All Chapters of Rise Of The Betrayed Omega : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

**Shawn's POV** “Mr. Black, this way to your guests.” A waitress who recognizes me greets me as she leads the way through the familiar haze of the strip club where I usually meet my business associates. The bass throbs through the floor of the Velvet Room, vibrating up through my bones like a second heartbeat. Red and purple lights pulse in rhythm with music loud enough to drown out thought. Half-naked women move like liquid across the stage, their bodies oiled and gleaming under the strobing lights. I used to find this atmosphere intoxicating—the primal energy, the raw sexuality, the freedom of a place where everything could be bought and nothing had to mean anything. Now it just feels empty. I push through the crowd toward the private section in the back, where Hank and his associates conduct the kind of business that can't happen in boardrooms or over email. The kind that requires cash, anonymity, and the constant thrum of music to cover conversations. Two bouncers

**Shawn's POV**I break every traffic law getting to the penthouse.Red lights blur past. My speedometer hits ninety on residential streets. The tires scream as I take corners too fast, but I don't slow down.Someone took Stella because I fucking left her alone.The single thought pounds through my skull like a drumbeat.I should have stayed and told Hank to go to hell, that whatever business emergency he had could wait until morning. But I didn't.And now she's gone.I screech into the parking garage, abandoning my car at an angle that blocks two spaces.... I don't care. When I get to the elevator, it seems to take forever, each floor ticking by with agonizing slowness.Please let this be a mistake. Please let Thompson have been confused. Please let her be safe—The elevator opens directly into the penthouse.And I know immediately it's not a mistake.The space is destroyed.Furniture overturned. Glass shattered across the hardwood. One of the floor-to-ceiling windows has a spiderw

**Stella's POV** My head throbs. That's the first thing I'm aware of—a dull, pounding ache at the base of my skull that pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat. The second thing is the cold. I'm lying on concrete, the chill seeping through my thin pajamas and into my bones. My arms are wrenched behind my back, wrists bound so tightly the rope cuts into my skin. My ankles are tied too, knees bent at an awkward angle that makes my legs cramp. I try to move and immediately regret it. Pain shoots through my shoulders, and whatever's binding my wrists doesn't give even a millimeter. Where am I? I force my eyes open, blinking against the darkness. The space around me gradually comes into focus—concrete walls, exposed pipes running along the ceiling, and a single bare bulb hanging overhead that flickers intermittently. Windows high up near the ceiling are boarded over, letting in only thin slivers of moonlight. I'm in a warehouse and it's abandoned by the look of it. But how long have

**Shawn's POV** Building 47 looms ahead like a tomb. The industrial district is a graveyard of rusted metal and abandoned warehouses stretching for blocks, most of them empty for decades. This is the kind of place where screams go unheard and bodies are never found. Perfect place for a kidnapping. Our convoy of SUVs pulls up a block away, headlights cutting through the darkness. Victor is out of his vehicle before it fully stops, his face set in grim determination. I step out more slowly, my senses immediately on high alert. Something's feels off because I can't smell her. I should be able to catch Stella's scent from here—even faintly. Omega in heat leaves a trace that lingers, especially for someone attuned to it the way I apparently am now. But there's nothing. "Victor," I call out, moving to intercept him before he charges toward the warehouse. "Wait." He doesn't slow down. "We're wasting time. She's in there—" "I can't scent her." That stops him. He turns,

**Stella's POV** (Meanwhile on the other side of town) "Help, someone, I'm in here!" I scream to get the attention of whoever is coming towards the warehouse. Sabrina's confident mask slips. Just for a second, I see fear flash across her perfect features before she smooths it away. "Stay quiet," she hisses at me. "I don't know who is coming our way." Well, it could be my rescue so I scream again to get their attention. The footsteps reach the door. It swings open with a screech of rusted hinges. Three rogues step into the dim warehouse, and my hope dies instantly. I can tell that they're not here to rescue anyone. The first man is massive—easily six and a half feet of pure muscle, with a shaved head and a tattoo running from his temple to his jaw. The other two flank him, both radiating the kind of casual violence that comes from years of hurting people without consequence. "Well, well," the tattooed leader says, his voice like gravel. "What do we have here?" S