Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before the end of the world, your world had already ended.

Kidnapped by a vicious alpha who dragged you from your hometown to his small cabin in the woods. You'd spent nine months his prisoner before the day came when you found out the rest of the world had gone to shit.

You stood in the middle of the main street of the small, quaint village near the cabin, laughing your ass off, feeling unhinged and hysterical—until the laughter eventually turned to sobs. Just your luck that you were finally free and now there was nothing and no one else to be free with you.

You had crouched on the cracked road, rocking yourself in an attempt to comfort the devastation out of you. There were no people. Buildings were broken into, burned, looted. You decided to have courage and walk to the next town over, where you used to live. But it was just more of the same. Your house had every window shattered. No sign of your parents, grandparents, siblings. You wandered through the gutted town without direction, heartbroken at the thought of your family being dead, or worse. You found a small pile of corpses in front of the sheriff's building. They were the first bodies you'd seen. They had clearly been there a while.

When you heard harsh laughter and jeering, your first instinct was to hide—and you were later glad for it. You peered out from inside a large trash bin, hoping the strong smell of old, rotting garbage would mask your scent. A group of young men and women came sauntering down a side road, kicking cans and empty glass bottles as they laughed.

Terror seized your heart when one of them paused, some yards away from you, turning his head this way and that as if scenting something. You were sure you'd been detected. Until the screaming started.

The group scattered, some bolting right away while others stumbled and shouted.

"What's it doing so far north?!" "Don't let it catch you!" "It's got Tommy!"

You didn't know what to expect, and in fact, still aren't sure what exactly it was you saw. A hulking mass of grey flesh, more legs—arms? tentacles? blade hands?—than a spider. Shifting and roiling like it had no one true shape, one moment reminding you of a multi-legged elephant, and then the next a crab just as big. It rolled and twitched down the street after the fleeing strangers, snatching up the ones it could catch, gone just as quickly as it appeared. You stayed in the garbage bin, shaking, for hours after that, not brave enough to move.

When you finally did leave the bin, you couldn't think of any place to go. You had nowhere to go. Eventually, you returned to the small village, grabbing what supplies you could find left over, and then made your way back to the cabin in the woods.

Before… everything, your special interest had been traps and trapping. Your alpha mother had first introduced you to the concept when teaching you how to make a snare for catching rabbits as a youngster. You'd read so many books about trap making after that, and retained the information much more easily than any other school subjects.

You used your knowledge to make some traps in the woods surrounding the cabin, letting your happiness with the interest help distract you from all the awfulness of the world as it was now. You started simple, with tripwires and snares that would—theoretically— capture any intruders. …Aside from that strange creature of course. You really hoped that thing didn't come your way. But if you were being honest, it was people who scared you more. Your hand rubbed at the bruising teeth marks on your neck and shoulders as you thought about the cruelty of humans.

Your traps became more sophisticated with practice, and in varying types as well. It was after a close call with a strange alpha that you decided to start making them more lethal rather than just hindrances. You'd hiked all the way back to the distant town where you used to live, searching for specific materials you needed for your traps, when the alpha had found you, drawn by your scent. You were glad you'd brought the old hunting rifle from the cabin with you.

When you got home, you immediately began whittling and sharpening out stakes of all sizes to put to good use. Thankfully, after that, you never saw any other people. No one bothered you. Even so, you continued adding traps, just for the joy and distraction it gave you. It could get pretty boring— and lonely, your omega whispers, longing for a pack— after spending so much time alone and isolated in the northern woods.

Now, after three years of surviving, you're fairly comfortable with your life. You find ways to entertain yourself, traps or not, and you keep yourself fed through hunting and gathering. You rarely scavenge for goods from the village or other more distant towns. After a while, you realize there are quite a few items that you can just live without, even if you miss their convenience. Or tastiness. You'd kill for some chocolaty candy of any kind.

You're in the village today, hoping against hope that you can stumble across some shampoo or body wash among the abandoned houses. That's one luxury that you try to use sparingly once you find it, eke it out for as long as possible.

There's a small house you haven't ventured into before beyond the front room. You hope the bathroom in it will have the prize you seek. You're walking down a snowy cobbled road toward it when you catch the scent.

Alpha.

You shudder, fear spiking quickly. You haven't visited the village in months, so your scent shouldn't be hanging around the buildings. If you leave now, you might be able to avoid catching the alpha's attention. Before you can even move, a deep, mean sounding voice breaks the silence. It's the first voice you've heard in more than two years. You wish you could say it was pleasant.

"Hold it right there, omega."

You freeze, thinking fast. Maybe if you bolt, you can make it to the safety of your trapped woods before he catches you. You glance over your shoulder at the man and your heart sinks. He's pointing a gun at you.

"That's right," he says with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He's bald, with a thick grey mustache hanging under his nose. "Don't bother running, or I'll shoot you in the leg." He walks toward you, ratty combat boots crunching icy snow and gravel under each heavy step.

He's bigger than you, of course, but older, maybe in his fifties or sixties, and he doesn't look like he's got the physique for running. Maybe you should run. Your only other option is the hunting knife you have stored in your heavy winter coat's pocket. You won't be able to draw the old hunting rifle quickly enough to use against him. But your hand is already in your pocket with the knife. It could work.

He's wearing stained and worn camouflage patterned shirt and pants as if he was a military man. When there was still a military. Is there still a military? you wonder to yourself.

He stands a head above you, sneering down at you, the mouth of his pistol pressing into your shoulder, prompting you to turn to fully face him. Even sweat and dirt aside, he has a rancid scent, so unappealing to your omega it makes you want to gag. He whistles lowly in appreciation, his free hand tugging your scarf aside to search your neck. Your omega growls inside your hind brain, but you remain silent. You close your fingers around the knife handle in your coat pocket, careful not to move any other part of your body.

"Looks like I took the right path, making my way up here instead of east," he says, sounding so pleased. "An unclaimed, sweet smelling omega like you is hard to find these days." He must not have noticed the faint scars on your neck. You had been claimed, by your kidnapper, before his death began the slow process of disappearing the marks. You glare at the stranger as he releases your scarf.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," his alpha adding weight to the rumble in his voice. "Men like me have needs that require taking care of. So be a good girl and le—" You swing your hunting knife, slashing toward his face. When he rears back with a shout and a small scratch on his cheek, you slam the knife blade down on his hand holding the gun. He drops it— thank fuck— and you kick it away before turning tail and running.

You don't slow as you pull your hunting rifle over your head from where it had been slung over your back. You glance down to make sure it's loaded before searching around you for possible escape routes. Should you head straight for the edge of the village and into the trees, or should you try to lose him in one of the abandoned buildings first? No, either way, he'll just follow your scent back to the cabin. Your traps are your best bet for safety.

You hear him shouting at you to stop running— yeah right, like I'll just suddenly listen to your commands now— and then a loud pop rings through the air. A stinging pain lances through your upper arm and you stumble. He shot me! You try to control your panic as you pick your pace back up into a run— and then you're bulldozed by a heavy weight crashing into you.

You're flung forward into the snow, your hunting rifle clattering from your hands in front of you. You start crawling forward before the alpha wrenches you toward him. He flips you over on your back and climbs on top of you. He's sitting on your chest, hands squeezing your throat, snarling down at you.

"I didn't manage to get away from those fucking bootlickers just to be disrespected by some slut omega!"

The panic and fear surges up through you with renewed vigor at the familiar feeling of hands on your throat. Never again, never again, never again! Your omega is screaming for blood, begging you to let her take over. You're struggling to breathe as you dig your fingers into the knife wound on his hand. He screams, releasing you, and you gulp in air, twisting away, scrabbling for something, anything. Your hand closes on something firm and you immediately turn, swinging it with all your might.

It's your rifle, and it clocks him in the temple like a baseball bat. He goes down hard. You scramble away from him, kicking his weight off you frantically. He groans, his eyes fluttering as he's slumped on the snowy ground. You panic and grab your rifle again, slamming the butt of it against his head once more. He's silent.

You stand there, shaking, breathing ragged through a sore throat. That was a close one. Too close.

The throbbing in your arm brings your attention to your bullet wound. You grit your teeth as you peel off your coat just enough to quickly examine it. Its bleeding heavily enough that you've gotten blood all over the snow during the struggle, but you're relieved to find it isn't as bad as you thought. The bullet had just grazed your arm, creating a shallow gash rather than a full hole.

Okay, that's fine, I can handle this, I have a medical kit stored at the cabin, you think, doing your best to calm down. You stare at the alpha for a moment, then pull off a glove to check his pulse. You're not quite sure if you're relieved or disappointed to find that he's still alive.

You stand again, biting your lip at the bright red blood staining the snow. This is going to attract predators, human or otherwise. You try to kick some fresher snow over the mess, covering the blood as best you can. Your scent still lingers in the air though. As well as the alpha's. You look at him again, considering. His nasty scent is strong. Maybe you could use him to cover up your own scent?

You've spent so much time alone without seeing another person, what are the odds that even more people would come this far north? You stare grimly at the unconscious alpha. If one has come, there's always a chance it could happen again. You don't want to risk it. Resolved, you use your scarf, tying it around your wound to slow the bleeding.

You drag the heavy man over the snow to the treeline. Once you reach the pines, you search some of his pockets, finding a hat, a handkerchief, a lone sock, and a half-smoked cigar. You toss the cigar over your shoulder and walk the perimeter of your woods—not too far though, in case the alpha wakes. You rub the sock against trees as you go, eventually tying it to a branch before turning back and repeating the process in the other direction using the handkerchief.

When you return to the alpha again, you grab him by his boots and slowly make your way through the trees, carefully avoiding your traps. Even in the snow, you know where all of them are. After an exhausting amount of time, you finally make it to your cabin. Your back aches, your arm is throbbing, your feet are sore. You're very grumpy about all this. Screw this asshole for showing up and ruining your peace.

You pull off his boots and set them on the front porch. Nice and smelly. Then you take the socks from his feet— you hope he gets frostbite— and the hat from earlier and use them to smear his scent all over the edge of the clearing and the outside of the cabin. You leave the items tied to random trees. His scent is really fucking gross, absolutely suffocating the area now. Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea after all…

You search the rest of his pockets for anything useful. One find has you a bit nervous but also intrigued. He has four round items, and if you're not mistaken, according to movies you've seen in your youth, these are grenades. Holy shit— you're already getting lots of titillating ideas for how you could implement them in your traps. You quickly search him some more, but the only other useful thing you find is a lighter. He didn't even have any extra bullets for the pistol he shot you with. You pull that pistol from its holster on his belt and stuff it in a snow drift by your porch.

Then you drag him inside, and take him down to the cellar.

Price and his boys are on the hunt.

They've been following Shepherd's trail for nearly a year now, doggedly, unforgiving. They'd almost caught him a few times, but the bastard had managed to slip away by a fish's breath each time. They've followed him north, all the way up to this secluded, ruined village. They're a few days behind him, thanks to a run in with a Horse that needed putting down, but his scent is still fresh enough for them to follow.

They're close to the edge of town, and it's looking like Shepherd made off into the forest, when Gaz catches a whiff of an unfamiliar but undeniable scent. Price notices the beta pause, breathing deeply with his eyes closed.

"What do ya got, Garrick?" he asks. Gaz is the best scent hound of them all, able to pick up on the slightest shift of smells. Ghost is the next best, and would be just as good as Gaz if it weren't for the mask constantly covering his nose, filtering out some finer scents.

Gaz walks over to a mound of snow, leaning down to sniff more closely. He uses his hands to uncover some snow colored a faded brown.

"Blood," Gaz says, sounding breathless. When he turns to look at them, Price can see a slight dazed look in his eyes. "From an omega."

They stiffen. An omega? Here? Are they alone? They all take turns sniffing the old blood, Price rumbling low in his chest without intending to. His alpha is perking up for the first time in a long while at the thought of something other than vengeance.

"Shepherd was here too," Ghost growls, prickling with anger. "Looks like he and the omega had a fight here.

"I don't think any of the blood is Shepherd's," Gaz adds regretfully.

"Do ye think he killed them?" Soap asks, his throat feeling a bit tight with anxiousness.

"No body buried here, but…" Ghost trails off, glancing into the trees where the scent trail leads. Now that they all have the omega's scent in their noses, they are able to notice it, hiding just under the surface of Shepherd's more overpowering scent.

Before they start walking to the trees, Gaz takes a moment to re-cover the old blood, his beta encouraging him to hide evidence of an omega's weakness.

Where the treeline starts, they notice that Shepherd's scent fans out, as if forming a perimeter. Soap and Gaz each wander in opposite directions, and eventually return with an item each. Price studies the sock and handkerchief.

"Why would Shepherd flaunt his scent like this? Like he's trying to warn off others from his territory?" Price muses, not really asking anyone in particular.

"But he knows that kind of scenting won't warn us away. Normally he tries to hide his scent from us, because it's exactly what we're following," Gaz says.

"Aye," adds Soap, "why would he be so worried about scaring aff strangers when we're the ones comin' after him?"

"He can't possibly think he's shaken us off his tail, can he?" Gaz asks incredulously. Price snorts at the thought of such hubris.

Ghost growls low in his chest, the heady scent of the omega blood still tickling at his nose. His alpha bristles in the cage of his hind brain.

"The omega," he says sharply. "Maybe Shepherd's gone feral and is trying to stake a claim."

They all look uneasy at that. Shepherd is a bastard. Who knew what he would do to a poor, defenseless omega.

The aforementioned omega might be poor, but you're certainly not defenseless.

You are currently sharpening a long, large branch into a spear you are excited about using for a sort of ballista machination. You're not sure you can get it to work before you find more materials needed for it though. It'll probably have to wait until spring… On the other hand, maybe you could repurpose some of the traps already in use. It's not like you'd be short on defense if you did. The forest is quite literally swamped in other traps.

You set the stick aside once you're done carving it and decide to head out to check your snares north of the cabin for any squirrels or rabbits. You're really hoping you can catch some; your food stores are starting to run low, and you're barely halfway through winter.

When you're far enough away from the cabin, you breathe deeply the fresh wintry air. Your alpha prisoner is still sufficiently stinking up your territory, and you're getting tired of the scent. The first alpha you come across after all this time, and he couldn't be bothered to have a nice smelling scent.

You mentally grumble and groan, your mood these days still grumpy thanks to him, as you tromp through the forest to check your snares.

"When did he have time to set up all these dammed traps," Price growls, slowly rotating upside down, hanging by his boot from a rope. "I thought we weren't far behind him."

Gaz bites back his smile as he cuts the rope and gradually lowers his alpha to the snow-covered ground. As Price gets to his feet, Gaz sniffs the rope.

"I'm only scenting the omega on the traps," he says, frowning now. He and Price tense when they hear a loud twang of a taught wire snapping, and a great wooden creaking before Soap shouts.

Ghost pushes aside a twiggy bush to reveal Soap, who's breathing hard with adrenaline. He's standing precariously, a sharpened spear stuck deep in a tree behind him and between his spread legs, narrowly avoiding his groin by barely a half inch.

Soap's horror turns quickly to anger and lots of cussing as he steps away from the spear. He's had enough. He pulls a small grade explosive from his pack, intending to toss it in front of them and "disarm" the traps ahead by simply blowing up the forest. Ghost puts a restraining hand on him and Soap groans in disappointment, stowing the explosive for another occasion.

"Oh LT, but A'm so tired o' all these focken traps!" he complains. "Was Shepherd always this cunning and good with his hands?"

"I think the omega is the one who set them up," Gaz offers. "Shepherd probably decided to keep and use them for himself."

"He probably had the wee omega lead him safely through the woods without tripping any o' them," Soap snarls, offended on the omega's behalf.

Meanwhile, you're on the porch, eating a meager dinner of half a can of heated beans. You would give the other half to your prisoner—Shepherd, he said his name was, in between insults about your character.

You had only managed to catch one small squirrel, barely large enough for one meal. You decided to release it and reset the snare. Hopefully it would grow fatter, have lots of squirrel babies, and feed you better in the future. But you can't afford to catch and release the next one you find, no matter how small they are. You're trying to eat sparingly, save up your stores. The hunting hadn't been as plentiful this year, so you are worried about burning through your preserved food before spring comes.

The Shepherd man is always complaining about being hungry and not being fed enough. You wish you could just let him starve. Or shoot him dead. But the thought of murder doesn't sit easy on your shoulders. You've only ever killed in self defense, and even then, it hadn't been easy.

Your thoughts are interrupted with the sound of a distant explosion. You jump, the calm of the evening shattered, a few birds taking flight with shrill squawks. You don't smell anything on the wind, but it can't have been nothing that triggered the trap. Could it have accidentally sprung itself? It's true you've had a few failures here and there when the materials gave way due to the elements. But… You hurry inside and bolt the door closed, lowering the thick wood plank for extra reinforcement.

Your heart is pounding with fear, your hair standing on end. First this Shepherd alpha, and now another intruder. You hope it's only one at least. You hope the explosion did them in and you don't have any other reason to worry. The trap had been new, using one of the grenades found on Shepherd. You spread the four grenades out in four different locations around your cabin in varying distances and cardinal directions. You were mostly positive the tripped one was in the south, closest to the village.

Your stomach is a little queasy as you wait, peering through the peephole on the front door. Please let the intruder be dead from the grenade, please please please. You wait for thirty minutes, enough time for the sun to slip behind the mountain as it sets, but you don't hear any other sounds from outside.

You let out a slow breath. It'll be okay. You have your hunting rifle. You aren't the world's greatest marksman, but you have at least gotten good enough with practice that you can hit deer in the skull fairly reliably. You also have a small shotgun, tucked above the door, leftover from your kidnapper's belongings. You haven't had a chance to really use and practice with it, but you guess that it's fairly easy if you're close enough to your target. If you had that with you when you first met Shepherd, you could have blasted his guts and been done with him in the first place. You huff. Speaking of.

You take the half eaten can of beans down to the cellar. The foul smelling alpha snarls at you to let him go, as per usual. And when you turn to climb back up the ladder, he's quick to shut up and beg for the food. As usual as well.

He is tethered to the wood and dirt wall with the very same shackles that once imprisoned you, before your kidnapper's death. One thick metal collar around the neck, and three cuffs; one on each wrist, and the last on an ankle. The chains had a yard or so of leeway, so that one could sit on the floor, eat, and shit in the provided bucket. Not for sex though. Your kidnapper had unchained you whenever he wanted that. You wouldn't be doing that with the Shepherd alpha, needless to say.

You hand over the can of beans, not giving him the spoon. He growls a little, but eats quickly, using his fingers to scoop the beans into his mouth. When he's finished, you hold out your hand for the can, but he throws it at your feet. You sigh through your nose and pick it up to take back upstairs.

"What was that sound earlier?"he shouts at you as you ascend the ladder. You pause, looking at him; he can't read your expression.

You don't say anything. You haven't spoken in a long time, and you certainly aren't going to start now. Back upstairs, you peer out through a crack in the boarded front window. You don't see anything…

You hope it will stay that way.

"Johnny!" Ghost is shouting for his beta, fear seizing in his chest.

They've already lost one packmate, they can't lose another. He can't lose another.

But then the snow and smoke clears, and Soap is sitting up on the ground, coughing slightly, waving wisps of smoke away from his soot-stained face. His eyebrows and part of his mohawk look a bit singed. But miraculously, he otherwise looks unharmed. Ghost sags, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath and calm his thundering heart.

"Och, fer focken sakes, Shepherd must 'ave added some stolen items from the armory tae some o' these traps." Soap stumbles to his feet.

The burning brimstone scent of anger flares out from the two alphas as they look at each other. How dare Shepherd nearly take the life of another of their betas.

"We'll get him," Price rumbles. Ghost nods once.

The sun is setting, so Price decides to have them stop where they are and set up camp. Stumbling through these traps was hard enough when they had daylight to see by—they'd nearly lost Gaz to a shallow pit full of wooden stakes at the bottom, if Ghost's lightning reflexes hadn't saved him—, no sense in continuing in the dark of night.

After eating some ration bars, they snuggle together in a single small tent, the body heat warming their cold extremities. The scent in the tent turns a bit as sorrow comes crawling back into their thoughts now that they aren't distracted by the hunt.

"It'll be almost a whole year soon," Kyle says, so softly. The arm John has around his middle tightens, pulling his beta closer, his own back pressed against Simon's. Johnny buries his face into Simon's chest as his alpha tightens his hold on him.

Roach was never far from their thoughts.

They would get their revenge for his death. They wouldn't stop hunting Shepherd, no matter the traps standing in their way.

Chapter Text

By the time the sun rises in the morning, they're already discussing the omega, who's scent is all around them in these woods.

"They might be mated to someone," Price warns.

"But what if they aren't!" Soap says, getting excited over the prospect.

"We haven't scented anyone else in the vicinity, just the omega and Shepherd," Gaz points out. Price huffs in annoyance.

"The pack is balanced as it is now, we don't need any additional unbalancing." He doesn't want to add an omega to the mix, no matter how much his alpha longs for it.

Ghost is also against the idea.

"The omega is probably untrained in combat or survival, they would only be a hindrance and slow us down," he adds.

"Omegas are important for healthy packs; they ground them, bring in important pheromones to the bonds that keep them strong," argues Gaz. As a beta, Kyle could more easily feel the strain in their bonds ever since Roach's death. They were closer than ever, united in their goal of vengeance, but at the same time, their emotions and state of minds were turbulent and unsteady. They are just barely holding a very careful balance, right on the precipice of a "healthy" pack dynamic.

"Plus, how good would it feel tae fuck an omega after all this time," Soap says bluntly. If he had a tail, it'd be wagging.

"Johnny, you didn't fuck omegas even before the world ended," Simon shoots back.

Soap looks astonished and over-the-top offended, "Oft, I was a real player back in my day, A'll have ye know!"

Kyle punches him in the arm and turns a serious look at Price. "Even if we don't take the omega as ours, we should at least check that they're okay." They remember the old blood under the snow.

Price thinks for a moment, brows knotted as he scratches at his beard.

"Fine, but Shepherd comes first."

"For Roach," they all agree.

In the morning, you wake just as the sun is starting to rise. You eat a small breakfast of deer jerky and a slice of hard cheese. You use the empty bean can from last night to hold water and bring it and a bit of jerky down to your prisoner. You stand there, thinking hard about what to do with him, as he eats. Maybe you could knock him out, drag him far enough away from your cabin and the town and leave him there? Was he a good enough tracker to find his way back here for revenge?

You gasp as a sudden burst of pain slices across your thigh. You stumble away from Shepherd, kicking yourself mentally for not staying more aware. He'd managed to wrench part of the can, bending it out of shape, and cut you with a sharp edge. You grimace at the blood welling up and staining your pants, and shoot a glare at him.

He's clearly disappointed that he hadn't done more damage. You wish you could shout at him, even if he managed kill you then and there, what would be the plan then huh? He'd still be chained to the wall!

You hiss a breath between your teeth and quickly step toward him, kicking at his hand, making the broken can go flying out of his reach. He cries out, holding his hand. You might have broken one of his fingers. Good, you think.

You head upstairs to clean the cut and put a bandage over it. You also take the opportunity to apply a clean bandage to the gash on your arm you'd gotten while fighting Shepherd in the village. Wow, had it already been almost a week since then? How time flies when you're holding someone prisoner… you think sarcastically.

The older wound seems to be healing fine, no signs of infection. After that's all done, you decide you need to be brave and check the traps. If that explosion took out the intruder, or not, you need to be sure. And also, their dead body might be carrying some needed supplies.

You grab your rifle and unbar the front door, and carefully sniff the air as you exit. Still nothing.

You're hopeful.

The four of them stiffen when the scent hits their noses, carried by the wind. The omega. Close by.

They hunker down in a couple of bushes, holding still in the way only trained soldiers are often capable of. Then, they hear a distant, quiet crunch of snow. They focus all their attention in that direction, just a little off north of their position.

After a few minutes of patient waiting, they see you. You're bundled up, looking more coat than person, but what immediately catches their attention is the rifle in your hands. It looks like an old hunting rifle. Why do you have a gun if you're Shepherd's prisoner?

You're still a good few yards away when you stumble slightly, their eyes catching the movement like predators locked on with full attention. You hiss softly, and press a gloved hand to your thigh, the wind carrying a sudden scent of blood. The predators in them shift.

You're wounded. A wounded, armed omega. But where is Shepherd? they're all wondering, when suddenly, you freeze. None of them had moved, so what was it that caught your attention? Had the wind shifted?

They watch you glance around nervously, and raise your rifle, your scent turning sour with nerves. Price thinks the best thing to do is approach things calmly. Peacefully.

You feel the cut on your thigh reopen, hissing at the pain, when you realize something. There is a heavy silence in the forest. No birds, no rodents, no cracking of twigs as distant deer roam. It's too quiet. It instantly has your omega's hackles raised.

You lift your rifle, glancing around. You don't smell or hear anything that indicates a threat, but you are still plenty ready to abandon your plan of checking the traps to simply head back home. Just as you're about to turn around, movement.

A large man stands up from a bush barely five yards away from you. You're so startled, you gasp and stumble backwards, the rifle in your hand goes off accidentally, and you fall to the snowy ground.

Then there's suddenly three more men, shouting, rushing toward the first.

"Price! Are you alright?"

"It's okay, just clipped my shoulder."

You scramble to your feet, your thigh wound burning, a trickle of blood seeping into your jeans below the bandage. You aim your rifle at them again, (it isn't loaded anymore, but maybe they won't realize that. You hope. You're too nervous to try fishing another bullet from your coat pocket) trying to decide on the best course of action.

You don't know how fast they are, they might be able to catch you if they avoid the traps between here and the cabin. Maybe if you wound one more of them first, it will slow them all down enough to give you time to flee. They seem pretty stirred up just from the one getting shot. You consider which one to shoot as you take a step backwards.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," one of them says, pushing down his jacket hood, revealing a beautiful face, dark skin, full lips, big brown eyes. How had you not smelled them all? You berate yourself internally for not noticing the direction of the wind.

"We don't want to hurt you," the pretty one continues, hands raised.

You really don't believe that.

You see one of them—the biggest of the four, holy shit he's huge— wearing a fucking skull mask sewn onto a balaclava. Yeah, right, they mean no harm whatsoever.

You bare your teeth, but no sound comes out. Your heart is thudding so hard you fear they can hear it. You take another step back, careful to step over the hidden tripwire you know is there.

"We aren't here to hurt you," the one you shot says through gritted teeth. "We're looking for someone. His name is Shepherd."

They don't miss the way your gaze sharpens in recognition. You take another step back then turn and sprint toward the direction of your cabin.

The skull guy bursts into a growl, "she's working with Shepherd!" and he lunges forward, sprinting at you so fast it makes you feel like you're standing still; you can't look away from him as you run, causing you to trip a little, grabbing a tree for support. You're staring back at him as he hits the tripwire. A board covered in small sharpened sticks springs out at him from under the snow and with a snarl he punches it, shattering the wooden board, without even breaking his stride.

Your breath catches for a moment, your omega pricking up at the confident display of power. Not the time for that! You think at her.

But then the man is suddenly gone— straight down into a ten foot hole. That had been dug out by your kidnapper when he had briefly entertained the idea of setting pitfall traps. You're the one who carefully covered the opening. All the other traps really were your doing, made with lots of hard work and a little cleverness.

You smile smugly and then turn to keep running.

Ghost's hip aches once his pack manages to pull him from the pit. He'd landed hard on his side, and he hopes it is only horribly bruised and not cracked. He's lucky there hadn't been spikes at the bottom of the pit.

"Why would she be working with Shepherd, he's a focking bawbag," Soap is arguing. Ghost growls in annoyance, but Soap doesn't pay him any mind as he uses a long stick to prod the ground ahead of them while they carefully follow in your footsteps. "There's naw way he managed tae seduce a random omega, I mean, he smells like absolute dogsh—"

"Soap," Price commands. The beta shuts up as they all realize they can see a cabin between the trees, your scent leading straight to it.

"Finally," Ghost mutters under his breath. They approach the cabin warily, hushed steps in the snow. The front door is ajar. Boots that most definitely belong to Shepherd sit on the porch. They feel uneasiness crawl up their spines.

Ghost and Soap walk the perimeter, circling the ominously silent cabin. It's a single story building, no other doors, all the windows boarded up.

"A trap if I ever saw one," Gaz breathes as they return to the front.

"Aye," Soap says quietly, "but the only way in."

"The omega's scent veers off into the woods. It's recent, she probably grabbed something before bolting," Ghost huffs. He wants to chase, he wants to hunt the omega. Shepherd first. Shepherd comes first.

Price glances at the other three before deciding.

"There could be more traps inside, be on high alert."

"Yes sir."

They make their way inside very slowly, checking all around. They find a meager nest of blankets and pillows next to the wood stove, the boys respectfully avoiding stepping on it. Soap grins at the sight of the unmade bed in the small bedroom. It's queen sized, just barely leaving enough room to walk on the sides, the foot of it almost banging up against the bedroom door. He presses his face into the pillow there, breathing deeply until Ghost snaps at him to focus. Your scent is thick in the cabin, pressing down on all their nerves, scratching at their minds, a stark difference to Shepherd's suddenly missing scent. No, not completely missing.

They crowd around a ladder that must descend to a cellar. Their quarry's scent wafts up, the only place inside the cabin it lingers. They hear a metallic rattle. The four of them glance at each other before descending into the cellar.

And there, at last, is their prey.

"Well lookie here," Price says with a mean glint in his eye and his teeth flashing.

Shepherd's head shoots up, and his face pales. He's chained to the wall with several shackles, and he rattles them with a sudden desire to flee.

"Looks like the 'mega is in tae some kinky shite," Soap snarks.

Gaz is glancing around the dirt cellar, and notices the key hanging on a nail jutting from the side of the ladder. He tosses it to Price.

"Well, we could just leave him here to starve," Ghost mutters. A panicked look passes over Shepherd's face. But Ghost isn't serious about the suggestion. He'd rather see the life leave the bastard's eyes right here and now. Price tosses the key in the air, catches it, makes a fist around it. Then punches Shepherd hard in the side of the face. Brimstone fury suffocates the room.

They all close in on the helpless prisoner, gleeful looks on their faces.

"This one's for Roach," Ghost's raspy voice is so very low and dangerous.

You're in the trees.

You opened the door for them and stayed close enough that you could distantly watch them enter the cabin when they arrived. You really hope that they take the Shepherd guy and just leave. You're glad now that you didn't kill him. Just let them take the man and be on their way, and you can go back to the way things were, blissfully alone.

Your omega whines, reminding you that the loneliness wasn't always blissful. You tuck your face down into your scarf, willing away the ache of solitude.

You smell them, the wind carrying just enough of their scent to you to let you know their group consists of two alphas and two betas. You try to ignore the way drool builds in your mouth at the small taste of their scents, so much more enticing than Shepherd's.

You bet that pretty one is a beta. His expression and voice had been so gentle, trying to coax you from your fear. You frown, crinkling your nose. And you bet that skull guy was an alpha, for sure, the aggressive bastard. Your omega happily reminds you just how strong he'd appeared to be. You remind her in turn that the stronger they are, the less likely you can protect yourself if things turn out like your kidnapping. You had gotten lucky when you killed him, and he hadn't even been that strong. You'd never be able to take down a single one of these men if it came to that.

You wait and wait and wait. You're glad that at least the cut on your thigh seems to have scabbed over. You're shivering and the sun is starting to set when you see smoke start rising from your chimney. Horror and rage flare up in you in equal parts. How DARE they make themselves at home in your cabin! But also, oh fuck, what do you do now?

You hadn't even considered the possibility of them staying, taking over your cabin. Why hadn't you thought of that? You aren't prepared at all to spend a night out in the cold. The walk to the village is too far to make it there quickly with the small amount of remaining daylight. Thoughts of that grey monster you saw years ago has always kept you from traveling at night.

You feel tears prick your eyes, truly at a loss for what to do. You sniffle a little. Fuck, you are already so cold. You want to whine and sob and cry. You suppose you could wait until later in the night, when they're asleep, sneak in, try to quickly grab some supplies and beat it out of there. You had a bag hanging on a hook near the door that you kept precisely for emergencies. Just grab it and run. Just grab it and run.

You think it must be close to midnight by now. You can't feel your toes as you slowly creep into the cabin, avoiding the creaky boards you know so well. You grab the bag off the hook, and are turning to sprint out the door when strong hands clamp down on you. You scream, or, try to, your voice, having been unused for nearly three whole years, sounds incredibly broken. You thrash as you're pulled back against someones broad chest, your rifle clattering to the floor.

"Caught you, little mouse," a hushed growl in your ear.

A chill runs down your spine, your fear spiking in your scent. No no no no nonononono!

Ghost had been waiting, so patiently, to see if you would return in the night, either to attack, or to snatch some supplies. He'd noted the go bag on the hook by the door.

In the end, his patience had been worth it. You came tiptoeing in so quietly, he might have missed you if he hadn't been keeping watch. When he snatches you, you make a pitiful sound, like a broken up, squeaky door attempt of a scream. He finds it a bit cute. His alpha rumbles at your feistyness as you try to wriggle from his grasp.

"Caught you, little mouse," he can't help but tease a little, still feeling the high from the wild, licentious victory sex he'd just had with Johnny earlier that evening. Even John and Kyle had gotten in on it after the initial round. A little heated celebration for finally catching their prey and enacting their long-standing revenge. Your luxurious omega scent had absolutely added to the frenzy. The betas had cried themselves to sleep after the come down, thoughts on their lost packmate, each of them cradled up against Price's sides on the bed while Ghost stood guard near the front door.

Ghost pulls you toward the bedroom, and the others are already waking, sensing the disturbance. He kicks the bedroom door closed behind him but then grunts when he feels your teeth bite into his gloved hand. It wouldn't bleed, but you still had enough force in your jaw to make it hurt just enough to rile his alpha. His grip doesn't loosen, and you're sorely disappointed by that.

You're breathing heavily, teeth still biting down on his hand, your fear laden scent quickly clouding the small room. Your eyes are looking a bit dazed, likely from the four-pronged scent assault in the enclosed space. Who knew how long it had been since you'd been exposed to so many scents at once.

As Price stands from the bed and Gaz and Soap sit up, Ghost suddenly releases you. You slip from his grasp to the floor and scramble over to a corner, shaking violently, chest heaving.

"So the sneaky wee hen returns," Soap jeers. "Say, why'd ye have Shepherd chained in yer cellar? Ye like that sort o' thing?"

Your eyes are wide, you don't say anything, just curl up tighter into your coat and scarf as you stare at them. But you do silently bare your teeth at him, trembling all the while. Gaz smacks Soap on the shoulder, then scoots to the edge of the bed.

"It's okay," he says, trying to send out a soothing scent, your fear strong and suffocating in the small bedroom. "We aren't here to hurt you, we just wanted Shepherd." You glance around the room as if looking for something.

"He's still down in the cellar, would ye like tae see?" Soap offers in a mocking tone. It's clear with Shepherd being chained in the cellar that you had been the one to set up and maintain the traps. And Soap was still sore about almost getting blown up. He gets off the bed as Gaz shoots him a glare. But Soap continues undeterred. "Were ye keeping him prisoner tae take care o' yer needs? A poor wee omega, so hungry fer some alpha cock that ye take hostage the first one ye find?"

A full-body shudder rocks through you, and you almost look like you're going to puke for a split second before you bare your fangs at him again, and then…? They think you attempt to growl, but it's a broken, small, strangled sound. You snap your teeth together as if threatening to bite. Cute, they think, without realizing that all of them are thinking the same thing, feeling a small thrill inside them.

Whatever argument the two alphas had been making earlier against getting to know you, flies right out of their heads. Or perhaps it was already gone when they were having sex in a bed soaked in your scent.

Price snatches Soap by the back of his shirt and tosses him toward the bed where Ghost, who has moved away from the door, climbs on top of him and uses his body weight to pin the beta down to the mattress with a low warning growl. Soap squirms a second, but then complies, settling down with a huff and shutting up.

Price kneels now, only an arms length away from you. You're shaking so hard, he wonders how you don't just rattle yourself into little pieces.

"Why were you holding Shepherd?" he asks, a little more kindly than Soap had. Your eyes dart around the room, eyeing the shut door, before turning back to him. [You don't know how you can answer any questions they have unless they're 'yes or no' answers, so you just stare at him.] "Were you the one who put him down there?"

Your head bobs shakily. He lifts his brows; he hadn't expected you to answer.

"Why?" he asks, tilting his head. After a pause, you shake your head. "You refuse to tell us why?" Your head shakes again. Price squints at you.

"Was he the one who hurt you?" Gaz interjects, gesturing vaguely toward your thigh, though it's tucked up against you at the moment. You nod. Then you flinch as Price shifts a little closer. Your eyes dart to the door again.

"Settle down," he warns, "You know you can't outrun us—"

Before he's finished speaking you jolt to your feet, lunging for the door, but Price grabs your arm lightning quick, and yanks you back to the floor in front of him. You lose your balance and unintentionally ram your head into his shoulder—the shoulder you accidentally shot earlier. He grunts in pain and releases you.

You scramble under the bed, crawling until you're by the headboard, against the wall, staring out with big terrified eyes. Price and Gaz look at you under the bed, and you hiss at them like a feral cat.

They stand upright, and look at each other, Price noticing the beta's worry and unease. He's not too sure how to make this situation any smoother though.

Ghost releases Soap and lays down on the floor to get a look at you. You're panting, the prolonged state of heightened fear clearly wearing you out. His alpha scratches in his hind brain to comfort the frightened omega. Ghost rumbles deep in his chest, and he hears a small croak in return. He narrows his eyes.

"You can't speak, can you?" he asks gruffly, bluntly. You shrink further into your scarf, your eyes just barely peeking out at him. He feels like he's hit the nail on the head.

"She can't speak?" Gaz asks as Soap hangs his head off the bed to get a peek at you too.

"That why she cannae even growl?" Soap asks, sitting back up. Price hums in thought before climbing back onto the bed.

"It's late," he says, sounding suspiciously casual to his team who knows him so well. "Let's get some rest and we can figure this all out in the morning. We have no place else to be, we can just stay here as long as we need." He smiles when he hears a small, indignant chirrup from under the bed. Kyle smiles too, understanding his alpha is switching tactics—and is relieved that the chosen tactic isn't to just violently fish you out from there. Soap sighs and lays down as well with the two of them.

Ghost remains on the floor, watching you, his alpha longing to pull you close, remembering how you'd felt against him when he'd grabbed you earlier as you tried to sneak in. His bruised hip is going to be screaming at him tomorrow morning for sleeping on the hard wood floor, but his alpha insists on staying put.

You wait, hoping that when they fall asleep you can sneak out. But the big alpha stays on the floor, staring at you silently.

At least he's not wearing that skull mask, just a simple balaclava now. He stretches out languidly, as if he's perfectly comfy on the floor watching you, his booted feet closest to you and his head near the foot of the bed.

You bury your face in your scarf with a pout. This sucks. And you're hungry on top of it all, having missed out on your evening meal. You wonder if they fed Shepherd. They said they wanted him, but they didn't release him, so what did they want from him? What are they planning? You hope they don't use up or steal all your winter rations and reserves.

At least it's warmer in here than outside. Five bodies in the small room is heating it quickly, but even with that and your coat and scarf and boots still on, it isn't enough to stop your shaking. Your body yearns for greater warmth. You curl your gloved hands under you, wishing you could whine miserably to your heart's content.

You peek up at skull guy, yep, still staring at you. You bury your face again in your scarf. Please fall asleep, please. You wait for a while, your eyes starting to droop before you catch yourself and mentally shake yourself. You look at the alpha again. His eyes are closed. Your gaze trails down his form. His body really is huge.

Your omega purrs at the thought of how strong he looks, remembering how he easily held you against him earlier, the warmth seeping from his broad chest. You scold her. But you can't help the desire for that warmth. You sniff delicately, taking in his scent, trying to parse it from the other three men. Earlier, your head had been spinning from all four of their scents cloyingly filling the room and smothering you.

You'd gone from no other scents to three alpha and two beta scents so suddenly, it made you feel drunk being in the room with them. Although… the third alpha, Shepherd, his smell hadn't been pleasant in any way. He actually smelled a bit like dog shit. Maybe that's why you felt even more unprepared for this aromatic assault.

But this alpha here? You sniff again, more deeply, unconsciously shifting a little closer. He smells, well, nice. You lean even closer, closing your eyes briefly to focus. It reminds you of something akin to leather and black tea, and a hint of something spicy that you can't quite place. It makes your mouth water, your omega scratching at you to get closer and scent him more deeply.

But then you notice his eyes are open, staring at you. [Ghost had opened them when he'd heard you shift slightly. And when he noticed you sniffing him, he had to forcefully keep himself still.] You freeze, staring at him. Waiting to see what he might do. You're technically close enough that he could reach under and grab you, pull you out, kicking and screaming. But he doesn't move. After a few minutes, you relax your tense body, resting your chin in your scarf. [Ghost's alpha hums inside him, pleased to see the omega relax, even if only a bit, in his presence.]

After another minute of not breaking eye contact, he closes his eyes. You feel suspicious that this is some kind of trap, trying to ignore your omega begging you to crawl closer. You huff and settle down, stubbornly refusing her desires. You wait longer, determined to sneak out when he's fully asleep.

You feel like you've only blinked and suddenly there's the slight lightening of the room as predawn daylight tries to peek through the wooden boards on the window. You're also in a different position than before. You jerk with surprise. You're pressed close to the skull guy's hip, curled on your side, face pressing into his shirt near the bottom hem.

