Pretty Much Dead Already, page 25
I check my jacket: not a wrinkle. My shoes (real shoes, not rubber boots or repurposed hospital clogs like everyone else) still polished enough to cast back the sky. I fix my cuffs, then clasp my hands at my waist, waiting for her.
She's late.
Of course, the moment I let myself register annoyance, a stir rolls through the southern walkway, and four men emerge from the med wing, flanking a single woman like pallbearers.
For a heartbeat, the crowd's reaction is so sharp it snaps the air: the children hush, the gossipers lean in, even the guards at the gate pause their cigarettes. She is that rare.
Lira.
She looks smaller than I remember, but that's probably the trick of seeing her surrounded by brutes. Or perhaps it's the effect of the haircut, the uneven ends making her seem less like the snow-globe princess of my youth and more like an escapee. She walks with her chin up, though, and the borrowed parka does nothing to hide the long, straight lines of her back.
The men are another story. The first is Rhett, still wearing the same haunted commando glare as in the old days, though now his eyes are more tired, the set of his mouth more fatalistic. He walks a half-step ahead of the others, right hand never straying more than a few inches from his belt. The second—Cass, if I recall—follows with a lazy, insolent swagger, hands in his pockets and expression set to "dare you." The next is the doctor, Michael, who limps slightly and keeps his head high despite the bloodstained sling at his side. Last is Jace, the Beta with the grief-counselor face, who drifts closest to Lira, like he's guarding her from the wind itself.
They cross the quad, a battalion in civilian rags, and every eye is drawn to them, because nobody can look away from a pending disaster.
I take a breath, paste on my best smile, and step forward, arms open like a prince greeting a lost duchess.
"My darling," I say, pitching my voice for maximum projection, "You’re even lovelier than the last time I saw you. I’ve been searching everywhere."
The silence that follows is perfect, hanging just long enough for the crowd to savor it. I see the heads turn, the leadership at the high table lean in, the guards nudge each other. This is what they wanted: the drama, the scandal, the soap opera of survival.
Lira stops five paces away, her wall of men fanning out to either side. Rhett stands nearest me, arms crossed, eyes slitted like a man assessing a target for bulletproof vest coverage. Cass slouches, but I don't trust the casualness; I see the tension in his fists, the way he angles himself for maximum lunge potential. The doctor tries for detachment, but even wounded, his eyes flick with surgical precision over every potential threat. Jace has an arm half-raised, as if to catch Lira if she faints, or to pull her back if I rush her.
It's a little excessive, but then again, I did teach her about overkill.
I let my hands drop, turning the smile to a look of honest pain. "Lira. I’m so glad you’re well. These have been… difficult months…"
She cuts me off with a stare so cold it could etch glass. There's no anger, just a depth of absence that could swallow the world. I sense, rather than see, the ripple it sends through the onlookers. The games of dominance have always bored me, but this—this is artistry.
I school my face into heartbreak, let my mouth tremble just enough to read as sincere. "You look so well," I say, taking a step forward.
Rhett blocks my path, voice low and even. "She’s safe here, thanks to the team. You didn’t need to come all this way.”
Cass grins, but the smile is all teeth. "So what’s the occasion, Westbrook? You looking to do some manual labor, or just here to critique the soup?"
The doctor doesn't speak, but he gives me a long, appraising look, as though already measuring for burial.
I sigh, loud enough for the gallery. "I came to check on my fiancée, and to bring supplies. Fort Hope has always been dear to our family."
Lira's face tightens at the word, but she doesn't look away. For a moment, we just stand like that, the five of us locked in a stalemate, with the camp watching for the next move.
The doctor’s face is set in a neutral mask, but the muscles around his mouth twitch. “We’re grateful for any help,” he says. “But you’ll have to forgive the lack of ceremony. Most of us are still busy saving lives.”
I smile, but its more teeth then anything. “Of course, Dr. Mare. I hear you’ve been indispensable.” I turn my gaze to Jace, appraising.
