Pit."

"Alphas make many promises," Jonathan says, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "Especially the beta-born. They’ll do anything for quick cash."

Rage flares inside me again, hot and clarifying. "You don't get to talk about him like that. You elite alphas with your pedigrees and your power—you've never had to fight for anything in your life."

Jonathan's expression hardens, the momentary softness vanishing. "You know nothing about my life, Little Omega."

"You don't know me, you don’t know Rook," I say, but my voice wavers.

Something that might be a smile ghosts across his face. "I know more than you think."

I swallow hard, unnerved by his observations. "If you're trying to manipulate me?—"

"I'm stating facts," he interrupts, finally releasing my ankle but not moving from his position above me. "And here's another fact, running away from the Omega House to another alpha is a criminal offense. One that could land you in a much less pleasant facility than this one. And the alpha found with you will be either killed or put to death. The Pits might not kill him, but your actions will."

The threat hangs between us, and I know it's not an idle one. I know the law.

My mouth goes dry at his words, but I refuse to let him see me cower. "So what? You're going to drag me back inside and lock me up tighter?"

Jonathan studies me for a long moment, his green eyes reflecting the moonlight. "No."

The simple answer catches me off guard. "No?"

He shifts his weight, finally allowing me to sit up, though he remains crouched beside me, blocking my escape route.

"No. I’m certain you'll go inside and not attempt to escape again. The instant I notice your absence, I'll issue the death sentence you desperately wish for Rook."

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The way he says Rook's name sends ice through my veins.

"You wouldn't," I whisper, but the conviction in my voice is gone.

Jonathan's face is carved from stone in the moonlight, all sharp angles and cold certainty. "I would. One word from me, and your alpha is gone." I stare at him, unable to hide the horror I know is plain on my face. The worst part is, I believe him. Jonathan Kingsley doesn't make empty threats. Elites never do.

“But if you don’t try to escape while I’m in charge, I’ll get him out of The Pits. I’ll save your precious alpha.”

“But you’re an asshole. Why would you help him?” He’s silent for a moment before he stands. I look up at his tall frame. He runs a hand over his face, and I realize he looks tired—too tired for someone who’s barely twenty. His whole body appears weighted, like the world is pressing down on his shoulders. It's a stark contrast to the control he usually radiates. He doesn't meet my gaze. Instead, he looks up at the stars twinkling in the night sky.

“I might be an asshole, Storm. But I don’t wish The Pit on any alpha.”

I hate him. But I have no choice but to trust him.