The Reminder

 

The rest of the walk home is a blur of self-hatred and exhaustion. I replay the night in fragments—the bar, the drink, his eyes finding me across the dim room, the weight of his body on mine, the sharp pain of the bite, the strange, terrifying pleasure that came after it. Each memory is a fresh wound. I prod at them like a tongue prodding a sore tooth, unable to stop.

By the time I reach my building, the sky is beginning to lighten at the edges. Gray pre-dawn light seeps through the clouds, turning the world into a watercolor of exhaustion. My feet ache. My neck throbs. My eyes feel like they have been scrubbed with sandpaper.

And then I see them.

The men in suits are back.

They are standing outside my apartment door—the same three from before, their broad shoulders filling the narrow hallway like monuments to my failures. The Alpha is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his pale gray eyes fixed on the door like he can see through it. The other two flank him, silent and patient and terrifying.

My blood turns to ice. I stop at the end of the hallway, pressing myself against the corner, my heart hammering so loud I am sure they can hear it. I cannot go in there. I cannot face them. Not like this. Not with the bite still fresh on my neck and the scent of a stranger Alpha all over my skin.

I turn to leave.

And one of the guards spots me.

"Hey!" The voice is sharp, a whip crack in the silent hallway. "You. Stop."

I freeze. My legs want to run, but my body does not obey. I am trapped. I am caught. There is nowhere to go.

The Alpha straightens up from the wall and turns toward me. His eyes sweep over me, taking in my disheveled clothes, my wild hair, the exhausted slump of my shoulders. His nostrils flare. He smells me—smells the alcohol, the sweat, the sex, and beneath it all, the unmistakable chemical signature of a freshly marked Omega.

His face changes.

"Well, well," he says, and his voice is no longer calm. It is cold, sharp, a blade wrapped in silk. "Looks like someone had a busy night."

I say nothing. There is nothing to say.

He walks toward me slowly, deliberately, his shoes clicking against the floorboards like a countdown. The other two follow, spreading out to block any escape. I am backed against the wall now, my shoulder blades pressed to the peeling wallpaper, my breath coming fast and shallow.

"We came to check on our investment," the Alpha says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes are fixed on my neck. On the bite. "Imagine our surprise when we find out the merchandise has been damaged."

"I'm not merchandise," I say. My voice is hoarse. It does not sound like my own.

"You're whatever the syndicate says you are." He tilts his head, studying the mark. "Who did this? Who claimed you?"

"I don't know his name."

"You don't know his name." He laughs. It is not a pleasant sound. "You let some stranger put a claiming bite on you, and you don't even know his name. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

I shake my head. I do not trust my voice anymore.

"You've made yourself worthless, that's what you've done." He steps closer, and I can smell him now—sweat and cheap cologne and the aggressive musk of a low-level Alpha who enjoys his job too much. "Your father's debt was secured against two unclaimed Omegas. You, and the little one. Now you're claimed. Which means you're off the table. Which means the little one is going to have to cover the whole thing."

"No." The word rips out of me before I can stop it. "No. You can't touch her. She's six years old."

"Six, sixteen, doesn't matter." He shrugs. "An Omega is an Omega. The syndicate doesn't make age distinctions."

"Please." I am begging now. I do not care. "Please, just give me more time. I'll get the money. I'll find a way. Just don't touch my sister."

"More time?" He laughs again. "You've had time. You've had months. Your father had months. The time for extensions is over."

One of the other men shifts behind him. "Boss," he says quietly. "You smell that?"

The Alpha pauses. He leans in closer to me, inhaling deeply, and his expression darkens further.

"That's not just any mark," he says. His voice is different now—lower, more dangerous. "That's a high-grade Alpha. That's..." He trails off, recognition flickering in his eyes. "Do you know who you've gotten involved with?"

"I told you," I say. "I don't know his name."

"Then you're even stupider than you look." He steps back, shaking his head. "You've made this very complicated. Very, very complicated. The syndicate is not going to be happy about this."

"I'll fix it," I say desperately. "I'll find a way to fix it."

"Fix it?" He looks at me, and for a moment, something almost like pity crosses his face. Then it is gone, replaced by cold anger. "The only way to fix this is to make sure the debt gets paid. And since you're no longer viable collateral, we're going to need a different kind of motivation."

He moves fast.

His fist connects with my stomach before I even see it coming. The air rushes out of me in a choked gasp. I double over, arms wrapping around my middle, and then his knee is rising, catching me in the ribs, and I am on the ground, and the other two are closing in.

"Just a little reminder," the Alpha says, his voice floating down from somewhere above me. "Of what happens when you fail to deliver."

A boot connects with my back. I curl into a ball, trying to protect my head, my ribs, the soft parts of me that are already screaming with pain. They do not speak while they do it. There is only the sound of their breathing, the thud of their blows, and my own choked, gasping sobs.

It feels like it lasts forever. It is probably only a minute or two.

When they finally stop, I am lying on the hallway floor, my body a map of fresh bruises. Blood drips from my split lip, warm and metallic on my tongue. My ribs ache with every breath. I cannot move. I cannot speak.

The Alpha crouches down beside me, grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking my head back. His face is inches from mine. His breath smells like coffee and cruelty.

"Forty-eight hours," he says. "You have forty-eight hours to come up with the money. All of it. Plus the penalty interest. And if you don't..." He glances toward the apartment door. "We'll come back for the little one. And trust me, sweetheart—we won't be gentle with her either. She'll fetch a nice price at the auction. Young, unmarked, fresh. The buyers love that."

A scream builds in my throat, but I choke it down. I cannot give him the satisfaction.

"Understood?" He yanks my hair harder.

"Yes," I choke out.

He releases me. My head drops back to the floor.

The three of them walk away, their footsteps fading down the hallway, and I lie there in the gray pre-dawn light, broken and bleeding and more alone than I have ever been.