“And you must be the famous Beta I keep hearing about.” He doesn’t flinch, just meets my eyes, making my brow twitch. How dare he, a beta, hold my gaze. It takes everything in me to keep smiling. “Just trying to keep the peace,” he says.
My smile never wavers, but I slide my attention back to Lira. “May I?” I ask, offering my arm. The crowd holds its breath.
It’s A gesture.
A reminder.
A test.
She doesn’t take it.
Her voice is flat, final. “Thank you for coming… but I’m fine where I am.” The words land like glass underfoot. Public rejection. I feel the shift ripple through the onlookers, their collective breath catching as if they’d all witnessed a slap.
I hold the smile—barely—but the tension roars behind my eyes. My arm falls to my side with careful grace, my jaw tight as I murmur something smooth, something polite, even as the rage festers.
She wants to play the part of the independent Omega? Fine. “I see,” I say, voice just above a whisper. “You’ve grown… independent.” The word sours as I say it, like I’ve just tasted something rotten.
Cass picks at his cuticle, grinning. “She does that. Gets it from her mother’s side.”
The crowd shifts, nervous and hungry for more drama. One of the camp leaders—a woman with a jaw like a cinderblock—steps forward, trying to bridge the gap. “We’re grateful for your support, Alpha Westbrook. The supplies will go a long way. I’m sure Lira is glad to see a familiar face, after all she’s been through.”
I tilt my head, reading the room. “Of course. But we have private matters to discuss. The arrangements, the future—things that can’t wait.”
Rhett stiffens. “She can discuss anything she likes, right here.”
I decide to play my ace. I turn, addressing the leadership at the high table. "With respect, I’m her fiancé. There are legal and biological implications to our bond. I’d appreciate a moment alone."
It's shameless, but in my experience, most Alphas will cave when words like legal, bond, and biological are involved.
The leaders look at each other, a shifting puzzle of worry and calculation. I watch the eldest, a woman whose uniform still has faded police stripes at the shoulder. She lifts her chin, then shrugs, already tired of this theater.
“You may have a few minutes,” says the woman in charge, looking pained. “But you’ll be within ear shot at all times. For safety.”
I bow, just enough to be offensive, then look at Lira. "Shall we?"
She doesn't answer as we cross the quad to a makeshift tent set for "dispute resolution." It's little more than a canvas sheet draped over PVC, but the symbolism is clear. I hold the flap aside, gesturing for her to enter first. For a moment, I half-expect her to bolt, to start a scene, but she slips past me with a grace that is almost nostalgic.
Inside the tent, I let the smile die. It’s a relief, honestly, to stop pretending for the Fort’s benefit. I look at Lira, really look at her and for a moment neither of us moves. She’s changed—not the hair, not the clothes, but the set of her mouth, the way she carries herself. She’s learned to build a shell, and she wears it better than I expected.
She finally looks at me and I see it: the old spark, the intelligence that first caught my attention. There's no forgiveness in her, but also no fear. Just the flat, dry curiosity of a woman taking inventory of her mistakes.
“You look well.” The words are clipped, no warmth left. “Better than I expected after being abandoned.”
I watch, waiting to see if she’ll take the bait. I’m almost sad when she doesn’t. My hand lands on her arm—just above the elbow, fingers wrapping all the way around. It’s meant to look gentle, but I squeeze hard enough I feel the bones grind.
I watch as she flinches. Not away, but inward—a muscle spasm, a memory.
“You always had that little tremor,” I murmur, adding more pressure to my grip. “Cute, in the right setting.” Watching her bite back a wince I let go, wiping my palm on the lapel of my jacket.
“You’re angry. Good. You should be.” I pace behind her, voice dropping so only she can hear. I’m not stupid, I know her mutts are near by. “You were raised for this. To be the Omega they all wanted, the one they wrote about in the bloodlines. All those tutors, all those hours with the manners coach, the nutritionist, the psychologists. Don’t pretend you hated it.” I let the words hang, letting her mull it over.