You snap your head up to see if he's awake yet. Fuck, he's looking right at you, and even with the mask you can just see the smugness radiating off him. You quickly shimmy away, back farther under the bed. He grumbles in displeasure—your omega whines inside you— but otherwise makes no move to grab at you. You wish you could cuss him out for being so annoyingly awake and watchful. Only a croak makes it out your throat before you quickly abandon the idea of trying to speak more. You really should have practiced using your damaged vocal chords when you had the chance. He rumbles again, deliciously low— according to your omega. Not you. Not at all.

But he doesn't sound displeased this time, rather, more like he's trying to soothe you. You give your omega the mental equivalent of a glare. He's not trying to be soothing.

Your thoughts are interrupted when the bed creaks with movement. You tense up as two feet fall over the edge to stand and carry someone to the door and out. You think it's the bearded one. He seemed like the leader of them.

You stare at the bedroom door, now left wide open. You glance at skull guy. He's watching you. Of course. You look back to the door and feel the desire to whine cloud your chest. You'd be slowed down too greatly by the act of crawling out from under the bed to ever make it out the door before he grabs you. You feel pent up energy tensing all your muscles, your body wanting to spring into action.

Your heart falls as the leader returns, but at least the door is still open. He sighs with a bit of a groan as he sits on the edge of the bed opposite skull guy. Then he gets down on the floor. You shrink away from him, eyeing him closely. You flinch as he tosses something at you. It slides across the floorboards. It's a small paper notebook with a pencil attached with a frayed string.

"Can you write?" he asks, his voice not sounding groggy at all despite the early hour.

You don't want to be helpful to him, but you have to admit, you have questions—as well as demands. You grab the notebook, peel off your gloves, and furiously write a few sentences before pushing it back to him.

"Who are you? Why are you still here? Leave me alone. Take Shepherd and leave. Please." Price reads it out loud, his lips quirk up a little at the last scribbled word.

"My name is Captain John Price," he says, and tilts his head to the other alpha. "That's Ghost." You almost snort. Of course his name is Ghost. "We're still here, because we're interested in why and how an omega is out here all alone… except for the alpha she chained up in her cellar," he adds wryly. Your face heats as you take the notebook he slides back to you. You quickly write some more.

"He attacked me in the village, I knocked him out and wanted to use his scent to warn off any others who might come. I dragged him around the edges of my territory to make it seem protected by an alpha. But then I didn't know what to do with him. I couldn't kill him." The pencil flags in its movement as you think of the one time you've managed to kill someone without reservation.

They must smell a sour turn in your scent, they rumble low in their chests. You glance at them both. You look down at your writing. It's kinda lengthy… You sigh softly, then decide to crawl forward to the foot of the bed. You keep your head under cover, but stick your hands out just enough that they can see the notebook as you write. You try not to get jumpy as the two alphas crawl around to the foot of the bed to either side of you, leaning their heads close to read.

"Smart girl," Price mumbles, almost to himself, as he reads your line about using Shepherd, Ghost hums back in agreement. Your omega preens at the praise.

"Those chains were already here. I was kept here by a man. Before." You don't see the way their eyes flick to each other after reading that, unspoken communication between them. You don't want to keep talking about this, so you change the subject. "I'm glad you're taking him away, I didn't know what to do with him, and he eats a lot." Ghost huffs a short laugh.

"You even fed the bastard?" You shrug, feeling embarrassed for some reason. The bed squeaks.

You dare to lean forward enough to turn your head and look up. The two betas are leaning over the edge, reading the notebook as well. You pull your head back and scribble quickly.

"So you got what you came for, you leave now right" you tap the page impatiently with the pencil, pointing at your words. Then you hear the pretty beta speak up, completely ignoring what you wrote.

"Why are you here alone?" he asks softly. "Why can't you speak?" There's a heavy silence. They don't miss how your fingers tremble.

"Taken. Kept. Chained." You don't want to talk about this. You grit your teeth. "Cut me." Your distress starts to burn in the air and they can't help the anxiousness they feel instinctively. You take in a deep breath to try and compose yourself. Explaining it in one go will be easier than needing to repeat yourself later. "He cut out my tongue when he first kidnapped me."— you ignore the whine above your head— "I finally killed him, but he choked me hard, crushed my neck, my voice hasn't been the same since." You pause then add, "not that I get a lot of speaking practice by myself."

You smell the scent of both the betas, trying to send out calming pheromones. You're a little surprised. The mohawk beta hadn't seemed very nice. One of them smells like lavender and sunshine warming the grass, and the other smells like the briny ocean and roses. You wonder which is which.

You startle as the mohawk beta, as if reading your mind, suddenly gets on the floor in front of you. He holds his head low, a bit of an ashamed look on his face. "Hi, my name's Soap. A'm sorry fer acting like a right prick earlier, lass," he says, looking at you with big, bright blue eyes. "I didnae mean tae be an ass, I was just mad about almost blowing up from one o' yer traps."

You sniff as subtly as you can —he's the one who smells of the ocean— and you only scent sincerity, nothing hidden or conniving. You look down at the notebook, hesitating, before writing.

"I'm sorry for almost blowing you up. But the traps are meant for protecting me, so I'm not sorry I set them up." Ghost and Price chuckle. Then you quickly add, "if you're called Soap, does that mean you've got a lot of soap in your supplies?" You look at him with such hope in your eyes he almost doesn't have the heart to tell you no.

"Sorry lass, you'd have better luck with Gaz on that front," he says, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, pointing up at the beta still on the bed.

The beta— Gaz— sighs sorrowfully and you hear his smooth tenor, "alas, we haven't been able to find a good resupply recently. I'm all out of soap, body wash, shampoo, everything and anything clean…" They all chuckle at their misfortune, and you feel a very small smile on your lips even though your hopes for a cleaner feeling body have been dashed. Looks like you'll just have to keep washing yourself with plain old water.

"Alright," Price says suddenly, rapping his knuckles on the floor. "How about some breakfast?" You immediately tense up again and write as fast as you can.

"You can't eat my food, I won't have enough to last the winter!"

They hardly glance at what you wrote before they all stand and file out the bedroom, Gaz saying, unconcerned, "don't worry, luv, you won't go hungry."

You feel a bit frazzled as you hear them rustling and clanging around in the main room of the cabin. You bet they eat even more than Shepherd. You're starting to feel like they are nicer than your first impression of them, but what if it's just an act to lull you into complacency? What if they steal your food, eat it all, and then pin you down and fuck you just because they can? You're just a stupid, small omega after all. What does it matter how they use you. Omegas are meant to be used.

You're starting to hyperventilate. You tremble with renewed anxiety and fear as you leave the tenuous safety of the under-bed. You rigidly stand in the doorway, watching them, breathing hard. Soap and Ghost have found the bag of deer jerky. Gaz is ladling some of the melted snow from the pot on the wood stove into a drinking cup, muttering about wishing for some tea. Price is carving up slices of your last chunk of hard cheese.

A sob escapes you, and their heads all snap in your direction. You cover your mouth with your hands as tears that you've held in since yesterday start to overflow in fat drops.

Suddenly, they're crowding around you, cutting off any escape, their scents loud in your nose. The betas are whispering nice things at you, telling you everything is fine now, no need to be sad, and you push against the chest in front of you, scrunching up your face as you continue sobbing. Everything is NOT fine! It's too much. Everything is just too much. All these big mean alphas and their big stupid scents, messing with your home, disrupting your life, eating your food, sleeping in your bed.

Too much!!!

Large arms wrap around you and lift you easily, and you try to wiggle free, instinct making you struggle and snap your teeth blindly— and then you're smelling fresh air, the clean, cold air of the the wintry woods. You're set on your feet in the snow and you gulp the fresh air greedily. The hands move to your back, rubbing soothing circles.

"There you go," Ghost murmurs, his voice graveled and surprisingly soft. "Just breathe."

After a few minutes, the tears stop, your breathing slowly evens out, and you sag back against him, tired. His strong arms come up around you, supporting you. Your omega is practically jumping for joy. Traitor.

Your eyes travel over the morning light slanting through the trees. You're outside, you could run now. You could weave through your traps and make it to the village now that it's light out.

Your stomach growls painfully with hunger.

Ghost chuckles. He hands you a piece of jerky. Where was he hiding that? You take it, ignoring your pride. You're too hungry. As soon as it's gone, you turn around to face Ghost. You tilt your head back to look him in the eyes. Beautiful brown eyes.

"Sometimes, I get too deep in my head and need some fresh air when things become too much, too loud," he says quietly. His lashes shine light gold in the sun. You wish you'd thought to bring the notebook with you; you must have dropped it in your distress. Ghost leans down till your noses almost touch, his gloved hands briefly going to your face to brush the tear tracks from your cheeks before dropping again.

"It'll be alright," he says, his voice low and husky. "We wont hurt you, dove. And we won't let you starve."

Your eyes search his as your omega rolls over happily, begging for you to believe the big alpha and submit to him. You slowly reach your hands up to cup his masked face; you can feel the warmth of him through his balaclava. Then you slide your hands down his neck and to his shoulders. Goosebumps rise on his arms and you think he must be cold in just his t-shirt without a jacket. [He isn't, he's merely reacting to your light touch.]

You feel like you're in a trance as you use your hold on his shoulders to balance yourself, leaning closer to sniff his neck, being careful to watch for any signs of displeasure or sudden movement. He lifts his hands to either side of your hips, but doesn't touch you; his anticipation is thick in the air.

The tense moment is broken when you hear an explosion in the distance. You jerk away from Ghost, wide eyed.

Someone just tripped one of your traps.

Chapter Text

You'd been leaning in to scent Ghost when you heard the explosion.

A chill sweeps through you. Price's pack didn't have any other allies on the way, right? Ghost is tense, making you think that isn't the case, his eyes scanning the trees before turning to the others. The three men are on the porch, rigid with alertness.

"Stay here," Ghost growls, sounding pissed, before walking with the others into the cabin.

Of course you don't listen, you run after them. Inside, you see your hunting rifle still on the floor where you'd dropped it last night. You grab it, listening to them talk amongst themselves while they strap on tactical vests and gear and load their pistols.

"Could be a Horse."

"Way up here? You know they don't like the pines and the snow."

"What about those sneaky pillocks from the last city we passed through? They coulda followed us all the way here."

"Seems like a lot of effort for so little pay off on their end. We don't have many supplies worth stealing."

"Aside from our bodies themselves."

They see you, and you can tell they're about to order you to stay in the cabin. Fuck that. You're out the door, before they can speak.

Their words prick at your nerves; horses? intruders? You don't know why a horse would be roaming around the forest, but if deer did, then who knows. Maybe there are wild horses in the area? On the other hand, were those "pillocks" they spoke of raiders or scavengers of some kind?

You tighten your grip on your rifle as you tromp through the snow. Even with these interlopers mucking about in your cabin, this is still your territory. And you are going to protect it.

You walk a few meters into the trees before you hear them following. You look back at them, pleased to find them smart enough to walk in your direct footsteps. Thankfully, they are looking at you, so you don't need to get their attention when you point down at a spot just off to the side. Without moving your feet, you squat and carefully brush snow from a tripwire hidden underneath. You glance at them, making sure they're looking at it. They nod. You stand and hurry to where you'd set up the grenade trap, pointing out a trap every now and then to the men following you.

For this grenade, you'd set it up to the east of the cabin, and you'd made it in tandem with a net trap. If the net was triggered, another person could walk forward to where the rope was anchored to a tree and cut the rope to free the the first person from the net. The grenade's tripwire was waiting just for that, in front of that anchor.

You thought you'd been pretty clever coming up with that, but now, looking at the terrified girl sobbing in the hanging net, staring wide eyed at the remains of her companion, you feel a twist in your stomach. You try not to look too closely at the body, but you can't help it. You stare blankly down at the man, a beta by the smell of him. A hand and both his legs have been blown off, blood gushing out freely. The grenades had more punch than you realized; how had Soap survived that?

You feel a hand on your arm. It's Gaz, he's looking at your face worriedly. You clench your jaw and move to the rope to cut the girl free, slinging your rifle over your back. Without prompting, Soap's strong hands grab the rope as you cut, and he lowers the girl carefully to the ground. As you and the two betas go to her, Ghost is going through the man's pockets and backpack. Price is scanning the trees, looking like he wants to walk about. [He does, but knows the traps limit his mobility. He is considering asking you to lead him through the trees, to check for any other intruders, but he doesn't want you to be in harm's way if there is anyone else out there. On the other hand, he can't force you to not go out to check your other traps. It would be best if one of them accompanied you.]

As you approach the girl, she wails, "Please don't hurt me!" You make calming motions with your hands as the three of you crouch around her, working to free her from the net. Shes crying, little delicate tears dripping down her dainty, dirt-streaked face, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

She's a little older than you initially thought, and an omega. You're faintly surprised, but you suppose you shouldn't be, what with all the people suddenly popping up in your territory lately. Might as well have a welcome mat at the treeline saying, "All Designations Welcome!" You huff.

She smells sweet and sugary—literally sugary, like she's been rolling in sugar and strawberries—, she looks well fed, with perfectly grabbable hips and shining blonde hair. She only looks slightly dirtied, with mud under her nails and some dirt on her worn clothing.

"What's your name?" Gaz asks as the three of you work her free.

"Cassie," she sniffles.

"What are you doing in these woods?" The last of the rope slips off her as she points at the dead man. Price is currently frowning down at him as Ghost shows him something that was in the man's pocket.

"He caught me and was holding me prisoner. He told me to behave, or he would rape me!" She sobs more, and your heart breaks for her. You pull her into your arms, trying to make your scent mellow and calm. You might not be a beta, but you can at least do your best to comfort her. She rubs her teary face into your jacket and whimpers. "It's been so long since I met another omega, I'm so glad I'm not the only one."

You're not so sure your inner omega would agree with that. You can feel her hackles raising internally, silently warning you about a strange omega in your territory, near your boys. They aren't mine, you snap at her, struggling to keep anger from your scent. You briefly wish you could squash your omega into a small, dark box. If only you'd presented as an alpha or beta. Your life would have been very different.

You brush Cassie's hair from her face, and cup her cheek in your hand, examining her for any injuries. You don't see any, and you don't smell any blood. You pull her to her feet, and she snuggles her face into you, trapping your arm against her cleavage. You didn't think to bring the notebook with you, so you glance at Soap and Gaz. You find them carefully eyeing the sweet smelling omega, eyes roving over her body with concerned looks. You ignore your inner omega's jealous growls. Squaring your shoulders, you lead the girl back to your cabin, letting Price's pack follow or not. Your omega chews at the cage of your hind brain, and to settle her, you point out that this is a good opportunity.

Another omega added to the mix will test their true interest in you. The Price pack has fixated on you likely because they don't often meet omegas out there in their travels. A beautiful, dainty omega like Cassie, fluttering her lashes, smelling so sweet, how could they resist pinning her down and using her like a fuck toy? It would be a bonus if they took her and left your home, happy with her instead of a wild thing like you. You can't even speak. They'd surely be happier with a cute, vocal omega like her.

And that would just solve your uninvited guest problem. You could wipe your hands of them. A soft breath leaves your throat, sounding suspiciously like a whine. Cassie leans into you, and you're surprised at her desire to comfort a stranger. She really would make a good omega for the Price pack. Is she claimed? You hope not. You smile at her, your little savior. You can take away all my troubles.

When you get to the cabin, you guide Cassie inside, toward the bedroom. She's clearly nervous. You grab the notebook off the floor where you'd dropped it earlier in your distress, and flip to a clean page.

"Rest here, you're probably exhausted. I'll make sure the guys don't bother you while you sleep." Her eyebrows lift and her mouth makes a small "oh" in surprise.

"You can't speak?" You sigh and nod your head.

"Rest. We can figure out how to get you back to your home later."

Fresh tears pool in her light blue eyes as she smiles at you with gratification.

"Thank you," she sniffles, and climbs into the bed. You pull her worn boots off her feet and tuck the blanket over her. You gently close the bedroom door behind you.

You ignore the men shuffling into the cabin as you walk swiftly back outside. You need fresh air. Lots of clean, fresh air. Her scent is so sticky, like syrupy candy you can't wash away from your nose. You grab a handful of clean snow and rub your face in it. The cold shocks you into feeling a bit more awake and aware. You haven't gotten much sleep the past few days. Last night was awful, and even before then, Shepherd had made a pest of himself by shouting at odd hours, disrupting your rest with demands to free him and— Oh Fuck. Shepherd.

It's almost noon and you completely forgot about feeding him. What a nuisance. Price and his pack must not have liked Shepherd either if they were fine with keeping him chained up in the cellar. You wonder if they gagged him and that's why he hasn't made much noise recently.

You spin around to head back inside and almost slip backwards in surprise at finding Price standing right behind you. You hadn't heard him approach, and his scent wasn't an indicator because he and his boys had their scents all over the place by now, nearly drowning out the last of Shepherd's scent you had smeared around the area a week earlier. Now you have even more scents marking the territory. Warding off would be assailants with the smell of a strong pack.

"Didn't mean to startle you, darlin'," Price says, clearly amused by your reaction. You scowl at him, then bring out your now faithful notebook. When they leave, you're keeping it.

"Did you feed Shepherd breakfast?"

He looks at you silently for a few beats before saying, "You don't have to worry about him anymore." Alarm crawls across your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps. He must notice your disquiet for he adds, "He was a murderer. He got what was coming to him." He doesn't look away from you, his gaze steady, unashamed.

You nod solemnly, accepting this. What else can you do? He was a bastard anyways; he'd been ready to rape and claim you. One less mouth to feed at least.

You wait to see if he will say any more, but Price's eyes shift, looking through you now, as if tangled and lost in thought. You study his face while you have the chance, noticing the age and fatigue. The grief. Your omega whines. You've known grief intimately as well.

You step closer, angling to press your arm to his, projecting what you hope is a calm, comforting scent. You duck your head as his brows rise in surprise [You miss the soft smile that grows on his face.], feeling embarrassment heat your cheeks. What are you doing? After years of thinking only of yourself and your survival, you've now attempted to comfort others twice in one day.

You thought Price had approached you for a reason, with something to say, but he doesn't speak up again. You let the quiet moment between you stretch a few long moments before interrupting it.

"I'm going to make the rounds, check the traps for any wildlife. Or others."

Price hums, but doesn't say anything else. You almost expected him to order you to stay put. Well, it's not as if he knows where all the traps are, so really he has no choice. You smile just a little, feeling prideful. You really are impressive when it comes to these matters. You turn back to the trees and start walking.

"Ghost will keep you company," Price says. You quickly look back at him, annoyed, and see Ghost already making his way over to you from the cabin, as if he'd somehow known telepathically that his captain was sending him off with you. You bare your teeth silently at them. They don't react. You huff and start walking again. Might as well get on with it. It will take you a couple hours to check them all.

Ghost stays hot on your heels, keeping to your footprints. You keep glancing back at him. He's still kitted up in his gear, but at some point he'd switched out the skull mask he wore on the way to find Cassie. The mask you'd first seen him in. Now he's just wearing a plain black balaclava with a skull print over the face. How many different masks does he have? He must really like skulls.

Your eyes slide down across him. You have to admit, they all look really good in their getups. Even the kindhearted Gaz had looked dangerous, and strong, thrilling your omega. You force yourself to stop looking at him before he catches you [He already did. He had to calm his stirring alpha at your repeated attention.], and focus on checking the traps.

You're annoyed and a little concerned to find various traps in the southeast have been sprung or broken, but the snow around them looks strangely undisturbed. Ghost's attention is heavy on you when you point this out. When you add that it is very possible for components to break under duress from the weather, or trigger from the weight of snow, he just hums, eyes roaming the surroundings. He doesn't say anything else, but you're strangely more relaxed about it than you'd be before the Price pack showed up. Ghost does make for an attractive and reassuring guard dog.

You're happy to find a rabbit in one snare, and later a large, fat bird in another. You've caught one of these before in the past, and it made a tasty meal over a fire. Ghost tells you it's called a grouse. He takes the animals before you can argue, snapping their necks and slinging them over his shoulder.

"I'll carry 'em for you, just focus on your traps." You feel the smugness from your omega as you turn to reset the snares. Hush.

You want them to become interested in Cassie. So they leave you the fuck alone already. Right? Right.

Once the two of you finally return to the cabin, the sun is on its afternoon descent. There's a large freezer type of box on the side of the building. In the winter you can use it to store cold things using snow. But the cabin doesn't have electricity, so the box is mostly useless in the summer.

You put the bird and rabbit in the chest, packing them in with fresh snow next to the left over deer haunch you've been saving. You're worn out from the past long two days. You'd rather get some rest and deal with skinning and preparing the meat tomorrow. You sigh, wiping your hands in some clean snow. You round the corner of the cabin but before you reach the porch, Ghost speaks.

"Omega." You turn to look at him, lifting your brows as he slowly walks up to you. "You forgot to introduce yourself." Ah. Fuck.

Embarrassed, your hands scramble for the notebook in your pocket. You flip to a clean page, and write your name for him to see. He hums, and steps closer still. He tears it from the notebook, and reads it out loud, like he's testing the way it rolls from his mouth. You nod slowly, stowing the notebook away. He folds the page, unhurriedly, and tucks it into his back pocket. You swallow, watching the way his hands move. Then you're forced to look up at him as he pushes into your personal space.

You feel a bit prickly with wariness, and he rumbles low in his chest. You're only just barely not touching, but you can imagine how it might feel if he pressed against you. Soothing vibrations almost like a purr. A wrenching longing surges through you. You want to feel that purr against your body. You shiver, unconsciously leaning toward him. Your lips part, your breath visible in the chilly air.

"We were interrupted earlier," he murmurs huskily. "It looked like you had something on your mind." The uncertain look on your face prompts him to add, "It seemed like you wanted to scent me. Or am I wrong?" His tone tilts toward teasing. You're surprised, has he been waiting to ask you this all day? [Yes.] Your eyes drift down to his neck. [You're too in your head to notice, but he's wound up inside, his anticipation binding his muscles tight.]

Wouldn't it be alright to have something nice, before they leave, that you can use to remember them by? To remember their wonderful scents when you are alone again, when you are miserable in your heats? They will leave with the sweet omega, and you will remain here.

Can longing and loneliness affect a scent? You wonder this as you lean into him, lifting your face, resting your hands on his thick chest, fingers hooking into his tactical vest. He bends down, turning his chin to allow you easier access. After imposing themselves on you, the least they can do is let you get your fill of nice scents.

You close your eyes and breathe in. Sweat from exertion and dirt from long travel. Leather, black tea, and… chiles? You move one hand to pull up the bottom hem of his mask to smell him more deeply, directly nosing against his scent gland. The spicy undercurrent to his scent makes you want to sink your teeth into him. You pull back slightly. The alpha in his scent is strong; it feels dangerous, and you have to calm your heart, focus on the good smell over the designation. His arms wrap around you, pulling you tight against him, pressing your face closer into his neck. He buries his nose in your own neck, pushing aside your scarf and rubbing against your scent gland, the cloth mask soft against your skin, his breath hot.

It's a lot. Your head feels light and the world spins a little when you open your eyes. You let out a shaky breath. You carefully push against his shoulders, and he immediately acquiesces, releasing his hold on you. You see his eyes half lidded, pupils blown wide. You're both panting slightly. Your omega is beaming inside you, and you're sure the pleased feeling is sweetening your scent.

"Naw fair, LT, sneakin' off and gettin' all the scenting tae yerself." You startle at Soap's sudden voice breaking the silence.

Your face flushes in embarrassment. Fuck, you just exchanged scents with a strange alpha you've barely known a day. How desperate are you?

Soap is grinning at you with quite the mischievous look as he steps off the porch—where Price and Gaz are also watching the exchange you realize— toward you and Ghost. You eye him carefully. You'd be lying if you said you don't want to pin down all four of them for a good sniff, but you need to remember that these are still strangers. You need to be wary of their ulterior motives.

"She smells right divine," Ghost almost moans it and you feel a tingle in your gut as your face heats like a flame. "Like pine and brown sugar."

"Can't I have a taste, lass?"

Before Soap can crowd you, Ghost abruptly says your name and hands the paper with your name written on it to Soap, who reads it, beaming.

"Is this yer name, hen?" He dashes over to the porch, shouting your name loudly as he hands the page off to Price and Gaz. You try to signal to him to shush, you don't want to disturb Cassie's rest, but he just laughs boisterously as he prances back to you like a puppy. Price and Gaz are looking into each other's eyes, murmuring your name to each other, like a private conversation. Why are they saying it like that! Your omega is thrilled about the attention, but you're just really, really embarrassed.

Ghost comes to stand beside you, humming, sounding pleased with himself over the chaos he's created, and you shoot a glare at him. The crinkle of his eyes makes you suspect he's grinning as big as Soap. You huff and walk to the porch, passing Price and Gaz to stand in the open doorway, looking back at them sternly. Ghost and Soap follow, and they all stand before you, watching your every move like you're the most interesting thing on the telly. Fuck, you missed TV entertainment.

You open the notebook again and write, the boys watch your brows scrunch as you concentrate. You turn the notebook around to show them all.

"This is my home, MY territory! I've defended it all this time. It doesn't matter how good you smell, you can't stay. There's no room. Take Cassie, and leave."

"Ye think we smell good, lass?" Soap's mischievous grin turns a bit darker in his eyes. You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. You shake your head in small but vigorous motions.

"Hmm… looked like you were enjoying getting a big whiff of Simon though," Price rumbles low as he and Gaz walk around to flank you on either side. Simon? Who's Simon? Ghost?

Soap and Ghost walk up close to you in front. Their scents are shifting deeper, velvety in your nose, and you try not to let it go straight to your hind brain. You're already still feeling light-headed from scenting Ghost.

Before you can get overwhelmed again, you grit your teeth and bare them, and stomp once, firmly. The thunk on the deck wood is loud. They pause, seeing your determined look.

"She's like a cute little bunny, stomping like that," Gaz says with a grin to the others.

You ignore that, and ignore your continuously hot face, and put your fists on your hips and widen your stance to try and look more imposing as you glare at them. You look them all in the eye, one by one, then point past Soap and Ghost to the trees. A soft growl comes from the alphas but you do your best to hold steady. Your finger only trembles a little.

Soap falls to his knees in front of you, and looks up at you with his big blue eyes. You don't trust the innocent look.

"Ye don't really want us tae leave, do ye, hen? Haven't ye been lonely all by yerself?" He looks so pitiful, even gives you a little sad whine. "We just wanna rest up a bit before we hit the road again." You frown. You would almost believe his sincerity if not for the impish smile that keeps trying to quirk his mouth. Gaz leans forward now from your left to tilt his pretty smile at you.

"We can help you hunt down some deer to stock up your reserves before we leave," he says, more convincing than Soap. You narrow your eyes, considering them. The alphas are otherwise silent, but you can feel a tension in the air. Your omega is once again begging you to give in to them. She longs for a pack to be nestled into, but you still feel wary. You don't really know these men. You've already been hurt and marked and changed by bad men. You don't want to risk that pain again.

You accidentally let your scent turn with grief, and Soap whines for real now. They all unconsciously shuffle closer, just a tad. Price steps a little closer on your right, his arm almost brushing yours as he speaks.

"Let us get you a deer, and then we can go from there," he says gently, but sounding more like a command than a suggestion. Your omega spins with happiness in your mind. They want to provide food for you! They want to take care of you! They just want to use me, you bite back at her.

Then use them back.

You side eye Price as you lift the notebook again. But the pencil hovers over the paper. How? How do I get what I want? How can you test the sincerity and good faith? How can you be sure they won't turn on you? What is it you even want from them? You don't want to be claimed. But the thought of being part of a pack… it scares you, but calls to you. No, before that, there's something else you want first. You frown again, then stuff the notebook in your coat pocket.

You grab Soap by the front of his shirt, prompting him to stand. He's grinning already, wondering what kind of game this is. You grab onto Gaz's sleeve with your other hand, giving them both a slight tug before releasing them and walking backwards into the cabin. They follow without a word, eyes zeroed in on you, the alphas trailing behind them.

You stop at the worn couch in front of the wood stove, pointing at it while staring hard at Soap, then at Gaz. The betas seem like they'll be the easiest to start with. Less overwhelming. They don't move though, just look back at you. You stomp your foot—not at all like a rabbit, thank you— and jab your finger toward the couch. The betas grin and go to plop down on it.

When Price and Ghost make to move as well, you turn and hiss a breath through your teeth at them. Their growls are immediate and instinctual. An omega who's not even pack trying to push them around? But you hold firm, keeping your gaze and your scent steady, no fear, no anger. After a few moments, Price sighs and shifts his stance to something more casual while Ghost huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. Satisfied, and feeling a small thrill from the tiny victory, you turn back to the betas.

When you start removing your scarf and unzipping your jacket just enough to bare your neck, their curious looks deepen with anticipation. You start with Gaz. He didn't give you lip like Soap did.

You lean over him, hands on his shoulders, pushing him against the back cushions, pinning him as much as you can pin a larger, more muscular body than yours. You slowly lower your face to his neck, allowing for him to change his mind and push you away from his personal space. He doesn't, and in fact, you think he's enjoying this, if the breathy, shaky exhale he gives is any indication.

Lavender and grass warmed by the summer sun, soft and warm and soothing. You breathe in his scent, resisting the urge to lick at his neck. Once your omega is satisfied, you tilt your head in invitation. He keeps his hands on his lap, and you're too lost in the scenting to notice them fisting and unfisting as he struggles with the desire to touch you. You feel a pleasant flutter in your stomach at the heat of his breath on your neck. After a few moments, you pull back and release him. He looks dazed, his pupils wide, a slow, intoxicated smile rising on his face. You politely ignore the lustful tinge to his scent and turn to Soap.

You stand still and take a few breaths to steady yourself first, but he's clearly overeager when he grabs at your hips to pull you toward him. A short grunt croaks out of you and you grab his wrists in a flash of anger. You pin his hands up next to his shoulders on the back of the couch, using one knee to press his abdomen. You bare your teeth at him, wishing once more that you could growl so as to add weight to your warning.

That impish look is back on his face as he bucks his hips, his groin, against the shin of your leg pinning him. You snap at his face. He better settle down. Who the fuck does he think he is; this is only an exchanging of scents— a shadow falls over you.

Two massive arms bracket you on either side, the sleeve of tattoos on one indicating they belong to Ghost. You hadn't even noticed him moving. He's leaning over the two of you, hands gripping the back of the couch, his chest vibrating deliciously against your back as he growls deeply.

"Behave."

You feel a hot thrill low inside you as Soap immediately submits, turning his head to expose his throat. You want to push back against Ghost, roll in his scent. Such a big, strong, commanding alpha. Instead, you lean down to take in Soap's scent. The soft smell of distant roses being swept up in a briny ocean breeze. The two betas had the most wonderfully summery scents. They felt fresh, and safe. Not a dangerous alpha scent, not someone who wanted to claim you and control you.

As you breathe in the beta, you feel Ghost shift, and press his face into your back, nosing your coat between your shoulder blades, then moving to press his face into the hair at your nape, rubbing, breathing deeply. You aren't positive, but it almost feels like he isn't wearing his mask. [He had to pull his mask up just enough to free his nose, he needed it, no barrier, to take in your scent when he noticed the hint of arousal from you when he disciplined Soap. He couldn't resist breathing you in again and again, his cock twitching at the thought of him being the one to get that reaction out of you.]

In your distracted state, Soap buries his nose against your neck. He hums and swipes his tongue over your scent gland. You gasp and jerk back into Ghost who growls, startled. His arms come around you protectively and lifts you away from the couch. Soap, the cheeky bastard, is grinning like a cat with cream, just as scent drunk as Gaz looks.

Ghost merely pivots and sets you in front of Price, who you realize has also moved closer. His scent is heavy with desire, but he only calmly holds out a hand to you. You shake yourself mentally and step forward, taking his hand. He kisses the back of it, and you shiver. Your head is so stuffed full of all this scenting, but you're determined to see it through to the end. After being alone so long, a fierce craving for their appetizing scents is consuming you. You're sure you look just as drunk as the betas. You grab Price's shirt collar and pull him down. He rumbles lowly but seems agreeable as he tilts his head for you.

Like Ghost's, Price's heavy alpha scent threatens to sweep you away. You dig past the sweat, dirt, faded cigar smoke, and—there. A deep, complex scent of earth and bourbon, woody and a slight nuttiness with just a hint of gentle sweetness. You press closer, mind foggy, and he rumbles again, appreciatively. He pushes right back, pressing into you, his beard pleasantly rough against your skin, your bodies flush together. His muscular arms tighten around you enough to partially lift your boots from the floor as he breathes you in.

It isn't until his teeth scrape gently against your neck that your eyes snap open, alarm pulsing through your sluggish thoughts. You croak, and begin to struggle, pushing at him. But the alpha doesn't release you— you can't get away you can't get away!—, nosing at the curve of your neck as you throw your head back, trying to stretch away from his mouth, your eyes wide, not seeing the room as it tilts upside down. Memories of all the bites on your neck and shoulders come screaming into your mind, and your scent suddenly sours with distress, like a punch to the face. Price jerks upright, loosening his hold on you and you stumble back before finding your balance. You try to catch your breath.

Maybe this was too much. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. Maybe you should run.

You should run.

RUN.

You flee, blindly, not hearing the strangers when they call to you. You're unchained, no longer in the cellar. That means sex right? You were only unchained when he wanted sex. You don't want that, you don't want any of it.

You pant, realizing you're crouching in the snow behind a tree. Your hands are at your neck, desperately trying to wipe away the feeling of breath and teeth and tongue from your skin. You're exhausted, you're hungry. You're trembling and shaking. You dig into the snow, pressing your face into the clean, white cold. It shocks you back into yourself enough that you remember he is dead. You killed him. You killed him and left his body in the forest for scavengers. He's dead. You don't have to be with an alpha anymore.

You belatedly realize you're crying, hot tears streaming down your face. Your breath hitches and you give in to the sobs, curling in on yourself in the snow. You wish you could go back in time, stop yourself from going into the village the day Shepherd appeared. You wish you could stop yourself from walking home after dark, alone, ripe for kidnapping. You wish you could curl up in your parent's nest and be a child again.

And forget everything.

Ghost saw the moment the change overtook you.

He'd been watching so intently, enjoying the show of you pinning down the betas to scent them, and then even pulling his captain down to your height as if you were the alpha giving orders. He'd be lying if he said it wasn't turning him on.

But when Price got mouthy with your neck, lost in your scent for a brief moment, you went rigid. You made a small, pitiful croaking sound and tried to push Price away from you, but he didn't notice quickly enough, and you arched away from him, your head tilting so far back, Ghost could see your wide, terrified eyes looking straight through him.

The betas had stood immediately, sensing something wrong; a shudder passes over you, and then your scent hits them, heavy with distress. Price is hit by the scent right up close to the source, and he reels back, releasing you. You stumble and they all make to grab you before you fall, but you steady yourself. Kyle asks you what's wrong. You're breathing heavily, wildly, your stance like a hunted animal, ready to bolt. And then you do. You leap over the couch and you're out the door as Kyle and Johnny shout after you.

Ghost takes only a step toward the front door when he hears a small, frightened voice.

"What's going on?" Cassie. The blonde omega is peering out from the cracked bedroom door, a worried look in her big blue eyes.

Annoyance flashes sharply through him before he chokes it down, pulling his balaclava back down over his mouth. It wouldn't be good to have two distressing omegas. He glances at Price, who has a hand over his nose and mouth, looking stricken with grief, regret.

"Gaz," Ghost snaps, jerking his chin to the front door. Gaz immediately gives chase without further question, only pausing to grab your scarf from the floor. "Soap." Ghost flicks his eyes to Cassie. Soap looks tense for a moment, like he's ready to argue, then drops his shoulders and walks over to the bedroom door.

As Soap whispers something reassuring to the other omega, Ghost approaches his captain. He presses close to him, one arm around his back at his waist.

Price drops his hand and says, sounding so hollow, "I've ruined it, I've done something wrong and ruined it."

"It's not your fault," Ghost growls. He fights back a surge of anger at you for hurting his packmate like this. He tries to keep his scent calm, reassuring, steady, grounding. "We knew she's been out here alone a long time, and abused at the hands of another man. We shouldn't have let things move so quickly." Price leans his head against Simon's.

"She just smelled so good," John whispers, "I wasn't even thinking for a moment." Simon can sense the shame. His captain is always strict with himself, controlling and subduing his personal needs while making damned sure that everything goes as smoothly as possible within his influence. John almost never relaxed. He is usually, constantly, more tightly wound than Simon; he's just better at hiding it. Maybe Gaz had been right before. Maybe an omega, with their balancing hormones would be good for them. Simon hums, moving to rub his masked cheek against John's bearded one.

"You're right, she smelled good. And did you see the way she liked it when I told Johnny to behave?"

Price chuckles, "I almost popped a hard-on right when she first pinned Kyle down."

Simon tilts his head to kiss his alpha's neck.

"Don't beat yourself up over her baggage," he murmurs against John's skin. "We'll just have to give our patience a good run. Take things a little more slowly."

John sighs, and Simon can feel the distress leave him.

"Right."

The sun has drifted behind the mountain, settling the forest in a dim, cold, evening light. You'd run far from the cabin in your fear-fueled flight.

Gaz sits just a few feet from you, trying to not let his anxiousness color his scent. You've finally stopped crying, and now you're just lying in the snow, shivering. He's not sure if the calming scent he's pushing forth is doing any good. He chokes back a whine and crawls toward you. His hand hesitates, hovering over your arm. He's hoping he won't scare you into fleeing again. You've managed to avoid going too deep into distress, where the omega takes over, but he can still smell the burning ozone scent of it wafting up from you.

He lightly rests his hand on your arm and softly calls your name. You tense at his touch. He brings the scarf forward, holding it out to you, but you keep your face buried in your hands.

"It's cold out here," he says gently. "It's been a long day. We should head back to the cabin to get some rest." A very high pitched whine warbles out of you, cracking. Gaz's heart squeezes. "Nothing bad is going to happen, luv. We aren't going to hurt you." He bites his lip at your non reply. "Do you still have the notebook, luv? Can you tell me what we did wrong?" His hopes rise slightly when you spread your fingers enough to peek out at him. "Please let us fix it?"

You sit up abruptly, loose snow flying off you. His anxiousness is back in full force at the horrified look on your face.

"What is it?" Gaz whispers.

You're clawing at your coat pocket for the notebook, cold fingers stiff. Gaz wraps the scarf around your neck as you start writing with jerky, slashy motions. A horrible, wail-like sound crackles from your throat as you write. It almost makes you sound like you're choking.

"You didn't do anything wrong! I'm sorry!I'mSorry!I'mSorryimsorryimsorry—"

Gaz puts his hands over yours, stilling them as he hushes you.

"It's going to be okay, it's okay—" His hands move to cup your face as more tears roll down your cheeks. Your skin is so cold; he needs to get you inside. Your breath catches and hiccups as you try not to cry again. Gaz whines softly. You look into his eyes and your face breaks with a sob, and you crash yourself into his chest, clutching him tightly, crying into his shirt with ragged breaths that scrape at your raw throat.

Kyle presses his cheek into the top of your head, his heart breaking for you. It must have been so hard for you, here all alone so long, and held captive by the man who cut your tongue. And then suddenly thrust into a situation with more people than you knew how to cope with. He whines again, holding your trembling frame tightly to him.

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmurs and rocks you, bathing you in his soothing beta scent. The little bit of daylight left is quickly fading, upping the urgency he feels to return to the cabin. "Come on, luv, let's go back. It'll be okay." He grabs your notebook for you, setting it in your lap, then scoops you up against his chest, one arm under your knees, the other at your back, ignoring your small sound of protest. He rubs his forehead against your temple. "I'll walk, you just keep breathing."

You sniffle, your cold hands clutching the notebook and pencil. Gaz isn't sure if, in your distressed flight, whether you purposely avoided traps or just got lucky, but he decides to err on the side of caution and take your footsteps back. He notices you writing something; it'll soon be too dark to read it.

"I'm sorry for acting like an idiot."

"A panic attack doesn't make you an idiot." You bite your lip, avoiding looking him in the eye.

"It was the biting." Shame is clear on your face and in your scent. "When I felt Price's teeth, all I could think of was"—you sniffle again, wipe your face with your sleeve—"him."

"Your kidnapper." It isn't a question, but you nod anyways. Gaz's jaw is tight with anger toward the unknown man. The man was lucky he was already dead, or he'd have sorely regretted meeting Gaz and his pack.

"I didn't even know his name. He never asked mine either. Obviously."

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

"He claimed me, bit me, a lot. He scarred my skin all over my body."

Gaz squeezes you tighter to his chest. He wishes there was something more tangible he could do for you. Your fingers drift up to your neck, feeling the skin under your scarf. [As soon as he died, the claiming marks and other bites had turned purple like bruises, and then slowly started to fade away the way bruises do. Now, after three years of fading, only faint, little, white scars remained, looking more like old knife knicks rather than teeth marks. They decorated your neck and shoulders, but could also be found on your arms, legs, stomach and breasts, even your fucking ass cheeks. Bitterness wells inside you at the physical stain left behind by his selfish actions—and that wasn't even counting the damage he enacted on your mouth and throat. Some days, the bad days, you wish you could kill him a second time.]

You're finally at the clearing, the cabin lit warmly from inside, when Gaz notices your eyes drooping as you sleepily write a few more words.

"The claiming bond made it hard to resist him, but I did it, I killed him." He nuzzles your cold cheek with his nose. Your eyes slip closed. Exhaustion is tugging at you, but he needs to make sure you eat something and change into dry clothes before sleeping.

"You did so well, you are so strong," he murmurs. Your head falls against him. Even as you start to doze, you're still shivering.

The door opens as he approaches it.

Price's solemn face looks him in the eye. Gaz flicks his gaze to the notebook in your limp hands. Price steps aside to let Gaz carry you in, sliding the notebook from you as he passes. Price reads what you wrote, his hands clutching the book as if it might fly away. Ghost reads over his shoulder. The brimstone scent of anger burns in the air. The man is lucky he's dead. Gaz isn't the only one to think that.

