Omega's Wolves: Hell's Wolves MC

by J. L. Wilder

  “We slept here?” he murmured. “That wasn’t smart.”

  I giggled, blushing. “We got … carried away.”

  His arm, looped around my waist, tightened against my stomach. “So not smart. But worth it.”

  “That was magical,” Daniel agreed, his chest rising and falling beneath me. I could hear his heart beating powerfully, stirred by memories of our night together.

  “I’ve never felt like that before,” Caine said.

  “You?” I asked. “The great womanizer?”

  He lifted his chin from off my calves to look me in the eye. “Of course I haven’t felt that way.”

  “None of us have,” Tristan added. “Or, had, rather.”

  “Emma…,” Daniel began, trailing off, “it was incredible.”

  I felt tears prick at my eyes—tears of unadulterated happiness. “I know. It was, it really was.”

  Suddenly, my head flooded with a torrent of emotions, excitement, contentment, joy, discovery. I identified with all of them, but they didn’t seem to have originated from my mind. Like, they just washed over me, unannounced, seeming to burst from nowhere. And the weirdest part was, they had different flavors, like if I could see the thoughts, they would be coded in different colors, not by emotion type or bracket, but by … origin?

  “Oh my God.”

  Tristan sat upright, looming over me and putting a protective hand on my bare arm. “What’s wrong?” he asked, already in defense mode.

  “Can’t you feel it?”

  He looked around, scanning the forest. “What am I supposed to be feeling?”

  “The connection,” I whispered, tapping my temple. “Can’t you feel it?”

  All the boys were sitting up now, staring at me, waiting for an explanation. And then, as if in unison, like an earthquake whose vibrations had delayed impact, their eyes went wide.

  “The link,” Caine said.

  Daniel shook his head in disbelief. “I can … I can feel you, Emma. In our pack mind connection.”

  “How is that possible?” Tristan asked, flabbergasted.

  “It’s not,” I stuttered. Because, according to everything I knew about shifters, it was impossible. At the earliest, one joined a pack connection after maybe six months.

  Daniel, apparently sharing my thoughts (which, perhaps, he had insight to now, given our link), said, “Links don’t usually come until much later. I’m a drifter, I’ve had plenty. They show up around a year.” He looked down, bashful, and admitted, “Right when they form is when I usually leave.”

  “But you’re not leaving this time, right?” I asked, worried that his natural aloofness would send him running for the hills.

  He shook his head, smiling. “Not this time.”

  That was a relief. However, I still had more questions than answers.

  “It seems impossible,” Tristan noted. “Forming a link after, what? A month?”

  “Probably as impossible as werewolves seem to regular humans,” Caine joked. He laughed at his own observation, then continued more seriously, “Emma, it must mean we all have such a deep connection that a link was able to form this early.”

  I touched my hand over my heart. Could that be true? I knew I felt that on my end, but could they really feel it on theirs? There was another wave of emotions in my brain, more happiness, a touch of surprise, but mostly, overwhelming confirmation. They feel it too, I realized. And I would know—I was, after all, in their heads as much as they were in mine.

  Tears pricked at my eyes. I was welcome in this pack. Nay, I was a part of this pack, no longer just in name. Love had completely bonded us.

  Giddy with joy, I announced, “Let’s go home. As usual, I’m getting hungry.”

  They all laughed, and together, we shifted back into our Wolf forms and made the run back home. I pushed us to run faster and faster, realizing I was indeed not just hungry, but famished. Man, maybe a few weeks of eating well had really done wonders for my appetite.

  In no time, we were in our back yard, once more becoming human. How quickly I’d transitioned to thinking of things as “our,” “us,” and “we”. It was like my vocabulary had immediately caught up with the change, as though it’d been anticipating it.

  “Food?” I asked as soon as my muzzle turned into a mouth.

  Daniel apologized, “Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to go on a food run.”

  My stomach growled. “That’s okay. I’ll come with.”

  Tristan raised an eyebrow. “You’ll go with Daniel, into town?”