“You can come home,” I say, stopping at her shoulder. “We can start over. The villa is gone, but there are places, safe places, and I can get us there.” My hand hovers over her hair, the urge to pet her is strong but I know she’ll bare her teeth if I try. “These men—they’re nothing. Strays. One’s a case study, one’s a criminal, the others…” I trail off, not bothering to finish, they aren’t worth my words, let alone my time.
“You don’t know them.” She's mad, her fur bristling at the insults to her mutts, its annoying.
I scoff, because really, she’s always been sheltered by her family, she doesn’t realize. “I know them better than you do. I’ve met a hundred like them. They’ll say anything to keep you close, but when the food runs out, when the fort falls, they’ll save themselves.” I let the silence stretch, then lean in.
“You could have everything you wanted. You were made for it. Remember the engagement dinner? Your dress? You made everyone in that room stop breathing when you walked in. I’ve never seen anything like it. We could still have that. Even now. I can still—” My voice cracks just a little, but I can’t help it. If I can just get her back then maybe things will go back to how they used to be— “I can still make it real.”
I fight the urge to pet her hair, the dark red strands darker in this light, it was one of the few touches I allowed her back then. I wasn’t cruel, while I didn’t love her, I would treat her well, so long as she obeys.
“You used to love when I played with your hair. It calmed you down.” I shake my head, there’s no use thinking of the past. It’s gone, now all that remains is to rebuild, and I need her to start.
“I would have found you sooner, but everything fell apart. The Westbrooks are gone. My father’s dead. You know what that means?”
It’s a rhetorical question and we both know it. “It means I am the family now. I am the future. You, me, our children, the next wave.” I can almost see it now, a new world with us as the Adam and Eve. I have the connections and power to make a new Eden but only if she falls in line. “I am offering you survival. You think anyone else here can do that?”
The color drains from her face, but she doesn't flinch.
“You’re not even wearing the ring,” I frown, it was an heirloom, worth millions and now it’s gone.
A cackle falls form her lips, the sound foreign coming from such a porcelain and angelic face. It’s a gross sound, almost obscene as she glares at me. “I pawned it for antibiotics.”
I glare at her, how dare she laugh at me, I straighten my back, standing at my full height, using every inch of my Alpha presence to remind her who I am and who she is. “You’re making a mistake. You think you matter to these people? You don’t. The second you become inconvenient, you’ll be out the gate with the rest of the dead.”
I move closer, invading her space as I lean down so we’re almost nose to nose. “If I wanted, I could take you right now. They’d let me. They’d call it custom, call it law.” I watch as she pales, a flicker of fear floating through her eyes, there’s my omega. I just need to keep pushing her, whatever back bone she has grown while here with these mutts I’ll break it. She was made to be owned, to be mine.
Yet she’s looking past me, it makes me grit my teeth. How dare she dismiss me. Not only am I an Alpha but I’m the sole heir to one of the original founding families. She should be thanking me for coming back for her. Not ignoring me and making eyes at a pack of mutts. Sure, a few of them are alphas but they’re trash. Mutts, mixed blood, and she would dare to let them sully her line?
Sure, she’s an omega but her family is also one of the founding families of the city. Bred to be elite omegas, betas, and the occasional alpha. We’re blue bloods, modern day royalty and she wants to throw it all away for a pack of mongrels.
It makes no sense and its infuriating.
I circle her. Not aggressively, not yet, but enough to remind her of who I am. Who she is, or should be. I catch her scent—different now, more earth and less perfume—and I want to sneer, but I hold it in.
“They’re not worth dying for, Lira. You know that, don’t you? They’ll tire of you. Or die trying to protect you. Either way, you end up alone.” My words are light, almost whispered as I try to get her to see reason. “I loved you. I still do. I—”
"No," She says, and the word is soft, final, as if she’s closing the lid on an old piano. “You never loved me. You loved what I could do for you.” Her eyes harden and she stands a bit taller.
I seethe, gritting my teeth so tightly my jaw throbs. “If you walk out there, you’re dead to me. You’re dead to everyone.” I let the threat hang between us, I came back for her once. I won’t do it again.
“I am not yours,” she says, voice louder than before. “I never truly was. And I never will be again.”
The words hang in the air.