Frustrated with their helplessness, the alphas had resorted to their instincts; provide food for the omega in need. While Soap kept an eye on the other omega— Cassie—, Price and Ghost had set to work skinning the rabbit and plucking the grouse. Gaz is the best cook out of all of them, but they managed to throw together a decent stew with the rabbit meat and some of the leftover provisions in their packs, and built a fire pit in the front yard to roast the bird. They held off on eating, though they did give a bowl of the stew to Cassie who retreated to the bedroom to eat it. None of them had eaten much all day, you included, and the fresh meat made for a delectable smelling meal. They'd let you eat, and then what you didn't finish, they'd eat the rest.

When Gaz enters the bedroom, Soap stands and Cassie sits up, both looking worried.

"Is she okay?" Cassie beats Soap to the question. Gaz looks at Soap, nodding toward the door.

"Can you help her change into something dry?" Gaz asks Cassie, Soap reluctantly leaving the room after hearing that. "The dresser probably has clean clothes in it." He sets you down on your feet, rousing you enough for you to stand. "Get changed luv, there's food waiting for you when you're done." You squint at him then at the dresser against the wall, mouth moving like you're silently mumbling something. Cute.

He leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Soap is reading the notebook, his expression aggrieved. Price is ladling stew into a bowl. There is only the one bowl, so he and the boys will use the bowl when you're done with it. Or just eat directly from the pot. Ghost cuts a piece of breast meat from the cooked grouse, and puts it in the bowl as well. You are going to get plenty of protein. After seeing Cassie for comparison, the boys all felt the desire to feed you well. You are admittedly a bit underfed due to the poor hunting season and low reserves. Gaz hums at the thought of you filling out properly, plump under his hands.

The bedroom door opens and Cassie leads you out, guiding you to sit on the couch. Gaz sits on your right. Soap kneels on the floor in front of you, annoyed that Cassie takes the spot on your left. You yawn—Soap gets a glimpse of your cut tongue and winces— and rub at your eyes, struggling to fight the fatigue. Price stays standing by the wood stove as Ghost hands you the bowl of food. As you begin to eat, Cassie speaks.

"I heard from Soap that you almost distressed," her dainty face scrunches with concern. "What happened? How are you feeling?" Chewing with your mouth full, bowl held up to your closed lips, you glance at her out of the corner of your eye. She gasps, hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, I forgot you're mute." Her eyes fall to Soap's hands still holding your notebook. She reaches for it. "This is what you use to communicate, right?"

But Soap pulls it back from her reach, growling lowly. Price and Ghost briefly pause their carving up the cooked grouse to glance in your direction. You, Gaz, and Cassie stare at Soap, and his face reddens slightly as he registers what he just did. He tears out the recent page describing your trauma, stuffing it in his pocket, and then hands the notebook to Cassie. She takes it magnanimously.

Soap leans against your shin, eyes drifting up to watch you. He isn't sure why, but his beta had screamed at him to hide the evidence of your past, of your hurt. He rests his chin on your knee. Aside from her overpowering scent, Cassie seems like a nice enough girl, but Soap isn't one to go against his beta's instincts.

Cassie writes a sentence on a blank page, speaking it out loud as she goes. "Are… you.. feeling better?" She holds it up to your face.

Gaz feels a prick of irritation.

"She can hear just fine, mate. She just can't speak."

Cassie's face flushes with embarrassment, her plump lips parting in an "oh".

"I'm so sorry! I hope I didn't offend you!" Her eyes look watery as if she's truly upset at the thought of making you upset. You blink slowly at her and shake your head before spooning more stew into your mouth. Gaz and Soap are happy at your apparent appetite. Ghost brings over a plate stacked with the juicy bird meat. You shake your head but Ghost puts a piece in your bowl anyway before handing the rest to the betas who happily start chowing down. Your heavy eyes drift down to the food in your bowl as Cassie continues.

"Oh, how awful it would be, to finally find a safe companion in another omega, only for her to be lost to her distress!" You finish eating as she rambles about the hardships of living as an omega in a post-apocalyptic world. And how omegas need to look out for each other, stick together.

Price interrupts her as he comes to take your empty bowl from you and you grimace, grabbing at his belt loop to make him stay. He looks down at you, your face guilty and upset, full of remorse. He kneels down in front of you, Soap moving aside for him.

"I'm sorry for frightening you," he says gently. You shake your head vigorously, and grab the notebook from the other omega's lap.

"I'm sorry for freaking out. I haven't panicked like that in a long time."

"You've been alone a long time," he points out. You nod miserably. He puts a hand atop your head and his heart gentles even further when you look back up at him with sad, sad eyes. "I won't bite you," he adds kindly. But oh how he wished he could.

"Not unless ye want us to," Soap chimes in between bites of grouse. Your small smile at his teasing doesn't reach your eyes and he kicks himself. Not the time for joking. Yet.

"You should get some sleep," Price says, standing up after ruffling your hair. It was already mussed from the day's activities. He and Ghost will eat once you've settled—and once the Cassie omega is tucked away as well.

Price had studied the blonde's figure when he handed her a bowl of stew earlier. She seemed very well fed, plump the way a properly cared for omega should be. She must have come from a pack who doted on her, but she hadn't even mentioned missing her pack. In fact, she seemed more interested in gluing herself to your side. Despite Cassie being an omega, his alpha still growled quietly at the thought of her taking all your attention from him and his pack. They'd found you first after all; this Cassie is just an interloper.

But as Cassie chatted at you while you ate, he wondered if this was what you needed. Another omega to help smooth out and untangle the hurt you've endured. If Cassie is interested in staying with you, then Price would have no standing to say otherwise. You aren't part of his pack, after all. They've not even known you two days. If you decide to go with Cassie when she returns to her home, he would just have to accept that.

His alpha growls and snaps inside him, but he tightens the reins. He will not give in to any base impulses.

Cassie stands to head to the bedroom, and Soap pulls you to your feet. You're very full, more so than you've felt in months. At least your omega is pleased. They've provided you with a full belly, they kept their word about not letting you starve.

When you pass it, Kyle asks if you want to sleep in your nest. You stare down at it, tucked next to the wood stove, and a fresh wave of misery washes over you, weighing you down. You had built a nest more out of a sense of obligation, rather than instinct. You'd never felt the natural pull to nest after your kidnapping. While you were still a prisoner, he hadn't allowed you to have one, not that you felt safe enough to make one in the first place. You admit to yourself that spite was actually a factor as well, for creating this nest. It isn't a good nest, but you never did have the heart to try and make it better.

Silent tears roll down your cheeks. Gaz whines softly and presses his arm against yours, and Soap leans his head on yours. You should be glad that they will leave, glad that they will take Cassie over you. You can't even build a nest, something that is so essential to being a healthy omega. Shame lurches inside your heart. You really are a worthless omega.

You turn away from the disappointing nest and look up at Price and Ghost across the room, discussing something in low tones. They are large, strong, impressive alphas. Gaz and Soap are good betas, just as muscled and clearly trained in combat. And what are you? Not even half the omega Cassie is. Soap wraps an arm around you as you sway with exhaustion.

He and Kyle lead you to the bedroom, Cassie already settling into the bed. You don't want to sleep with her. Her body isn't the warmth your inner omega longs for. But you're too tired to raise any fuss about it. As soon as your head hits the pillow, a blank, dreamless sleep overcomes you.

You're jolted from sleep at the sound of a… firework going off? You peek through a crack in the boarded window to see the night lit with an eerie red glow. A flare? Did the Price pack shoot up a flare? You turn to the door, and find Cassie already standing there, she's closing it behind her. She must have just spoken with them. What did they say? Where's my notebook? Cassie is smiling at you.

"You'll bring in a small fortune for sure. I bet there will be plenty of alphas willing to pay a hefty sum for a mute omega. Won't have to listen to any complaints or backtalk."

Am I dreaming? You faintly feel like none of this is real.

You startle at the sound of a pistol firing somewhere outside. You think you hear Price shouting. You step toward the door, toward Cassie. What's going on?

She reaches into her cleavage and pulls out a very grenade-looking object. Alarm skitters through your muscles. You don't know what's going on but you have to do something.

"Too bad you woke before I could light this baby up," she says, face twisting into a malicious smile that looks so out of place with her angelic features. "But I guess it doesn't matter. After all—" her eyes shoot up to bore into you with a sneer "—what are you gonna do about it? Tell on me?"

She pops the ring from the grenade and smoke immediately pours from it as she drops it on the bed. She is opening the door to make her exit when you tackle her to the floor, a hair-raising sound ripping from your throat. You scratch at her face and neck, snapping your teeth to tear at her nose, her ear, her hair—you're seeing red, body thrumming with rage, your omega howling inside your head.

How dare she How dare she How dare she How dare she How dare she!!!

Cassie screams and fights back, trying to push you away, to punch and scratch your face, to buck you off her, anything, but you're stronger from your harsh way of life the past three years. She can't overpower you. And then someone is grabbing you from behind, hoisting you off the cowering omega. You turn to lash out at the person behind you but horrible agony shoots through your body, a hot fire-poker-pain that lances into your neck and branches down your every nerve. You go limp, dazed eyes watching Cassie press a cloth to her bitten nose, her other hand at her torn ear. You can't move. A hand reaches from behind you to give her a gas mask. You can't move. Your vision swings in and out of blackness. You can't move!

Someone scruffed you.

The hand clenched on your neck remains as your body is moved like a doll.

You're in the living room. The smoke from the grenade stings your eyes, tears springing up and rolling down your cheeks, wobbling your already hazy vision.

Cassie has your notebook. She opens the lit wood stove to catch the paper on fire before tossing it on the couch. You think you manage to blink.

Your face is in the snow. You're being lifted again, your body manhandled roughly. The ringing in your ears, is it gunfire? Shouting? Or the sound of chains rattling in the cellar?

When will you be free?

You see the cabin. It's on fire. There's a person silhouetted against it.

You're looking up into a face covered with a gas mask. Is it speaking to you?

Soap is there. He's lying face down in the snow. Red seeps around him.

Something covers your eyes.

Chapter Text

They had known something was off.

Once the omegas were in the other room, in hushed voices Price and Ghost shared their suspicions with the betas.

The Cassie omega was too well fed, and hardly grimy at all for someone stumbling about in a post-apocalyptic world. She hadn't been bound or shackled by her "captor"; no slaver worth his weight would risk a lucrative omega by leaving them unbound. Plus he'd had a hamstring grenade in his pocket, a low level incapacitating smoke bomb popular with raiders because they could be crafted with household chemicals. If the dead beta were really a raider, why would he lead his newly acquired slave into danger—her getting hurt would lower her value. The snake insignia tattooed on his neck alluded to the possibility of him being part of a group of like minded individuals, and if he actually was part of a raider group, he would have left her with them. Soap reminded them that one of the sneaky looking punks they'd passed by in the last city had had a snake tattoo on his face.

Ghost tells them about the traps that had been triggered in the southeast. Whoever had done it, they'd done their best to sweep the snow afterwards, attempting to erase the evidence of their presence of testing traps. While you hadn't been able to pick up on the traces of sabotage, Ghost's trained eye had noticed the way the snow was unnaturally smoothed over in certain areas.

Price allowed for doubt; it was true, the Cassie omega could very well be just an unfortunate soul caught up in this, but it was better to be wary and watchful than not. Either way, it felt very possible that more raiders would attempt to breach the forest. So in preparation for the worst, Price and Ghost settled themselves at the two vulnerable points in the defenses, lying in wait.

The path the 141 pack had blazed themselves through the trees was the most obvious; the spent traps and footsteps in the snow made an easy path right to the cabin. The second vulnerability was the path Cassie had taken. It wasn't clear how many traps had been bypassed by her and the dead beta, but their footsteps, and the continued footsteps of them all from the grenade location back to the cabin, could be enough for others to follow. The enemy would likely use these two paths that had already been forged. Price and Ghost hunkered down near those spots, waiting with a predator's patience. When the first flare lit up the night, they all knew they'd been right.

The men come from both directions, using the paths as expected. Price is holding down the Cassie path, grinning wickedly when the fools on attack are thinned out before they even reach him. The raiders are following the footsteps, but aren't being careful, springing trap after trap. He can hear some of them screaming between the trees. One man almost gets close enough to fire upon when he's swept up into a tree by a rope around his foot. His friends don't bother to help him.

The 141 team only has one sniper rifle, and not an endless supply of ammo for it—in fact, the ammo for all their guns is starting to run dangerously low after being away from the base and on the hunt so long. Besides Ghost, Gaz is the next best on the sniper, so he set himself up on the cabin's roof, shooting any strangers that stepped into the clearing, as well as picking off those he could make out through the trees.

Soap remains just inside the open front door, peeking out carefully, his pistol ready for anyone who comes in sight.

When Cassie comes out the bedroom in a fearful mess, asking what is going on, Soap is waiting for her. His captain is suspicious of her, and that is enough for him. He tells her to sit on the wooden chair on the front porch.

She is confused, "You want me to be outside in the cold, and with all this gunfire and commotion going on?" Her eyes are big and watery and plead with him. Her sickeningly sweet omega scent becomes stronger, more enticing, and Soap's skin crawls as he realizes she's trying to project her scent to persuade him.

"Ye'll be fine," Soap says with a flat expression on his normally energetic face.

She trembles as she walks toward the front door, sniffling, but just as she reaches the door frame, quick as a viper she reaches up to grab the short shotgun mounted above. She whips it around to aim at Soap even as he's turning his pistol on her. She pulls her trigger before him, not even caring about taking care to aim unlike him, but it doesn't go off; it wasn't loaded.

Soap almost laughs and rips it from her hands, tossing it further into the cabin and out of her reach. Her hands fly up in surrender then.

"Please don't kill me! They made me do it! They threatened my pack! My pups!"

Soap falters, the nose of his pistol tilting down. She cowers, bending over, quivering. Johnny knows how cruel people can be, even before the world ended. It isn't a strange story at all for her to say, but could it really be true? No, either way, he still needs to be careful, he needs to keep her on the porch, away from you.

Soap lifts his pistol again, and she wails, clutching at the front of his shirt with one hand.

"Please! My pups! My pups!"

"I'm naw gonna kill ye, just—"

A sharp lancing sting in his belly, and he realizes she's stabbed him with something.

A syringe.

Alarmed, Soap grabs her around the throat—her nails scrabble at his hand—and he tosses her by the neck out the door. She tumbles down the porch stairs and into the snow, cursing and spitting at him.

Soap yanks the syringe still sticking from his gut and throws it to the floor. He reaches for the door, swings it shut. He leans against it for a moment, his heart thudding in his chest. He sees the wooden plank used for barring the door. It's leaning right next to the door frame. He stands upright, but sways on his feet. The 141 don't have comms these days, so he has to shout to Gaz or the others, he has to shout, he has to… he falls to the floor as he reaches for and misses the wood plank. Gaz is right above him! He moans, trying to shout, trying so hard. A wave of nausea spins through him, his fingers and toes buzzing like they're stuffed with bees. He stares at his hands, willing them to lift his pistol, but it's so heavy.

Cassie is barging back in, wearing a furious scowl. She kicks him hard in the face, blood spurts from his nose.

"That was supposed to be for the omega you piece of shit beta. You just had to make me use it on you." She walks to the bedroom leaving his line of sight, muttering darkly about needing to use a smoke bomb now, and how she doesn't even have a gas mask, and what a fucking annoyance this all is.

Soap stares at the treeline through the door, a second flare goes up, brightening the night even further with the sickly red glow. He can hear Price shouting for Gaz to back up Ghost who is facing too many hostiles at once. His pistol goes off when he accidentally squeezes the trigger with fingers he can no longer feel. Thankfully, the bullet merely embeds into the log wall. Soap tries to get his feet under him, to stand, but he feels so uncoordinated, his boots sliding uselessly across the floorboards. He needs to shout, to get up, get up, get up, you're in that room with her!

With Gaz's attention turned to Ghost, a short man wearing a gas mask slinks from the trees. Soap groans in an effort to shout for help, forced to watch in horror as the man enters the cabin. He tries to move again, his arms and legs curling and uncurling, but otherwise not obeying his commands.

Soap can hear you fighting with Cassie in the bedroom, yowling like a wild banshee, your voice cracking and dipping in and out of volume but obviously furious. The man in the gas mask heads in that direction after briefly glancing at the beta on the floor.

Soap groans again, no no no no, he rolls, manages to get his arms under him. Okay, now he just needs to push up off the floor. Push! He needs to be strong, you need him to be strong. He is sweating with effort, staring at the ground. He doesn't notice the fire until it starts jittering toward him. He jerks his head up unsteadily, taking in the view. The fire is already large, smoke thickening.

Soap sees the little man in the gas mask, holding you, a hand clamped on your neck as he carries you out the door. He's scruffing you! Fury booms inside Soap's chest like a cannon, and something primal in him takes over. His mind is a blank buzz as his body surges up—no thoughts, just pursue—he's stumbling forward as flames lick at his heels.

When smoke starts billowing out the front door of the cabin, partially obstructing his view, Gaz slides backward off the roof, alarmed.

He's running through the snow, rounding the corner of the cabin, and sees you, limp in a stranger's arms, Soap stumbling out the burning cabin as if drunk, Cassie running across the clearing toward the trees full tilt.

Soap's hand lands on the man's shoulder as if to grab him, stop him, but he doesn't have the motor skills to do anything else. The short man turns on him, slashing at his belly with a knife, just below his tac vest.

Gaz tackles the man and you're dropped face down into the snow. Soap is looking down at you as blood seeps from the knife wound on his abdomen, his beta consuming his mind with thoughts of you, protect, protect, protect. Hide the omega's weakness! He tries to grab you, to roll you over, anything. He accidentally falls on top of you. It's okay, he'll cover you with his body, he'll cover you, he'll keep you safe, safe, safe.

He doesn't have it in him to move any more.

Gaz tussles in the snow with the little masked man, snow flying up around them, and the man manages to sink his knife into Gaz's left hand. Gaz snarls and pulls it out to make a return gift in the man's neck. He gargles blood, his mouth filling under the gas mask. Victorious, Gaz drops the man, letting him thrash and bleed his last heartbeats all over the churned snow.

Gaz stands, holding his wounded hand close to his chest, squinting to try and catch sight of Price or Ghost in the trees. There's less gunfire now, less noise. Is the enemy retreating? Or have they killed them all? Then someone cracks Gaz hard on the back of his head and he pitches forward into the snow, dazed.

Gaz turns and looks up, the world swirling a little. The man now looming over him also wears a gas mask, but he's bigger, bulkier—he's got to be as massive as Ghost if not larger. Though he is wearing a winter coat, it hangs open, revealing a bare chest with a large snake tattooed on his skin.

He kicks Gaz in the face and Gaz rolls away, groaning, spitting blood from his mouth. The snake man then moves to kick Soap, who barely reacts, the drug in his system limiting his movements but not the pain he feels.

The man roughly grabs you from under the paralyzed beta; Soap is face down unmoving, he can't help; Gaz is struggling to his feet but the ground is pitching under him. He distantly worries he's concussed.

You're deposited into a large burlap sack, and slung over the giant's shoulder. He starts walking toward the trees. Gaz pulls the sniper from his back and tries to steady himself for the shot. What if he hits you? Your body is a shield protecting the man's backside, and the beta doesn't trust the way his wounded hand shakes and his head swirls.

Gaz snarls, dropping his sights, watching with frustration as you're carried into the trees. He shouts for Price before crawling to Soap. He rolls him over, feels the pulse at his neck. Squints to examine his pupils.

"PRIIIICE!!!" Gaz shouts over his shoulder. "He's taking her!"

He can't hear any more gunfire. He can't hear anything except the roaring of the fire consuming the cabin. How many raiders had the Price pack managed to kill? Anger surges through him as he fumbles for the bandage in his trousers pocket with his wounded hand, not yet willing to set down the rifle. He growls, teeth clenched against the throbbing in his head and hand. They'd hunt down each man, not a single one will get away with this.

The sound of quick footsteps crunching in snow has him whipping around, raising the rifle. He almost falls over with relief. It's Ghost, Price following behind. Ghost falls to Soap's side while Price tiredly wipes a hand down his face, staring bleakly at the thundering blaze that now consumes the cabin. Its light is the only real illumination in the cold night, now that the flare is fading from sight.

"I think they drugged him," Gaz says, applying a bandage to the knife gash on the other beta's lower stomach. It had bled a lot, seeping into the snow, but it isn't as deep as he feared. Gaz flinches at the touch of a hand on the back of his head.

"You're bleeding," Price says, anger simmering under the surface. "Look at me." He checks Gaz's pupils, growling lowly. His calloused yet gentle thumb swipes at the trickle of blood from his beta's nose. "You might have a concussion, it's hard to tell in this lighting."

Price pulls a bandage from a pocket on his cargo pants and makes short work of wrapping Gaz's head as the beta quickly tells them about the giant man who took you.

"Ghost and I will follow them, stay with Soap until he can move again, and rest yourself. Then catch up. No point in remaining here. If it all goes to shit, we'll rendezvous at the Dancing Pig." Price leaves no room for argument.

Gaz hands the sniper rifle and the case of the last of its ammunition to Ghost. Simon is reluctant to leave Johnny's side, but as he stands and follows Price, Ghost shifts back into prominence, and he's ready to hunt down those bastards.

Price and Ghost follow in the raider's footsteps, silent predators on the hunt in the shadows. This sort of situation is nothing new for them, though admittedly, this time, they feel a tightness in their chests, thoughts of you being taken and hurt unsettling their inner alphas. How could they let this happen? They weren't strong enough, quick enough, to protect the omega. Their omega. No one else can have you.

The two of them are faster than the group they're chasing, having to hang back behind them. Some fools aren't careful and stray too far to one side or the other on the path and are swept up in one of your traps. One raider trips a wire that makes a small log with long nails protruding from it swing down and clunk him—and his friend walking next to him—in the head, puncturing his skull and brain. Ghost can't help grinning viciously under his mask. Their feisty omega is the one who did that.

The two alphas follow close behind the group, the wind direction in their favor, until they reach the treeline. They stay in the trees as the raiders walk down the gentle slope toward the village. Sat in the middle of the main road of the village is a smaller group of five raiders guarding a wooden cart. Ghost watches them through the scope as they throw the sack containing you into a large metal cage sat in the back of the cart. Instead of a pack animal, the cart is being pulled by four shackled men. There's already two other captives inside the cage.

"I count 17 hostiles left, including the big bastard with the snake," Ghost rasps to Price. He aims his sights on the very tall man. He's still wearing the gas mask, and he no longer has a little omega body shield. "Got him in my sights."

"Wait, what is that?" Price sounds like he knows but really doesn't want it to be true.

Ghost turns his sights to where Price indicates, and there, at the far end of the village, silvery grey flashing in the red light of the fading flares, roils a creature with no discernible shape. It wallows and pivots and shivers its way into the village, trailing a piece of its body like it's broken a limb. Seven to thirteen legs keep undulating in and out of existence as it crawls forward. If it continues in a straight line, it will run right into the raider group. And you.

"Fucking hell," Ghost growls under his breath, "What the fuck is a Horse doing way up here?"

Gaz pulls the coats off a few dead raiders, wrinkling his nose at their nasty, unwashed-for-months body odor. He lays them out close enough to the fire for warmth, but not too close to burn. Then he drags Soap on top of them. He sits beside him and leans to hover his face over Soap's. He realizes Soap's eyes are open, tracking his movement even.

"Hey, babes, you awake in there?"

Johnny blinks. Kyle leans his head down to press forehead to forehead.

"Bastards won't get away with this, promise."

Johnny makes a loose moan in his throat, unable to work his vocal chords or mouth as he'd like. Tears spring up in his eyes. Kyle shushes him, kissing his chin before speaking.

"It's not your fault, Johnny, don't even try to think like that. The cunt used a hamstring grenade didn't she." Kyle sits up a little, looking down at him with concern. "Although, it usually doesn't have this strong of an effect. Did she use something else?"

Johnny blinks.

Kyle growls, imagining breaking that Cassie omega's neck.

He kisses Johnny's cheek then lays down beside him with a groan. If he really does have a concussion, he needs to rest as much as he can while Johnny recovers.

"It'll be alright," he murmurs, sending out a soothing scent. "We'll get them."

The alphas were just going to do recon, follow the raiders back to wherever, maybe pick off a few here and there along the way, so that by the time Soap and Gaz catch up, they'd all be ready to descend on the enemy with the proper intel.

But then the Horse appeared.

Price's jaw clenches. If the Horse is rampaging, it could very well kill you with just a backhanded swipe as if you're made of dandelion puffs.

The raiders are stupid, and attract the creature's attention faster by shooting it.

It springs toward them, galloping like it's made of water, splashing down over the nearest victim. Hundreds of small six-inch appendages on the beast's underside pierce into the wailing raider, suctioning them to its belly as it slowly drinks the bodily fluid from the quickly dying human.

The raiders scatter, screaming, as another one of them is caught amid multiple whipping arms. The creature forms two pincer like limbs that shear off the top of its victim's skull, then a very long proboscis descends to slurp up the brain matter, before cracking into the spine to drink the fluid there as well. It then tucks the body into a roll of flesh under its belly, near its other victim. Price has seen this before. Eventually, the body will be digested until only the bones remain—but even the bones will be put to use as part of the creature's own skeletal system.

A few other raiders shoot it again, but that only makes it lash out more violently. It's like a pincushion, limbs spearing out and jabbing into houses and road, brick and stone, and bodies alike. It is otherwise undeterred by the bullets sinking into it. Price has to hold himself back from running into the fray to snatch you up from among the chaos. The creature is getting closer to the cage where you're held, one of the limbs spearing into the ground near the cart.

Ghost shoots a raider in the head, their brain matter splattering on the creature, distracting it. It changes course, away from you. Its many arms sling around the man Ghost just shot, holding him aloft in the air. It opens itself like a giant maw, suddenly resembling a frog, and it delivers the dead raider inside itself.

Most of the surviving raiders are fleeing in all directions now. One brushes a little too close to the creature and it gives chase. It roils down a smaller road, veering away from your location. The few raiders still close to the cart—including the bastard with the snake tattoo on his chest—now use the opportunity to escape with their merchandise.

They whip into action the captives pulling the cart, prodding them forward at a quick pace. Price and Ghost follow, skirting the edge of the village opposite the monster, leaving behind the screams of the raider victims still running from the Horse.

Your mind is a little clearer when you open your eyes, though your body is so sore, hints of pain throbbing down from your neck in remembered echoes. You try not to think about the other times you've been scruffed—by your kidnapper whenever you got too "wild" for his liking—and you also try very hard not to think about how it is you've gotten to where you are now. Where ever here even is. You're not sure, since a rough cloth is covering your face. You're not sure where you are or how long you've been unconscious. It's cold though, achingly cold, and you hadn't been wearing anything more than sleep flannels and socks when the attack began. You can smell old blood, but it isn't yours.

It smells like Soap.

You don't remember much, but you do remember the fire, and Soap dead on the ground. Grief catches your sore throat like a fishhook as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying not to cry. Your home is destroyed, even if you escape this predicament, you have nowhere to go. And Soap, oh Soap.

You didn't know him for very long, and he was a little troublemaker, but he didn't deserve to die. He didn't deserve that. You gasp in air, the breath shuddering into you as you struggle against the grief. You don't deserve this either.

You hope the rest of the pack is unharmed, or at least not dead. You hope that they are able to make their way safely to their homes, even if you can't. Your omega weeps inside you, small and quiet, crushed under the weight of helpless loneliness.

You allow yourself to wallow for a bit longer, until your sore, shivering body urges you to take action, to try and alleviate the discomfort. You lift your head, opening your eyes again to see that rough cloth over your head. You try to reach up to pull it away from you, but soon realize that you're inside the cloth, like a bag. You start flailing and struggling to find the opening, your cracking joints telling you that you must have been unconscious and still for quite some time. You're not sure how long it's been, but it can't be more than a day, right?

When you move, you can feel a stiffness in the clothing at your back, and you realize your flannel shirt is caked all down the backside in Soap's dried blood. Your breath hitches with a sob.

You hear a loud metallic creak—a door?—and you freeze.

"That fucking Horse took out almost all our remaining numbers, and for what?" The angry, rough voice accompanies stomping feet that come closer to your position. Horses again??? For fucks sake. "And those fucking traps!!! We were supposed to just capture a few labor dogs to sell, what the fuck happened?!" The speaker shouts so loud your ears ring. The way his voice echoes makes it sound like you're in a cavernous building, like a warehouse.

"The men were more well-armed than we initially thought," says another, higher pitched voice, reedy and sounding afraid of the first speaker.

"They were better armed than anticipated," confirms a calm third voice, incredibly deep—that must be one tall fucker— "but we got something with an even better payout."

Then you hear a fourth voice, a voice that has hatred flaring up in you.

"That little bitch ruined my beautiful face, I'm gonna fucking kill her if no one buys her. She better bring in enough money to make this worth it." Cassie. You try not to move, your hands trembling with rage. Your omega howls for her blood. You wish you'd killed her. It is Cassie's fault that this happened. Her fault that you are taken, her fault that your house is burning to the ground, her fault that Soap is dead.

And the others? You grimace, biting back the worry. They're fine, it's okay, they can probably handle themselves.

So could Soap.

You squeeze your eyes shut. What does it matter? They're nothing to you; you shouldn't care about them. Right now, you need to worry about yourself. If these fuckers are planning on selling you, what did that mean for your future? You need to find an escape before then. You are NOT going to be someone's property, someone's slave a second time.

Never again will you be owned.

If it comes down to it, you'd rather take your own life first.

Someone kicks at you, and you try not to react, to let your body ragdoll at the blow.

"Still not awake? Makes it easier for us." That angry voice is above you, quieter now, but still simmering with rage. "Get her ready, Marthan is here, and I'm going to milk every coin I can from the pompous fuck."

Your heart thunders and you force yourself to keep breathing calmly as someone grabs the bag you're in and carelessly carries you somewhere. It isn't far, you're quickly tossed onto a soft yet firm surface. It reminds you of a bed; chills run through you.

"I know you're awake," says that incredibly deep and calm voice from earlier. You shudder. The man grabs the bottom of the bag and unceremoniously dumps you out of it. You quickly whip your head around to take in your surroundings. You're on a bed, in a space cordoned off with curtains, and just beyond them you can see that it really is a warehouse enclosing you. And standing at the edge of the bed is a man even taller than Ghost, wearing a gas mask, a large snake tattoo on his exposed chest.

You shrink away from him, but before you can clamber off the bed, his scent hits you. Overpowering alpha, weighing you down with the threat of violence and danger, burning at your nose like acid.

"That's right, just lie there, don't bother trying to run," his voice is still jarringly placid compared to his menacing scent. He grabs a bunch of fabric from a trunk near the bed and tosses it at you. "Put this on."

You stare at him without moving, your mind is fogged with fear, dangerous alpha, dangerous alpha, danger, danger. He steps closer, looming. You press yourself down into the bed, hissing at him. Danger!

"Don't make me ask twice," he growls. "Or should I put it on you myself?" His hand rises and you flinch, breaking the trance.

You snatch up the fabric, sliding backward off the bed. You hold it up, pale pink flimsy material. It's a dress? You shudder again.

You look up at the snake man. You can't see his expression because of the gas mask. You lift your pointer up and make a swirling motion, turn around fucker, I'm not changing with you staring at me. (As soon as he turns around, you're gonna bolt.) But he just crosses his thick arms over his barrel chest and stands there, staring at you.

You slowly let out a small hiss of breath, glaring at him. Another wave of his scent crashes into you and you can't help it; you fall to the floor in a panicked crouch, heart thumping wildly in your chest. Your omega is clamoring inside you, hardly leaving room for thoughts.

Heavy footfalls come closer and you try to scrabble away. He grabs you by the back of the shirt, tossing you back on the bed. You kick and claw at him, your voice cracking as your body tries its best to scream as he rips your clothes off you, violently shredding the flannel material like it's paper. With a backhanded smack, your head rocks to the side, and you're temporarily dazed.

"I warned you not to test me," he says, still sounding so incongruously calm. Wave after wave of his brutal alpha scent batters your senses, smelling of gasoline and mouth-puckering lime. His large hands are rough, easily leaving bruises as he manhandles you however he wishes. You shiver in the cold air, nearly naked except your panties, then the dress is stuffed over your head. He yanks it down, pulling painfully at your hair.

Then he peels off the bandage on your arm, uncovering the older wound, and then the same for the newly scabbed cut on your thigh. He leans close to each mark, then mutters,

"Doesn't seem infected… Pretty impressive for someone living in that shithole cabin."

Then your fighting spirit is renewed when he tears your underwear right off. He's got one huge hand locked around your ankle, lifting your body partially from the bed, the dress falls up around your chest, revealing your bare fucking ass to the whole world, so you kick at his face with your other foot. His gas mask is knocked askew, almost dislodging completely.

An explosive growl, you're slammed down on the bed, a hand on your chest and another pressing your face sideways into the worn duvet. His immense weight crushes you, making it hard to breathe. He slots his knee between your legs, his pant's fabric rough against your bared crotch. Bile threatens to rise up in your throat and your fear is thick in the air.

The snake man leans his half uncovered face close to your neck and you're sure he can see the way your pulse is wild in the vein there. He breathes you in deep, then lathes his tongue over your scent gland. Your skin crawls and a strangled whimper escapes you.

He growls lowly like distant thunder, his alpha scent making your head spin. Then he says in his very deep voice,

"Be more afraid. I like the smell of it on you."

You're trembling, struggling to breathe properly.

"Maybe I should just claim you myself. Unguarded omegas are hard to find these days…" He seems to mull this over, pulling back slightly. His hand on your face moves to turn your chin toward him now.

"Cassie said you got no tongue, is that true?"

His thumb forces its way into your mouth and you bite, as hard as you can. He hisses at the pain, but as you feel his blood filling your mouth, he moans, and his hips jerk.

"Oh, so very tempting, to make you mine…" The hand at your chest squeezes your breast—hard—before slowly sliding down your belly over the rucked up dress, fingers brushing the hair at your pussy. You're breathing too fast now, threatening to hyperventilate.

His head snaps up.

His weight on you is suddenly gone as he stands abruptly. You turn your face to spit the blood from your mouth, gagging and pulling the hemline of the dress down to cover you properly as if it can protect your body from him. The dress isn't even long enough to cover to your mid thigh.

You glare at him, he's got his gas mask back in place, and is moving back to the trunk next to the bed, tossing your ruined clothing inside.

You realize you can hear someone else approaching. Two voices, one of them the anxious high pitched voice from earlier. A frail and twiggy little beta leads a short alpha into the circle of curtains. The beta ushers him in and he bows before he quickly leaves, hurriedly saying something about refreshments.

"What? Why is there blood, is she hurt?" The short alpha sounds very annoyed, and very pompous. This must be that Marthan the angry voice had mentioned.

"No, she bit me. Careful, she's got all her teeth." Snake man sounds very pleased about this, while the newcomer's face twists with disgust.

"No matter, I can have them pulled once we're back on my estate. That is, if she is desirable." The short alpha—Marthan—steps closer, wrinkling his nose. "Her hair is quite ungroomed."

"Nothing a hosing down can't fix." The taller alpha is standing near the curtain, crossed arms and an air of disinterest about him now—as if he hadn't just been threatening to claim you moments earlier.

"Amazing," Marthan says, leaning close to you, peering at your exposed neck and shoulders. The spaghetti straps of the dress don't hide much. "An unclaimed omega in these times is like finding a diamond in a pigsty."

You're startled when Marthan suddenly lifts the hem of your dress to examine your body. You jerk it back down as he hums to himself.

"Well, she does look rather fine I suppose. No rashes or signs of sickness. Is it true she can't speak?"

Snake man grunts. "No tongue. Though a little rough sounding, she can still scream for you."

Marthan nods, clearly pleased. You bare your teeth at him but he's turning away, toward the sound of the frail beta returning with a cart laden with teacups and slices of banana. The sight is so absurd, you almost want to laugh.

"Barnsey, tell your master that I'll be purchasing the omega after all. Even though the price he set is exorbitant…" He mutters that last bit more to himself. Then he adds, "Though I'm definitely demanding a decrease for that scabbed cut I spied on her thigh. Not damaged indeed…"

The beta scurries off. You still, but your eyes dart around, looking again for possible escape routes, but the curtains block most of your view of the warehouse. Maybe it would be easier to make your escape during transportation. The short alpha doesn't have the same overpowering scent as the larger one. And he doesn't look as muscular either. You're starting to feel hopeful about your chances. Fighting Marthan might be a better choice than trying to escape from snake guy over there.

You watch warily as the giant alpha next pulls out from the trunk a pair of handcuffs.

Nope.

You're off the bed before you even realize what you're doing, pushing aside the curtains frantically. You stumble barefoot across the freezing concrete floor only a few paces before a large hand wraps around your arm, yanking you violently back. You're tossed once again onto the bed, though this time you're face down as your arms are wrenched behind you, and subsequently cuffed.

"Careful with my property…" Marthan warns, though he doesn't sound overly upset at your treatment. The snake man releases you and you thrash on the bed in a fit of frustrated rage, biting at the bed covers, wishing it was their throats you could rip and tear.

You sag, exhausted, tears prickling in your eyes. You grimace and rub your face into the bed. Your bound wrists are already starting to ache behind your back where you tugged on them during your tantrum. A wave of helplessness threatens to drag you under into mindless fear. No, no. You need to stay calm. You need to remain on the lookout for your moment to run, your chance for escape.

As soon as that moment comes, you must seize it.

You're not paying attention to the words the men around you speak as they go through the motions of a transaction as if they're buying a cow at the market. None of them pay attention to you either, allowing you to alternate between glancing around and falling into your thoughts as you brainstorm possible escape.

"Take her to my car, then, Barnsey, while I finish up speaking with your master." That gets your attention. If that little twig of a beta is the one taking you somewhere, then surely this will be your chance.

Barnsey walks beside you, holding you by the back of the dress, almost lightly, as if repulsed by the thought of touching you. That's fine by you. You're led through the warehouse, past stacks of crates and barrels. The ground is icy cold, and you try your best to avoid broken glass and rubble. You hear that heavy footfall echoing in the warehouse and you glance over your shoulder in fear. The giant alpha is following, at a distance, but still close enough to convince you he's following you, specifically. Probably to make sure you behave.

When you're ushered outside, you cringe inward. A light snow is falling, and it's fucking freezing. You're shivering violently in a matter of moments, your teeth chattering loudly, the cold wind blowing your mini dress so you flash anyone looking. But at least the snake man doesn't follow the two of you outside. A small comfort. Now is your chance.

All around are seemingly abandoned warehouses and a few squat office buildings with no glass in the windows. It must be close to sundown because the grey sky is dark, the flakes of snow shimmery in the floodlights mounted on the warehouse. You're walking across gravel, wincing as the stones cut into your soles. There's a surprisingly shiny black car up ahead, waiting with a man who's clearly of the bodyguard type. Fuck. You try to be sneaky as you glance around once more. Where to go? Which way to run? You start to get frantic. Who cares where! You just need to go, now!

You slam your foot into the back of the beta's knee and his legs give out. He cries out in surprise as he eats gravel, and you're turning, bolting into the snowy night, twisting and shivering between gray buildings and piles of debris. You hear Barnsey shouting, and a loud bang of the warehouse door prompts you to glance back. The giant alpha is rushing out, the snake tattoo looking like it's writhing on his heaving chest. You can't tell if he's spotted you, flitting through the shadows of nearby buildings, but you know he'll be able to follow your scent.

You focus on running, precariously maintaining balance with your arms bound behind you. Pain spikes up into your bare feet, and you grit your teeth, eyes wildly searching ahead. You duck into a blown out office building. You find the stairs, using them as a seat to fold your legs up. You pull your cuffed hands under your legs, only just barely managing it. You're still bound, but at least your hands are in front of you now. You're back up on your feet again, jolting at the sound of footsteps not too far away.

The cold air burns in your ragged throat with every pant, and you hope dearly that you'll be able to find some shoes and warmer clothing soon. The way this whisp of a dress keeps you warm, you might as well be naked. You go into another office building, this one with cubbies in a wall like it was used for mail. You pass through, and find in the back room a tarp covering canisters of gasoline. The smell of it is thick in the air.

With a heavy tug, you pull the canvass tarp off and wrap it around your body as best you can with your bound hands. It's a surprisingly difficult task. The stench of the gasoline clings to you as you hurry out the backdoor.

You pause when you see a large rock. You glance at the door you just exited. With the door propped just slightly ajar, you heft the huge rock and carefully balance it on top of it. As soon as someone comes through the door, the rock will lose its balance and fall on them. Hopefully. That's the idea anyways.

You feel a strange emotion building inside you as you admire the rock on its perch. You feel like your mind focuses, sharpens, and suddenly, you're able to see more clearly, more vibrantly. You need more. More of this. You cast your gaze about and see a loose rope looped on the ground. A few meters further, you find a coiled metal spring. Your blood is surging hot through your chilled limbs. You need more.

You get to work doing what you do best. You gather materials, anything and everything that could be useful. As you walk you smear your bloodied feet along the path you take, leaving a clear trail. Inside a shorter warehouse, you see the ceiling has thick steel beams you can use as anchors. Just inside the door you set a snare, readied to spring a captive straight up into the rafters. (It takes you a few tries to get the other end of the rope properly slung up and over a steel beam. Your movements are frustratingly limited by the handcuffs, but you manage it.)

Once outside, you freeze for a moment, listening as you hear distant voices shouting, searching. But none of it seems close to you.