  I shrugged. “I mean, it’s a tiny town, right? Nothing too dangerous. Besides, you’ve all being saying how much progress I’m making.”

  “That’s true,” Caine affirmed. “Still not great in a fight, but as we know, she can run like the dickens.”

  Tristan conceded the point. “Okay, agreed. Plus, I’m sure you’re getting tired of only seeing us.”

  I laughed at this preposterous suggestion. “Um, as if. I’m just going with Daniel because one, he deserves company. And two … uh, two, I’m really freaking hungry.”

  The men chortled. Tristan nodded, beginning to walk toward the house, and we fell behind him, following the alpha.

  Over his shoulder, he said, “All right, you’ve made sound points. You can go with Daniel. Not that you need my permission.”

  “Yes, but I like it,” I admitted, my cheeks burning.

  He somehow stood up even straighter, as if emboldened by the compliment. “Then you have it. Please be safe. And I’ll see if we can dig up a hat, sunglasses, something to obscure your face.”

  Well, that seemed a little overprotective, but whatever. If a hat and sunglasses made him feel better about my safety, then I’d wear the damn things.

  While Tristan and Caine went to hunt for my glasses and hat, Daniel and I got changed, sliding into our usual black uniform. Over the course of our time at the house, we’d managed to unearth some clothes for me that weren’t, like, a black corset and matching pants. Those are great for a limited time, but not exactly comfortable for day to day wear, you feel me? Though, now that I was officially mated with all of them, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to toss that sexy getup back on…

  For today, however, black jeans, t-shirt and boots it was. And, apparently, a hat and glasses, because—

  “Found ‘em!” Caine cried from down the hall. “You’re gonna look great!”

  He bounded back to the kitchen, and brandished a hat and glasses for me. I looked at the items in his large hands skeptically.

  “Caine,” I sighed. “Those look crazy.”

  “No they don’t,” he argued. “They’re like … uh … alternative.”

  What they were was a pair of men’s sunglasses, probably from Target, of the “I consider myself a part-time fisherman” variety—silver, 90s, Matrix-y. Horrible. And the hat, joy of joys, was a bucket hat.

  “Just try them on,” he insisted.

  Tristan came up behind him, emerging from the hallway, and agreed with Caine.

  “Sorry, Emma, but it’s the best we could find.”

  Reluctantly, I took the items from Caine and put them on. I could barely see through the glasses, they were so tinted and scratched, but my ears worked just fine—well enough to hear them laughing.

  “All right, all right,” I muttered. “Very funny. Let’s go, Daniel, I’m starved.”

  He snorted a little at my ensemble, but obliged me. “We leave out the front, you stick by my side.”

  The other boys bid us goodbye, and soon, we were out the door, walking down a sweet, if empty, street. It was so thoroughly abandoned it almost read as post-apocalyptic, but one or two houses had a light on upstairs, suggesting that maybe the town wasn’t as empty as it looked.

  We rounded a couple of corners, and as promised, I stayed close to Daniel, even though there was clearly nothing to be afraid of; this was the ultimate suburbia. So much for our paranormal town theory—things were way too quaint and normal to belong to shifters or th
e ilk.

  “Does this count as a date?” Daniel laughed as we passed through another street. On this one, the houses appeared to thin out, indicating we were approaching whatever counted as a town center around here.

  I giggled. “I guess so.”

  He took my hand from my side and clasped it in his. “Now we’re holding hands,” he replied. “Which means it’s a real date.”

  He made me feel so warm inside, like my insides were melting, but not in that terrifying, Indiana Jones face melty way. In the good way.

  In short order, we arrived before a shop that, from the outside, appeared so tiny I wondered if we’d both fit inside at once.

  “Is this the grocery store?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yeah. Don’t worry, it looks a little more impressive inside. Not much, but a little.”

  My face spread into a smile, and with that, we walked inside (indeed having to break our hands apart, as only one person could fit through the door at a time).

  It was dark inside, dark and cool, but admittedly bigger than I’d thought. I lifted my glasses up, unable to see in the dimness, and began to wander down the aisles.