It takes me a second to process them and once I do, I can’t hold back the outraged snarl.
How fucking dare she?!
She doesn’t flinch, not at first, but I see the tremor in her jaw. Old habits: bite back the words, try to look small, wait for the Alpha to make the next move. It’s all there, but now there’s something else layered underneath—the stubborn spark she used to save for academic debates or, once, a ruined birthday cake.
I take a deep breath, calming myself. I know her little pack of mutts is nearby just waiting for an excuse to act. I won’t give them one. Instead I give her a steely glare, no pretense of care or affection. I’m a predator and she needs to be reminded that she is the prey. I fight back the urge to smirk as she flinches but doesn’t take a step back like she used to.
“This isn’t over.” Each word is cold fury and she knows the kid gloves are coming off. But, not yet, no, I’ll let her stew in her fear and anxiety a bit first. I turn on my heel and stride out, leaving the tent behind, letting the wind catch the flap and snap it shut.
Let her have her little victory. There will be time.
I always get what I want.
Chapter Twenty Three: Love's Fierce Defense
Lira
Two days after Grayson’s arrival, Fort Hope is a circus: half the camp is digging up fence posts for a new barricade, the other half is running drills in the mud, and every corridor smells like fresh paint, coffee, and imminent violence. I can feel the tension in the walls, in the way even the wind changes direction twice before committing to blow through the yard. I’ve started avoiding the mess hall altogether—too many eyes, too many whispered words on how close we came last week, too many people quietly recalculating which side of the next mutiny they’ll die on.
But the real fun is the parade. Not an official one, of course, but the daily march of my so-called bonded pack across the fort’s central quad, a ritual that has become as unavoidable as morning roll call. Today, as every day since Grayson’s grand entrance, it’s Rhett, Cass, Michael, and Jace—all four—flanking me like overqualified bodyguards, none of them even pretending to be casual about it.
We walk in a four-person wedge, or five if you count me, and judging by the stares, everyone does. Rhett, always at point, has a hand on my lower back—never pushing, but there, a touch of pressure that says “move” as well as “you’re safe.” Cass looms off my right, keeping pace with a lazy swagger that radiates “fuck you” to the entire universe. Michael trails left, two steps behind, reading the air like a surgeon prepping for a blind operation. Jace floats, never quite committing to a position, but always within arm’s reach, his shadow overlapping mine more times than physics should allow.
I try to keep my head down, but that only makes it worse. People whisper. Some gawk openly. I hear snippets—“that’s her,” “the Omega,” “how many does she have?” and, from one particularly poetic hydroponics tech, “the one who broke Alpha Grayson’s heart.”
Bullshit.
As if on cue, Grayson appears at the edge of the quad. Not walking, exactly—more like gliding. He’s in a fresh-pressed shirt and what must be the last surviving tie in North America, the knot so tight it looks like it’s throttling him for fun. He posts up next to a stack of sandbags and watches, arms folded, jaw flexing in time with our footsteps.
We’re headed for the old storage bay. The leadership is converting it into proper dorms, and the air inside is thick with drywall dust and the juddering echo of power tools. Dozens of volunteers—Betas mostly, a few brave Omegas—move in a carefully organized chaos, laying tile, threading copper wire, arguing over which wall gets the bunk beds. It’s a city being built one fuckup at a time, and the only thing more impressive than the noise is the speed.
Rhett ducks us through the caution tape and steers left, straight for what used to be the janitorial store room but is now, allegedly, my room. Someone’s set up a curtain in the doorway, and the floor is carpeted with scavenged bath mats and blankets—an improvement over the old omega holding rooms, but not by much.
The moment we cross the threshold, the pack explodes into motion. Cass throws his jacket on the cot, kicks over a crate, and uses it as a footstool. Rhett claims a patch of floor by the door, dropping his go-bag with military precision and immediately unzipping it to check his weapons. Michael slumps onto the blanket roll next to the far wall, pulling a battered notebook and pen from his coat. Jace hovers, scanning the room as if plotting fire exits, before perching on the windowsill and folding his long legs to his chest.