You walk down a narrow alley, rubbing yourself against the bricks. At the opening, you find a perfect spot for a tripwire, putting to good use the small spool of sharp metal wire you found in a cracked crate. You carefully scatter broken glass and nails in the area someone might land on after tripping, then move on. You make another snare, this time with the sharp metal wire. You hope it skins the fuckers' legs when they step in it. Another door, another object balanced above, this time a hunk of wood with rusty nails hastily added.

You must spend at least thirty minutes prowling around. You don't have much in the way of lethality, but the traps you set are enough to hinder, and in some cases wound. Your feet are numb, your toes worryingly purple. The tarp is heavy, but only marginally helps with the cold; your legs and crotch are still bared to the elements. You're breathing heavily, doing your best to keep up a steady pace now as you trot toward the edge of the large compound of buildings. You don't know what awaits you out there beyond the perimeter, but it has to be better than being a slave to a strange alpha.

A gunshot. You jerk to the ground, your heart in your mouth. You glance around, hands feeling yourself for wounds where you can reach. You feel your inner omega rising up inside you at the sight of her.

Cassie.

She's holding a little revolver, pointing it at you. You bare your teeth silently, pulling your feet under you to stand.

"Don't move. I'm just dying for a reason to shoot you, and we won't get paid if you're dead."

You try to steady your breathing as you kneel on the hard, cold asphalt. Patience, you whisper to your omega, patience.

Cassie walks closer, sneering, thick pads of bandages covering her mauled nose and right ear. She has a chunk of hair missing from her scalp near her left temple, and her eyes are bloodshot. Your omega croons her smugness from the nest of your hindbrain.

"You stupid fucking bitch, making so much trouble for me," she bites out. She keeps coming closer, until the barrel of the revolver presses to the skin of your cheek. She jabs it into you. "You aren't even worth the trouble really, but Antony managed to work out a great deal from that sucker Marthan. Great for us." She pauses to smirk. "I hear Marthan likes to keep his omegas high while he fucks them, so they're nice and pliant. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" She slides the gun barrel up your face to your forehead. "So why don't we just walk on back, and you can go your merry way to an alpha desperate for your cunt, and we can get our money. Come on now."

You glare at her, unmoving.

"Get up." Her hatred and fury twists out from her eyes, making her more ugly than anyone you've ever seen. "Get. Up."

You bare your teeth again. Silent and still.

She spits on you and curses, and the gun at your forehead is only thing holding you back.

You hear gunfire in the distance. Cassie doesn't move her head, but her eyes flick in that direction. You smack the gun aside—it fires near your ear, making it ring—and you leap on her, bound hands clutching the front of her shirt. She goes down hard with your added weight. The back of her head cracks against the ground with the dull sound of a melon splitting. She's dazed, her eyelids fluttering.

You feel your omega in the shadow of your movements, encouraging you, guiding you. Your teeth clamp down on her soft throat, and you rip and tear.

Rip and tear.

The blood in your mouth hails victory.

"Looks like that little punk was the ring leader after all," Ghost observes, voice graveled and tired after two days of walking here, following the raiders to their home base. "Good shot, Garrick." Gaz is on the sniper rifle, since Ghost intends to get close and personal this time around.

He's watching the minions scatter and panic in the wake of Gaz's headshot on their leader. Undisciplined fools the lot of them. It will be easy to clear them out and find you. As long as nothing happens to you in the meantime.

A light snow is falling at an angle as the wind picks up, making it harder to see the enemy, but harder for them to see the 141 as well. Ghost shifts away into that grey night, his knives on the hunt for heartbeats. Price will soon follow him, but he's noticed Gaz turning his face into the wind. Gaz sees his alpha's attention on him.

"It's faint," he says. "But I'm sure."

Price nods.

"Soap, go with him. We'll follow you soon as we're done mucking about here."

The betas split off from the alphas, Gaz leading Soap toward the faintest whiff of you. He holds steady as your scent disappears. You must be here, somewhere.

The overly sweet scent of that Cassie now cloys at both their noses. It's very recent. They take a rounded path instead of following directly behind. If they can catch the bitch unawares, they can get info on your location.

When they catch sight of her, flitting about through the shadows, Gaz frowns. She's not even wearing a coat, and is moving strangely sneakily but they know it's her because of that smell. Soap wants to move in and shoot her right now, but holds off. They need her alive. For the time being.

You tighten the laces on Cassie's boots. Her feet are a little smaller than yours, but compared to having no shoes at all, you'll take it.

Her clothing reeks of her scent and blood, but it should be better than the gasoline tarp at camouflaging your own scent. She was shorter than you, but plumper, so you are grateful for the belt already threaded into the pant loops that you can cinch around your waist. She had a pocket knife you use to cut a strip of the tarp for a makeshift scarf. You wrap it around your head and neck and put the knife into your new pants pocket, but you debate whether to take the pistol. She doesn't have any extra bullets, and two shots have already been fired.

For a tension filled minute, you consider using the revolver to shoot the little chain connecting the cuffs, but you eventually deflate. You might accidentally hurt yourself attempting it; it isn't easy to hold the gun at the right angle between your wrists. Well, it's better to be safe than sorry. Four bullets could make a difference if you run into the snake man again. Or anyone else for that matter.

Miserably, you can't wear her coat. With the cuffs holding your arms together, you can't get the sleeves on. You could drape it over your shoulders—and you do that at first—but you quickly realize that both holding the gun and the coat in place is more work than it's worth. At least you have pants now. You're just going to have to be satisfied with that until you can get to somewhere safer.

Grateful to have shoes now on your numb, bloodied feet, you jog more quickly than before, your breath puffing in the air. The snow is starting to stick as the clouds darken with night, a thin layer of white coating all surfaces. Unfortunately, this leaves obvious footprints in your wake, but aside from Cassie, you haven't heard any other pursuers close by. You can still hear gunfire, and shouting, and you wonder what they're fighting. You snort. Maybe another horse. A wild buckskin giving them trouble, or maybe a misbehaving stallion. You're so exhausted you feel a hysterical laugh want to bubble up your sore throat. You bite your lip to keep quiet.

You come to a chain link fence. On the other side you can see an endless field of dry grasses, the thin flakes of snow settling between the brown tufts. Finally, you can leave behind the concrete and the shackles and the men who see you as nothing more than your designation.

You toss the revolver over the fence first, so your hands are free. Then you shakily climb the fence, having a rough time of it with the handcuffs, wincing at the loud rattling. You crest it and fall very ungracefully to the ground on the other side. You're so, so tired, and so, so cold, you consider just lying in the dead grasses for a bit to rest. Just a short rest.

But a rustle in the grass has you shooting upright. A quick glance around reveals it just to be the wind, or perhaps a small creature. You are alone here, on the other side of the boundary. You snatch up the pistol and stagger to your feet.

Then the scuff of a shoe, and a loud rattle of the fence behind you. You don't even bother to look, you just start running, hard and fast, away from the the buildings, out into the unknown grasses. If you hadn't been so panicked, you might have remembered the four bullet gun clutched deathly tight in your cold hands. But you don't. Only flight is on your mind. You're pounding against the earth with greater speed than you thought you could ever achieve, fear of being caught so close to freedom lighting a special fire inside you.

Thudding boots in the snowy grass pursue you, and you know, you just know.

It's the snake man.

Gaz and Soap are following that Cassie omega's trail, and Gaz swears that underneath her sickly sweet scent and the smell of gasoline, he can still catch the lightest of hints of you. He's sure he's not hallucinating it from his hopes and desires. You were here, or that Cassie touched you, not too long ago, he's sure of it. Soap can't detect your scent, but he trusts that Gaz will not lead him astray.

But as they watch that Cassie, doubt starts to niggle at their brains. Her head is covered with a scrap of cloth, and she's wearing a little thing of a pink dress that, without pants, would be showing the world her ass as she runs. And why is she running so awkwardly, and climbing like that?

Her hands are in cuffs, they realize. And the doubt wheedles deeper. Even from afar they can smell her scent blown toward them on the wind, but why would that Cassie be in handcuffs? And she looks thinner than before. Only a few days have passed since the attack and the fire. What could have changed her so?

"That's not Cassie," Gaz whispers to Soap. He's about to stand, to call out to you, when the Scot grabs his arm.

A very large man, one Gaz recognizes from that night, slips from the shadows, closely tailing the omega. Their omega. You.

The betas are booking it to the fence as the giant man gives chase and you're off like a rabbit through the grass, flimsy pale pink dress flashing in the near dark of the night.

"Ye can do it, aye? Ye can hit that shot?"

Soap is still and tense beside Gaz, who, after landing on the other side of the fence, threw himself down to steady the sniper rifle.

You're running at a breakneck speed away from them, the huge bastard with the snake tattoo hot on your heels. Gaz steadies himself. He's hit so many shots in his career. He knows he can do this without hitting you. He knows it. He needs it.

He squeezes the trigger.

He's too close now, you have to do something. He's so fast, he caught up with you so quickly. What can I do? He's too strong. There's no point in even trying. Your omega bares her fangs, urging you to fight. To survive. To live!

You swing your arms around, turning on your heel, pulling the trigger—he's so close his hand brushes yours as he reaches out—and he runs right into the bullet.

The very moment you fire into his chest, his forehead breaks open, the gas mask splintering and falling away, splattering his brains and bone and blood all over you as he pitches forward. You're very confused; you only fired the once after all. But you don't have much time for confusion when his immense frame lands on you, knocking the air from your lungs as you're flattened on the ground.

You gasp and wheeze, his body so heavy. A pain is shooting up your right hand, pinned awkwardly to your chest under him. The gun's position is bent in your hands. You're pretty sure the finger that was on the trigger must be broken the way it hurts like hell.

His chest is pressed to your face, the blood from your bullet soaking hot on your neck and collarbone. You turn your face to the side, grateful that the alpha's head is higher up, letting his bodily fluids drip into the dirt rather than soaking even more of it onto you.

Squirming and wriggling as hard as you can, trying your best to push the heavy body off you, you pant, your breath clouding visible in the cold air. Only a few seconds of struggling and you have to stop, exhaustion burning in your muscles. You choke back a sob. You can do this, just keep trying.

More footsteps, crossing the field at a run, coming closer. Dread fills every bone in your body. You try to at least yank your arms free, you still have three shots left with the revolver. But the jabbing pain of your broken finger stops you. You start panicking, struggling blindly to wriggle free, your scent tipping toward distress. You can't let it end here, with your freedom nearly at hand.

Never again will you be owned.

You feel your omega, again close to the surface, the nearness to distress shielding you from feeling the pain as you wrench your arms to the right. The newly freed gun shines dully in the dim light as you move your left pointer to the trigger. You can't even see the people approaching, but you bend your wrists in their presumed direction and fire anyway.

There's a frightened yelp and someone else shouts. Your breath catches. Surely not. It can't be.

"Wait wait wait, lass, don't shoot us!"

The body is hefted and lifted off you. You pant heavily with exhaustion, not moving from your position in the grass. You stare up with wide eyes at Gaz.

And Soap.

Chapter Text

You're crying.

Lying in the snowy grass, sticky with blood, tired. Crying. You almost can't believe what you're seeing. You really thought Soap had died, that image of him face down and bleeding so bright in your jumbled memory.

The betas flounder a little at seeing your tears.

"Och, it's alright, lass, yer safe now."

You sniffle and bite your lip to keep from sobbing as tears stream hot from your eyes. Gaz gently takes the gun from you, his expression angry.

"Put you in cuffs like some kind of criminal…"

Soap grabs a pair of bolt cutters from Gaz's back—it looks comically large for the job. He snips the little chain between the cuffs as the three of you hear shouting in the direction of the fence.

"We'll get those bracelets off ye when we're somewhere a little quieter, aye?" Soap says as Gaz turns, gets down on the ground, and shoots a huge fucking gun you somehow hadn't noticed him carrying until now. You sit up in the grass in time to see one of four silhouettes climbing the fence fall to the ground. Soap returns the cutters and pulls you to your feet in one easy tug.

Soap is removing his pack and tactical vest to peel off his coat and give it to you. Gaz fires again. Your ears ring as you reach out to Soap, running your hands up his arms, across his shoulders, down his chest. He's so surprised by your touch he just stands there with his coat in his hands. There, under his shirt, at his belly, you feel a bandage. You lift his shirt to look and he laughs, pulling your hands away to wrangle his coat onto you.

"At least buy me dinner first, before feelin' me up, bonnie," he says, grinning, and winks at you. You scowl and smack his arm. You shouldn't have bothered worrying about him. You wipe your wet face on the sleeves of his jacket, making sure he sees the bit of snot and blood you get on it, but he just seems to think that's even funnier.

Gaz shoots a third person and you hear him say a bit jovially, "Stop flirting, Soap, and let's get moving shall we?"

Soap breathes out a half laugh, zipping up the jacket for you.

"Do ye have it in ye tae run a bit more, lass?" You nod, but shift in place on your feet and wince, the cuts on your soles making themselves known now that the adrenaline has left your system. You're so tired, and sore, and you really just want to lie back down.

Soap is situating his gear back in place, and when he lifts his eyes, he sees the miserable expression on your face. You clutch your new jacket against yourself, and shake your head, gaze turning down. You really don't want to admit just how exhausted and hurt you are.

"Donnae worry yer pretty little head, I got ye." And he scoops you up in his arms with an ease that makes your omega purr. You're so relieved to have them both here—and to not have to walk anymore—that you don't even mind how hungry she is for them. You wrap your arms around his neck as he starts walking and tuck your chin into your jacket, breathing deep Soap's briny rose scent. A warm calm washes over you, and as you start to relax, body-wracking shivers roll through you. You grunt with the effort to keep your teeth from chattering, your jaw achingly tight.

Soap leans his face near yours and whispers that they'll find you someplace warm soon enough. You just keep breathing in his scent, your eyes closing sleepily despite the tense contractions in all your muscles.

"Is she okay?" You hear Gaz distantly, but you don't hear Soap's reply. You smell him all around you.

You're safe.

You're safe, you're safe, he's got you in his arms. His heart is thudding wildly in his chest, lingering fear in the edges of his pulse. You're shivering against him, wrapped in his coat, dried blood staining your chin and neck and chest. One of your fingers is broken, and he saw the way you winced and limped slightly when you tried to take a step. You're hurt, he needs to get you away from here and somewhere warm as quickly as possible. But at least you aren't dead, or sold off to some clarty bastard. It's going to be okay now. He couldn't stop them from stealing you away, it was all his fault you were taken and hurt, but now you are here. You are with him again, within the pack's reach. You are safe. It's okay.

You're safe.

The first thing you notice is that you're still cold, shivering, but you also feel sweaty and stuffy.

A cool, damp cloth is placed on your forehead. You peel open your eyes and see Gaz leaning over you.

"Hi," he says softly. His expression is so gentle and caring, you just can't keep looking at him. You turn your gaze to the ceiling. A boring view. Flat and grey. Looks like concrete. No… no more fucking concrete… You almost groan, but your throat is so sore and parched you end up coughing.

Gaz presses a canteen to your lips as you sit up a little, the cloth falling to your chest. You realize you're still wearing that stupid dress, stained now with both Cassie's and the snake man's blood. Your shoes are off, but under the blanket you're still wearing Cassie's pants as well, and your feet are bandaged. You're immensely relieved. You're done with being undressed by others.

"Don't drink too much at once," Gaz murmurs, taking the canteen from you. Your throat feels like it has a knife blade wedged inside every time you swallow, so you don't dare attempt to whine in protest even though you're still thirsty. He pushes you back down. You let him because your head is foggy and you feel weak, your limbs heavy.

You're lying on a couch. It's a bit ratty and musty, but otherwise not completely unpleasant. Better than sleeping on the floor at least. You try to look around, find out where you are. You want to go home. To your cabin. But now you're not seeing Gaz, you're seeing the cellar under the cabin. Your kidnapper is there, but he's wearing a gas mask, a snake slithers across his skin. He reaches for his mask. You turn your head, you don't want to look, you don't want to see his face.

You sob and blink away stinging tears. Soap is there now, wiping your face with a cool washcloth. You're in that concrete room again, on the ratty couch. Is this real? Is it here and now?

Soap is handing you something. A small, three by five inch notebook and a pencil. It's a faded blue with green lettering spelling out "Diary" on the cover.

He explains haltingly, a bit embarrassed, that he found it on the way to the raider compound. [He specifically looked for a notebook along the way.] After being drugged and unable to speak properly, he has a newfound appreciation for how important it is to have a way to communicate.

You're so touched by this, you tear up. You grab hold of one of his large hands and hold it while you sob. He tries to reassure you, but gives up when you refuse to be consoled, just letting you clutch his hand while you cry.

You must fall asleep because you're in an iron barred cage. Your kidnapper taunts you from the other side, his snake crawling across the floor toward you. He reaches for his mask and you scream, jolting upright on the couch.

Gaz is there again, hushing you, brushing your sweaty hair from your face. He's telling you it's okay, that it's safe, you're safe, but you don't believe him. Shadows loom in every corner. You're tired, but you're too afraid to sleep. You look down at your hands. Your finger is in a makeshift splint, the cuffs gone from your wrists.

You hear Gaz saying that Soap is dancing with a pig, looking for signs of Price and Ghost. You blink at him. Is this still a dream? Your head feels like its full of cotton, your hearing quivering like you're under water. Yes, this must be a dream.

No, your feet hurt, your throat hurts, your broken finger hurts. Not a dream…?

Gaz is handing you a bowl of soup now. Where in the world did he get this? You wonder, sniffling, your tears drying temporarily. There's no kitchen in this concrete room. Or maybe there is, and you just can't see it? A fucking invisible kitchen. Scientists have invented all kinds of things.

Gaz tilts the bowl at your lips after you stare at it dumbly for a few moments. You're surprised at how good it is. He laughs when he sees your expression.

"What, think you gotta eat slop at the end of the world? Not with my skills, babes," he winks, his smile infectious. Or maybe that's the fever making you smile so foolishly.

You just barely manage to finish off the bowl of soup before your eyes are too heavy to keep open. Gaz lays you down, taking the bowl, and you think he says not to worry, your pack will be here soon, but you might have misheard him as your sleep takes hold.

You're in the snow now. Nothing is nearby, no trees, no buildings, no mountains. Just a single figure approaching you. You already know who it is. You don't want to look.

Your kidnapper stands before you. Except for the gas mask, he's as naked as the day you killed him, his body as familiar as the fear he wakes in you. You realize you can't move. You try to thrash free of whatever binds you, but you can't. You're too tired, too weak, too broken.

He lifts his hand to the gas mask, and you start to hyperventilate. You don't want to look, but you can't turn your head, you can't close your eyes.

He removes the mask.

It's Price's face underneath it.

You scream yourself awake again.

You're hot, you're uncomfortable. You're annoyed and tired, so tired.

You're annoyed by how gross and sweaty you feel, foreign scents still fading from the clothing and dried blood. You're annoyed by the storm outside keeping you in this stuffy room. You're annoyed by this concrete house you're staying in. You want the warm cozy feeling of wood, logs and dirt, you want to be surrounded by the pines, and your traps too. You want to snuggle into your shitty cabin surrounded by your traps and pretend everything is okay. You want safety. You want to feel safe.

You've been crying an embarrassing amount while sick. You're partly relieved that you have someone to care for you while vulnerable, and partly horrified that Gaz and Soap are seeing you like this.

But you do selfishly enjoy their beta scents, soothing and fresh. Safe, that smell tries to convince you. You almost wish for the couch to be big enough for them to lie next to you, so you can breathe them in directly and snuggle into their body heat.

That's the warmth your omega longs for.

It feels like an eternity passes as you swing between waking and sleeping fitfully, but Gaz informs you during one of your clear-headed moments that not even two full days have passed since you left the raiders behind.

Fuck. When will this end.

The night before your fever breaks, it gets worse. You lose the clarity you briefly obtained each time after waking from nightmares, and feel almost delirious from the fever. Both Soap and Gaz are here with you, the snowstorm howling outside. Gaz keeps trying to get you to sip more water, while Soap gently wipes the sweat from your face.

You're tired and uncomfortable. Your skin crawls with the need to hide. Every time you find sleep, you're lost in horrible half-memory dreams. You don't want to see any more of it. You want to feel safe. You grimace and try to whine. You reach out to them.

"What do you need, luv, what can we do?"

Soap pushes the notebook and pencil into your hands. You're not all there, and your pointer finger is in the splint, so it's tough to write with your right hand. If you weren't so out of it, you'd remember you're ambidextrous. As it is, you struggle to hold the pencil in your right hand.

"Not safe." You slash an underline under it a few times before letting the book fall from your hands to the floor.

They speak at the same time.

"You're safe, you're safe, you'll be okay."

"Of course yer safe, nothin'll happen tae ye."

You reach out to them with shaking hands, and they each take one. When you try to tug them closer, they merely release your hands. You want to wail with frustration and helplessness. Tears are plopping heavy down your cheeks. You huff and hold your arms open to them. They tentatively reach out to you, but don't come closer. Your breath hitches with a sob and you reach over, nearly falling off the couch to wrap your arms around Gaz's neck, the closer of the two.

"Careful, hen," Soap whispers.

Gaz wraps you in his arms, looking at Soap over your head. The restless fear in your scent is making them itch with the need to hide you away, to protect you from whatever is upsetting you. They silently communicate, Soap eventually standing and moving to the makeshift bed the two betas had been using—just a bunch of blankets on the floor nearby.

Gaz stands, holding you closely, your own blanket tucked around you. He brushes his cheek against the top of your head, listening to you sniffle, feeling you tremble against him. He is almost surprised at how tight his chest is at seeing you like this. He supposes he's got more interest in your well being than he initially let himself realize.

Soap angles the couch away from the wall to create a pocket of space, moving the blankets there. He kicks off his shoes and most of his clothes, lying down in the blankets in just his skivvies. Gaz carefully passes you to him. Your eyes are closed, but you're still awake enough to keep crying, rubbing your wet face against Soap with the smallest whine that it almost breaks his heart. Your fingers tremble against his skin, and he whines and nuzzles your hair.

Gaz moves a wooden chair to the front door's handle to keep anyone from being able to open it from the outside while they sleep. This late in the night, with the storm raging, it is unlikely that Price and Ghost will arrive soon. He hopes they've taken shelter somewhere safe. He and Soap have been trying their best to keep their scents clear of anxiety over the missing alphas, in an attempt to not scare you further.

Gaz undresses next and lies down beside you, pulling one of the blankets over all three of you like a shield from the world, leaning his body partially over yours, the betas pinning you between them.

You're warm, so nicely warm. You drift toward sleep feeling a contentment your waking, healthy mind wouldn't have thought possible to find in another person. The betas curl around you, soothing scents cradling your inner omega. You don't know it, but your scent evens out, then shifts, just a little. The boys smell it, a low sweetness, like the hum of a cello in an orchestra. You're pleased, the smell says, you're happy and content. They feel their inner betas beaming, pleased themselves at having found a way to please the omega.

Soap hums and Gaz kisses the top of your head, eliciting a small croak from you in reply before you slip fully under unconsciousness and fall into a sleep with no dreams. The boys are happy to lie there, basking in the goodness of the moment before they too eventually succumb to sleep. You won't be able to remember this night when you wake in the morning after the fever lifts, but the two betas will. They will hold these moments close in their memory.

Even without officially being pack, the pheromones released by both beta and omega smooth out worries and allow for peaceful, fulfilling rest. All inner designations and outer minds are comforted, the weight of the absent alphas lifted even if only for the night's rest.

Price and Ghost had stayed to hunt down every enemy they could find on site.

It was a truly macabre massacre, the raiders' skills no match against the trained operatives. Though many of the raiders had died during their abduction mission, there were enough reserves who'd stayed behind to guard their base that by the time Price and Ghost were finished "mucking about," the compound was littered with bodies.

Consequently, that made them late to leave. They are a day behind, following the betas' scents, when the storm becomes too strong and they're forced to duck into a building to hunker down until it is clear enough to keep moving. They're antsy, they want their betas, they want the omega. Price paces. Ghost cleans his pistol, then Price's pistol, then sharpens his remaining knives. Then he sighs with frustration, tense energy still prickling under his skin, and moves to crouch beside the other alpha.

Price is kneeling now, peering out a low window with an overhang keeping the pane free of snow and allowing him an unobstructed view into the night. They don't turn on a light, or light a fire. They don't speak much, just watch the blustering weather blow across the land. They decide to take turns on watch, but neither ends up sleeping. They're too high-strung, twitching at shadows that flicker in the storm outside.

They lean close to each other, their warmth the only grounding element keeping them calm. If the storm doesn't clear up by morning, they would rather take the gamble and forge onward to the Dancing Pig than remain away from their betas. Logically, they know that Johnny and Kyle are more than capable of protecting themselves—and you—, but their instincts urge them to return as soon as possible, to ensure the pack's safety.

The next morning, your mind is clearer than it's been since Cassie showed her true colors. You're warm, a little too warm.

You half sigh half groan, and quickly regret it the way your throat aches. It isn't surprising, even putting aside the matter of being sick; you've been more vocal since the Price pack appeared than in the whole of the past three years combined. What a way to reintroduce your vocal chords to speech—well, to sounds. No vocal training will regrow your tongue after all. With practice, you might be able to form easy words, but anything requiring tongue will be out of your reach.

The two heaters crushed against you shift, an arm tightening around you. Your inner omega is in top form already, enjoying the betas' closeness. You refuse to further indulge her. They aren't mine to enjoy. Besides, it really is too warm.

You sigh through your nose as you wiggle and shimmy, attempting to crawl forward, up and out from this heated cage of limbs. But that arm around you does not loosen, just pulls you closer, and you feel another pair of hands land on you as the betas roll toward each other, pressing you even more tightly between them. You feel a bit squashed. You huff in annoyance. Are they messing with me? They're awake aren't they?

You feel a face press to the back of your neck. It must be Gaz because next you see Soap, eyes closed, move to nuzzle under your chin. Their bodies are so warm and alive, the blanket between you and them feeling too thin as they shift against you. Butterflies roll in your stomach. You definitely know Soap is awake when you feel his tongue swipe along your jawline, short and quick. A sharp grunt of a croak—ouch fuck my throat—and you snap your teeth at Soap, just barely missing his nose as he jerks away, grinning. You bare your teeth at him, but truthfully your heart's not in the reprimand. You just need to get out of this heat. You also need to pee.

Thankfully, they don't further protest and you crawl out the pile of blankets. The cool air of the room sends a little shiver through you. The "house" is only a single square room with a wooden table and two chairs, and the couch. You'll need to head outside to relieve your bladder and bowels. This sucks. Even your shitty cabin had a designated toilet.

You walk on your knees around the couch to the front of it where you find your new notebook. As you write, the betas stand with groans like a bunch of old men, stretching and popping joints. You hold up the page to them.

"Going out to pee. Don't follow."

They frown.

"Wait, let us check outside first," Gaz says even as he and Soap start putting on their clothes and outer gear. You politely avert your eyes, just now realizing that they'd been in only their underwear while sleeping with you and there's a bit of bulging going on. You quickly act out the mental equivalent of covering your omega with your hands before she can pipe up about that.

You sit on the couch, bouncing your leg impatiently, letting them check the perimeter or look for signs of others. You put the notebook and pencil into a zippered pocket on your leg. You're going to have to be careful about not losing the pencil. Maybe you can ask Soap to find a string for you next time. You stuff Cassie's boots back on your very tender feet, and wrap one of the blankets around your upper body. You need to get out of this fucking dress. Gaz comes back in to give you the OK, and you gingerly walk outside.

Overnight, the snow had piled to your knee height. You blink against the bright morning sun shining off every white surface. There are rows of small box like, concrete houses on this street (you assume there's a street, under all this snow), and far in the distance you can see trees. You don't see your mountain that shadowed your cabin and the surrounding towns, so these must not be your trees. A different forest. Your chest is surprisingly tight at the knowledge. You're so far from home you can't even see the mountain you could see all your life from your parent's home.

Soap is standing further down the street, in front of a large statue. You can't quite make out what it is. Perhaps an animal of some sort. Gaz remains standing in front of the door. Good. You forge through the snow, slowly making your way around to the back of the house to find an adequate place to pee.

When you return to the front door, Soap has joined Gaz. You lift your brows at them when they turn to you. They both look worried. It makes you more anxious than you'd like.

"No sign of them yet," Gaz says.

You pull out your notebook.

"They seem very strong, I'm sure they're okay." You don't need anxiety stinking up the small house. That's the only reason you try to comfort them.

They've got big smiles on their faces now.

"Aye, lass, they're big strong alphas, they can handle themselves." Soap leans closer to you and whispers conspiratorially, "Verrrry big, and strong."

You frown, looking at him from the corners of your eyes. Gaz smacks him on the back.

"Let's get some breakfast," he says, clearly amused at Soap's blaring attempt at innuendo. "With the weather clear today, they'll be arriving any minute now."

Price and Ghost are tromping through deep snow. It almost comes up to their knees. It slows them down and has them breathing a bit heavier than an easy hike like this should. It's late afternoon, almost sundown, by the time they finally make it to the Dancing Pig.

The statue of a (now dead) politician had gotten damaged at some point after the end of the world. It lays pathetically face down, propped up like an animal on stiff hands and feet. Ghost lifts the bottom of his mask enough to spit on it, muttering, "keep dancing, wanker."

Before he can properly replace his mask, Ghost catches Soap's familiar scent. Then Gaz's. After trudging down the street a bit, he also detects a third scent. A scent newer to him but quickly becoming familiar, making his mouth water and his alpha perk up. He knows Price can smell you too the way he picks up his pace through the snow.

The alphas follow the scents and footprints to the house you and their betas are hunkered down in. They don't go in right away, instead circling the little building, looking for any signs of possible hostiles trespassing nearby. Price finds the spot where you peed. He grunts, his alpha rearing its head suddenly.

When Ghost rounds the building from the other direction he sees Price pissing in the snow. He saunters over, his mask still up above his nose, and knows why Price chose this spot. Wanting to contribute, but not wanting to directly challenge the pack leader, he leaves his own piss spot right next to yours, instead of on top of it like Price.

Inner alphas satisfied, they walk back around to the front. The sun is only just starting to touch the horizon when they open the door. There's a disturbing lack of a lock on the door, but that thought is wiped away at the welcome sight that greets them.

You are wrapped in a blanket, softly snoring on the couch, squashed between the two betas who had tensed when the door opened. Their relief and happiness at the sight of their alphas is apparent on their faces. Gaz carefully shifts to get up from the couch, angling you to lean against Soap. He greets first Ghost then Price with a kiss each.

"She was sick with a fever, it only just broke this morning, so it's no surprise she's tired," Gaz whispers. Price chokes back a growl, reminding himself that they'd dealt with all the raiders.

Simon walks to Johnny, leaning down to kiss the Scot. Johnny looks up at him with such adoration and faith that his heart swoons in his chest. That, along with your addictive smell in the air, has his earlier anxiousness at being stuck in the snowstorm fading away. His pack is safe. He looks down at you, sleeping deeply enough to not even notice the alphas' arrival. He quiets the rumble in his chest before it can get too loud. So defenseless and trusting. As it should be. If you're going to be integrated into the pack, you have to trust them. And Simon isn't the only one interested in the thought of you being pack.

John and Simon take off their gear as quietly as they can. Simon switches out his skull mask for a soft balaclava, and John crouches behind the couch, amused, noting your scent lingers beside the betas'. He wants to roll in the blankets, add his own musk to the mix. Kyle pulls him up to standing, kissing his alpha deeply. He missed him. He tells him so, whispering against his lips.

His hands slide up under John's shirt, blunt nails lightly scraping his skin. John groans quietly into Kyle's mouth. The beta tries to suppress his grin, not wanting to break the kiss, but it's broken anyway when he pulls John's shirt over his head. Simon comes up behind Kyle, wrapping his arms around his middle and nibbling his shoulder through both shirt and mask. Kyle leans back into Simon with a sweet sigh. Desire is quickly clouding the air, spurred on by the high of relief at being reunited.

A quiet whine has the three of them turning to see Johnny, head tilted back, looking at them hungrily. He doesn't want to move and disturb your sleep, but he really wants to participate. They grin and chuckle at him. As John leans down to nip at Johnny's neck, Kyle notices the way Simon leans heavily against him.

"You two didn't get much sleep, did you?" he whispers, turning to smooth his hands down Simon's masked cheeks. When John stands upright again, Kyle notices now the heavy smudges under his eyes and tired look about him. Inner beta kicking in, he undresses the alphas to their boxers and bullies them into lying in the blanket pile. They try to pull him down with them but he pulls away. They grumble.

"I've got a secret weapon for a good sleep," Kyle says, a playful twinkle in his eye. They look up at him with interest.

Very carefully, Kyle lifts you from the couch, bundled in your blanket, and carries you over to set you down on the blankets between them. Kyle feels his beta preening at the way the alphas perk up and seem pleased immediately. John and Simon snuggle close, large bodies encircling you, breathing in your relaxed scent, their feet tangled together below yours. A deep, quiet rumble purrs out from them as they drift on the edge of sleep. Johnny and Kyle are beaming with the satisfaction of happy alphas.

You're a little confused how you ended up back on the floor behind the couch, but you're nice and warm—not too hot this time—, so you don't mind too much. You sigh, and one of the betas nudges closer to you, pressing their chest to your face. You rub your nose against them, omega purring in your head.

You really need to stop indulging her. You don't want to grow too attached for when they eventually return to their home. You ignore the worry about where you will go next, now that you're cabin-less, and instead press your face closer, rubbing your forehead and cheek to this fabulous cushion of a peck, breathing in the woody bourbon sce— …wait. This scent isn't right.

You tense up and before you can move, someone else rolls closer behind you, leaning tight against your back. You jerk your face up and look into Price's steel blue eyes. When did they get here? He's looking down at you gently, but with a hint of amusement and… smugness. Bastard. Think too highly of themselves, the lot of them.

"You're very cute when you sleep," Price murmurs lowly. "Even when you drool."

Your face heats as your hand whips up to wipe at your face. But it's dry. Bastard. You hear a raspy chuckle behind you, then Ghost is leaning over your shoulder, rubbing his masked cheek against your pink one. The soft friction is nice.

You "hrmph", trying to keep your heart calm. No reason to fear these alphas. They haven't yet tried to mount you, use your body against your will. Not that they've had much time for opportunities. You breathe in slowly, that heady alpha scent making your head spin only a little. Maybe you're getting used to it.

Ghost moves to rub your head under his jaw, mussing your hair. It's already a mess anyways. You sigh and let him rub his scent against you; what does it matter—as long as it doesn't get sexual, you might as well enjoy it while you can. Price shifts to rub his face against your bare upper arm, his beard tickling your skin. Ghost is growling softly as he moves his face to the back of your neck. You can physically feel his growl and your eyes almost dip closed at the sensation.

Price wrinkles his nose, peeling back the blanket still around you. You glance down at yourself. Ah. You'd almost forgotten the dried blood.

"We need to get you some clean clothes it seems," he says, thoughtful. [He's already thinking of a wrecked clothing store he noticed between here and the next largest city. But he's distracted by all the skin he sees, like some fool teenager. He's only ever seen you bundled up, and usually with a scarf. Now he can admire your neck and shoulders and cleavage. He bites the inside of his cheek, reminding himself that he needs to behave. You're not his. But oh, you smell so good, and look so bitable. He wants to sink his teeth into every little pale scar he can see, remake them into sweeter monuments, better reminders, of himself and the pack he wants to make you a part of.] With Price pulling back the blanket that concealed your clothing, the smells are free to waft up.

"You stink like that other omega," Ghost grumbles into your hair. You huff. Not like you've had a lot of options. So much for enjoying the moment. You elbow them, not delicately, earning some grunts—you bite your lip to keep from smirking— and squirm until you can reach the pocket with your notebook. You kick the blanket off and lay on your stomach to write.

"That bastard shredded my good flannel pajamas. You know how long I had to search to obtain those?"

[Price and Ghost choke back their anger. The prick undressed you? Is that why you're wearing this? Did he do anything else?]

"We'll help ye look fer some new ones!" You glance up and see Soap and Gaz leaning over the back of the couch to see you. Soap adds with a sly smile, "or, ye can just wear nothin' if that's more comfortable fer ye."

Your glare at him is interrupted by Ghost's hand lightly brushing up your back, fingertips trailing your spine until he reaches the top edge of your dress. His hand hesitates, soft on the skin at your shoulder blades, tracing one of the pale scars before he pulls away. You shiver. [Their eyes are locked onto you, searching for signs of displeasure, searching for signs of wanting more. They want more.] You swallow nervously.

"You'll be going home soon, right? I'm sure I can find some clean clothing myself." You don't look up at them. You don't want to see how happy they are or aren't about leaving you behind. You want to fight the urge your inner omega cries at you to voice; take me with you. It would be selfish to keep getting close to them when you have no intention of being claimed. You can no longer deny the physical attraction your body has toward them. But you aren't ready for that mentally, emotionally. You probably never will be. You're a broken omega.

[They notice your scent dipping into something sorrowful. They assume you're sad at the thought of them leaving you behind.]

"We won't just up and leave you in the middle of nowhere, sweetheart," Price says firmly, no room for argument, though you half wish they'd do just that. Make it easier on you. Cut them from your life in one quick and painless stroke.

"Perhaps we can help you find a new home?" Gaz offers. [That perks the others up with a grand idea brewing.]

"Aye, just stay with us until we find you some place to live, hen."

You look up now. They seem confident and willing to help you. Well, they've already helped you once. …From a situation they put you in. Those raiders followed their trail right to you. You frown.

"What are you overthinking about?" Price asks softly, a small smile under his mustache.

"I'm not going to be owned, I'm not going to be claimed. Not again."

There. You've stated your boundaries plainly for all to witness. You hear a whine from one of the betas, but Price and Ghost are surprisingly quiet.

"But it's technically your guys' fault my home burned down, so it's only right you help me find a new one."

Soap jumps at the bone you throw them.

"Aye, ye wee bonnie lass! A new home!" He tackles Gaz, needing an outlet for his sudden spurt of energy, smothering the other beta with kisses and licks and little nips. Gaz laughs and wrestles him right off the couch. You can hear them rolling around as Ghost shifts to stand. He's only in boxers, and you do honestly truly really try to avert your gaze, but wow, what a fucking sight. Your omega drools in your hindbrain, and you have to agree.

"Like what you see?" Price's voice close to your ear startles you, and you duck your head, ashamed to be caught staring like that. "He is rather nice to look at, ain't he?" Price's voice is low and enticing. Ghost is stretching where he stands, obviously showing off. You cough.

"It's good you're back. Gaz and Soap were worried about you."

Price grins.

"Were you worried about us as well, darlin'?"

You huff, rolling your eyes, and flip back to the previous page, pointing out your earlier sentence.

"They seem very strong, I'm sure they're okay."

Price laughs. You flip forward to the current page.

"So, know any good clothing stores?"

Price stands now, humming as if mulling it over, and walks over to his discarded clothing to dress himself alongside Ghost. You peek slyly at his backside. You'd noticed his chest is incredibly hairy, and the backs of his thick thighs have trails of darker hair as well. Ghost's hair is lighter, from a distance almost invisible against his pale, scarred skin. You hurriedly look down at your hands when they turn to face you.

"I know a place, if you're up for a bit of walking."

You quickly write before standing and bringing the notebook closer to their view.

"My feet are a bit banged up. I had to escape barefoot."

They look down at your bandaged feet. A quietly dangerous growl slips out of Ghost, but he cuts it off when you glance at him.

"We'll carry you," he says gruffly.

You lift your brows.

"Don't look at me like that, you're a fucken' bean sprout, it won't be hard."

You blink. What.

Soap slings an arm around your shoulders.

"Aye, lass, we need tae fatten ye up. Were ye eatin' nothin' but tree bark all this time?"

Gaz is laughing as you write,

"I was doing just fine, thank you." You turn up your nose and walk back to the pile of blankets, ignoring the chuckling. You decide to wrap one around you since you don't have a coat.

You gave Soap back his jacket yesterday morning and refused to take any more of their clothing. You had silenced their pleading with, "Being buff isn't going to save you from frostbite."

You carefully select one of the blankets. No one needs to know you picked this one for all the combined scents on it. You turn to them.

"I packed light, so I'm ready to go when you are."

Soap laughs boisterously—he's clearly got too much pent up energy from staying cooped up in this house for so long.

"So she knows her way around a joke too! Yer gonna love some of the ones Ghostie has tucked away." You return his grin, unable to fight against his good mood. You're glad to be leaving this stupid room.

"Well, it should be okay to make our way there now," Price says, looking through the frosted window at the clear morning scenery. Gaz hands you a ration bar and you quickly eat it (it tastes awful) as you stuff your feet back into the small boots, making sure everyone has a bar of their own as well. You're not going to let them feed you the last of their supplies and go hungry themselves.

You go out to go to the bathroom first before returning to the front of the house, "washing" your hands with clean snow. The boys are all suited up and you watch them for a moment, pleased at what you see. No more worry or tension. They move around each other easily, with familiarity. They seem like a good, strong pack. They deserve a good, strong omega. You stop your thoughts there with a head shake.

You realize they're now standing in a circle facing each other, motioning frantically with their hands—all except Price, who is watching them with amusement. Just as you step closer to see what's going on, Soap groans loudly, throwing his head back and tugging on his mohawk. Just Ghost and Gaz are now waving their fists.

Oh for fuck's sake. They're playing rock paper scissors. You cover your mouth to hide your laugh.

Before you can figure out what prize they're fighting over, Ghost wins. Gaz pouts, but he's less of a sore loser than Soap. Price nods, as if ceremoniously acknowledging the victory and you can't hide your laugh this time. Their eyes snap toward you at the sound. Ghost is standing closest to you, staring you down though you can't see his eyes, shadowed by the bone-like skull mask. You eye him in return as he slowly steps toward you. It reminds you of when you first came across them in your forest.