  “What should we get?” I questioned.

  “Anything you like,” Daniel said. “What are you in the mood for?”

  My belly growled. “Uh, everything.”

  He snickered. “Okay, don’t shop on an empty stomach, you’ll buy the whole store and use up the rest of our funds. Get a snack, and I’ll get the groceries.”

  Good plan. I walked toward the front, looking for something small, portable. Near the counter was a stack of candy bars. Perfect. I knelt down, examining the offerings, and settled on a chocolate-walnut that was tempting. I stood back up, bar in hand.

  There was no cashier. At the risk of being rude, I called out, “Hey, I’m taking a candy bar, but my—” I looked to Daniel. What was he? “My boyfriend is going to buy it with the rest of our groceries.”

  At once, a man appeared from the back. He was short, stout, with wild hair and deep furrows in his brow. Had to be at least fifty.

  He surveyed my face, apparently deciding I wasn’t going to run off with the fifty-cent bar, and replied at last, “Fine.”

  Okay, terse much? But I didn’t let his rudeness faze me. Instead, I ripped open the candy bar and took an enormous bite, letting the chocolate migrate down my throat and hit my stomach. Yum.

  While I munched on my snack, Daniel quickly gathered the rest of the shopping list and joined me at the front, spreading his hoard across the counter.

  The rude cashier rung them up one by one, not making eye contact with Daniel or me. I glanced at Daniel, stifling a laugh. What was this guy’s deal? And he was taking eons to bag things, to boot.

  “Thirty-five dollars,” he said at last, having bagged the final lemon and tallied each head of broccoli.

  Daniel slid the money over the counter, got his change, then picked the bags up.

  “Thanks,” he said to the cashier. “Have a nice day.”

  The man said nothing.

  We turned away from him, walking toward the exit together and laughing under our breaths.

  “What a weirdo,” I whispered.

  “Yeah, he’s a strange one,” Daniel agreed.

  He was first out the door, and I followed closely behind him, re-emerging into the bright sun.

  All I remember is the sound of a paper grocery bag ripping open, and a lemon rolling across my field of vision.

  And then, darkness.

  Chapter 20

  There was a metallic taste in my mouth, as though I’d been gargling with pennies.

  No other sensations. I could hear nothing, see nothing, smell nothing. Aseptic. Cold. I was in a darkness so deep I forgot what the light was. Were it not for the pennies, I would’ve presumed death. That sounded about right, for a grave—devoid of senses. Cold. I’d always dreamed that death would be more comforting, like falling into a fluffy, warm pillow and wrapping yourself in big white sheets. This wasn’t that at all.

  Feeling returned to my body, but not neutral feeling; a pain that seemed to roar through every one of my muscles, to live in my very bloodstream. I was encased in pain; that was my real coffin. I wanted to scream but wasn’t sure if I still possessed a mouth. Minutes or days could’ve passed by, I wouldn’t have known the difference. It was pain, pain, and more pain.

  And then another feeling came.

  A feeling in the pit of my stomach. A butterfly? No, no, that wasn’t it. But there was a distinctive fluttering, like gossamer wings attempting to stretch out to their full width. Like whatever was inside yearned for the outside. A cocoon in molting.

  The fluttering ceased. It had probably been in my head. Or it was the last of my life force, leaking from my body. I was resigned to my coffin of pain, to my endless torture of a not-death death.

  The fluttering came back.

  This time, I knew it wasn’t just a flutter.

  It was kicking.

  I seized on this, focused on it, let the kicks deluge my mind and body. There was something inside of me, still vibrant despite my total sensory deprivation. Something stronger than I was. Though I couldn’t name it, I knew that, on its behalf, I had to wake up, had to emerge from this dark lake.

  I forced myself to inhale deeply. In-one, two, three, out-one, two, three, in-one, two, three, out-one, two, three.

  After several of these breaths, I got up the nerve to open my eyes.

  I screamed again, and blacked out.

  Some time later, I felt roughness on my face. Perhaps I’m lying on the floor, I thought. But no, it was moving over me. Caressing me, in a way that no inanimate object could.