You're not quite sure what gets into you. Perhaps Soap's lingering, infectious high energy, or the laughter still bubbling in your gut at seeing them goofing off and playing a game together. Whatever spurs you on, it fills you right to the brim. A huge smile spreads across your face, your chest feeling like it might burst with this energy. You take a step back as Ghost walks to you. Then another. And another.

The others are also compelled now, following behind Ghost as their eyes zero in on you. [The pack finds themselves getting excited, especially when you giggle—you actually giggle, they almost can't believe it, it's a bit coarse but even so, it's music to their ears—then you spin around, bounding through the deep snow as fast as your legs can manage. The excitement spills out of them, and they give chase.]

You fight admirably against the knee-high snow, breathing hard, but these men are beasts. They crash through the snow behind you, kicking it up in the air all around them. The shimmery white powder sparkles in the bright light of the morning sun.

You're laughing breathlessly when you get tackled. In an impressive display of bodily control, Ghost, arms clamped around your middle, twists his body as you get knocked from your feet, so that instead of crushing you with his weight, he lands on his back in the snow with you on top of him. His chest heaves under you, and you're panting hard yourself, staring down into his brown eyes with a tired grin. Body buzzing with the pleasant exertion, you impulsively lean down to nip at the cloth of his mask at his neck. [Desire surges up in him easily alongside his already high pulse rate.]

You shriek hoarsely when a wave of snow is washed over you as Soap dives down next to Ghost. You shake your head free of snow and grab some of it now piled on Ghost's chest to fling at Soap. He laughs, but then a huge snowball smacks against his head. You look over to see Gaz already forming a second one in his gloved hands.

Price had been running too, but now he walks a little more dignified over to Ghost, helping you to your feet right before the betas both dump more powdery snow over the masked alpha, half burying him. Ghost explodes up, snow flying, and lunges for the other two.

Your breathing is evening out as you laugh again at the sight of the three of them tussling in the snow. Unfortunately, your sore feet are stinging again, drawing you away from your joy. You probably shouldn't have run like that. You hope you didn't reopen any of the little cuts. You're also feeling more fatigued than expected—probably because you just spent the last two days first lying down with a fever and then staying confined to that house waiting for the alphas to return yesterday. You look up at Price. He's glancing at the morning sky, then checking a wristwatch you're surprised to see in working condition.

"Alright, you muppets, we need to head out before it gets any later."

You yip in surprise when Ghost sweeps you up into his arms with no warning. You cling to his neck as he easily shifts you to hold you with one arm, his forearm curved under your butt and thighs. He uses his free hand to pull your head close, rubbing your cheek against the smooth surface of his skull mask before pulling away.

"Cheeky minx," he grumbles, wrapping his free arm around you too. "You're just a tease." You feel a bit guilty at that.

As they start walking, you tuck your face into Ghost's neck. You feel strangely safe in his arms. It's a new experience, to feel safety in someone's presence, in their physical closeness. It's a bit terrifying in its newness, but still nice. His strong, musky scent washes over you, leather, black tea. That hint of spicy chiles is stronger today. Your omega is trilling with pleasure from your hindbrain. You drift in a mental haze, floating on his scent. The time slips past, ferrying the sun across the sky. You're almost surprised when Ghost stops, the absence of his steady motion prompting you to look up with a yawn.

[Ghost loves carrying you like this, not even caring about the burn building up in his arm muscles over time. He could move you to his back to have an easier time of carrying you, but his inner alpha is too pleased to have you at his chest, face pressing into his neck. Is this what it's like, having a happy omega nuzzling your scent gland, smelling so content, mouthwatering pheromones soothing his mental state? Maybe having an omega in the pack really is worth it. He's disappointed when they finally arrive at their destination, causing you to stir and lift your face away from him, the loss of your warm breath sending a chill across his skin.]

You're in a town larger than the villages you're used to seeing. The pack is standing in front of a beaten up store. Price and Gaz are walking through the blown out doorway, guns raised. Soap is walking around to the backside of the building. Your hands tighten against Ghost, and he rumbles.

"There's likely no one here, just checking for precaution's sake."

You nod, lips pressed tightly together as your eyes dart around. The back of your neck tingles and you turn your head to look behind Ghost, gaze sweeping over the other storefronts. You don't see anything, and there's nothing on the air. You try not to remember that day nearly three years ago when you saw that grey monster attack those people. You rest your chin on Ghost's shoulder, eyes still peering about. It's alright, the Price pack have guns and training in combat. Surely bullets would be enough to handle anything.

When it's deemed safe to go inside, Ghost carries you in. He sets you down, his hands lingering on you for a few moments before Soap calls him over to look at some garments on the other side of the store.

Everything has a layer of dust on it, the clothes closer to the broken doors and windows looking a bit mildewed. But farther in, the clothes seem to be in relatively good condition, all things considered.

You find two pairs of pants, three shirts of varying sleeve length, some warm socks, a sweater, a puffy winter jacket, a few pairs of plain cotton panties, a couple of boring but reliable looking sports bras. You don't have a bag or a pack to store all these in, so you fret about getting too much. You reluctantly decide against new flannel pajamas. You can sleep in your shirt. Price insists on walking beside you, carrying all the items you pick out. He sees you put back the flannels.

"You don't have to worry about payment, so why hesitate?" You glance at him, checking if he's serious.

"I don't have a home to store all this stuff. It will become cumbersome carrying it."

He hums, then grabs the pajamas you'd been looking at, shaking some dust off and adding it to the pile in his arms.

"We'll carry it for you." You wrinkle your nose. You really don't want to impose like that. They do one too many favors for you, then can cash them in later like softcore blackmailing. "It's peak winter right now. You need warm sleepwear," he adds, his tone final. He walks down the isle and you scowl at his backside.

You're glad when you find the scarves, rooting through them for just the right one. That one's too itchy, that one's too thin. Another itchy one, one that smells like mildew. You hold a soft red one with white stripes on the end up to your cheek. You rub it on your neck. Soft and warm but not itchy. Perfect. Your neck felt too naked without a scarf. You want to put it on right away, but end up handing it over to Price. You really want to wash yourself before putting on your new clothes.

Soap and Gaz had wiped away with a damp washcloth much of the dried blood on your neck and chest that was visible to them without removing your clothes, but that meant your skin was still stained underneath the dress. You also feel grimy from sweating out your fever. You'll have to find a place to melt some snow to wash with when you're all done here.

The one thing you can't find is a good pair of boots. Which sucks ass because the boots you nabbed off of Cassie really pinch your feet. You're glad Ghost had carried you, or you'd have horrible blisters to add to the wounds on your feet. You sigh at the paltry selection of thin jogging shoes. Maybe Price also knows a good shoe store somewhere?

He's currently looking at some gloves, adding a pair to your pile. Gaz is stuffing something into his backpack in another aisle. Soap is rushing over, holding up some lacy lingerie, Ghost trailing him.

"This'll look great on ye, bonnie." He's looking a little too excited for your liking.

"You'd look better in it, I'm sure."

Ghost hums low and gravelly, looking the lingerie and Soap up and down appreciatively.

"She's right, Johnny, I'd take a bite out of you wearing that." Soap's face is flushed, but he seems pleased rather than embarrassed. You on the other hand are looking at them with surprise.

"Johnny?"

Soap grins sideways at you, cheeks still pink. He leans close, dipping his head to speak more softly.

"Aye, hen, ye can call me Johnny, since we're such good friends an' all." His warm breath tickles your cheek, and you swallow, stomach flipping a little. You concentrate probably more than needed on writing. You step back slightly, creating some space, face warm and eyes slanted away as you hold up the notebook.

"It's a nice name, though I think Soap is a cuter name."

He laughs warmly, not pushing into your space again, much to your relief.

"Och, this is what I'm reduced to, being called cute!"

Ghost chuckles and Price steps up next to you.

"Think you got everything you'll need?"

"Except shoes. These boots are too small. But I don't see any good options here." You hold one foot out as if offering it up for evidence. Price hums again, thoughtfully.

"There may be another place we can find—"

A sharp whistle interrupts him, causing all four of you to look toward the door where Gaz is crouched, pistol in hand. The change in the Price pack is immediate. The predatory shift that comes over them has your own instincts heightened, searching for the danger the pack senses.

Price hands you a tote bag he'd found, slipping your "purchases" inside. You look up at him as his hand brushes the top of your head before landing on your shoulder to give you a reassuring squeeze.

"We'll take care of this, just follow my lead, right?" His expression is serious.

You nod solemnly.

He guides you to the front window where you crouch beside Soap. Johnny.

Soap.

You clutch the stuffed tote to your chest, peering out the large broken window. Price and Gaz are behind you, but you don't see Ghost anywhere. You feel a prickle at the back of your neck again like earlier as you scan the snowy street. You don't see anything. You lean over to see what Soap is doing. He's pulling little items out of a pocket on his vest, but his large hands hide what they are.

"We've got a Horse, could be the same one from a few days ago," Gaz is informing Price in a whisper. A horse? You perk up, looking out the window again. You've heard horses mentioned a few times now. You want to see it. You've always thought they're beautiful, but never imagined you'd see one roaming wild in person.

"If it is the same one, then hopefully it will be too full to bother with us," Price grumbles. "It ate quite a few of those fools." You frown. You feel vaguely like you're being pranked.

That's when you notice Ghost. How did he get over there? He's across the street, in the shadow of a an old brick coffee shop. He's crouching in the snow, holding the end of some kind of wire. You follow its path across the road and realize Soap has the other end through the window. He's threaded those little items from his pocket onto it and is lifting his end of the wire so they slide along its length closer to the mid point. They look a little like vials or capsules. Do they contain gunpowder? They're not seriously going to attack a horse… right?

A loud shuffling of snow has your gaze flicking down the street. Your mouth hangs open.

A large, roiling grey mass slides through the snow, multiple limbs shifting thickness and length as they work. It looks nearly identical to that creature you saw years ago.

That's what they're talking about?! Why is it called a horse? It's so much bigger than a horse! It looks nothing like one! What is going on???

The creature stumbles—it looks a little drunk—and something slips out of it. Oh fuck, it's a half decomposed human body. An appendage looking like a frilly fish fin unfurls from its belly and wraps around the body to suck it back into itself. Now that you're looking closely, you can see multiple hands and feet and even a head dangling from its underside. You feel nauseous, glad you haven't eaten recently.

"It's corpse drunk," you hear Soap whisper. You glance at him and see him grinning maliciously. "Now's the perfect time tae kill it."

"Patience. We shouldn't take the chance if we don't have to," Price replies quietly.

The creature is now walking across the wire. It pauses. A lump forms on its top, looking vaguely like a human head that turns 360 degrees. Your skin crawls. A ripple runs through the monster, like the disturbed surface of a lake. A proboscis reaches out from that illusion head, briefly resembling an elephant before it extends farther than an elephant trunk ever could. It slowly snakes through the air, undulating, the seeking end probing in your direction. You can't help the frightened little sound that comes out of you as you shake with fear.

That proboscis is little more than a foot away when,

"Soap." Price's voice, steady and hard.

Soap immediately yanks on the wire; it lifts as it snaps taught, the items swinging on it flinging up to hit the beast's belly. The skin of the creature slurps the items and wire into itself as soon as contact is made, Soap and Ghost releasing their respective ends. The creature shoots up, standing tall, all limbs straightening vertically, stretched and taut. It freezes for a few heartbeats, then its skin begins to sag. It doesn't cry out vocally as it stumbles forward, dropping multiple corpses, its limbs and skin sloughing off. It collapses into the rapidly melting snow, steam rising with a loud hiss wherever it touches.

As its large body melts away, a small silvery structure remains, standing straight up from the ground like the spine of a mountain. Is that its skeleton? Four long prongs root it to the earth, three or four feet tall, connected with a horizontal piece and supporting a frontal protrusion sort of like a neck and head. It looks vaguely like…

…like a fucking horse.

Chapter Text

You don't get too close to the remains even though you're incredibly curious.

"What was in those vials to kill it so quickly like that?"

"Salt," Soap says with a sly grin. "Like a fat slug, all they need tae shrivel up is a bit o' table salt." You purse your lips in disbelief. Salt? Really? And slugs don't die immediately like that, in this… dramatic way. Soap's face turns grave suddenly, making you pay attention to his next words because of how rare it is to see him so serious. "But it only works if ye get it tae eat it through its belly, so donnae get any ideas aboot fightin' one yerself, aye?" You nod. You certainly weren't planning to.

They seem surprised you're so bewildered and know nothing about it, and you remind them you have mostly been hidden away from the world since before it ended.

Actually, you aren't even sure when exactly the apocalypse happened—was it very long after you were kidnapped? And did it happen all at once? Or slowly over a period of weeks? Where did these creatures, these… Horses, come from? Are they space aliens, or some kind of lab experiment gone wrong? Surely they didn't mutate from real horses…

You intend to ask them when you're distracted by the sight of Gaz leaning over the acidic remains to reach the skeleton. His body is straight like a board, held up at an angle by Ghost holding on to the back of his vest. There's a protrusion below the skull-like portion of the skeleton, just about where you'd guess the larynx would be on a normal animal. The piece snaps off after Gaz works at it for a bit, and he holds it up victoriously as Ghost pulls him back upright.

Gaz comes up to you to show it off, holding it up to his lips to blow air across it. It makes a whistling sound. He hands it to you and you gape at it in wonder. It's slightly warm to the touch, and sort of reminds you of a unicorn horn about five or six inches long. Three metallic looking pieces are entwined together like vines, wide where Gaz broke it off, and spiraling to a fine-tipped point. It's very sharp. At the wide end there is a little loop sticking out from one of the three vines, comically looking like a miniature teacup handle. You bring the object to your mouth to mimic Gaz, and blow across a little hollow notch in another one of the vines. The resulting whistle is loud and strong.

"Now even if you are far from us, you can still call for help," says Gaz, looking proud that he thought of this.

"And, ye can use that pointy end tae stab anyone who tries tae kidnap ye ever again," Soap says, pulling out a length of leather cord from his pack. He takes the skeleton shard and threads the cord through that loop of metal near the wide end that resembles a little handle.

"Not that you need to worry about that with us around," Gaz adds as Soap blows the whistle to make sure the cord doesn't disrupt the sound. Instead of handing it back, he drapes it over your head, down around your neck, the whistle-knife resting on your chest.

"Just be careful ye donnae accidentally stab yerself," Soap chuckles, giving it a tap with his forefinger before pulling away. You lift a hand to caress your new dangerous necklace. You're really touched by this gift. It's sturdy, and useful in two ways. You smile up at the betas, projecting your happiness at them with your scent to say thank you. They beam back at you, looking like young boys, giddy over a crush.

Soap looks ready to throw his arms around you, so you politely pat his arm—holy fuck, you'd almost forgotten how thick his biceps are under his coat—and trot over to where Ghost and Price are standing, their heads tilted close together as they discuss something. They turn to you as you approach. Price smiles, taking the bag of clothing you had hooked on your arm. Speaking of thick muscles…

"Ready to find you some proper shoes, darlin'?"

You nod, but look over your shoulder at the creature's remains. Gaz and Soap are kicking some snow at it. Your skin is still crawling a bit, a faint feeling of being watched yet persistent in prickling at the back of your neck. The alphas notice your unease in your scent and shift toward you. You look back at them and with only a slight hesitation at first, hold up your arms to Ghost. He rumbles in his chest, immediately sweeping you back up into his arms. You lean into him, breathing deep, feeling your nerves settle somewhat, not even minding the way his tactical vest crushes against you. Price pets your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. You lean your head toward his touch—just a tad. You don't want to look desperate.

"Ah, sweet girl, do you like being carried by our strong boy here?" Price's voice is soothingly low, an enticing growl at its edges. You suddenly feel shy, nodding and turning your face into the fabric at Ghost's neck. You hear Price chuckle and feel Ghost's responding hum of a growl. You can tell they're pleased the way their scents have shifted, but the light tension is—thankfully—broken when the betas walk over, Soap complaining that it should be his turn to carry you. Ghost's grunt and tightening arms says he does not agree.

"Come on, mate, you can carry me if you like," Gaz jokes, throwing his arms around Soap's neck and nearly toppling them both into the snow.

It doesn't take nearly as long to walk to the store Price had in mind for shoes. Finally, you have warm, comfortable boots on your feet. And they don't even smell. You thank Price, and then also thank Ghost for carrying you all this way. Both of them brush off your thanks, saying it's nothing, no worries. You bite your lip. If it really is nothing, then could you ask for one more thing?

"I would like to wash myself before I wear my new clothes. Is there some place I can start a fire to melt some snow?"

You wait only a little patiently as they debate amongst themselves. You really know nothing of this area. You had never traveled very far from home, even when you were younger. You had decided to take time off work, your first vacation by the sea planned for the summer, when you were kidnapped. So much stolen. You push away those thoughts before they can taint your smell.

After a bit of hunting through the streets, the Price pack finds a suitable place to bed down for the night. The sun is starting to set as Gaz, Ghost, and Soap head back out to search for any food or other supplies. You stay in the chosen building—an old pet grooming service by the looks of it—with Price, who helps you shovel clean snow into a few buckets. On the sidewalk out front, he also helps you brush away snow to clear a wide enough area for a makeshift fire pit, using broken wood and garbage from the surroundings for fuel. You're grateful that Price has a working lighter. The snow melts in due time, and soon you have buckets of water.

You let the snowmelt warm a little over the fire so that you don't have to bathe with freezing cold water before bringing it inside to wash yourself. Just as you head inside, the others return with their spoils, intending to use the fire for cooking. You and Price filled enough buckets for everyone to wash themselves should they feel inclined. You hope they do.

You give the Price pack another point in their favor (alongside coming to rescue you from slavers and nursing you during a fever) for not peeking or "accidentally" walking in on you while you use a rag to wash the blood and grime off in a private room. The bar is really low, and they're soaring over it.

You take your time, especially with your sore, broken finger still in its splint. You scrub your neck and chest viciously, finally getting rid of the last traces of Cassie and the snake man. Your feet you wash more tenderly, examining the scabbed over cuts on your soles. All the little wounds you've sustained over the past week or so seem to be healing well. Good.

Your hair you tackle last. You dunk your head directly into the water bucket, scrubbing at your scalp and finger combing your locks while bent over. You'd found a single, nearly empty bottle of dog shampoo, and decided to use it. You didn't like the smell, but having clean hair would be worth it… right?

Once you've dried yourself and dressed in your new warm clothing and boots (the building is chilly and Price said to keep your shoes on in case you needed to quickly leave) you kick aside that stupid fucking flimsy pink dress and Cassie's pants. Maybe you'll throw them on the fire. The thought brings a smile to your face. But that makes you remember the men outside your impromptu bathing room. Now that you have proper clothing and shoes, maybe you should leave them. Go your separate ways in the morning.

Your chest feels tight, your inner omega whimpering in the back of your mind. Shit. You don't want to leave them, you realize. But you're worried about staying with them for too long. You need to remain self reliant, you can't become too dependent on someone else. And above all, you need to be wary of your eventual heat.

You push these thoughts aside for now with a shake of your head. You'll worry about this later. You join the boys in the main room where they've prepared the food they'd found, using a small candle in a tin for the only illumination.

The room has large storefront windows that look onto the street. Night has fallen, the snowy street lit only by the rising moon. You feel again like you're being watched. You squint through the glass but don't see any movement, nothing suspicious. It must be because you feel so exposed out here, no forest, no traps.

Still, you're relieved when Price suggests everyone sleep in the back rooms, away from those large windows. Price gives you a sleeping bag they'd scrounged up for you, and you're glad to have something to sleep on; you hadn't even thought of that. You pick out a relatively clean room, and lay out your sleeping bag. You sit on it for a few moments, listening and watching the pack move around just outside your open door as they get ready for bed themselves. You realize they are setting up their sleeping bags in other rooms. You fidget, feeling restless. They'd all slept in the same room as you at the concrete house… There had only been one room. You bite your lip. You aren't part of the pack, why would they choose to sleep near you?

You stand, notebook and pencil in hand, hovering in the doorway. Should you give the excuse that you're cold? No, you shouldn't be selfish. If they don't want to sleep with you, they don't have to. But you really would feel safer if they would just lie a little closer… You feel reluctant to step out into the room. They've blown out the candle, so the only light comes from the moon shining on the snow. You eye the large windows at the front of the store, the hair on your arms and nape of your neck standing on end—

You gasp.

The others snap to attention, looking at you then at where you stare with wide eyes. They don't see anything, just the moonlit town. Even so, Gaz and Price come to you while Soap and Ghost go to sniff around the storefront.

"What did you see?" Price asks with a quiet rumble.

You shake your head and quickly write, tilting your notebook to use the moonlight through the windows to see by.

"Nothing, I think. Just, thought I saw a person, but when I blinked it was gone. I'm just tired."

Price hums and pats your head.

"Get some rest, we'll keep watch."

He doesn't at all sound like he doubts you. It was just your eyes playing tricks on you, you're sure now, but he takes your silly moment seriously. It warms a small portion of your heart, something so simple like that, how laughable. How desperate are you for validation?

You retreat to your chosen room, wrapping yourself in the sleeping bag. But you keep your legs and booted feet free of it, just in case.

Ghost is crushing the life from the man's neck.

"Sure ye won't change yer mind?" Soap snarls in the man's ear. Ghost lets up the pressure for a moment.

"Fuck you," the man chokes out.

Ghost breaks his neck.

Price sighs and rubs a hand at the back of his neck while Soap searches the dead man's pockets for anything useful or identifying.

"It's not a coincidence that he's wearing the same type of clothing as the first guy," Price says.

"But who could they be working fer?" asks Soap.

"Both of them sure were tight lipped…" Ghost mutters, cranky about time wasted questioning these assholes when he'd rather be sleeping. He's right though, neither of them gave up any info under pressure. That means they were probably professionals of some kind. Not just some punks like those slaver raiders were.

First they'd found a man lurking around in the dark of night outside the pet groomer store they'd stayed in, wearing an all black suit like he fancied himself as some secret service wanker or some shit. And now, even after walking all day and putting distance between there and where they chose to sleep tonight, they found another man, in the same getup, slinking about. The strangers kept themselves hidden during the day, maintaining enough distance that the boys hadn't even noticed they were being followed. If it hadn't been for your nervous perceptiveness, confessing to them that you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, they might not have caught on until too late. Perhaps the stereotype of omegas being extremely sensitive to their surroundings wasn't all exaggeration after all, Price muses.

You are currently fast asleep inside a small barn, Gaz watching over you. The 141 took care of both strange men with you being none the wiser. Price decides that if more of these men are going to come skulking about, they'll need to warn you in case something happens in the future. But for now, they might as well let you sleep peacefully. You had insisted on walking much of the distance today on your own two feet now that you had proper shoes—only occasionally backpacking on Gaz—, so you were pretty tuckered out by the time Price had called it a day.

Price and his boys are leading you toward their home base. Sure, they slow every now and then to pretend to look at houses here and there, keeping up pretenses, but really, they want to get you to their home. The military is still functioning to a degree, housing survivors and protecting a territory surrounding each base they still occupy. Surely once you're there, you'll appreciate the hot running water, the food, the cleanliness. The safety.

They notice your anxiousness escalating, especially the next day when they come across a small town nestled by a lake amongst the trees. They are admittedly a little confused. It's true they haven't known you long, but this really doesn't seem like normal baseline behavior for you. Is it because you're still sensing someone watching, hunting them? Is there a third man in a suit creeping about somewhere near by? On the other hand, Price worries it has something to do with being an unclaimed omega, traveling with a pack not your own, no home, no nest, no feeling of safety. He knows omegas can distress and even die if they feel unsafe and afraid for prolonged amounts of time. But he grimly bites harder into his own resolve; he must get you back to base. You'll be safe there. Things will get better there.

You're on edge, more and more so as two days go by without any promising prospects. You know your heat will be coming in a few months. You need to find a new home. You need to make sure it is safe and secure and free of others who might take advantage of you while you're vulnerable. You kind of just want to wander through the woods, away from the beaten path, from the larger cities and towns, from the possibility of people, hoping you come across an abandoned cabin you can move into. That would be too good to be true, though, wouldn't it.

Your group is passing through a small lake town, Soap carrying you on his back to give you a break from walking at his insistence that it was his turn to carry you (you'd snapped your teeth at him when he suggested it at first, feeling strangely itchy about being touched, but truth be told, you're not used to so much walking, and your feet were aching, so you gave in), when you sense something. It's not quite a smell, nothing you can put your finger on, more like a feeling that you need to pay closer attention to. You frantically slap at Soap's shoulder, wiggling out of his grasp as he sets you down.

"What is it, lass?" he asks, fierce eyes flicking about, as if searching for enemies. "Need tae use the toilet?"

He rests a hand on your shoulder as if afraid you're going to suddenly take off running. You roughly shake him off with a snarl on your face. The others take notice that you and Soap have stopped walking. You shake your head with a huff. You take out your pencil and write.

"Let's look around here."

You slip your pencil back into its new home before setting off at a quick pace. You'd realized that there's just enough space in the center of the whistle-knife, the metallic vines wrapping around to create the perfect slot for your pencil. Now it is three ways useful. You're never giving it up.

You turn down a paved lane, antsy as you examine and pass by a few houses half hidden by trees. The trees are thick here, a conifer forest surrounding the whole lake and town. There are some houses on this road that obviously belonged to a wealthy class of families. Most of them are horribly ugly, modern, minimalist, concrete and glass—slabs of cold materials rather than homey places to live. You walk doggedly onward, passing house after house.

Gaz and Soap are trying to convince you to keep moving, to look elsewhere, but you can't, you feel an urge to keep looking in this area. Something compels you. You're snappy and touchy whenever one of them tries to distract you from your mission. You can tell you're making them anxious, but you can't help it. You're in some kind of choke hold. You need to look, to see, to find.

And then you see it—

This must be too good to be true…

—down a small paved driveway, almost completely hidden by the pines, a wood and log house. It's much nicer and larger than your old shitty cabin, clearly constructed by someone who had deep pockets; some of the windows even have stained glass in them.

This is good. Soap had told you that Horses didn't like pine trees, so it is a bonus that this house is closely surrounded by them. The trees also look old and strong, sturdy enough to withstand being laden with traps. This is it, you think. This is where you need to start setting up traps, to protect yourself.

You're buzzing with energy under your skin, the fatigue of days of walking forgotten. You need materials. You don't have any materials at all! You croak with despair, turning to the men who are watching you warily.

"I need supplies for traps going to search house don't stop me." You write messily, hastily.

"Alright," Price says slowly—fuck! too slow! come on! let's go let's go!—, nodding and stroking at his beard. "We'll check the house for any signs of people first." He puts just enough alpha into his voice to break through your frenzied thoughts. "If you see anyone or any thing, you blow your whistle, understood?"

You nod.

They start the sweep in a car-less garage, leaving you there while they continue into the house. That's perfectly fine by you. As soon as they clear it you're tearing through the garage, chirruping at every useful thing you find.

Even from this single room it's clear to you the house has already been looted of food and other kinds of supplies people usually think are useful. Which means there are still plenty of items that others would overlook as garbage but that which you can put to good use. A big fancy lawn mower for example. Who needs that? You take it apart and gleefully set aside its sharp pieces, already brainstorming where and how you'd implement them. You find lots of tools like hammers, drills, saws, wrenches, nails and screws, even some spools of metal wire. You find coils of hoses, ropes, bungee cords and chicken wire fencing. Oh this is going to be so, so good.

You lay out all your collected materials on the floor of the garage in neat categories. You've got a fair amount of usable items, though there are a few things missing that you'd really like to get your paws on. Some coiled tension spring hooks for example. And you'll definitely need more rope, lots more.

You're so lost in your head and activity that you don't even notice when the Price pack finishes their search of the house and Soap and Ghost re-enter the garage until Soap nudges one of your piles of nails with the toe of his boot, asking what all this is for. You hiss at him as some of the nails scatter at his touch and roll around the floor before you scrape them back into their pile. Ghost bristles, eyes boring into you as Soap holds his hands up in surrender at you. You blink at them as if waking up. You shake your head, rubbing at your eyes before standing.

"Sorry. All clear?"

Soap huffs in mock offense, "Aye, all clear, m'lady. Yer castle awaits yer inspection."

You huff right back, lightly slapping his arm as he chuckles. Ghost is silent as he follows you and Soap into the house. The beta tells you that Price and Gaz are "securing the perimeter." Sounds important. Soon your traps will take care of securing your new home. Wait, your new home? …Hmmm, yes, your new home. You smile.

You go room by room, making a mental note of any potential trap materials, but deciding to save any dismantling or scrounging for after you've seen all the rooms to be had.

The kitchen is as fancy as you suspected it might be. Very American with lots of wide space and countertops and updated appliances—though you're immensely relieved to find an old fashioned, well maintained wood stove in one corner—, and an open view into the main living area. The living room is very tall, the second floor opening into it with a balcony. An entire wall is made of windows, looking out onto a back deck porch with stairs leading down to a small, snow covered yard. Through the trees you can see a gentle slope toward a shallow river. You wonder if it flows all the way to the lake you'd glimpsed from afar.

There's a study that's half library on one wall, a lounge room with a pool table and wet bar, and a few nice looking bathrooms—though those are useless without electricity. It had been a bit rank in summer, but at least the outhouse at your old cabin had been reliable. Maybe one of the Price pack knows how to build something like that…?

There's a large master bedroom on the first floor with a massive bed—Soap elbows you and waggles his eyebrows and you roll your eyes—, but a few more smaller bedrooms are also upstairs. In one of the second floor rooms you find a nest with signs of a young child; packages of diapers, empty milk bottles, little tiny clothing. Your heart stutters, a mess of emotions leaping up inside you. You feel like you can't catch your breath. You backpedal out of the room, slamming the door shut and crashing into Soap. His hands come up to steady you.

"What's wrong, hen?"

You shake your head repeatedly, trying to break free of Soap's firm grasp, gasping in air. Ghost opens the door to look inside before retreating and closing it again, shaking his head as well.

"We jus' won't open that door," Ghost grumbles.

You grunt in surprise as Soap wraps his arms around you and spins fast in a circle, your boots almost whacking Ghost's knees and the hallway wall. After enough turns to make you dizzy (and sufficiently distract you from your thoughts), he sets you down, grinning.

"Nae need tae be upset, lass. Remember that all the people what used tae live here are safe an' snug in protected shelters. Ye and them raiders are the odd ducks out, most everyone else are livin' in nice safe houses. Like where our home is." Your dizziness abates as you listen to him. You hadn't realized people took shelter somewhere. You'd just kinda assumed everyone was dead… "So donnae worry about the wee bairns, they're most likely hollerin' away in their màthair's arms right this second."

You collect yourself, taking a slow, deep breath. You feel intensely better knowing that at least some people are alive and well somewhere. You look up at Soap, put a hand to his cheek. His expression gentles at your touch, turning sweet and mellow. Your notebook is already open in your other hand. You hold it up, taking back your hand to point at an old sentence.

"Thank you."

"Of course, hen," he says softly.

You feel a warmth at your back as Ghost steps closer and bends down to brush his cheek against yours (he'd changed his skull mask for a balaclava at some point during your garage sorting frenzy) rumbling low in his throat.

"He's a good boy sometimes, yeah?"

You huff softly in response, but nod your head with a small, indulgent smile. Soap is grinning again, his cheeks a little pink. Your inner omega is perking up again after being lost in restless anxiety for the past two days. Perhaps foolishly, you let her desire guide your pencil for a moment.

"Yes, Johnny is a good boy."

His face flushes at reading that, his smile big.

"Hm, a good boy should be rewarded right?" An impish look crawls onto his face as he leans down to you.

You huff again, this time with exasperation. For fucks sake, he really never stops, does he? You plant your hand over his face and push it away from you as Ghost chuckles.

Soap laughs, "Hold on, hold on, all I want is that!" He's pointing at your notebook. You hold it up to your chest defensively. "I just want that page, I wanna keep the first time ye called me by my name."

You raise your brows in surprise. Ghost hums lowly.

"It would be a good reward," he murmurs in your ear. You shiver so slightly.

You swallow, straightening your posture, and carefully tear the bottom half of the page free. Soap is lucky the page is mostly blank with nothing else important written on it, or you might not have agreed. You hand over the sentence and he takes it almost reverently. He tenderly lifts it to his lips to kiss the paper like it's a sleeping lover he doesn't want to wake.

But then that mischievous grin is back as he looks over at Ghost who has stepped closer to him to look at your writing. Soap shows it off to him, saying,

"Jealous, Si?"

You tilt your head, "sigh"?

Ghost grumbles under his mask, "Don't make me confiscate that, soldier."

You almost laugh, watching them bicker playfully and get handsy as they play fight, but then turn on your heel and head back downstairs to see about rooting around the study you'd seen earlier. That seems like as good a place to start as any. You decide to leave the upper floor untouched for now. You reeaaally don't want to open that emotional can of worms again any time soon. Ghost is right, just keep the door closed. Avoidance? What could go wrong? You bite the inside of your cheek to stop a hysterical giggle from building and rub at your eyes. You're so tired.

You look around the study, noting how fancy it is. It screams wealth. Ironic how that wealth means nothing now. Although you have to hand it to them, the beautiful stained glass window looking out onto the back of the property really is impressive. And on the wall behind the gleaming dark-wood desk is a massive frame with an enlarged print of Johannes Vermeer's "Girl with a Pearl Earring." It's taller than you, possibly even taller than Ghost. You gently trail a finger down one side of the gilded frame, marveling at the opulence of it.

You notice a little scratch in the wooden wall protruding out from behind the painting. You brush your fingertip along it. How careless, to make a blemish right next to such a statement piece. You try to lift the frame, angle it away from the wall to see more of the scratch, but it is surprisingly heavy. You have to yank hard, and when you do, you jump back with a yelp, thinking the painting is falling from the wall as it swings outward. When you realize that you haven't been crushed, you look up.

It's a door.

The painting is on hinges, allowing it to swing open like a door and reveal what looks to be a very large wall safe. So large, in fact, that the safe door looks like a door you could walk through. Even though money and valuables are useless in today's economy (ha), you can't help but feel excited as you wonder what could be inside the safe. You feel that buzzing again under your skin as you examine it, energy ballooning inside you, wiping away your fatigue. There's a numbered knob that must be spun to the correct numbers in order to unlock it. You spin the lock a few times experimentally, then look around the room.

The office was already messy when you came in. The wall covered in bookshelves has had many of its books knocked down and flung about by looters. The large desk has a few scattered papers on it, you glance through them for anything that might be a clue to the combination, but you're not hopeful. What are the odds they've written down their passcode? For all you know, it could be someone's birthday. Unless they wrote that date down somewhere, you'd probably never figure it out.

When Soap and Ghost come in, Soap offers to blow the safe open for you. He still has one more explosive charge, he let's you know with a smile. You're alarmed, and you tell him no, you don't want to destroy it. He seems disappointed, but goes to get Gaz, saying, "he has experience with this sort of thing."

When Gaz arrives, snow still clinging to his boots, he says that he does Not have experience cracking safes, he merely likes watching heist movies. But he'll give it a shot anyway.

He puts his ear to the door and listens as he slowly twists it. That energy is still buzzing inside you, and you feel a compulsion start to fall like a veil over you again, like earlier in the garage, a drive to return to trap creation, so you tell Gaz you understand if he can't open it, before bustling away to scrounge for more materials.

Soap and Ghost continue to follow you around the house, but you can no longer be deterred or distracted by them. You are caught in your instincts, and they are telling you to protect yourself with traps.

You're constructing traps outside now, toting around a few buckets of materials while you do.

Ghost continues to watch you quietly while Soap attempts to make conversation with you. But you're single-minded, determined. He tilts his head, watching as you carefully set a snare between two trees in the front yard. He pulls up his balaclava just enough to scent the wind before pulling it back down. Your scent isn't so prickly with nerves like it was while on the road. The process of trap building seems to be calming you.

Though he was chatting at you almost nonstop, Soap has been paying close attention as you construct your traps. He's seen you reach for certain items in certain configurations. When he sees you preparing a spring release with the lawnmower pieces you scavenged, he grabs one of the metal tension springs and wordlessly holds it out to you before you can even think of reaching for it. They notice the way you perk up when you see him offering it to you, a surprisingly large smile on your face. Ghost can practically see the puppydog tail wagging in the snow behind you. He lifts his mask once more, catching a whiff of your pleased omega scent almost tilting into something a little headier. He hums, low and thoughtful.

As the sun sinks closer to the horizon, Gaz gives up temporarily on cracking the safe to go with Soap and Ghost to search nearby for food. They still have a few foodstuffs from past searches over the last few days, but they want to make sure they have enough should another snowstorm pass through. Price is the one who stays at your side now, watching you, watching the surroundings. He's still wary of the possibility of more suited men lurking.

Ghost had briefly pulled him aside before he left, saying he was going to get some items he thought would be good for courting you. Though you did seem pleased when the alphas provided you with food, they couldn't be sure you'd be receptive to other aspects of more traditional courting. Even so, they've all agreed that they want to do this properly, to court you with the level of respect you deserve. Simon thinks he has figured out something that might please you? John gives him the go ahead.

Price leans against a tree, listening to your quiet growls as you wrestle with pulling open and setting a trap that looks alarmingly like a bear trap made with nails for teeth. He carefully makes a mental note of its location before you bury its waiting jaws with snow. You pick up a stick you'd found earlier and poke at the hidden trap. It springs closed, splintering into the thin branch. Price looks around, double checking the location of the homemade bear trap in regards to the house's orientation. He'll need to make sure to point this one out to the others.

(He doesn't need to worry, for as soon as the rest of the pack returns, you take the betas by the hands, expecting the alphas to follow, and lead them slowly around the property, pointing out every single trap you've set so far. You end up going over it twice to make sure they won't accidentally set something off and hurt themselves.)

You discard the broken branch and work to reset the trap. As you grunt, prying it open, it slips from your grip and you sigh softly before adjusting your gloves to try again. [You'd found the wonderfully sturdy work gloves in the garage. They're slightly large for your hands, but you suppose that's for the best because it allows the gloves to fit over the splint on your pointer finger.] Price kneels beside you, and you startle as if you'd forgotten he was there. He pries open the trap for you easily with his years of trained strength, gingerly pulling his hands away so as not to set it off again.

When he looks at your face, he sees your eyes traveling down his arms to his hands. He almost thinks he catches a trace of desire in your scent before you nod in thanks and turn back to bury the bear trap in snow once more. Price's inner alpha gnaws at its chains, encouraging him to knock you to the ground and nose against you, to hunt for that minuscule, mouthwatering hint of lust, to lathe his tongue over your scent gland and encourage you to make more delicious smells—He clears his throat, crushing down his base instincts, and stands. He takes in huge lungfuls of the cold evening air, breath fogging in front of him. You don't even notice something amiss, already moving on to the next trap happily. He grits his teeth. What's he doing, letting his thoughts run away from him like some horned up teenager? He's normally better at controlling himself than this. His eyes drift back down to you, crouched in the snow, fiddling with a metal wire at the base of a tree.

"It will be too dark to continue soon," he points out. "Make sure to finish up what you're working on now, the rest can wait until daylight comes again in the morning."

You look up at him with such big sad puppy eyes that he wishes he could fish the sun back up into the sky. You nod dejectedly and Price can't help patting your head.

"There will be plenty of time for more traps tomorrow, sweetheart." He doesn't notice the small, fond smile tugging at his mouth.

When the rest of his boys return, they set about making dinner, the wood stove proving useful already. After luring you back inside with the smell of warm food, they seat you at the head of the kitchen table. But before you can even take a bite, Ghost holds out a tote bag to you.

"We got you this while we were out," his graveled voice doesn't betray the flicker of nerves he's feeling inside. He hopes he was right in his thinking.

You take the bag and peer into it curiously, and Ghost feels an unfamiliar emotion lift inside his chest and take off like a bird at the way your face lights up. Your eyes shine as you dig through the bag, holding up this and that object to show them off like gems. Some hooks and hinges and specialized springs, and more still. Plus the fat coil of rope sitting heavily at the bottom of the tote. Ghost had walked all the way back to the town's mainstreet where a small hardware store had stood, and picked out some things that looked similar to items he's seen you working with. Gaz and Soap had helped, pointing out some things they'd also seen you hoarding.

You're grinning wide, such a carefree expression they almost can't believe their eyes, a giddiness threatening to sweep them away as well. You set the bag on the floor and quickly flip open your notebook to a used page, pointing repeatedly at two words, tapping the page excitedly again and again.

"Thank you."

All through dinner the men enjoy your pleased scent in the air, riding the happiness like a high they've been starved for. Once you've eaten your fill, you pick up the bag with gifted materials, casually strolling toward the back door.

"Tomorrow, pup," Price rumbles from where he sits at the table still. Your shoulders droop as you turn to look at him. "Don't look at me like that, it's cold and dark out there, it can wait until morning."

You huff and Gaz and Soap chuckle. Ghost leans back in his chair, smiling under his mask. You place the bag by the door with care before going to fetch your tote bag full of clothing that you'd left in the garage [and you might as well change into your flannel sleepwear while you're at it, in the privacy of the garage]. As soon as you're out of earshot, Soap whispers to Gaz,

"We should get her tae sleep in that master bedroom. It's nice an' big and the room's too cold from the window "accidentally" being left open. She'll need some company for warmth."

Gaz is blushing when he scoffs but he matches Soap's mischievous smile.

"She'll never agree to letting a mutt like you in there with her," Ghost grumbles lowly. "You're too handsy."

"Och, I can behave myself!" His smile turns a bit lascivious as he leans toward Ghost to nuzzle into his neck. "I'm a good boy, remember?"

Ghost rumbles in his chest and Price shakes his head.

"No way, mate, you'll never convince her," Gaz laughs. "Me on the other hand? I reckon I got a good shot." He smirks.

Before Soap can reply to that, they hear the interior door to the garage shut, indicating your return. The 141 pack silently watches as you trot into the living room in socks and pajamas.

There's a bit of a confused look on your face when, after you shake out your sleeping bag and set it up on the large, puffy couch to settle into it, Price bursts out laughing, deep full belly laughs. Soap groans and Gaz pats his shoulder.

Price is first to keep watch that night. His boys had pretended to fall asleep in their sleeping bags on the floor in the living room, but as soon as you were asleep, they crept to the study. Price smiles to himself and ascends the stairs to the second floor. He goes to the loft that overlooks the living room. From here he can see out the grand windows to the backyard, and also see through some more moderately sized windows on the second floor that look out to the front of the property.

Most important of all, he can see the snowy driveway from here, winding its way through the trees to the street. That would be the most brain-dead approach for an invader to take, but the paved areas don't have any traps so that would be the most vulnerable entry point. They'll need to watch the rest of the perimeter as well, but your traps should be helpful in that matter.

He laughs to himself about how safe he feels, surrounded by your traps. He needs to make sure he doesn't get complacent.

He longs to scent you, to taste you, to have your cunt slick for him, to plunge his aching cock into your heat as you weep and cry.

He's only had a small sniff of you, a little glance at your body, but oh how his desire grows the longer it is denied to him. Once he finally has his hands on your unclaimed skin again, he will so enjoy punishing you for your bratty insolence. An omega who dares to defy him? Who runs from him? His cock hardens as he imagines hunting you down like a little rabbit, catching you, sinking his teeth into you. He hungers so deeply for what he doesn't have.

When his men didn't return, when he found their bodies, when he continued following your trail, every minute he became more obsessed. He must have you. He doesn't even feel the cold as he surveils the house you've holed yourself up in. The little bunny in her burrow. Now he just needs to wait for your guard dogs to go out on one of their scavenging trips and he can swoop in and snatch you up.

He is the one who deserves you. He is the one willing to shell out a fortune to obtain you. These shitheads think they can take you from him? You belong to him. You will drool for his cock and his alone. He will pump you so full of feel-good you won't even know when he tears into your tight pussy with his knot. You'll be blitzed out on drugs, on his bed, in his mansion, taking every load he gives you. You'll be his new little breeder, begging him for more pups as soon as you're empty again. His cock throbs at just the thought of it.

He will make you his.

"Huh. Who's this wanker?"

The sun hasn't risen, just predawn light allowing them to see a dead man, hanging from a tree by a rope around his ankle. He's got that makeshift bear trap clamped into his skull. The 141 pack is rather impressed by your savage ingenuity. The man had clearly been swept up feet first by the rope snare and when his head hit the ground, it collided with the bear trap before he was lifted into the air. Blood drips down into the disturbed snow below him.

"Whoever he is, he ain't our problem anymore."

Simon grunts, annoyed, "Problem enough. We'll need to move the body or it will stink up the whole property."

"The cold will help it keep," Soap says cheerfully. Maybe for the rot, but not for the dead alpha's abrasive scent.

Price pulls the bear trap from the man's head and sets it on the ground. He won't reset it, he has a feeling you will want to see this and fix it for yourself. They can take care of the body for you while you tend to resetting your traps.

"He is wearing very fancy clothes for some random loner," Gaz says as he and Soap pat him down for anything useful.

"If he's the one calling the shots for those other men, then hopefully that means it's the last we'll see of them," says Price, scratching his beard. "Welp, let's leave him for now. We can deal with him later. After breakfast maybe. We got any spam left, Kyle?"

When you wake in the morning, the sun annoyingly bright in your face through the huge windows of the living room, Gaz kneels by your head, whispering that he has a surprise for you. You yawn and stretch and plod after him as he leads you to the study. As soon as you walk in, a jolt of excitement wakes you fully. The safe! They've opened it!

[During the night, while Price kept a lookout, the other three had rummaged through the entirety of the office, searching every scrap of paper for a possible combination for the lock. Late into the night, Gaz was the one who suddenly had an epiphany. The combination is the year the painting, "Girl with a Pearl Earring," was painted; 1665. They'd found the date in an art book on the shelf.]

You smile at them and stare down a set of stairs into a dimly lit underground bunker.

"It isn't a safe. It's a saferoom," Ghost rasps, sounding very much like he does when making a pun. You roll your eyes. That doesn't count in the slightest as a joke.

You enter first, [they don't tell you they already looked inside to check that it was safe and uninhabited] and you find a good sized basement, stocked with preserved foods, cans and jars, supplies, soaps and shampoos!

And in the back end of the room, partially obscured by a curtain, is a bed.

And you feel something slide into place inside you.

This is it. This will be your bed. Your nest.

You pull back the curtain. There's no smells on the bed, not much in the room at all, so whoever set this up must not have had the chance to use it. You climb onto the bed and all four men stand there, watching as you roll yourself over the sheets and blankets and pillows, lost in your sudden burgeoning instincts. You pause to sniff every now and then before rubbing some more. [The Price pack watches you with rapt fascination, enthralled by the display of omega instincts taking hold of you, enjoying your heady scent wafting up and filling the saferoom. Something about the pheromones you're giving off right now has their inner designations rising up, begging them to join you, to roll and rub against you, scent you until their own instincts are satiated.]

Once you're finally satisfied, you relax into the bed with a contented sigh. After a few moments of easy silence, Price suggests you all get some breakfast. You spring up from the bed, grabbing first Gaz's hand. You don't have your notebook on you, so you thank them for unlocking the door by rubbing your cheek against the back of his hand. Then you do the same for the other three, even when Price points out that he hadn't been the one helping them unlock it. You thank him anyways. He deserves it, you think. They're all chuffed, the scents of a happy pack quickly suffusing the bunker.

While you eat a breakfast of spam and rice (the rice courtesy of the well-stocked saferoom) you write the code in your notebook a few times to help you memorize it. You noticed that there's a way to open it from the inside so you don't have to worry about accidentally getting locked in.

Finally, the itching and buzzing under your skin is abating, even while not actively building traps. Those moments were when your restlessness had waned the most. But now you feel calm through and through. You are feeling more at ease than you have since before that Shepherd came into your village.

You pause in your eating, and wonder why they had been hunting Shepherd. Price had told you the disgusting smelling alpha was a murderer. Did he kill someone close to them? Was it all for that revenge, or because of an extremely tenacious sense of justice? You wonder when they will leave, now that he is dead and their obligation of finding you a new home has been fulfilled. You don't want them to leave, but they can't stay forever. Your heat should be coming in at least two months. It was difficult keeping track of your heats without a calendar, what with how the days tended to blur together while you were alone in those woods, especially when your heats started becoming more unreliable. But you think you've counted correctly.

Two months. You need them to be gone by then. You need to be alone, safely tucked away. Though you do feel a portion of the burden has been lifted, relieved now with the saferoom obtained. You can lock yourself away in there so they can't get to you during your heat. You don't think they would try to go after you, but it's true you haven't known them long. They could be the types who are easily swayed by their instincts, taken in by the smell of an omega's heat. Price and Ghost could be the kinds of alphas who fall into a violent frenzy, desperate to knot an omega in heat.

You shudder with an old fear. You hope they leave before you have to find out.

After breakfast, the pack takes you outside to show you a different kind of surprise. You're a little alarmed at what you find, but the vindication of your traps working as intended does wonders for your mental state.

"That's the guy who tried to buy me from the raiders." You can't remember his name now. Marty? Marlin?

All four of them growl at that. They aren't gentle with the body as they haul it away. Good. Fucker.

You pull on your work gloves and reset the rope snare before the bear trap. You're carefully smoothing out the snow when Ghost and Soap return from where ever they dumped the body.

"How did he find us? No one else will come right? The raiders?"

"We took care of them all," Price says, his alpha growling through his words. "This shithead wasn't part of the raider group when we attacked; he must have fled and left them to die as soon as we arrived." His hand caresses the top of your head, his anger blowing away as he looks down into your face. "No need to worry about them any longer, darlin'."

You spend the day setting a few more traps here and there around the property, not as frantic about it as you were yesterday. You feel calm and secure, no longer feeling like you're being watched. The only worry still currently nagging at you is the matter of the Price pack's duration of living here with you. What if they don't leave? …Maybe that situation wouldn't be so bad, to have them stay here with you. But they have their own homes, Soap said so. They have lives to return to. What if they force you to leave with them? Would they do that?

How can you make them see that you are not pack material? Would you need to explain to them further why you don't want to join a pack, to be claimed? You're not sure you have it in you to go into detail about what happened during your past heats. During the time spent with your kidnapper and afterward. All of it damaged you, changed you, physically and mentally. You don't want to think about it, and you also don't want them to know. You don't want to see the expressions on their faces when you tell them what was done to you. What you did.

You turn away from the memories, refusing to cry and alert the others to your misery. You don't want to be questioned, so you shake yourself, evening out your scent, and set another trap.

You pack away a lot of food at dinner, possibly because of the wonderful ingredients gained from the saferoom, but the boys encourage your appetite. Price tells you that it's important for a healthy omega to get enough food, and you hadn't been getting enough by their standards.

After dinner, you finally decide to just buck up the courage and get it over with. You pull Gaz aside to ask if you can speak with him privately. You feel you can most easily discuss this topic with him, that he will be the least volatile about it. He looks a little worried, but agrees, following you down into the saferoom. You plop onto your new bed, patting the spot beside you. He sits only after the invitation, knowing how omegas' nests are sacred—even if he isn't sure whether this is technically your nest or not.

You fidget with your pencil for a moment before sighing and writing, "When are you planning on leaving? You don't have any other reason to stay, right?"

"Do you really want us to leave?" His brown eyes are soft, his beta scent gentle in your nose.

No, whispers your omega.

Yes, you nod your head.

You flip back a few pages and point at the sentence you'd already written days ago;

"I'm not going to be owned, I'm not going to be claimed. Not again."

Gaz looks so sorrowful, his scent falling into muted tones, like the sun no longer warms the grass and the lavender has lost its bloom.

"I know you have a bad history with it, but claiming isn't supposed to be a bad or hurtful thing. Not with the right people." His hand comes up to brush your cheek and you close your eyes, not able to resist leaning into his warm palm. "Not with a pack who actually cares about you."

You open your eyes at that, searching his face. You point at him then at yourself.

"Yeah, I care about you. We all have grown a soft spot for you," a soft smile breaks through on his face, and it's so tender your heart clenches with anxiety over realizing just how much he means it. He really believes what he says.

"You haven't known me that long."

"Then let us know you longer," he whispers, his forehead tilting to bump against yours. You turn your face away, back to your notebook.

"If an omega is all you want, you should find a better one."

"We couldn't." He gently takes your hand in his, turning it so he can breathe in your scent at the pulse point of your wrist. "No omega could smell as good as you." He moves your hand to rest your palm on his chest. You can feel his heart beating, quicker than expected. "No omega could make my heart race like you do."

He brings your hand back up to his face, this time to press your palm to his cheek. His eyelashes dip as he leans closer, looking down at you. Your entire body is feeling heated under his intense gaze.

"Don't bother arguing that I haven't met enough other omegas to know." His smooth tenor voice slides over your skin. "I know. I know it's you. You're the one."

You swallow, feeling some horrible emotion threatening to crawl up your throat. You gently pull your hand away to write.

"I'm not a good omega, I'm a broken omega—"

"Why do you insist you're no good?" Your eyes start to fill with unshed tears as you continue, ignoring his interrupting words.

"I can't nest, my heats are messed up, I'm scarred all over, I can't even speak, I can barely remember what my own voice sounded like before—" A sob escapes, tears spilling over, "—I'm afraid, I'm so afraid, I don't want to feel that way ever again when he—" You drop your notebook and pencil; they clatter on the floor.

Gaz wraps his arms around you in a tight hug and you hold tight right back, wailing with throat-aching cries as he murmurs that you aren't broken, just tired and hurt. He lets you cry as long as you need it, until the waves of grief and regret over a past you cannot change finally abates. Your head pounds from the prolonged heavy crying, and your eyelids droop with exhaustion. Gaz lays you down, tucking the blanket around you, leaning over to kiss your forehead and whisper,

"It doesn't have to be painful or frightening. If you'll let us, we can show you what it's like to be loved and cared for the way an omega should be." You close your eyes with a soft, broken whine, turning your face into the pillow. His lips brush the top of your head before he pulls away. He want's to say more, but he knows this isn't something that can be fixed easily with one conversation.

He is almost surprised to see the rest of his pack standing on the other side of the curtain what with how quiet they'd been. Even Johnny is silent, scrubbing a hand through his mohawk with a troubled look on his face. They all stealthily make their way out of the saferoom, ghosting up the stairs with a well-trained quietness.

John frowns.

"She can't nest and her heats are "messed up"?"

"Among other worries, yes."

"Is she sick?" asks Johnny.

"Nesting only happens when they feel safe enough, right?" Simon says gruffly. "She had a nest in the old cabin."

"She told me she never used it as a nest, that it wasn't good enough," Soap whispers, like he almost doesn't want to spill the secret entrusted to him. "That the last real nest she's been in was her ma's."

"When did she tell you that?" Gaz asks, his brows furrowing at the new information.

"When she had that fever. When it was yer turn tae check the dancing pig, she woke, and was desperate tae tell me she wasn't safe tae nest. I tried tae get her tae lay back down, but she refused. She was frantic about it, thought she was still in the cabin even. I only got her tae calm down by saying that she had her traps tae keep her safe."

John hums.

"Her traps. She seemed so intent on setting them up when we got here. She was very single-minded about it. Almost trance-like."

"Like a nesting omega arranging materials just right," Simon grunts.

"Are you saying the traps are, what, a faux nest?" asks Kyle.

"Can nests be anything else besides regular nests?" asks Johnny.

There's a moment of silence as they all consider the possibilities. They had noticed you getting more and more anxious as time went on while they traveled. You were prickly and snappish by the time you landed eyes on this house. When you started setting traps around the property, a calmness came over you, like a trance as John said. As soon as you felt you had a suitable amount of them, you relaxed, acting much more like the you they had just been getting to know before that Cassie and the raiders attacked. Are these traps fulfilling your instinctual needs, your drive for nesting behaviors? And if that's the case, is there anything wrong with that?

"And her heats?" John suddenly sounds uncharacteristically hesitant. ""Messed up" is a bit vague… we might have to ask her to clarify."

"I think she experienced a heat with her kidnapper, maybe more than one even," Kyle says grimly. "It must have been an awful experience."

They are silent again, the horror supplied by their imaginations of your past heats too great for words. In their line of work, they've seen plenty of cases where omegas were used and abused, mere tools or toys or fodder. They don't know how long you were kept by your kidnapper, or how long it's been since you were freed by your own hand, but the damage of your experience is clear and lasting.

John clears his throat. He doesn't want to say this, but as pack leader, he feels the responsibility to.

"We can return to base, let her live her life here, without us."

A low warning growl slips from Simon, and Kyle shifts closer to John as Johnny whines softly. John doesn't even flinch.

"…Or… we can stay here, abandon our posts, court her properly, and mate her if she's willing."

The room is deathly silent now.

"I don't think she'd do well in the confines of the military base. Not with her apparent need for traps," John adds, sounding regretful. "She's not inclined to claiming or mating, as we've learned. It would be a greater kindness to let her live here, undisturbed. Without us."

Simon stands abruptly, his chair screeching on the floor, and paces the length of the kitchen. His alpha is howling from the cage of his hindbrain, and he knows John is similarly upset with the tense set of his shoulders.

"What if we convince her tae go with us back to base? Just for… supplies and such," Johnny says, sounding desperate. "We can tell her she can come back here after, but maybe when she sees our home, she'll like it there, and won't even want tae come back here."

Even Kyle looks skeptical at that.

"You saw the way she scented that bed in the saferoom," he retorts. "She isn't gonna want to leave."

Simon halts his pacing, staring miserably toward the covered window above the sink. A single candle on the kitchen table lights the room. They've drawn curtains over all the windows so that the light won't be seen from outside. They still want to be careful about strangers, possible hostiles, figuring out they are bunked down here. If they can't even guarantee the area is safe, how could they possibly feel right in leaving you here alone? Sure, you have your traps, but they aren't infallible. There's always going to be a weak point that enemies could exploit. What if they leave you here only to return later and find you dead, or worse? What if you are taken a third time, by someone who only cares about your designation and whether or not you're fertile enough to breed?

"I'm not your responsibility." He can practically see you writing that in response to his thoughts, your cheeks puffing with indignation. A laugh catches in his throat, tasting too close to grief. He pulls off his mask, running a hand through his shaggy blonde hair. He'll need to trim it soon; it's too bothersome when it gets in his eyes.

He turns back to the table where his pack sits tensely. Johnny and Kyle are arguing about how realistic an idea it is to travel back and forth between here and the base every few days to visit you. On foot, it would take two days there and two days back.

John is silent, his eyes on Simon. Slowly, Simon shakes his head, shrugging his broad shoulders helplessly. He doesn't have any bright ideas either. Except for further talk. But that's really not his forte.

"Maybe… we should speak with her once more." His low voice quiets the betas' stressed bickering. "Maybe, if we can find out her true feelings on the matter…" he trails off.

"She does seem receptive to our presence and actions, to a degree," John picks up the thread Simon had been plucking at. "She even seems pleased at times. Happy."

Gaz and Johnny are nodding now, remembering the way you'd smiled and thanked them for opening the safe door, remembering how happy you were when they brought you offerings in the form of trap materials. Simon returns to the table to stand at John's side, his hand squeezing the other alpha's shoulder.

"We'll talk with her tomorrow," Simon agrees. "We'll see what she truly desires."

Price sighs, sounding defeated, and adds, "And if she really doesn't want to be with us, then that's our answer."

The next morning, you clean your plate at breakfast. Gaz is a really good cook. You almost wish you could eat more. But there's a serious, vaguely gloomy atmosphere over the group that has your stomach twisting.

As Ghost clears away your plate, Price takes you by the hand to lead you to the living room. He sits you down on the couch, and sits next to you. Soap and Gaz pull up chairs to sit in front of you, and when Ghost comes in, he completes the circle by sitting next to you on the couch on your other side. You feel boxed in by the large men, their serious attitudes not helping your nervousness.

"We want to court you," Price breaks the silence abruptly. You feel a bit blindsided. You look around at all their faces as he continues. "We want you to be a part of our pack."

You blanch, pressing yourself back into the couch as if to get away.

"No." you write, and underline it twice before pointing at it again. "No."

"Please, please, bonnie, tell us why. Tell us why ye won't even give us a chance," Soap pleads, sliding out of his chair and onto his knees before you.

"Is it because of your time with your kidnapper? We wouldn't treat you the same way. We aren't him," Gaz assures.

You shake your head frantically. You can't tell them about it. You can't. They'll see just how awful you are, how broken and revolting you are and what you've lived through. You shake your head again. You try to growl to add weight to your refusal, but it doesn't sound very impressive at all.

"Ye like spending time with us, don't ye?"

"Have we done something to give you reason to not want us as pack?"

"Do ye prefer women?"

"Do you not like us?"

"Won't you at least give us a chance?"

Price calls your name, and his hand lands on your shoulder—you flinch away.

You bare your teeth, gritting them tight as you hiss your breath through them. Anger billows up inside you.

"OK," you write in big slashing letters. "You want to know? You asked for this. I hope you enjoy reading it."

The first thing he'd done, was slice the front half of your tongue from your mouth. Was it worse or better that he'd done it while you were unconscious? That after being snatched off the street on your way home from work with a face full of chloroformed rag, the first thing you wake up to is a throbbing pain and the inability to clearly say "help" or "where am I" or "please let me go." Your body had been mutilated in the space of missing time, between closing your eyes and opening them. You could still "speak" garbled, half formed words, but the important thing, for him, was that you could still scream and weep without the annoying babbling people did when afraid or bargaining. No questions, no pleas, no "stop."

You only had one heat with your kidnapper, a few months after being taken.

Your next heat was oncoming when you killed him. It was a large part of the reason you were able to bolster the courage to finally act against him. The first heat you'd spent with him had been truly awful. Though admittedly, thankfully, much of it is shielded in your memory by that foggy haze that descends over an omega during heats. In that way, the normal sex was worse because you could remember it all.

Thanks to that first heat, you'd gotten pregnant. It made you sick with disgust, it made you want to claw at your own body, dig the cells out of you. You did not want to carry your rapist's child. But your opinion on the subject didn't matter in the end, because when he found out, he made you swallow some vile concoction he'd made. He didn't tell you what it was, but you could guess.

Later that night, you were plagued with violent cramps and a seemingly endless stream of blood and pulp from your vagina. The subsequent hormonal imbalance was awful by itself but you were also dogpiled by a fever, aches and pains, and were wracked with chills. He fucked you through it, even as you suffered. Your heat had long ended by then, so even with your fever addled brain, you were able to later clearly recall the way he said he loved you like this, so listless and pliant in your sickness. He loved the feeling of blood coating your cunt, making you slick—he never used any kind of lube, and never bothered to prepare you when he entered you.

That was when you acquired the majority of the deep scarring bite marks on your body, because of how much he enjoyed you like that. The pale silvery scars that littered your body were numerous, but there were a few deep gashes, divots that his teeth tore into your skin; one tucked high up between your thighs, one on the underside of your left breast, and one at the back of your neck, hidden by your hair. (While they all had been painful, that last wound, so close to the same nerves that could be manipulated for scruffing you, had been so brutally agonizing, you blacked out when he made it.) Even during your heat he hadn't ripped as much flesh out of you as he did then, which made him all the more monstrous. He had damaged your skin more enthusiastically while under no influence of pheromones, while he had been clear of mind.

All while you were his prisoner you tried your best to remain strong, to keep up hope that rescue would come. Surely your family was searching for you, surely they would find you any day now.

Any day now.

You tried multiple times to fight back, to escape. But defying an alpha, especially one you are bonded to, is not only mentally but physically difficult for an omega. His domineering pheromones curdled the fight in you, turned it to fear, his brutal hands scruffed you repeatedly into compliance, subservience.

When you felt your next heat coming, you quickly came to a decision that you'd been slowly building up to, a defiance you had been nurturing for months. You would not go through that again. You'd kill him or die trying.

You'd gladly die trying.

Once he was dead, suffering your heat alone was rough, but you preferred it over the alternatives. As time went by, your heats changed, became less reliable (another tally against you as a failed omega). They shortened; your last heat had barely been two days long. Even if you wanted to carry a child, you are unsure you'd be able to.

Spending time in such close quarters with alphas so constantly after being alone for three years... Your heat is going to be affected. You can just feel it. Something will go wrong, something will be worse, something terrible will happen. And it makes you so afraid.

You don't want to relive that past. Your body used to sate another person's hunger, to be treated as property. To be hurt.

You don't want to feel afraid, so, so afraid.

You don't want to live that way ever again.

You don't want to be hurt.

You write your experiences in excruciating, sickening detail. Every bite, every bruise, every painful scruff, every time he unchained you to fuck you, being sure to keep your hands cuffed and your mouth muzzled when he did because you tried to fight back one too many times. Every time you were given scraps to eat, and forced to shit in a bucket.

How you remained hopeful of rescue, and the way it was ground out of you day by day.

You describe the physical, the emotions, the thoughts. You make it as visceral as you can manage, your hands shaking. A mean streak in you makes you do this. You want to punish them for asking what happened to you. You want to punish them for not knowing, punish them for knowing. You want to hurt them with the heavy knowledge you've carried alone all this time.

As you write, you peel off the filled pages from the notebook one by one, handing them over, letting them read as you fill the next page. Shame roils through you, your scent burns with the ozone flavor of distress, but you continue writing. Even after describing stabbing his eye with a fork, of nearly blacking out as his hands crushed your throat, of blindly groping for that fork still sticking from his eye to embed it in his neck, of repeatedly stabbing him, shredding his skin, even after he'd already died, you don't slow your pencil over the paper. You continue, telling them how you almost died the first few days of freedom because your damaged throat made it too difficult to eat and there wasn't enough potable water in the cabin. You tell them how you finally dragged yourself from the forest and returned to the outside world only to find it changed irreparably—just like your body. To find yourself even more alone than you initially realized. Not even your family could be found in your broken childhood home.

And you tell them how lonely it could get, in that wretched, hateful cabin you ended up returning to. How you dumped his body in the forest. How your heats became irregular. How you can't fight the fear of going through that again. You even end up recounting your meeting with Shepherd and how fearful you were when you first spotted the Price pack. You were sure you were going right back into servitude.

Soap stops reading at one point. Stands up like he's going to leave the room. But after scrubbing his face with his hands, running his fingers through his mohawk, he sits back down, and continues. Gaz's hands shake as he holds the pages, directionless rage churning inside him. Price's neck is flushed with emotion, his knuckles white as he clenches the paper, just shy of tearing it. Ghost is still, but his mask can't hide the anguish in his scent.

When you feel that this is enough, you relent. You set down the pencil and notebook, drained. You lean back into the couch, and wait for them to finish reading. You didn't cry while writing, and you don't cry now that you're finished. You're just tired. So tired, you simply want to sleep, and sleep, and sleep.

You wanted to be mean and shock them with your writing, yes, but you also fear their reactions. Seeing all that was done to you, that which made you unclean, mars you, surely they will realize now that you are not worth it, that courting you is too much trouble. That they should find a healthier, more easily manageable omega. You fear that realization, that decision to leave you behind, but you are resigned. Once they give up on you and move on, then you can move on too, live your life once again alone.

Your stomach growls painfully as you wait, and you're annoyed at first, but then—

Without taking his eyes from the page he's currently reading, Price reaches into his pocket to pull out a granola bar and holds it out to you.

Oh.

Oh how, how could such a small, offhanded action break you down so easily like this. Tears slide down your cheeks as you take it from him. You sniffle, making them all glance up at you. Price pets your head, Ghost shifts so his knee presses close to your leg. Soothing beta pheromones blossom out to enfold you. You cry quietly as you eat the granola snack.

They don't seem repulsed by you in the slightest.

They don't seem repulsed by you at all.

They aren't repulsed by you.

Why does your relief at that feel like a knife blade in your chest, so sharp and undeniable?

It's barely noon by the time they all finish reading your story. You're emotionally, mentally, exhausted, but you pick up your pencil once more.

"So there you have it. That is why I cannot nest and why—"

"You are nesting." You turn to Ghost who'd been leaning over to watch you write and interrupted you. You're surprised at the surety of his words. But also, what the fuck is he talking about? "Your traps, you arrange them in a similar trance as when other omegas arrange soft pillows and blankets in their nests."

You gape at him. What? No, you shake your head, that is ridiculous. You write, "that's not how nesting works."

Ghost shrugs. "So you nest differently, so your heats aren't a week long; Not everyone is the same. I don't enjoy sex unless it is with someone I'm emotionally attracted to."

You blink. Huh?

"I actually, sometimes, I, I pop a knot, even though I'm a beta, but it isn't reliable," Soap says, his bashfulness so atypical you can't help the blush on your own face.

What's going on?

"I can't smell the difference between betas and alphas," Price chimes in now, nodding as if giving sage advice. "Ghost has been my seeing-nose dog for years, even before I met these other two muppets."

How does that even work?

Gaz shifts in his seat, drawing your attention.

"When I was a child, my parents insisted I was a girl, and that I was going to be the most perfect, well-behaved omega." He smiles broadly. "I gave them two fuck you's one right after the other when my designation revealed itself as a beta, and then I told them I'm a man."

Soap stands abruptly, pulling off his shirt and you balk until he starts gesturing at his body.

"We've all got scars, real nasty ugly ones even." He points at a few that look serious enough to have almost killed him. "So whatever scars ye've got, we're used tae it, naw way they'll gross us out."

"None of us are perfect, we've all done and seen things, we all have blemishes and flaws," says Price gently.

Gaz throws Soap's shirt in the beta's face, telling him to put it back on and stop showing off his muscles. Soap punches his arm, but puts his shirt back on.

"I know, none of us have experienced what you have, but we are willing to help carry the burden of it," Price continues, ignoring the betas. He takes your hand in his, thumb gently stroking the back of it. "Some people say that there is an omega with a perfect scent match for every pack." He tilts his head side to side as if considering. "Maybe it's true, maybe it isn't. But it really does feel like you're our perfect match. And we're willing to put in the work loving you, and showing you what it's like to be loved rather than abused."

Your eyes are welling with tears again. You don't even know how to respond to this. It's a lot. You're really overwhelmed. Are you happy with his words? You're definitely still nervous. Your omega is hopeful. She wants a good pack.

You want a good pack.

And that is what they are, right?

Price's eyes flick up to look behind you at Ghost, and he looks so chuffed, you quickly turn your head to look, distracted from your swirling emotions.

Ghost has pulled off his mask, the balaclava clenched in his fist. Your eyes widen as you take him in for the first time. You'd only seen little glimpses of his mouth when he ate, an old scar reaching out from one corner of his mouth. You figured he hid his face because it was too ugly, or horrendously disfigured. You… didn't expect him to be so handsome, the scars marring his face not detracting from his attractiveness in the slightest. His gaze dips as he looks away from you, a faint pink coloring his pale cheeks. You realize you've been frozen, ogling him outright for a bit longer than is considered polite.

You quickly write, "Handsome."

He chuckles, his blush deepening to color his neck. Oh, he hides his face because he blushes so easily, how adorable, you're sure of it now, that just has to be the reason.

He holds out his right hand to you for a handshake and clears his throat, though that doesn't change the way his deep voice rasps when he speaks;

"My name is Simon, Simon Riley. It's nice to meet you."

Chapter Text

Simon Riley

Johnny MacTavish

Kyle Garrick

John Price

They reintroduce themselves to you, and you write down their names, the tip of your pencil going back to trace over the letters again and again, memorizing this new view of the Price pack. You tilt your head, looking at Price. John.

"No funny nickname for you?"

He laughs as the rest of them protest that they aren't "nicknames," they're "call signs," and they aren't funny… You smile just a little at their antics, dried tear tracks on your cheeks.

"No, I think Price works just fine." His hand is on your head, petting your hair, warm and calming. It isn't helping with the tiredness starting to tug at your mind. You rub the heel of your palm into your eyes as Gaz—Kyle—leans forward in his chair, lowering his voice to gently say your name.

"I think it would be a good idea to take some time to be quiet and restful. Would you be willing to help us?" Your brows draw together in confusion, and Kyle speaks again before you can write anything to ask what he means. "Spending some time cuddling would help everyone's nerves settle." [Kyle notices how worn out you look now, and is in complete agreement with his inner beta about wanting to get you settled and get a nap in you.]

Soap is on the floor, leaning against your legs. His chin rests on your knee as he looks up at you [adoringly].

"Kyle was forced tae take omega classes as a kid," he stage whispers. "Tae learn about all the ways omegas help packs, and what they can do. Their pheromones and stuff."

Gaz sighs and stands, his hands at his lower back as he stretches.

"Yes, some of it was… informative, sure, but some of it was meant to brainwash omegas into believing they don't know any better than the alpha that would control them. To take away their agency." He has a bitterness in his tone that makes you think he's had some unpleasant arguments with others in the past about such matters. Price extends an arm, pulling the beta close by hugging his hip. Gaz smiles softly, one of his hands ruffling through Price's hair, knocking his bucket hat behind him onto the couch. "But it is true that cuddling can help balance emotions and chemicals in the body. After such a… high stress first half of the day, I think it would be a good idea to take some time to decompress."

Well, that sounds very reasonable. Maybe it would be okay, as long as it just remains cuddling and nothing more. Your stomach growls again, the granola bar not nearly enough now that it is past lunchtime, and Kyle's smile turns into a grin.

"Right, let's get some grub first, yeah?"

Soap and Ghost head outside to do a quick perimeter check. [They need some fresh air, to settle their nerves. The distressed tinge to your scent had all four of them riled up, itching to take some sort of action. They decide to satisfy that urge by making sure your den is safe from intruders.]

While you follow Gaz into the kitchen, Price hangs back in the living room to gather up all the little sheets of paper with your writing. He carefully stacks them all and pins them to the coffee table with some decorative, smooth river stones that had been on display in a shallow bowl. [He isn't sure what to do with the pages yet. Should he keep them? Or would you want them to be thrown away, tossed into the fire? He makes a mental note to ask you later, when things have calmed down more.]

Gaz—Kyle, fuck, this will take some getting used to—whips up a meal with canned tuna and leftover rice from breakfast. You eat all that's on your plate and Kyle gives you seconds even when you protest and try to point out that they all need to eat too. He bops your head with an oven mitt, telling you there's plenty to go around, and worrying about food isn't your job.

You eye him warily, thinking this will be a stupid thing to ask; "What is my job?" What else are omega's for except breeding and sticking knots into?

"Eating," he says simply, his brows rising as if to say, 'isn't it obvious?' "We provide the food, you eat it." He turns a little sly smile on you now, adding, "And cuddling, that's a big part of your job. Think you can handle it, babes?"

"I'm not sure," you answer honestly. It'll be fine right?

Gaz looks a bit chagrined, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry, I was just teasing you. You don't actually need to do anything. I mean, you're not obliged to fulfill some sort of requirement." He leans down to kiss the top of your head. "Just relax, and be yourself. We got you."

You frown but keep eating. Price joins you, and soon Soap and Ghost return from outside to report nothing amiss. Even with your seconds, you finish before the others. Kyle holds out his hand to you, and you take it. He leads you into the master bedroom. [Kyle isn't sure if you're ready to have all their scents on your bed in the saferoom, but the bed in here is larger anyways (clearly made to accommodate a pack all laying together), so he thinks this will be the better option for now.] Your steps falter and he looks back at you.

"Nothing will happen," he gently reassures, "just restful cuddling. Promise."

He tells you to get comfortable in the center of the large bed. You crawl onto it on your hands and knees, trying not to be too obvious about sniffing the pillows and sheets. All four of their scents are strong here, and you can smell a muskiness to it that has your inner omega drooling. You can't help yourself, your mind blanks for a moment and you're pressing into the sheets, rubbing your face vigorously, grinding one of the pillows against your scent gland on your neck. Someone hums appreciatively and you jump, having forgotten your surroundings for a moment. You turn around sheepishly to find them all watching you.

"Don't stop on our account," Price says with a teasing smile as he and the others start removing their shoes and outer coats and sweaters.

You quietly harrumph to blow away your embarrassment at being caught, and lie down on your back in the center of the bed. Kyle and Johnny push their alphas to the bed first, encouraging them to climb in on either side of you, then they follow suit and flank them. The bed is just barely large enough to fit all five people. Once everyone settles, silence descends.

At first, you hold very still, just lying there with your notebook clutched to your chest as you stare up at the ceiling. Perhaps because this is an intentional exercise in bonding, that makes it feel more awkward than if it came about organically. You're definitely thinking too hard about this, over analyzing how you feel and questioning what you should be doing. You're very conscious of your scent. You need to make sure it isn't laced with nerves, or else you'll get the others unsettled and this whole "restful cuddling time" will be a waste. Should you close your eyes and try to sleep? You were really tired earlier. You think you're still tired, but now you can't relax enough to imagine falling asleep. Fuck. Just calm down already, nothing is happening. You've literally slept on the floor with them before, this is nothing.

You glance between Price and Ghost. John and Simon. The two of them are also on their backs, looking up at the ceiling, giving you the mental space to relax and adjust [and they are fighting the urge to not simply wrap around you and hold you tight between them]. It's a little chilly without your scarf and coat, your sweater somehow not feeling enough. The alphas' thick arms are pressed close to yours, the heat from that small amount of contact making you feel even colder. There's a fire going in the master bedroom's fireplace on the far wall, but you are so tense it feels like there's no heat coming from it at all. Maybe you should go get a blanket? Probably should have thought of that before lying down. The bed's blanket and comforter is mysteriously absent.

Your scent isn't smoothing out, just getting more tangled in anxiousness as your mind spins.

"Jus' relax," Johnny says sitting up slightly to look over Simon's pecs at you. "Like when ye slept with me an' Kyle when ye had yer fever. That was nice."

You grunt in irritation. You don't remember that! Whatever you had done then to make it "nice", you must have done it unintentionally.

"It's alright, don't push yourself," Kyle says, hidden from your view by John's bulk.

You grunt again as you start to shiver. Fuck, why is it so cold in here?

Then Price moves.

He grabs you around the waist, hoists you on top of him, belly to belly. Your notebook slips from your hand as he moves you and it ends up being pressed between him and Ghost who rolls closer to fill in the space you vacated, Soap following after him. You're frozen only for a moment, mostly out of surprise, but your necklace pressing uncomfortably into your chest prompts you to move. You carefully remove the skeleton shard necklace with your pencil in it. You're reluctant to let go of it, not wanting to have no way to clearly communicate, but you don't want to accidentally stab someone. Gaz carefully takes it from your hands, whispering that he'll only put it on the bedside table, not far, and can hand it to you whenever you want. You drop your empty hands to Price's chest.

Price's body is warm beneath you. You want to lean into him and fold yourself into that warmth. But your eyes go to his mouth. He's propped up slightly on a pillow, his hands unmoving at your waist as he watches your reaction for any indication he should release you. Your nervousness starts to further cloud the room as you remember his mouth—his teeth—on your neck when you scented him in your old cabin. It feels like a lifetime ago now. How could so much change in not even two full weeks?

"What's wrong," Price murmurs, hands gently squeezing your hips.

Your brow creases. You mime biting, then shake your head with a little frown.

"I promise you, I won't bite you. Not until you're ready." His rumbling voice is soft. You decide that if you're going to try and be a part of this pack, you need to trust his promise. You do want to be a part of this pack, right?

You make a small noise low in your throat and breathe out slowly. You scoot yourself up further on his chest and koala hug him as you carefully lower your head to rest your face at his neck. His beard tickles at your skin. You rub your face against him to rub away the tickle, unintentionally nosing his scent gland and getting a good lungful of his earthy, woody, whiskey alpha scent. Opposite to Simon, there's a slight undercurrent of sweetness to John's scent that makes you want to lathe your tongue across his scent gland. But you restrain yourself. Your shortened, half-tongue wouldn't be able to easily reach that far out your mouth anyways. One of his hands comes up to the back of your head, holding you.

You settle, going limp and sighing deeply, letting his body heat radiate into you. Your omega is crooning inside the nest of your hindbrain. This is the warmth she has craved for so long. This is the warmth you were starving for.

Simon's large hand rubs soothingly at your back as he lies on his side facing you. The betas' scents are picking up intensity now as they smooth out and overpower the lingering nervousness in the air. Though John's scent is strongest as you nuzzle his neck, all four scents are there, swirling right into your hindbrain where your omega reels with happiness. She feels full and large inside you, more alive and connected to you than she has been for a long time; a proper part of you rather than a separate being caged inside your skull, only coming out when your own mind can no longer handle reality.

[Your scent is mellow and sweet, gently caressing their inner designations and making all four of them feel content and relaxed. These are the bonding pheromones that calm and strengthen a happy pack. Even without the connection of a claimed bond, they can feel the benefits of having an omega who trusts and cares for them. This is the grounded, stable, warm feeling they have been craving since Gary died. This is the balance the pack desperately needed.]

Two more hands pet and stroke your hair, your back, the betas reaching out for physical contact. Johnny then hooks his arm around Simon's middle, burying his face into the alpha's broad back and settling with a happy hum. Kyle, who is also on his side, pulls his hand back to tuck it under his cheek so as to prop his head up enough to keep his eyes on you. The softness in his expression makes your stomach flutter. All this attention is a lot. But… it's good. It feels right. If this is what it means to be a part of the Price pack, then you would be happy to live with this.

Your mind starts to sink downward a little, toward sleep, and you feel as if you're floating in the warmth. This is good.

You hear a faint rumbly sound and realize Kyle and Johnny are purring. Someone actually purring, for you? Your heart does a little flip. You make a soft chirp sound and rub your nose against John's neck again. You manage a coarse, putt-putt rumble of a purr. You can't keep it up for more than ten, maybe fifteen seconds due to the strain on your unused vocal chords, but you're glad you tried—especially when the deep vibrations of John and Simon's growling purrs answer your call. The steady sound and feel of it lulls you, and you start to sink deeper into a haze of sleepiness.

For the first time since you lost your voice, you look forward to exercising your vocal chords, all because of a desire to purr.

You end up sleeping for hours, only stirring once, when Simon and Kyle got up to prepare dinner together. John stayed still, holding you the entire time. If you were awake, you would have been amazed at his resilience to be in one position for so long—and with your weight on top of him at that. [In truth, as a special ops soldier, he's dealt with much worse tests of endurance. In comparison, this light work is a dream.]

The sun has set, the curtains are drawn, and only a candle lights the room when you finally wake. Johnny is stroking your arm, the steady touch slowly pulling you up from unconsciousness. You sigh into John's neck, and he hums lazily, his hand at your head moving down to draw lines and circles down your back.

"Time tae get up, ye wee sleeping beauty," Johnny whispers.

You grunt, rubbing your face against John. He rumbles happily in his chest, and you smile against his skin. When you hear the bedroom door creak, you lift your head, squinting and blinking groggily. Simon is standing in the doorway, and you admire again his maskless face. He's got a thin layer of blonde stubble on his jaw.

"Come eat," he orders gruffly. "Before you turn into a mushroom."

You tilt your head. He lifts a hand to point a thumb at himself.

"We've already got one fun-gi. There's not mush-room for any more."

You turn to look at Johnny. He's grinning. With a huff you disengage from John, rolling off the bed to your feet. John hands you your notebook and you put on your whistle necklace.

"What, not a fan of mushrooms? I'm sure they'll grow on you." Simon is speaking with a carefully flat voice, but his mouth looks ready to break into a grin. His neck is slightly flushed—with held back laughter you suspect.