  I had to look, to see what was happening. I didn’t want to, of course, but it was my responsibility. For the thing inside me, the one that pulsed with desire.

  What I laid eyes on first was a hand. A meaty, calloused, red hand with thick fingers and a short life line. The hand wore a ring, a ring I recognized all too well. Silver, flat, with a face burned into it by a blacksmith.

  The face of a bear.

  My eyes refocused slowly, but it didn’t matter. I already knew what I would see at the end of that arm: Brock.

  He was grinning.

  “Welcome home, Emma,” he laughed manically. “Long time no see.”

  I wanted to get words out, or failing that, to spit in his face. But my mouth didn’t seem to work. Maybe that was sleep wearing off; maybe it was years of trained fear for the face in front of me. Who’s to say?

  Brock’s thumb and forefinger pinched my cheek like you would that of a naughty child. “You certainly gave us a run there, didn’t you? Bad girl. Bad, bad girl.”

  He took a step back, surveying my body and affording me a view of his. Brock was unchanged since last I’d seen him. Not surprising, I suppose. He was born enormous, and he’d stayed enormous. Brock was closer to seven feet than six, with a neck thicker than an oak tree, shot through with pulsating red veins. He was completely bald, with no trace of even a former hairline. His biceps bulged. They were too large, like they’d been assigned to the wrong pair of arms. He was a mismatched, monstrous being formed of all hateful parts.

  And while I was looking at him, he was looking at me.

  “You look fine,” he said.

  I said nothing still but glared at him with what I hoped read as seething anger.

  He examined his nails, then continued, “You should tell me I look fine too. That’s the polite thing for a guest to do. You are, after all, in my home. But you knew that already.”

  Yes, I had. More specifically, I was in Brock’s dungeon, which was colorfully arrayed with every pain-inflicting device known to man (and some that man hadn’t even dreamt of yet). He would bring me down to the dungeon on occasion, show me a prisoner he was torturing that day, make me watch while he did whatever dastardly thing he would do. Sometimes, the visits were supposed to be a reward. Other times, they were veiled reminders to me that, if I di
dn’t play my cards right, I could end up there too. That I was disposable.

  As I was coming to, an ache tore through my arms, shoulders and wrists. I moaned, which made Brock laugh. At least I knew I could still use my throat, could still make sounds. I’d seen him disable people’s vocal chords before, cut out their tongues. Better check my tongue, I thought.

  “Why … does … it … hurt?” I managed.

  He chuckled. “Oh, so you’ve felt that now, have you? Never have been very observant. Maybe that’s why we were able to get you at a place so obvious, so out in the open, as a grocery store.”

  Brock pointed up, and with immense effort, I tilted my head back to see what he was gesturing toward. Handcuffs. That figured. I looked down, and realized that my feet weren’t touching solid ground. I must have been suspended from his wall, floating back and forth in cuffs like a demented ragdoll.

  “Yes, we did have to cuff you,” Brock replied as he watched me realize the tenor of my situation. “Apologies. Wouldn’t have usually pegged you for a flight risk, but then, you did surprise me rather recently.”

  He laughed at his joke, but his eyes were cold.

  I had one question, only one, that really mattered.

  “Where … are … the Hell’s Wolves?” I spat out of my dry mouth.

  Brock sighed. “Those hooligans? However did you fall in with them, my little omega? They’re not good sorts.”

  That was rich.

  “But since you ask,” he went on, “I guess I’ll spoil the ending. They’re dead. Or at least, the ones from your little pack are. The rest, I suppose, are still roaming the country. But you’re referring to the three, I’d imagine. What are their names again?”

  My voice came through despite my better instincts. “Daniel. Tristan. Caine.”

  “Right, of course, thank you. See, I didn’t have time to find out before I slaughtered them.”

  The blood drained from my head. My arms went numb once more, and I felt my ears ring with my own heartbeat.

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry to report, they’re dead. Very dead indeed.”

  “You’re lying. You have to be lying. This can’t—you need to be lying.”