With a very serious expression, you write something and hold up your notebook to Simon. He barks a sharp laugh and turns and leaves. When Johnny asks what you "said," you turn the page toward him and John.

"These mushroom puns are in spore taste."

Johnny is laughing when you follow Simon out the room.

Dinner must have been what inspired Simon. Some jarred mushrooms, more rice, and the last of the spam they'd scavenged in the town with the dead Horse. It's delicious, and you don't try to turn down the second helping Price scoops into your bowl.

While you eat they talk about themselves. About their jobs in the military as elite special operatives called Task Force 141. About how they met each other and ended up forming pack bonds, becoming closer through each trial they faced. Your bowl is nearly empty when the conversation turns to slightly bluer territory.

There was another beta in their pack. Sometimes they call him Gary, sometimes Roach. He was murdered, betrayed by Shepherd, their superior, who had killed Gary when he uncovered Shepherd's secret supply trading "tariffs." Extortion. He pocketed the money while the suppliers of the trade deals had to pay through the nose in the fake tariffs, otherwise he would slap them with fines, or arrest them for "hoarding supplies" in a time of duress. Gary had managed to record evidence of Shepherd's corruption, and was murdered for it.

You can see the grief still stark in all their faces, their scents heavy with it. Your omega urges you to do something to comfort them. You aren't bonded to them, so you don't think this will be very effective, but you try anyways. You work hard to mellow your scent, fill it with a feeling, an intention, that says "I care, I'm sorry it hurts, I care." You don't think you quite manage that level of nuance, not being bonded, but it must be a nice enough smell, because as soon as your scent brushes them, the atmosphere in the room shifts. Kyle leans in his chair closer to you and Simon scoops a few spoonfuls of the loaded rice from his bowl to yours—and… you think you catch a glimpse of Johnny brushing away tears from his eyes before turning an affectionate grin on you.

Across the table, John's smile is bittersweet, "We lost a pack member, and I wish we hadn't, but I am glad that we met you because of it."

"Because you had the strength and resolve to hunt down Shepherd."

Johnny grumbles, "focker almost evaded us long enough fer the timer tae run out…"

You look at John questioningly.

"We were given a year," he explains. "If we didn't capture or kill Shepherd in that time frame, we were ordered to return to base."

"Wait, do you not still need to return?" Your heart picks up pace a little. In order to fulfill their duty, would they go back without you or drag you along with them?

John sighs and says, "We do need to return. Our skills are often called upon, there's always more work to do. We can't just go awol."

"Don't get jumpy," Simon grunts, "We told you we aren't going to up and leave you."

"And we won't try to force you to go there with us," Kyle quickly adds, glancing at John. "Some of us can go and some of us can stay."

Johnny leans forward on his elbows on the table, grinning playfully.

"But of course yer free tae come visit our home base with us, see what all the hullabaloo is aboot. Ye might even like it there."

You give him a seriously skeptical look.

"I'll go and tell them we—"

"I'll go," Simon cuts off John, raising his voice. "You're pack leader, you should stay with our omega."

Your face heats a little at hearing that. Their omega. That… doesn't sound too awful, now does it?

The alphas have a mini staring contest, glaring without words, almost making you believe in the magic of telepathy before John concedes, nodding his head.

"Right then, Simon—"

"And me!" Johnny chimes in.

"—and Johnny will report in. It is best at least one alpha and one beta stays."

You're a little alarmed at how relieved you feel to know that you won't be as completely alone as should they have all decided to go. Just this morning you were prepared to live the rest of your life in solitude. Is this… progress? They're debating what details to add or leave out of their report as you slowly chew your last bite of food, staring down at your notebook resting on the table. Before the feeling of embarrassment can grow any larger, you quickly write and hold it up to them.

"You'll say goodbye when you leave, right?"

Simon gives a pleased chuff and Johnny is beaming.

"Aye, lass, we won't skip out on ye."

John stands from the table and takes your empty bowl along with his to the sink. The group starts meandering toward the living room and you stand, intending to join them, but you pause. You tug on John's sleeve.

"If you hadn't caught Shepherd, would you have returned home without getting your revenge?"

John is silent for a moment.

"No," he says softly, dangerously, like he doesn't want to admit that he'd go against direct orders for his own gain. "No, I wouldn't have returned until we got him."

You nod solemnly, grabbing his sleeve again in sympathy. He takes that hand in his, brings it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. Your stomach does a little flip. He intertwines his fingers with yours, and you walk into the living room together.

Soap and Ghost are sitting on the floor, cleaning their pistols on the coffee table. Gaz is on the couch, and you and Price sit next to him, but the beta pulls you onto his lap. You lean your head on his shoulder, feeling a bit hot in the face again, and he hums happily, rubbing his stubbled cheek against the top of your head. You're sitting sideways in his lap, your legs sticking out toward Price. He lifts them and places them across his thighs as he scoots close to Kyle. John throws an arm over his beta's shoulders, kissing his temple, his other hand rubbing up and down your shin.

You are content to sit in comfortable silence with them, the warmth of their bodies seeping into you. (Maybe you'll never get enough of that wonderful warmth.) You watch Johnny and Simon, their practiced movements hypnotizing. You start daydreaming of spring-loaded traps with as much snap in them as their pistols sliding back into position after being cocked. You decide to ask one of them to show you how the weapons work on the inside. Maybe they'll even let you take one apart…? Later though. Not right now, when you're so comfy.

Gaz squeezes his arms around you.

"Now, you've told us about… your burden," he says. "But what about you? We told you about our work, about our lives. Tell us about you now. From before."

Well, you suppose this should be an easier subject than what you've already told them… You pull out your pencil again and start writing, resting your notebook on his forearm.

You'd worked at a local shop in the small town you lived in. You were unclaimed, living with your family; your alpha mother, your omega mother, your beta father, and a grandmother and a grandfather, and two younger siblings, and… possibly a third as well. If your mother is still alive somewhere. Your omega mother was pregnant by only about a month and half when you were kidnapped. Did she have a successful birth? All this time you had assumed your entire family was dead. You mourned them, alone in that cabin. But Soap had told you that there are survivors at the military bases, so maybe…

Price considers what you tell him.

"Hm, it is possible they were taken by soldiers to a shelter. That area wasn't our jurisdiction, but I do know that some efforts were made after the bombs started dropping to escort people who lived in more rural areas to safer locations."

You blink.

"Bombs?"

"Yes," Price mutters now, as if this is an old argument he used to have with someone in the past. "The bombs mostly hit well populated areas. So the people living in rural areas would have been better off where they were, at least initially."

"Were the bombs used to kill those creatures, the Horses?"

"Ah, no no. The bombs were deployed first, then came the Horses."

He patiently explains to you how the world ended. You're absolutely flabbergasted. According to Price, the mad dog the Americans call a president went completely off the rails. He picked fights with other countries, killed his own citizens, and threatened anyone who tried to cross him with war. When he started firing missiles, other countries responded in kind. Many countries around the world, including America, were left devastated by the result. Not even a full week after the last of the missiles hit, the Horses appeared.

"Are they aliens from space?"

"Some people think so," John says, his lips twitching under his mustache. "Some people think this or that country developed them as weapons of war."

"I vote aliens," Johnny pipes up, leaning back on his hands, his cleaned pistol resting on the table.

"It could be some sort of mutation from irradiated fallout zones," Simon says gruffly.

"That's science fiction territory," Kyle dismisses.

"And aliens isn't?" Simon cocks an eyebrow.

"Those things themselves are like science fiction!" Soap argues. "And if they're real, the possibilities are endless!"

You'd believe it. Aliens or otherwise. They couldn't be something natural to Earth, right? You shudder, pressing tight into Gaz. You've never before been so grateful to have such strong and lethal companions as when you remember those monsters.

He's holding Gary in his arms, trying to stop the bleeding, but his fingers are stupid and thick, not listening to his commands. When he looks over his shoulder to search for his pack, he can see the syringe sticking out of his back. Shepherd is getting away and Gary is dying! He has to do something, anything.

"Please, please, don't take Gary away!" His voice is lost in the howling wind and fire all around. Where is his pack, where is his alpha? He can't do anything. He watches Shepherd disappear in the distance and sobs, looking down at the body he's clinging to.

He's holding you in his arms, trying to wipe the blood away with clumsy hands. Your eyes are open, unseeing and flat. This is all his fault.

He feels the prick of another needle worming under his skin. He can't move.

You look at him and tell him this is his fault for not trying hard enough.

More needles push into his body.

Johnny jerks upright, gasping for air, a sweaty sheen over his skin. He wildly looks around him, finding Kyle and John asleep in the bed beside him. Where's Simon? And you? He slides out of bed as quietly as he can and creeps down the hall to the study. The safe door is open. You always shut it when you sleep in your nest. Trying to keep his breathing level, Johnny quickly descends the stairs, but even before he reaches the bottom step, he can tell you're not here. The room is too quiet and still, it has an empty feeling to it, and the curtain around the bed is pulled aside enough that he can see it's empty. But he has to be sure.

He sweeps the room methodically, checking all the nooks and crannies, lifting the curtain and checking under the bed. You're not here. Where are you?

Johnny mutters pleas under his breath, frantically leaving the saferoom and running to the living room with a trained, soft step. There's Simon! A part of the tightness in his chest unwinds. His alpha is outside the glass door leading to the back deck, looking out into the trees beyond the yard. He's on watch. Right. Just checking the perimeter. Protecting them like a good alpha. Johnny starts moving toward him, wanting to seek comfort in Simon's scent and touch when he hears a faint sigh. He freezes.

And then, by the light of the dying fire in the hearth, Johnny sees you, slumped on the couch, an empty package of crackers clutched in one hand. If his heart wasn't still racing, he'd laugh at how cute and silly you look. You've even got some crumbs on your top. He steadies his breathing, the relief heady. He sits down on the couch next to you. You stir, still half asleep, making a little questioning sound.

"Hush hen, go back tae sleep," Johnny whispers. But your nose is wrinkled, your sleepy eyes turning to peer up at his face. You must be able to smell his lingering panic. Omegas and their sensitive noses, Johnny almost huffs, smiling. "Just had a bad dream is all. It's over now."

Only a small croak gives him a warning before you scramble up, practically tackling him down onto the couch cushions. He's surprised, letting you push him down, pressing against him and wriggling until you find a comfortable enough position. Your arms tight around his waist, you rub your cheek against his ribs, scent blooming, comforting and soft against his nerves. He lets himself relax, basking in your presence.

When he drifts back into sleep, he dreams of sunshine and pine trees and the smiling faces of his pack.

When Simon decides he's had enough of the cold, he heads back inside.

When he'd gone out to check about, you'd been awake, waving at him from the couch as you scarfed down some crackers. After walking the perimeter, he'd stayed out for a bit just to feel the quiet of the still, cold night. But now when he returns indoors, he finds you no longer alone.

Simon huffs in amusement, seeing you clinging to Johnny. He's pleased you're opening up enough to be a little more physical with all of them.

Grabbing a throw blanket from an armchair, the alpha covers you and Johnny. His omega and beta. He throws another log on into the fireplace to make sure the room doesn't get too cold (the giant windowed wall really doesn't help with insulation). For a moment longer he watches the two of you sleeping peacefully before retiring to the master bedroom.

The next morning, you're down by the river behind your house, standing in a patch of early sun, your breath fogging in the air.

The stones of the riverbed are worn smooth, and there's a large waterwheel with pipes and such leading toward the house. Does it pump water? Generate electricity? Sounds like a dream, but it isn't moving. There's not much water in the river, not even enough to cover the bottom slats of the wheel, but you know that will change once spring comes and the snow starts melting. You'll just have to wait until then to see it in action. Unless one of the boys can figure out what it does before then.

You're holding a palm-sized, smooth rock in your hands, turning it over and over as you mumble half formed words. After wishing you could purr yesterday, you've come out here early in the morning for some privacy so you can practice speaking.

It's embarrassing work.

Children are so brave for learning to speak, sounding goofy when they mess up words. Because you're an adult with more self awareness, and because you know from experience how you should be able to sound, it makes it all the more frustrating and embarrassing that you can't quite pull it off.

At least you have half of a tongue to work with instead of none at all. It doesn't sound quite right to the ear, but you can almost use it to make the sounds that require touching the tongue to the roof of your mouth. L's and S's and N's make you sound weird for example, and you're really self-conscious about it.

But other sounds that don't require tongue are easier (and you're surprised at how even those are influenced by tongue to a degree). Saying Soap is easiest without the S involved. 'Oap. You try saying all their names, but you quickly lose momentum over all the difficult to pronounce consonants. And your throat is already aching after only fifteen minutes or so of vocal practice.

Well, you didn't expect to magically be successful the first try, and if a baby can keep at it, then so can you. Your face sets with determination, and you chuck the rock you'd been holding as far as you can.

You're making repetitive noises, a lot of "ah"s and "oh"s when;

"Ohh bonnie lass," Soap moans, and you jump, spinning around to find him approaching through the trees, Ghost trailing in his wake. "Are ye practicin' how ye'll cry out in bed?" You frown as he walks up and leans close to you with a cheeky grin. "I promise, we can make ye feel so good, ye won't be worryin' about how ye sound. We'll show ye what it feels like tae get fucked properly, with real prep and lube and all."

A horrified shudder crawls through you at Soap's vulgar words. You push against his chest, croaking your best version of a "no!" Soap looks startled, taking a step back as Ghost steps forward.

A snarl is on your face as you hiss, jabbing a finger violently at hastily scrawled words, "I know what it feels like to have a fucking cock inside me!"

Ghost is growling, and if he wasn't wearing his balaclava, you're sure he'd be baring his teeth. The alpha in his scent is loud in your nose, and even though you stand your ground, your inner omega shrinks back from his dominance. Ghost is so kind to you, it's easy to forget sometimes how powerful an alpha he is. He tugs at the back of Soap's jacket to create distance between you.

"Take a walk about, Johnny."

Soap looks distressed, but obeys his alpha and tromps away a few paces as Ghost closes in on you. You've got fight in your veins and expression, ready to throw down like a chihuahua against a great dane. But Ghost takes a second before speaking to reel in his instinctual dominance display, softening his scent and rounding his edges.

"Johnny means well, but he doesn't understand this sort of thing, he's never experienced it, never been put in a situation to make him fear sex."

"And you have?"

"Yes."

Your face falls at that, shoulders drooping as the fight goes out of you. Oh. If him being an alpha didn't change his fate, then perhaps you not being an omega wouldn't change yours either. Wishing you weren't born an omega was a childish wish anyways.

"It took me a long time until I was comfortable being intimate with the others. But they were patient, they waited for me. If you need more time, it's completely understandable."

"Doesn't feel like he's being patient…"

Simon huffs an almost laugh.

"Johnny is a mutt who gets over excited about a good fuck." He pauses (Johnny whines softly from his spot by a tree a few meters away, looking chagrined). "And, in truth, I know he's actually just worried. We all are. Because when your heat comes, you won't have a clear head. If you beg us to mate with you, to stop your pain, would it be right or wrong to deny you? You have to make up your mind before then." His words rumble like an omen of a coming storm.

Of course you have to make up your mind. You can't jerk them around, put the burden of deciding whether or not to answer your pleas during your heat on their shoulders alone. You are also responsible for this decision. You can't be wishy-washy about something as solidly permanent as being claimed by a pack. Once the bite mark takes, once the bond flares to connection, there will be no going back, no way to undo it. Except through death.

You do want to be a part of this pack. You do. But you're so afraid still. The thought of them accepting you, accepting the history, the scars, the trauma, it makes you want to cry with some kind of horribly overwhelming emotion. Not quite a sadness, and not quite simple relief. You trust them more than you ever thought you'd trust someone again. You trust them. Even so, that fear is still there, an uncontrollable beast that lurks and rears its head whenever it pleases.

"I'm still afraid." You hold up the notebook, too small to properly hide behind. You don't want to see his reaction. Will he be tired of your baggage yet? Is he hoping that the conversation with everyone yesterday was enough to dispel this visceral fear?

"It's alright," his voice rasps softly, head tipping down to press his masked mouth to your forehead. "These things take time. It might have been years since you were hurt, but it's only been days since you've started allowing yourself to think about pack life."

"Some alphas claim their omegas when they first meet them."

"You know by now that Price and I aren't like that."

You exhale softly with a small smile. Yes, the two of them are good alphas. You believe this.

And even with that belief, that fear stays, and scratches insistently at the base of your skull, doing its best to make you doubt.

You leave Simon and Johnny by the river, moving perpendicular to the house through the trees, checking your traps as you go. You stuff your hands into your pockets, tucking your chin into your scarf. Winter is barely half over, but despite the lack of food it creates, you enjoy it more than warmer weather. You like being able to bundle up, to cover as much of your body as you can. The one nice thing about living alone was that you didn't need to worry about others seeing you naked and trying to cool off in the sweltering temperatures of summer.

You walk a large curve around the house, only needing to fix one trap that had sprung when a branch fell on it. You do find a big, fat squirrel caught in a snare near the edge of your trap-laden territory. You're happy to have some fresh meat to eat.

Near the front of the house, you see John and Kyle, kitted up in their military vests and backpacks slung over their shoulders. They perk up when they see you coming, smiling. You hold up the squirrel with a triumphant grin.

"Nicely done," Kyle says. "How about we make a nice soup with that tonight?"

You nod, stomach already feeling empty enough to eat an entire pot of soup, even though you had breakfast not too long ago. You point at their backpacks with a questioning look.

"We're going to look and see what we can find in the nearby houses," John says, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. "And make sure there's no signs of others currently holed up nearby."

You frown. Raiders are one thing, but what if there were normal people like you and the Price pack living nearby? They wouldn't be a danger, would they? Was Soap right in that you really are an outlier, and most people live in secure areas rather than out in the world like you? What would Price do if he did come across another pack? Surely he wouldn't chase away or even kill non-raiders?

Price misinterprets your disquiet, saying, "Don't worry, darlin', there's not likely to be any hooligan raiders nearby, it's just for precaution's sake."

You nod, trying your best to look reassured. They pat your covered head as they pass you, saying they'll be back in a few hours. You watch them go before heading off yourself to gut and clean the squirrel.

Maybe you should exercise your vocal chords in shorter intervals, ten minutes at a time tops, because your throat is really sore now. Even swallowing water makes you wince a little. You decide to keep busy and not worry about your voice by doing some chores that need attention. Not that you have many chores, but it's better than sitting around feeling sorry for yourself.

After stowing the squirrel meat away, you've gathered your dirty clothing and dropped it in a basket in the utility room. The washing machine won't work without power, but you can still make use of the large basin sink and detergent. You've already plugged the drain and filled it with melted snow. You don't have very many pieces of clothing, which is why it's important to keep on top of washing them or you'll be wearing dirty clothes after only a few days. (Trapping tends to dirty you, especially when you start sawing and shaping wood. The sawdust and wood chips get everywhere.)

As you're pulling a shirt from the pile to wash first, a shadow crosses the open door. You glance up to see Simon hesitating in the doorway. He's got his balaclava on, so you can't quite tell what's got his goat, but you don't have to wait long to find out.

"Is it alright if we take with us something with your scent?" His graveled voice is a bit on the quieter side, as if he's trying to be sneaky about asking you. Perhaps that's for the best; if Soap heard, he might try to snatch your underwear or something to take with him.

Ghost is looking down into the laundry basket once you nod your permission. You thought you'd scent one of their items for them. Your face heats at the thought of them taking one of your shirts along, smelling it for comfort while away from their pack. Will they also bring items scented by Price and Gaz?

"Right, here we are. You've got more than one pair, right?" He holds up two of your socks, long, fluffy, dark green. You nod.

"I could just scent one of your shirts for you?"

He shakes his head, and you get the feeling he's smiling under his mask when he says, "No, this will be perfect."

Considering the low winter temperatures, you can't let your wet laundry air dry outside. So you've enlisted the railing of the stairs on which to hang your recently washed garments.

Now you are at the top of the stairs, distracted, examining the wooden balusters of the handrail, wondering how strong they are in relation to being able to hold the weight of a body—or perhaps merely a few large rocks—suspended by a rope, when you hear someone rummaging in one of the rooms of the second floor.

You'd expected the Price pack to each pick a bedroom on the second floor, except John, who you figured, as pack leader, would commandeer the master bedroom on the ground floor. So far, they all seemed content sharing that bedroom together, though sometimes you did catch one of them snoozing on the couch in the living room after doing a perimeter check. Even with the security of your traps, you're glad that they still take caution to keep a lookout. You really don't want to lose this home. It feels like you belong here much more than your old cabin and woods.

Soap comes out of one of the rooms, slinging a couple of blankets over his shoulder. When he sees you, he hesitates, sucking his lips into his mouth. Ah, you'd almost forgotten how annoyed you'd been with him earlier. An apology is probably in order. You've been feeling weirdly emotionally volatile today. And much more tired as well. Perhaps you'll try to sleep a little earlier tonight.

You pull out your pencil from its place in your necklace and write, "Sorry for snapping at you earlier."

He crouches near you where you sit on the top stair, his expression subdued.

"Nae, I'm sorry fer bein' a prick about something I know yer sensitive about." His hands absentmindedly bunch the blanket fabric, twirling it. "Si is right, I tend tae get a bit excited about a good shag—but! I want ye tae know, I would nae force myself upon ye."

Your heart squeezes a little as you look up at him. Oh Johnny, has he been worried about this since earlier?

"I trust you, Johnny."

He let's out a breath, relief in his expression, a little smile on his lips. You never noticed before now, he has a little vertical scar nicking his bottom lip down to his chin. You glance up at his blue eyes, then away.

You change the subject by gesturing to the blankets on his shoulder.

"Ah, we'll take some of these unused blankets with us, instead of the ones we use downstairs."

"You don't mind the smell?"

He tilts his head, giving them a sniff, "I donnae smell much. Just a wee dusty is all."

Hm. Omegas are more sensitive to smells than alphas or betas, so if it doesn't bother him, then you suppose it doesn't matter.

"When are you leaving?"

He shuffles to sit down at the top of the stairs next to you, knocking his shoulder against yours playfully.

"Tomorrow morn, we'll head out with the sun." He tips his head to grin at you. "Ye gonna miss us?" You consider making a joke or teasing him, but you notice the way his fingers fidget with the edge of a blanket. It's hard to tell in the indirect lighting of the sun cast through the windows, but… you think his ears are a bit more pink than usual. Is he worried about your answer?

"Yes, I will miss you both," you write, feeling a bit shy and silly.

He's beaming, and you can't help reflecting back some of that happiness with your own smile. He slings an arm over your shoulders.

"Donnae be too sad, bonnie, we'll be back afore ye know it!"

At dinner, you're chowing down with gusto, and even after having a second bowl of soup, you're eyeing the boy's bowls. Get a grip… you admonish yourself. Everyone gets a fair share. Besides, you're not starving after two large bowls of the soup, you're just… a little peckish still.

You bite your lip. Maybe you should just go get some crackers or something from the saferoom stockpile to tide you over? You stand to take your bowl and spoon to the sink. Johnny and Kyle are arguing about whether or not they think Simon could take down some guy named Konig. Simon doesn't seem impressed by their imaginations. You tune them out as a thought takes hold of you.

Why am I so hungry? Is it because you hadn't been eating enough this winter, and now that you have plenty of food available, your body is just trying to catch up with the deficit? Last night you'd even woken up from the hunger pains.

You're standing at the sink, intending to dunk your bowl to wash it off. The others are still sitting around the kitchen table, their voices blurring in your ears. And it comes to you like the most horrible revelation bestowed by a cruel god. [John is the first to notice when you stop moving, just standing there in front of the sink. You're very still. He feels a little prickle at the back of his neck. Something is wrong. And then you're turning, and his heart is thudding.] You turn to look at Price, he's already looking back at you. Your eyes are wide, terrified—his are wide too, but more as if trying to take in what it is you're seeing that he's not. The bowl slips from your fingers into the basin of water. Your chest is starting to heave. You need to run. You need to hide.

It's early.

Your heat.

No, nonono. You shake your head frantically, backing away from the sink toward the doorway to the hall. It can't be your heat. That would be two months too early. That can't be. But the signs are there. You've been hungrier than usual, ravenous, and sleepier too. Your body is trying to pack away nutrients, fatten up for what will come; days of intense activity.

You knew being around alphas so suddenly after being alone for so long would affect you. You knew something would happen. But early by two months? And that two month estimate had been generous guessing on your part. That was your low ball estimate. Your "maybe it will come early" estimate. If you'd had a calendar to keep precise track of your heats, it probably would have said you had three months, or even four. But now?

Price is rising from the table, his tense posture alerting the others. He stares at you as if trying to pin you down, willing you not to run. But your skin is crawling under his attention, under all their eyes now turned towards you.

You want to be a part of this pack. You want this. You want this. You want—

You turn and sprint for the saferoom.

Soap and Gaz are in the bunker with you, cuddling on your bed, comforting you as you shake and tremble uncontrollably. The alphas are keeping their distance, since they know it is their designation, and all that comes with it, that makes you so afraid.

Price pushes aside the board that had been nailed across the store's entrance and carefully steps inside. The moon lights the silent town, and they are careful to use their torches only when inside the buildings. There hasn't been any other signs of people since the arsehole caught in your trap, but they like being cautious. Just in case.

Broken glass crackles under Price's boots as he walks a few feet in, cranking the handle to wind up his torch into brightness. These nifty things are another excellent find from the supplies stockpiled in the saferoom. He hears Ghost coming in behind him, muttering about not being able to find a needle in a haystack.

It's been a few hours since they decided to set out and search the little lake town for some kind of contraceptive. That was something that hadn't been in the stockpile of your new home. The previous owners clearly hadn't been worried about unintended pregnancies. But they know you aren't ready for that. You've told them so yourself. So here the alphas are, putting themselves to good use searching for something that can help to alleviate at least some of their omega's fears. Good alphas provide for their omegas, and they'll be dammed sure they do just that. Even if it does feel like searching for a little tiny needle in a frustratingly large haystack. This is one of the last few stores that is likely to have an item like birth control for sale. They probably won't find any in the boutique next door.

"We could put it off, at least until her heat has passed," Ghost says, continuing the mild argument they'd been having as they search.

"No, we need to report back about Shepherd. They might come looking for us if we don't return on time."

"They wouldn't spare the manpower," Ghost argues.

"We can't take that chance."

They look each other in the eye through the shadows, thinking the same thing. They can't take the chance of any of Shepherd's faction he left behind stumbling upon their location and finding you. They don't even trust the men who weren't in Shepherd's pocket. Ghost grunts and turns away.

Little bottles of pills rattle as Price searches through them in the medicine aisle of the general store. Ghost is behind the counter with the cash register, looking through the cabinets. Price's hands pause.

"I think you should be the one to stay," he says quietly, but firmly. "I will return to base to report in."

Ghost straightens up, the white of his skull mask almost glowing in the shadows cast by the torches.

"You're pack alpha, you're going to be the one to claim her, you need to stay with her."

"You could be the one," Price insists. "You would be better than me. You're smart, intuitive, and you understand her trauma more intimately than I ever could. And… I think she trusts you more." He remembers the way he'd scraped his teeth against your neck, the way he'd sent you so close to the no-return precipice of distress.

Though John can't see it, Simon frowns as he approaches the other alpha. He knows John too well. He holds his instincts with tight reins, and he's afraid of losing control, of hurting you. He knows that John would clamp down on those instincts and desires in order to give Simon what he wants. And oh, how Simon dearly wants to spend your heat with you.

He shakes his head.

"She just likes that I wear a mask. Covers my mouth. Makes her feel safe from my teeth," he rasps.

And that perceptiveness right there is a reason why John thinks Simon would be a better alpha for you. Price sighs, bringing a hand up to trace the edge of Ghost's skull mask.

"She likes you without a mask too," John says lowly, a little sly smile growing on his face. "She was practically drooling when you pulled it off yesterday."

Ghost's head tips in a way that lets Price know he's blushing under his mask as he chortles.

"Right, guess it's lucky our omega likes big ugly mugs. Or else only pretty boy Kyle would have a chance with her."

Price chuckles too, leaning in to nose at the masked alpha's neck, his breath warming the fabric there.

"Right," he murmurs. "Let's keep looking a bit longer." If he can't convince Simon to claim you, then he needs to get his own act together. He needs to be strong, perfectly controlled.

Simon's arms come up around him and he rumbles in his chest as he says quietly into John's ear, "It'll be alright. You're a good alpha."

You wake when you feel Johnny getting out of your bed. Kyle is awake already, holding you close to his chest. When you turn to look at Soap, he shakes his head.

"Jus' keep snoozin', hen, nae need tae get up on our account."

They're leaving, you realize. Your hands tighten on Kyle's arms. He is staying at least.

By the light of a nearly spent candle you watch Johnny pull on his pants and shoes. He is pretty hairy—though none of them are as hairy as Price—and his thighs are thick and scarred here and there. His broad back is to you as he sits on the edge of the bed, lacing his boots. You reach out with one hand and grasp the back of his tshirt. He turns to you with a small look of surprise. Your notebook and pencil are on the small table beside the bed. You grimace, wishing you could merely speak your thoughts. You open your mouth and do your best to enunciate, though your "S" sounds more like an untethered breath than a consonant.

" 'Oap."

His cheeks and ears flush a noticeable pink, and he grins at you so affectionately, his eyes crinkling in the corners. Kyle tightens his arms around you, kissing your shoulder.

"Ye have the most perfect voice A've ever heard," Johnny murmurs, ducking his head low to yours. His lips brush your cheek then settle on kissing just the corner of your mouth. You feel Kyle's lips moving his kisses across the curve of your shoulder toward your arm. Your stomach is filled with butterflies, your skin feeling a bit too warm. [They can smell the arousal just barely coloring the edge of your scent, but they are careful. They keep themselves contained to just this small touch, this brief moment. There will be more to come, as long as they are patient.]

Johnny sits back up, inhaling a deep breath as he goes as if to pull your scent along with him, pack it away for the journey.

"Ye want tae say goodbye tae Si too?"

You bite your lip, but nod. Your heat coming soon is no reason to give him the cold shoulder. And besides, you will miss him. You will miss them both. How funny it is, how attached you've become already to this pack. You stay in your flannel sleepwear, pulling a sweater over the top and putting on your boots as well. (Perhaps some house slippers would be a good item to go scavenging for?) You grab your notebook and pencil, putting the bone whistle around your neck.

The three of you exit the saferoom and find Price and Ghost standing in the entryway near the front door. Johnny starts putting on the rest of his gear that had been piled on a thin table near the door while you approach the alphas. You're suddenly feeling a bit silly for freaking out last night. They wouldn't hurt you. You trust them. Right?

"Sleep well?" asks Price.

You nod, but yawn. It is so early in the morning, the sun hasn't risen yet. Maybe you should go back to sleep after this. [The alphas are openly watching you as you sleepily write something, liking how cute you are as a sleep-rumpled little beast and wondering why there's a small trace of arousal in your scent. They can much more easily smell the arousal from their betas. John and Simon's inner alphas gnaw on the chains in their hindbrains, hungry to investigate by sticking their noses where they shouldn't (between your legs) and see for themselves how the betas touch you and work you up. They'd like very much to see that kind of a show.]

"I'm sorry for overreacting last night."

"No need to apologize, sweetheart," John says, handing a small package to Simon.

"We found this for you," Ghost says gruffly, clearing his throat and holding out the package to you.

You tuck your notebook under your arm and open the little paper bag. There's a small box inside holding a couple foil sheets with rows of small tablets. They found you birth control pills. You look up at them, so grateful and relieved your eyes start tearing up.

Hey, none of that," Simon rasps, his gloved hand brushing a tear that escaped the corner of your eye. Embarrassed about your fluctuating emotions, you tuck your head to write.

"Will you be gone long?"

"Only about a week," Simon reassures. He leans down to look you in the eyes. He's got his skull mask and eye-black on. "By the time we return, you'll officially be our packmate." His eyes are half lidded, his voice dips even lower, almost purring, "Our omega."

Your face heats, your inner omega singing inside you. You hide a small, hopeful smile behind your notebook when you hold it up.

"Stay safe, come home soon."

Ghost isn't fooled. He chuckles, brushing his gloved fingertips along your jaw.

"Be good for John," he rumbles. As if your face could get any more heated.

The other alpha hums in appreciation. John and Simon turn to each other, pressing their foreheads together, mask to skin, each man cupping the back of the other's head with a hand, staring into each other's eyes.

"Stay sharp and swift. Bring Johnny and yourself back safe," Price lowly commands.

"Keep our den safe," Ghost replies.

None of them have had sex since that day in the cabin after killing Shepherd, just a quickie here and there, a bit of masturbation, some mutual wanking.

Johnny is a needy mutt, more so with the tantalizing omega scents always with them now, so Simon had occasionally used moments alone to keep him placated. A blowjob behind the waterwheel by the river, a thigh fuck in the defunct bathroom, a quick and rough hand job among the trees. Johnny was usually gagged (often with Simon's fingers stuffed in his mouth, drool escaping between moans) during these sessions to keep his cries and whimpers hidden from your ears. Simon knew you probably wouldn't be ready to hear that yet. But now, away from the house, Simon won't have to worry about keeping Johnny quiet while getting him off. He slants a glance over at the sullen beta plodding beside him.

They've only been walking an hour so far, Soap deflating the further they get from you. Johnny feels pathetic about missing you so much when they'd only just begun their journey, so he is trying to rein in his emotions. For once, he doesn't want to annoy Simon about how he is feeling. Johnny is feeling strangely insecure the farther he walks, and he doesn't like it, because the feeling is reminding him of how it feels to live without Gary. [He doesn't know it, but Johnny is experiencing firsthand for the first time withdrawal symptoms from a cherished pack omega. Despite you not being officially theirs, they still are forming bonds of trust and care and devotion with you. When pack members separate for any reason, it can be hard on all involved, but most especially when an omega is in the mix. This is one of the (subconscious, non-intentional) tactics omegas are able to utilize in keeping packs together. Essentially, Johnny MacTavish is just really, really homesick for his pack's omega.]

Simon notices his beta's declining mood and, though he didn't expect to pull it out so soon, he is quite smug that he is prepared for this.

"Soap," Ghost rasps, getting his attention before veering off the road to head into the trees. They're about to leave this coniferous forest behind for a different landscape between here and the base, so perhaps it's good they'll do this now while they still have cover.

Johnny follows his alpha without hesitation, though he does wonder why they are taking a detour. After a few minutes of hiking through the snow and foliage, Ghost suddenly rounds on Soap. Johnny is so surprised (and trusting of Simon), that he lets the taller man grab him and spin him around. He feels Ghost's teeth biting at his neck through the cloth of his mask, his hands traveling across Johnny's body, making short work of the beta's belt and zipper. Johnny gasps when Simon's hands grasp his pants and undergarments to yank them down mid thigh, feeling the arousal smoldering to life inside him at Simon's rough and demanding movements. It never takes long for Johnny to become interested.

Simon's chest is at Johnny's back, vibrating even through their gear as he growls into Johnny's ear about finally having a moment to unravel him. Soap licks his lips, skin flushed both from pumping blood and from the cold. That cold air nips at his exposed skin, which makes the heat from Ghost's touch all the more intense. His warm body is pressed up behind Johnny, thighs and crotch grinding into him, Simon's large hand fisting Johnny's cock, hot even through the glove. Soap has no idea what's gotten into Ghost so suddenly, but he is all for it, his own hands holding on to Simon's forearms. Ghost laughs lowly into the back of Soap's neck, twisting and squeezing his hand around Soap's cock in the way he knows he likes it, the shaft already hard and throbbing, the tip leaking; his beta is a licentious mutt who gets hard faster than anyone else. And Simon loves it.

The hand not busy stroking Soap's fat girth travels up to squeeze the beta's neck, just enough to make him slightly lightheaded before releasing him. Johnny is already flushed and panting. Perfect. Simon reaches into his back pocket for his secret weapon, bringing one of your socks up to Johnny's nose.

Ghost commands low into his ear, "Smell that, pup? Breathe in the scent of our sweet omega."

And Johnny does, inhaling deep through his nose. Your scent, your scent, your scent. His mouth opens in a long moan, and Simon uses the opportunity to shove the sock into the beta's mouth. Johnny's eyes roll back as his head tilts back against Ghost's shoulder—his hips jerk repeatedly, unconsciously, as he cums so intensely he stops breathing for a moment, his spend hitting the bark of a tree nearly a foot in front of him.

He's shaking against Ghost, trying to catch his breath as he pants through his nose, his hands reaching back to grasp the waistband at either side of Simon's hips, holding his alpha close against his backside. Simon is grinding his own erection into his ass, mask pulled up just enough to kiss and lick at Johnny's scent gland, tongue toying with the claiming bite imprinted there, his hand still gently holding his beta's twitching cock. Simon is waiting for the signal he is so familiar with after all these years, the moment when the twitching settles and Johnny turns toward needing more again. He knows once won't be enough.

Using your sock like this makes Johnny feel perverted and depraved, and it only makes him want more, more, more. Simon isn't one to shy away from giving Johnny whatever nasty thing he thinks will make the beta orgasm harder—he enjoys driving Johnny crazy with it.

As Simon expected, Johnny is still hard, too horned up by your scent to be satisfied with only cumming once.

"So much for a quickie," Simon growls into his ear, nipping his lobe sharply enough to make the beta whimper.

With his free hand, Simon pulls out the matching sock and holds it high enough for Soap to see. Johnny moans around the fabric in his mouth, saliva building. He flinches as Simon stuffs his sensitive, fat cock into the sock. Johnny moans again, but this time it's high pitched with need as his head falls forward to look down at your long, fuzzy sock, soaked in your scent, hugging his prick like a glove. He watches with glazed eyes as Simon starts to jerk him off again, this time using the sock like a fuck-sleeve. He moans and grunts and whines, absolutely lost in his pleasure, drool soaking the sock in his mouth, his eyes transfixed on the sock Simon is fucking him with, the inside of it quickly getting damp and sticky from his precum. Your scent is swirling straight to his hindbrain and he swears it's as good as any drug induced high. Heat flashes across his skin in waves of hot chills, his teeth clamping on the sock in his mouth as he tries to swallow the excessive drool, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight below.

Like playing a familiar and finely tuned instrument, Simon waited patiently for the right moment, and then strikes the chord he needs for the climax. His free hand tangles into Johnny's mohawk, and he pulls, yanking his head back—causing another long, muffled moan to slide free—before crushing his beta against the tree in front of them. Johnny's chest and chin pressed to the tree trunk, his hips jerking to rut against the tree, Simon's hand and the sock protecting his private flesh from the rough bark. Johnny's eyes roll back again and he groans loudly through the gag, his entire body shuddering with his orgasm, his cum filling the end of your poor, ravaged sock. Soap's legs would have given out if his alpha hadn't been holding him up by way of pinning him to the tree.

It takes a few moments for Johnny's balls to stop squeezing out cum, Simon almost expecting the beta to accidentally pop a knot and keep them here longer until it deflates, but he thankfully doesn't. Simon is gentler now, kissing Johnny tenderly. He pulls both socks off him and tucks them into a front and center pocket on Soap's vest.

"That's my good boy," he rasps. "Now you'll be ready to focus on our mission, eh?"

Still panting, Johnny looks over his shoulder with a smoldering gaze. Johnny will have a spring in his step now as they travel.

"That was focking hot, Lt."

Simon chuckles, his alpha preening at being able to so thoroughly please his beloved beta. He ruffles Johnny's mohawk.

"Come on, pup, let's get going."

But Soap turns, grabs his tac vest, pulls him closer again.

"Naw before I return the favor tae my alpha," Soap says, sinking to his knees.

Scent thick with desire, Simon rumbles low in his chest.

Once they arrive at the base two days later, Ghost is all business. He sends Soap off with a written list of items and two empty packs. He hushes the nerves from his inner alpha as he watches Soap disappear into the crowd milling about and shopping in the market square. Then, intending to report in straight away and get this over with as quickly as possible, he makes his way toward the interior gate leading to the strictly military section of the constructed city.

Each military base took in civilians and worked with the local people to create communities, strongholds protected from both Horses and other people who decided to use the "end of the world" to fulfill their fantasies of running wild, pillaging, raping, and anything else their tiny little brains desired. Thanks to all the refugees, there was no shortage of helping hands to run the newly created cities, but that also meant more mouths to feed.

The leaders of the communities quickly realized a need for cooperation. Some bases were in areas best suited to growing certain crops, and other crops would be scarce there. Some bases were ideal for raising animals, for eggs or milk or meat, while others would have a hard time obtaining those foods. So in an admirably short length of time, the different military bases set to work creating supply lines, creating a network of trade across the lands. Little regard was given to the old borders that marked the territory of countries. That sort of boxed in thinking was no longer useful to the way of the world now.

Those supply lines are what Shepherd built his extortion ring on, gathering around him like-minded individuals—or those who were easily bent to his will. Though Shepherd is now dead, his allies remain lurking, not all of them uncovered by Roach. This is why the Price pack is taking precautions in who they tell about their new member of the pack. That is, for now, they are telling no one. You are a treasure they have found after a long, dark trial, and they will let no one jeopardize your safety. Especially not before you are officially claimed.

Ghost leaves the conference room after nearly two hours of reporting and discussion with the various leaders of the Shaire military base. This is currently the 141's official base of operations, where they live when not away on missions. Their hunt for Shepherd had actually started at a base much farther south, where they'd cornered him with evidence of his corruption. Where he'd killed Roach and fled.

Aside from the usual top brass and community leaders, there were in attendance three other faces Ghost is familiar with. Kate Laswell, Kim "Horangi" Hong-jin, and Phillip Graves. Horangi was a surprise to Ghost, since his home base was usually near old Italy. Graves shouldn't be here either, but apparently, once he heard news of Shepherd's misdeeds, he came here to speak about "restoring integrity" to the supply lines, and has been here ever since. Was he waiting for the Price pack's return? To see if they would be able to accomplish their mission, or some other reason? He's a slime ball always looking for opportunities, that's all Ghost can be sure of. Laswell was the only person in the room Ghost trusts.

While it hadn't been disastrous, the meeting hadn't gone 100% according to plan. When Ghost had informed the group sitting at the conference table why Price was not there to report about the mission himself, he could tell that most of them were skeptical. But the track record and steadfast loyalty of Task Force 141 allowed them to be convinced by his lies. Well, not all of it is lies. He'd demonstrated the truth of Shepherd's death by tossing a little waterproof bag onto the conference table. The one who was brave enough to open it nearly puked at the smell, letting everyone see the contents; Shepherd's decomposing ears, thumbs, and scrotum (testicles intact inside). Multiple people gagged, some men crossed their legs.

The confirmed kill had a renewed foreboding and danger induced chill sweeping through them. The dark cloud that was Ghost's presence standing alert at the end of the table felt a little more threatening now. Only Laswell, Horangi, and Graves had seemed unruffled. Perhaps because they, unlike these old windbags in charge, often have more close encounters with danger and death and other grotesqueries.

Some of them shifted in their seats, some of them coughed or cleared their throats. He had stood there, staring them all down from behind his bone-like skull mask, wondering which ones and how many of them were secretly supportive of Shepherd's corruption.

"Ahem, well done, Lieutenant Riley," said the base commander, Olvead. "Your boys did well bringing that bastard to justice."

Ghost lifted his chin.

"If that's all, I'll be heading back out," he said gruffly. "I'll stock up on supplies and medicine for Price, and as soon as he's better, we will all return to base."

"Bring a medic with you," said a shrew of a man with a thin face and little teeth. Ghost couldn't care less about his position or ranking. Annoyance pricked at him, but he couldn't argue with this order. It would be too suspicious to turn down a medic for Price after using his illness as an excuse for him not being here.

"Alright, if you can spare 'em."

"Good. We'll assign—"

"No, I'll pick the medic." Ghost bristled, appearing even larger as he leaned forward, pressing his fists onto the tabletop. A low warning rumbled in his chest. "He's my alpha, I will make sure that whoever treats him is reliable, trustworthy. We've already lost Roach to a traitor."

Now they were the ones who couldn't argue at that. Ghost took that moment to dismiss himself. Simon is pissed that the plan is in jeopardy already. He needs to find a medic who can keep their mouth shut.

Now, in the hall outside, Horangi joins him. The Korean alpha used to work for KorTac—though if anyone asks him, he still does. KorTac isn't what it was before the end of the world, but then again, neither is anyone else, even the 141.

"Well done achieving your justice," Horangi says, following Ghost who began walking away without bothering to wait. "Task Force 141 always was a reliable bunch of rascals."

Ghost pauses just inside the exit door. He wants to hurry. He and Soap need to return to you.

"What do you want, Horangi?" Ghost grumbles, barely keeping his annoyance from slipping out as a growl.

The other alpha turns serious.

"Graves. Watch out for him," Horangi says, glancing around to double check for prying ears. "You and yours are people I respect. The way the world is now, it needs more respect, and less people like that scumbag sniveling about."

The steady click of heeled shoes approaches them from down the hall, and he lowers his voice further.

"If Graves ever tries anything, you'll have the support of KorTac behind you."

Ghost frowns under his mask. Graves a serious threat, making even Horangi anxious? Was this set in motion all because of Shepherd, or their absence? Laswell walks up then, greeting the two of them politely. Horangi nods, says he will be in touch, and disappears out the exit door. It swings shut behind him, the brief stream of sunlight fading as it closes.

"Congratulations on your revenge, Riley," Laswell says, sounding professional as usual. She too glances around before nodding toward a door off to the side. Ghost sighs, then follows her into the small storage room.

"Alright, what's the real reason?" she asks as soon as the door is shut. "You boys skipping out on us?"

Ghost growls, "We don't abandon our posts."

"No…" she says softly. "So what is it that has you all reluctant to return home?"

He doesn't answer, tense shoulders hunched. He doesn't like lying to Laswell. She's one of the few good ones. She must sense that turmoil in him. She folds her hands behind her back, strolling the few paces allowed in the cramped space of the storage closet.

"You know," she begins, "I was lucky, when the world ended. I was lucky that I wasn't in America at the time, lucky that my wife was with me. And I have you guys to thank for it. The 141 was the reason I was away when that fucker flew off the handle, started tossing his bombs around like baby toys. I owe you. I owe Price. You know I'll always be on your side."

Simon looks the other alpha in the eyes, and he dips his head in acknowledgement.

"I know," he says in a far gentler tone than most outside his pack ever hear. "Not yet, Kate. I can't tell you yet." Even though he trusts Laswell, even though probably no one can hear them in that stupid small closet, still, still, he cannot bring himself to name your existence. He cannot yet allow his voice to betray the secret of you kept close to his heart.

Laswell gently places a hand on his arm, and just as softly asks, "Simon?" She sounds worried, so Ghost allows this;

"I need a trustworthy medic. One who can keep a secret," his voice is hushed. "And has knowledge and experience with omegas."

"Simon…" Her eyebrows are lifted high. She never thought she'd see the day the Price pack entangled themselves with an omega. But Ghost's eyes are hard under his mask, no allowance for any questions. She sets her face with acceptance. "I know a guy, a beta, he specialized in omega medicine before the end. He'd rather ruin his career than harm an omega." Even with the mask, she can nearly see his cocked eyebrow. "He's reliable. He's turned down money, promotions, bribes—all he cares about is his hobby of fairly treating omegas. And he wasn't a fan of Shepherd," she adds, a dry smile coming up on her mouth.

Ghost grunts in acknowledgement.

"Soap and I are leaving at sundown. Tell him to meet us at the south gate by then."

The beta is in the market, passing by a stall selling refurbished clothing when he thinks he catches her scent. No, he must be mistaken, because when he turns to look, he finds two burly soldiers, tough, scary looking beasts. The beta shakes his head, fingers going to the locket around his neck. He's glad his omega wife isn't here, or she would only be upset at the hint of false scent.

He grabs his alpha's hand, interlocking fingers. Perhaps one day they will have closure. But not yet, not today. They will yet let the hope fester in their hearts for a little longer. Just a little longer.

After filling a third pack with various medical supplies in the med center of the military area, Ghost meets up with Soap in the civilian area.

Soap has found nearly everything on his list, including a specialty item Johnny is really looking forward to giving you; some hard butterscotch candies. You'd mentioned once how much you craved some sweets, particularly chocolate—he couldn't find that, but he isn't going to let it dampen his spirits. He's grinning and bouncing on the balls of his feet when Ghost finds him, ready and excited to head home already. Funny how he hadn't even been interested in the two bedroom apartment he and his pack had been living in for four years (not including the year they spent off base hunting Shepherd). It didn't feel like a home the way your new fancy cabin did. Soap had only dropped by the apartment to grab a few items the boys desired before heading back out to the market to find Simon.

Now the two of them are making their way through the market, toward the south gate, the sun close to the horizon. They want to return as soon as possible, but Ghost is also wary of anyone sniffing around and getting too interested in their destination, so starting their trek from the south gate and slowly working their way up and around to the north under the cover of night is his plan.

As the two of them are passing through a crowded spot between vendors, Soap accidentally shoulder checks a bloke who is understandably smaller than him. Soap is a big boy.

"Sorry, mate," Soap calls before continuing forward. But the other man does a double take, his nostrils flaring. He grabs Soap's arm, making him stop and turn toward him. The alpha had looked angry, but when Soap turns around, he simmers down a little at what he sees; a very big and muscular soldier, kitted up and wearing a gun even. He nervously eyes the pistol but is still determined to say what he wants to say.

"Why do you have a blanket with my beta's scent on it?" the stranger snaps.

"I don't know who your beta is," Soap enunciates as clearly as he can, flattening his accent, biting down on his annoyance at being waylaid by this stranger. "I got this blanket from a house we passed by in the field." Said blanket is wrapped around his shoulders like a poncho. Johnny briefly has a fond thought of you, remembering you mentioning the smell on the blanket and admiring your heightened sense of smell. You really are amazing.

Thinking of you calms Johnny enough for him to have a conversation with the stranger. The alpha is an American who, after spending a lot of money building the upscale cabin, had apparently moved to that small laketown with his pack to live in it, but they had only lived there barely half a year before they were evacuated to the Shaire military base when the bombs started dropping in larger cities. Simon and Johnny are pleased to hear that the alpha's omega has a pup who is still growing healthy (they don't care much about the strangers themselves, but know you will be glad to hear that the empty nursery upstairs is not something stained with death).

The stranger (he introduced himself, but Johnny and Simon really don't care, and Simon in particular is getting cranky about standing around with the sun about to set) says he looks forward to returning someday, once all the degenerates running around out there are taken care of, put down by the military.

Ghost growls low, ready to fight and kill for the den his omega has chosen. But Soap is the one who steps forward, listening to his inner beta chanting hide the omega, hide the omega, hide the omega.

"Och, sorry laddie," he says, swinging his voice into a deeper accent and patting the stranger on the shoulder in commiseration. "Raiders got yer house blown tae bits. Burned tha whole place down they did. Only found this here blankie in tha rubble. Seemed like they were trashin' tha whole town. Best naw tae try wanderin' aff with them lurkin' aboot."

The man is devastated by the apparent destruction of his multimillion dollar cabin. But Simon is quite satisfied with his beta's quick thinking. The house is yours now, and some little American prick will never be able to get past them to reclaim it. Perhaps in the old days, before the end, this kind of "house theft" would be frowned upon by you or the Price pack, but times are different now so fuck that guy.

With a last pat on the shoulder and a cheery farewell, Soap and Ghost leave the depressed alpha behind in the market and continue to the south gate. They meet up with the medic, he introduces himself as Private Joseph Allen, and the three men hurry through the gates before the soldiers on duty lock them up for the night. As they walk, Ghost decides to check if bringing this man along will be worth it.

"Laswell said your hobby is to medically treat omegas, what kinda hobby is that?" he gripes, letting his mistrust be clear in his tone. Joseph Allen nods, accepting his suspicion, knowing he will have to prove himself.

"I grew up as the twin to an omega. The differences in how we were treated never sat right with me, even as an unknowledgeable kid." Allen's voice goes soft when he adds, "He didn't even make it to his twentieth birthday because of an alpha who treated him cruelly."

Soap looks over at him sympathetically, thinking of his own siblings, hopefully still safe where they currently live. Allen catches his look and shakes his head with a rueful smile.

"It was a long time ago now," he says. "But because of that, I decided to specialize in omega medicine. And I just grew to love the field, and decided to help any omega I came across who needed it." He shrugs as if his benevolence is as simple as that. Maybe it is. Simon grunts acknowledgement and the small group walks in silence for a few moments until Allen dares to ask, "So I take it I will be helping an omega in need?"

The wind shifts as he speaks, and all three of them catch a scent blowing from behind them. Simon growls. He suspected they'd have a tail.

"We'll fill you in when we're closer."

You sit down on the edge of their large bed. Price sits next to you.

"What did you want to talk about?"

You fidget with the pages of your notebook, ruffling the paper as you decide what to write.

You're six days into your pre-heat, and the heat itself will start very soon. You've been extremely hungry, especially in the past two days, almost constantly eating to silence the gnawing in your stomach. When you aren't eating, you're sleeping, or setting up more traps. You keep rifling through some of the trap materials, organizing and re-organizing them, using some of them to create simple, non-lethal traps around the inside of the house, particularly in the study which is where the only door to the saferoom hides. Price and Gaz don't even bother trying to enter that room anymore because of all the traps—ropes and wires you have strung up, guarding the entrance of your nest like a spider's lair.

"I want to be pack," you write, and the tip of the pencil hovers over the page for a few agonizing moments, "but I'm still afraid. I'm trying not to be, but I can't stop it." Your eyes well with tears, your vision trembling through them. This is another thing about your pre-heat. You've been very emotional. "I feel like an idiot for being afraid even though I trust you." You turn your head to look up at him, tears spilling over now.

John puts his hands over yours, looking so sad. [He wishes so dearly he could take away this fear for you, let you be happy and carefree. If only it could work that way.]

"You're not an idiot for feeling this way after what you've lived through." His voice is gentle, his calloused hands warm. "We'll do the claiming during your heat, your mind will be shielded from the pain, you likely won't even remember the bite. And you have the contraceptive, so you don't need to worry about that either."

You nod your head. You know this, you know this, but oh how the fearful anticipation of it all chokes you, makes you want to curl up in your nest and never stop sleeping.

John puts an arm around you, holding you tight to his side. [He needs to be strong for you. He needs to do all he can to make sure you get through this as smoothly as possible.]

"It'll be alright," he murmurs against the top of your head. "You deserve to be loved and pampered. I promise that's the truth." He pulls you back to cup your cheek and look into your watery eyes. "And I'm going to make damned sure you have nothing to fear, you hear me?"

You nod again, sniffling your runny nose and wiping your eyes on the cuff of your sweater. The thought of having things done to your body unknowingly thanks to your heat and the haze it creates over an omega's mind always used to be another source of fear and anxiety for you. But you trust John. You trust him. He won't hurt you needlessly.

"Hey there, pretty girl," Gaz calls softly, entering the master bedroom with three steaming mugs of tea. The stockpile in the saferoom had a single small container of tea. Kyle had grumbled about it, and told Johnny to get some more tea from Shaire base.

You take a mug from Kyle, a cute yellow cup with green four leaf clovers (for luck, you think). The tea scent vaguely reminds you of Simon, and you quickly quiet the ache in your chest that had sprouted up during the pack members' absence. Your past self would be horrified at how much you miss the two of them. You take a sip of the tea, settling your nerves with the hot liquid and fragrant scent. You are safe. Everything will be okay.

On the way back, they are careful, zigzagging and checking again and again for any tails. They'd very quickly lost the two men who had been following them from Shaire, but remain watchful for any others.

They fill Allen in on the situation. They don't give him all the details of your personal experiences, but he gets the gist, and the beta is heartbroken that you had to experience such a thing. He is determined to help you in any way he can, though hopefully, he won't have to help you at all. It would be best if your heat comes and goes with little incident.

Simon had made sure to bring a medic who would be familiar enough with omega treatment (and one who wouldn't blab about what he'd seen), in case something happened or went wrong. He isn't quite sure whether you will decide to give in and let Price claim you, or keep fighting your instincts because of your fear. Maybe you will barricade yourself in the bunker and suffer your heat alone, taking the route you're familiar with over experiencing your heat with another alpha.

His inner alpha whines from the cage of his hindbrain. Simon wants to claim you, he wants to knot you and fill you with his pups. But at the same time, he knows what it is like to fear being touched and used against your will, and the thought of you hating him and sobbing and shaking with fear as he claims you and fucks you curdles the blood inside him. Price was wrong, John is the one who would be better suited to claiming you because Simon doesn't have the balls to do it. He grits his teeth with self loathing.

They're almost home. He just needs to do his part to keep you safe, to bring this medic and any supplies you need while making sure they aren't followed.

This is how he can be a good alpha.

The heat haze is still heavy, weighing down on your fuzzy mind, but you come to enough to be aware that you're in the midst of your heat in a dark room. It's alright. You don't have to worry, you've got traps protecting you, and your body isn't currently aching with the need for an alpha's knot.

Ah, that's because you are already knotted. That makes sense. You can feel the knot stretching you wide, throbbing inside you as load after load of cum is deposited within you. You don't know how to feel about that, so you just let your instincts feel for you, your omega pleased and satisfied. Right, being knotted is good, relieves the ache. You want this.

Your body trembles with exhaustion and the knot presses your gspot. Your clit is sensitive and tingling, threatening to spill you into another orgasm. You can faintly remember having many already, too many to count, though the memories are blurred and jumbled. It's fine though. You are knotted, your omega is happy. You can sleep now, before the knot deflates and the heat takes hold of you again.

There's murmuring, someone moves a hand to cradle the back of your head, tipping your face up, and you're jarringly reminded that the cock is connected to a body. You're spending your heat with—

And then teeth break the skin at your neck.

They arrive back home after the sun has set, a snow storm beginning to blow in from further north. The temperatures are dropping fast, flurries starting to stick and pile up over older snow. It's a relief to be back before the storm could catch them out. Soap bounds to the front door and enters first, stopping just a few paces into the entranceway.

Simon follows Johnny inside and the smell of your heat hits him like a train. He literally stumbles, his pupils dilating as he inhales huge lungfuls of the overly sweet pine and brown sugar scent. It's got a honey-like tinge to the flavor now, and it digs into his brain and drives his alpha crazy—and his alpha, oh his alpha feels so large inside him, as if it's expanding to fill every corner of his brain, every nerve in his body alight and attuned to his designation's loud desires. Without even realizing it, Simon has pushed up his skull mask until it is bunched at the top of his head, nearly falling off, so as to take in your heat scent unobstructed. His mouth is watering and he swallows repeatedly as he turns to look at Soap in a daze. The beta looks like he's swooning on the scent, but when they make eye contact, something in Johnny shifts. He can see how Simon is nearly choking with restraint like a dog pulling on a chain.

"Si, ye'd best go outside, I'll check in on them and see if they're alright and I'll come back tae tell ye, aye?"

Simon is growling, thunder rolling out from his tense, shaking frame. Allen is shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot just inside the front door. Soap's eyes flick to him then the door. The medic hastily moves to swing the front door wide open and a gust of cold, fresh air blows in, washing over them. Simon is panting, fists half lifted to a boxer's stance as if he expects some kind of fight. (And a fight is something he'd be willing to have, in order to find the source of this heady scent and sink his cock into you, claim you as his.) The frigid winter air temporarily clears his mind, and Simon shudders. Soap watches horror crawl across his face and feels his own heart squeeze in sympathy. Then Simon turns and bolts out the front door.

Soap sways for a moment with relief, trying to steady his mind. He can't let himself be controlled by a raging boner right now. He needs to focus. Simon needs him to focus.

It's strangely quiet in the house, he realizes. He thought he'd be able to hear the sounds of you and John going at it. And where is Kyle? He creeps through the house toward the master bedroom, following Gaz's scent, rather than yours because it seems the whole house is permeated with your scent. Allen trails behind him, nervous about stumbling upon Price who might through his rutting instincts attack a stranger he doesn't recognize.

The door to the master bedroom is cracked open just barely, soft candlelight and your heat scent spilling out. But before Soap can lift his hand to open it further, the sounds of quick, repetitive panting reaches his ear. He freezes for a second, hearing—Kyle?

"Come on, come on, you can do it, just breathe, fuck, come on."

Alarm and fear skitters as chills throughout his body as he then hears a sound so terrifying and unusual because he's only heard it once before,

when Roach had died.

Price sobbing.

Johnny yanks the door open and sees you spread on your back over the large bed, naked, eyes closed, dried blood smeared on your neck, Kyle's hands on you as he performs chest compressions.

John is awkwardly curled around you, attempting to stay out of Kyle's way while also petting your hair as he cries, his pelvis pressed flush on top of yours. Johnny realizes that you and the alpha are knotted together, limiting John's mobility. Soap's own cock jumps a little at the sight, but he ignores it. Price's large muscled body looks so vulnerable curled up next to you that what Soap can't ignore is the way his heart clenches. Something has gone horribly wrong. What can he do? What can he do?!

When Allen peers around Soap to see, he immediately pushes past, jumping into action. But the medic trips, and hits the ground hard, a rope tied taught just inside the door acts as an actual "tripping" wire, not there to trigger anything, but to merely trip intruders. The loud thud of him hitting the floor has Price snapping upright to growl viciously at the two newcomers. Allen freezes mid motion of getting up.

"It's alright," he says, sending out a soothing scent. "I'm a trained medical professional, I'm here to help."

Price's growls quiet but he keeps a wary eye on Allen as he stands and slowly approaches the bed. Price dips his head back down to look at your serene face again.

"What happened?" Allen asks, voice clipped and professional now.

"No pulse," Kyle grunts out in between panting breaths. His hands don't slow their steady rhythm to try and encourage your heart to beat again. Johnny is standing at the doorway still, staring in blank horror, while Allen kneels at the bedside and takes out a stethoscope and a vial and—a syringe.

Johnny surges toward the bed, snarling furiously, reaching for the syringe and backhand smacking the medic across the face.

"What're ye doin' tae her?!" His words are almost too choked up by his snarls and his suddenly heavy accent to understand.

Allen reels back away from him at the blow, holding the needle as far from the enraged beta as he can. Price lifts his head again to snarl at the flurry of movement. His pupils are blown wide, his knot straining at your entrance as it tugs when he moves to try and shield you. You have slick still oozing from your pussy, dripping from his cock. Even though you're technically dead without a heartbeat, the hormones in the men's bodies are still raging from your heat pheromones. Johnny can feel a strain in his pants as his body reacts to the pheromones in the air, and he feels sick with self-disgust over this reaction he cannot control. Even Allen's dick is chubbing up in response, but he is a trained professional and pays it no mind.

"It's only epinephrine, to restart her heart," Allen is saying in a calming voice.

Gaz hasn't stopped the chest compressions, and Price is growling low and deep in his chest, leaning his head over yours protectively. He doesn't look like he recognizes anyone here, except maybe Gaz. The medic continues, holding up his empty hand placatingly.

"I'm only here to help—"

A huge gasping breath, your mouth and eyes fly open. There's a flurry of movement, you thrashing, Kyle getting knocked back, you lunge for the medic, John's knot popping out of you in a way that would have been painful if you could feel it. Price lunges for you, Allen yips as Soap yanks him by the back of his coat away from you, taking the opportunity to snatch the syringe. You're yowling, clawing at the bed, voice breaking as you snap your teeth at the stranger in your den. Price has thrown his body over you, pinning you down with his bulk. There's a look of fury on your face as you squirm under him, hissing and gnashing your teeth, eyes locked on to Allen with a single-minded hatred that has all the betas feeling a shiver in their hearts. Their instincts tell them not to cross a violent omega. Price is snarling too, though he looks at least somewhat in control of himself. (Somewhat being the key word. The vague lucidity John had felt while being knotted had vanished when his body separated from you. His alpha is screaming to re-tether to you, to keep you close to him, to not let these interlopers near you. You're his.)

"Get out!" he orders viciously.

The medic has balls, Soap will give him that: "Her heart was stopped, we need to check—"

"OUT!" Price roars.

Allen shrinks back as Price's heavy alpha scent slugs them in the noses, a threat of further physical violence if they continue to test him. Soap can feel his metaphorical tail tucking between his legs as he yanks Allen toward the door, Gaz following behind.

When the door shuts, you quiet, but you're still panting, eyes darting around to check for any other threats. John nuzzles into your hair, breathing deep, the tear tracks drying on his cheeks and in his beard. Relief is buzzing through him like electricity, making him feel lightheaded, and if he was of clearer mind, he might have agreed with the medic that they need to check on you, but he's lost in his instincts, wearing his inner alpha like a fur coat.

He savors the feeling of his renewed bond with you, strong and bright, drawing a line of connection from his heart to yours, his alpha plucking at it like a taut instrument string, and roils with satisfaction at the shivery echo of your omega plucking back in response.

"I am here," the connection says, "I am with you."

He lathes his tongue across the fresh bite in your neck, the blood dried sticky on your sweaty skin. You whine, shivering underneath him in response, attempting to press your ass up. He grinds down against you, a low purring growl rumbling from his chest, the vibrations soothing you just enough to keep you patient a little longer. He knows what you need, he knows, and he'll give it to you.

He keeps one hand pressing you down and uses the other to spread your legs. He slides himself back inside you before laying back down on top of you and you keen with pleasured relief, face pressed into the sheets, panting, sweaty, your skin hot to the touch. John ruts into you, weighing you down, the bed creaking and you whine again. He licks and nips at your back, trailing his mouth up to return to your claiming mark. His teeth ache, compelling him to bite down again, fitting into the indentations and reopening the wound just enough to lick at another few droplets of blood. You're moaning beneath him, voice quavering and broken. Yes, he'll give you what you need. He will give you his knot, make you feel full with it. He will knot you and breed you, fill you with his seed until you're bursting and fertile with his pups. His quickly swelling knot throbs as he imagines the curve of your pregnant belly, your breasts lush with milk.

You mewl into the sheets when his knot catches your opening as he thrusts shallowly into you. Soon it will be too large to easily pop in and out of you, even with all the slick and your loose pussy practically opening hungrily to suck him in like it has a mind of its own. He tightens his teeth on your neck once more, one hand clenched in your hair, the other interlocked with your fingers against the bed.

John growls again, against your claimed bite mark, deep and low and possessive, and you make more delicious sounds under him as he pushes his knot inside, locking you together with him.

Chapter Text

Kyle felt the bond come to life, and then, as he was marveling at it, he felt it fading.

It hadn't been too long since Kyle closed the door and left you and John to your devices. He stacked up a few granola bars, some nutritional bars, some bland, easy to eat crackers. There were a few electrolyte drinks stored in the saferoom, and Kyle had very carefully crept through the tangle of ropes and wires in the study to retrieve a few bottles.

By the time he returned to the chair he had placed in the hall and stacked his items beside it, he'd guess not even an hour has passed. Maybe thirty minutes, he decides, looking at Price's wristwatch before tucking it back into his pocket. The room is quieter now. Has John already got the first knot in you? The first of many to come. Kyle shivers, horny and tempted to jerk himself off. Maybe later. He's going to be here a while after all.

And then he feels it, a blooming brightness in his chest. He feels so full and buoyant suddenly, like the sun itself is expanding from his heart, lifting him into the clouds. The bond. John has claimed you. Kyle closes his eyes, a huge, joyous smile on his face, laughing lightly.

As focused as he is on the glorious feeling, he almost misses the gasping cry, muted through the wood door.

The bond shreds like the fibers of a rope unwinding, unspooling right from his heart. Kyle gasps, a hand clutching his chest as his lungs heave. An ancient fear blooms around that sensation of a disappearing bond, a hurt known as long as bonds have existed. Worst of all, he personally knows this feeling already, having felt it when Roach died.

Kyle blindly stumbles through the bedroom door, almost dropping the candle he carries on a plate before haphazardly setting it on a dresser, and John turns on the bed, snarling, your limp body protectively cradled in his arms. Tears are streaming down his face. Kyle's knees almost give out at the sight, but he catches himself on the edge of the bed, blood rushing in his ears. He hears his voice from far away, asking John what happened. But the alpha doesn't respond, merely turning with a sobbing breath to press his cheek against yours after deeming Kyle a non threat. Kyle doesn't think John is all there, like he's still half trapped in the head space of his alpha. He's just grateful that he is letting him approach.

Kyle crawls forward on the bed, trying to appear nonaggressive, reaching out to feel your pulse at your wrist. Your arms are flopped out to the sides, your legs loose around John's hips. You're leaning backwards on his lap, Price's hands supporting you at your back and head, your chin tilting up and allowing access to your neck. Kyle can see the fresh claiming mark there, still dripping blood. Price licks at it, whining so softly in a way Kyle rarely hears.

"I don't feel her pulse," Kyle whispers. His throat feels too dry. "She has no pulse." A sob catches in John's throat, turning into a long, heart-rending whine as he hugs your pliant body closer, pulling your chest flush to his as if to press the life back into your heart from his.

There's no mistaking it now, that feeling of a bond tearing away—for a moment, Kyle swears he can feel a rope actually slipping through his fingers. It makes the hair on his arms stand on end and kicks adrenaline into his system, he surges up, hands trying to grasp at something, anything, but there is nothing physical about the bond with which to grab. He grits his teeth, fighting the urge to shove at John. He needs to control his anger, he doesn't actually know what happened, it might not be Price's fault. And John doesn't seem to be thinking clearly, so he needs to stay calm.

"John," he says firmly.

The alpha looks up at him, bleary eyed, pupils wide, a little blood staining his lips. Kyle slowly moves to grab you, his heart thrumming with urgency in his chest.

"Let me help her," Kyle whispers hoarsely. He wants to scream, hurry hurry hurry! His beta is howling inside him, begging to fix this, to save the newly forged bond.

Miraculously, John lets Kyle lay you flat on the bed. He'd prefer the floor, but he realizes now that you and John are knotted together. Of course, it makes sense. He claimed you once he'd knotted you, something that many alphas do for a new omega. Price has to awkwardly maneuver himself, to get your legs from either side of him to lay flat, pivoting his own legs to lay his hips over you. He can't pull out, the knot is tightly swelled inside you, his body shuddering periodically as his reproductive system continues to do it's job inseminating you despite the turmoil he himself is in. Despite the state of you.

Kyle leans down to press his ear to your breast, needing to check again, needing to be sure. But if your heart is beating, he has no way to know because all he can hear is John crying, and his own heartbeat rushing in his head. He holds a finger under your nose, but he doesn't feel your breath.

He starts the chest compressions. Your skin is still burning hot to the touch, covered with drying sweat and slick. Your heat scent cloys in his nose, his body wanting to react, but his erection is only an annoyance right now. He remains focused, pumping your heart with his hands in a quick and steady rhythm. He doesn't know how long he should keep trying, but he doesn't stop, even as he starts to sweat with exertion, his muscles burning. He's lucky he's an elite operative with endurance training, or else his body would give out before his mind is ready to admit defeat. Has it been five minutes? Thirty? Hours and days? He feels lost in time, his singular focus on getting your heart to beat again consuming him. He sinks into his own instinctual head space, letting his beta free in the strain of his muscles and desperation.

When he hears a loud noise, he nearly loses control, wants to attack the intruder. He needs to hide the omega, keep her secret, keep her safe! But the man that comes into view is wearing a medic badge on his coat. And Price's growls at the stranger cause Gaz to surface from the trance he'd been in, his mind coming back to him enough to tell the medic that you have no pulse. But he doesn't stop the chest compressions. He won't stop.

He can't.

He can feel a splinter in his heart, a remnant of the new bond with you still barely there, nearly vanished like a sheep lost from the flock in a storm.

Kyle isn't paying much attention to the medic and Soap, they seem to be fighting about something, but he can't divert his attention; he felt the splinter shift.

He keeps pumping your chest.

The splinter flares, stretching, unfurling, and then, like two electrical nodes being connected, he feels your heart, echoed through his own, mere seconds before you gasp for air and spring upright.

Kyle was so focused on his internal connection with you that he startles, easily being knocked aside and falling back off the bed where he stares wide eyed and almost unbelieving. You're alive. And you're pissed.

You yowl and fight to try and attack the stranger. Price orders the medic to leave, and Soap pulls him to the door. Kyle follows them, dazed, panting and exhausted. His arms and legs are shaking, his hands trembling like they do after escaping a particularly close call on a mission. He kept it together all this time, and now suddenly he can't, he can't hold back the heaving breaths that threaten to turn to sobs. That horrible feeling of a bond slipping away. He never thought he'd feel it again so soon, just a year after losing Gary.

Outside the closed door, Kyle has his hands on his knees, gasping, just shy of hyperventilating, his eyes tearing up. He almost falls to the hall floor, but Johnny is there, catching him, slinging Kyle's arm over his shoulders to half carry him to the couch in the living room while the medic yammers about needing to check your vitals.

"Shut it," Soap snaps at him before turning back to his packmate to gently ask, "What happened, Kyle? Why wasn't her heart beating?"

Kyle leans back into the couch, taking a moment to collect himself, dragging his hands down his face.

"I don't know what happened. I felt it, when John claimed her, I felt the bond flare into existence." Even after the whole ordeal, he still marvels at the wonderful feeling of a new bond surging into creation, and even now, he can feel it, your connection to him and John, like a beacon signaling a warm place to call home in a desolate snowy wasteland. "And then, almost immediately, it faded, like it unraveled. Shattered. Vanished." He shudders. "Like Roach."

Soap can feel it, now that he's looking for it, that tether, like a beam of light shining from you to him. He almost feels like if he turns his head in your direction, he'll see the brightness with his eyes.

"How long?" asks Allen. Gaz looks at him, not comprehending. "How long was she dead for?"

Soap lifts a lip to snarl at the medic, but remains quiet. Gaz is shaking his head, he really isn't sure—ah, but then he remembers. He reaches into his pocket to retrieve the wristwatch John had entrusted him with before your heat started. He'd looked at it by chance, checking the time, only a few minutes before Price claimed you. He almost can't believe it. Not even fifteen minutes have passed. Taking into account the time before he felt the bond fade and after she woke up…

"Not long," he whispers. "Five minutes? Seven?"

"Even five minutes is a long time to be dead." the medic grunts.

"Stop focking sayin' that, she isnae dead!" Soap snaps, rising to his feet from beside Gaz. Allen holds up his hands in surrender as Soap towers over him.

"Where's Simon?" Kyle asks, suddenly noticing the absence of the other alpha.

Soap curses. "I need tae go find him. He ran oot the door when we got here and smelled…" Soap trails off. He hands the syringe to Gaz and then makes for the front door.

After he's gone, Kyle examines the syringe. It really does seem to be only epinephrine. He hands it back to the medic.

"Will she be alright? It can't be good for her, to have had her heart stopped for so long."

The medic scowls, "Which is why I should be in there examining her."

"You really want to get in between a rutting alpha and his omega in heat?"

Allen tsks, though he clearly remembers how frightening you and Price had been when hostile toward him. As if on cue, they hear a muffled cry—of ecstasy, Kyle surmises, when he feels a shivery echo of pleasure down through the bond. He'd already been wet, his dick throbbing because of how long he spent exerting himself while in the room suffused with your pheromones. He'd done an admirable job of not paying attention to his body, but really, his dread had been good fuel for his determination and focus. And now that you are alive—and hopefully well and whole—his erection and the wetness between his legs is a little harder to ignore. Especially with the newly forged bond sparking in his body, reacting to you and John.

Closing his eyes to better focus on the feeling of that bond, he lets the strength of it soothe him, his inner beta curling around it like a hearth keeping him warm. You are alive.

"Private Joseph Allen, by the way. Too bad we couldn't meet under better conditions." Kyle opens his eyes to look at the medic, then after a moment introduces himself, his mind elsewhere, catching on a train of thought.

"I… I don't think she was dead. Not fully. Is that possible?"

Allen tilts his head, "What makes you think that?"

"The bond," Kyle's brows furrow as he tries to find the right words. "I felt it slipping away, but, as I was giving her CPR, I could still feel a little, tiny… shard. As if the bond was still there, just barely."

The other beta frowns now, biting his thumb as he thinks.

"I'll need to check her vitals, and of course, there's not much we can do to know the full truth since it wasn't like she was hooked up to a machine that could monitor and record her vitals and tell us what exactly happened… but, maybe she was experiencing an extreme case of bradycardia—a slowed heart rate," Allen clarifies, then shakes his head. "I don't like speculating wildly without enough evidence. But, maybe she was in a coma-like state." He shakes his head again, sighing. "No, no, who can say. Perhaps you just felt the echoes of a bond because you wanted to feel it so badly, or perhaps it just took longer to fade as she died. Brain activity can continue to occur for a few minutes after death, so—"

They are interrupted from further talk as Soap returns, coming from the interior garage door. He has melting snow piled on his hat and coat and dropping from his boots with each step.

"I've put Ghost in the garage, it's far from the bedroom, and after opening the door tae air it out, the scent is naw strong in there. We should include him in discussing what happened." Kyle nods and gets to his feet with a groan, his hands still shaking slightly. "Ye gonna be alright?" Johnny looks at him worriedly but Kyle just smiles, tired, but solid.

"Didn't even have to dodge any bullets today, so I'm sure I'll be alright," Gaz says, trying to lighten the mood. Soap allows the attempt and lends to it, throwing his arm over his packmate's shoulder as they walk toward the garage, Allen following.

"Aye, fer a big special ops lad like you, this is nothin'."

The garage is freezing after letting it air out, so Kyle has to put his coat on. The others never had a chance to take theirs off. Simon has his skull mask back in place and is sitting on a wooden stool in front of a workbench. You've got a kitchen stand mixer on it, halfway taken apart as you dissect it for interesting pieces. Under his mask, he smiles softly at the carefully organized mess.

When the three betas enter, he turns to them, a deadly serious air about him. (Even with being so serious, the alpha has an impressively large erection straining in his pants, and Kyle and Johnny wince in sympathy. If they didn't have a stranger here, or something important to discuss, they would without hesitation help to get him off and relieve some of the pressure. Unlike the betas, Simon's alpha nature won't let him "calm down" as easily as them, even with the frigid air chilling him. His instincts are responding to an omega's heat, and it is not something easy to ignore. Johnny really admires him for being so mentally strong and collected right now.)

"Soap told me a little of what happened," Ghost says, his voice graveled. "Gaz, start from the beginning."

["When it started, Price and I were in the living room," Kyle starts, "and she was napping in her nest in the saferoom."]

When it started, you'd been sleeping, having slept most of that day.

You woke feeling uncomfortably warm. You needed to go somewhere. You needed to do something. You're too hot though, too hot, and you can feel a pulsing between your thighs, faint at first, but growing stronger as time passes. You know instinctively that it will turn painful if you do not address it. Right, a knot, you need a knot. You climb the stairs to the study, and seeing the room filled with your traps makes you remember; no, you need to protect yourself. You need to hide from any bad alphas that want to knot you.

You expertly weave through the traps, easily avoiding them even in your current state. You can smell an alpha nearby. You know this alpha, you've smelled him before. His heavy musk oozes into your brain, filling every crack and leaving no place to hide and ignore. You want it, you want the alpha making this scent, you want, you need his knot. Want want want.

NO, not want.

Why?

You step over the wire at the door to the study, ah, your traps remind you. Of course, that's the answer you were looking for. You must first do something.

You walk down the hall slowly, feverish, dreamlike. The fire is building under your skin, the pulsing between your thighs feeling wet and demanding. You follow the scent and the faint voices you can hear murmuring in the living room.

You need a knot, yes, but is this alpha the one to give it to you? Is he capable? Is he a strong enough alpha to deserve this? You stop at the edge of the hall, looking at them. An alpha and a beta. The beta can't give you what you need. Can this alpha? He looks strong, muscled, big. Your mouth waters and a stronger pulse tugs in your core.

But is he good enough?

It only takes a few moments for your heat tainted scent to waft into the room, and when it hits them, their heads snap in your direction. Their nostrils flare, the alpha slowly stands.

"Is it time, sweetheart?" He asks, as if your scent doesn't tell him plenty.

The alpha takes a step toward you, holding out a hand as if you are supposed to take it. You almost scoff at his hubris. He needs to prove himself first.

["We could tell she wasn't all there, her omega was close to the surface, her instincts were telling her something, but we weren't sure what yet. We weren't sure if she was going to allow John to mate her or not. She looked like a predator stalking prey the way she looked at him. And then… well, it was almost like she was daring him to follow her."]

You turn and walk the edge of the living room, eyes locked on to the alpha. He doesn't move except to turn to keep watching you.

You slide open the back door, and slowly back out onto the deck, watching the alpha still. Will he come? Will he even try to prove himself worthy? Does he dare to think he's above your test? The thin layer of snow on the wooden deck melts into your socks as you walk on it. The sun is setting, casting and orange hue across the world. You're just in your flannel sleep wear, and the bitingly cold air feels refreshing on your fevered skin. You briefly feel more collected, clear of mind, and you are reassured that you believe this to be the best course of action.

["I was worried when she went outside. Was she trying to run from us because she didn't want to be claimed? She wasn't wearing any shoes, didn't have a coat. If she wasn't thinking straight, she could get hurt out there in the cold."]

You turn and descend the deck stairs into the backyard. You dash across the small yard area, the snow up to your ankles. When you reach the trees, you turn back to look. A thrill pulses through you when you see the alpha, descending to the yard—he followed!

His eyes are on you, dark with desire and you crave to smell him, but the wind is going the wrong way. He must have hurried to put on his boots, but he didn't spare time for a coat and is just wearing a tshirt and pants. You head into the trees, keeping your eyes on him. You need to see whether he is a good, strong alpha. You clutch the trunk of a tree as a cramp seizes in your lower abdomen, bending over slightly, panting. A low whine slips from you and your eyes flick back to the alpha. He seems riled up suddenly, and he's running to you between the trees—but he's carefully stepping in your footprints. That won't do, that's too easy.

Straightening up, you start running yourself, weaving between traps and trees, glancing back every now and then. He chases after you, and the thrill of it makes your pussy clench with need, slick starting to build enough to soak through your underwear and drip down your inner thighs. You need a knot. You double over again, yelping with pain and you hear a soft call in response.

You look to the alpha, he's taking a reckless beeline towards you. He trips a wire allowing a heavy log to swing down at him, and he ducks, throwing himself to the snowy ground before clawing back to his feet at a run. A stick with a metal shard tied to the front swings toward him and he snatches it just below the metal, like catching a snake just below the head so it can't bite. He takes a moment to break the stick, his eyes boring into you as his muscular arms flex, snapping the thick pole of wood with his bare hands. You whine needily and he's running to you again.

He's a few paces away when he's swept up into the air by a rope net. You look up at him, disappointment on your face. He pulls at the ropes, grunting with the effort, trying to break open a hole large enough for his body to fit through. The ropes are strong and thick, not the kind to be easily torn asunder. If he can't get out of a simple rope net trap, then he isn't worth your time. You turn to head back to the house. You will lock yourself in the safe room and spend your heat miserably alone.

A harsh wooden creaking and snapping has you looking back. The alpha has swung himself close enough to the trunk of a tree to hang onto it through the net, pulling himself downward. One arm around the trunk, the other raised above his head, his hand clasped at the top rope of the net, he pulls. The branch the net is anchored to is breaking under his strength, splintering, the wood groaning. His bulging, straining muscles have your mouth watering, a line of drool actually slipping past your lips. With a final snap, the branch breaks free and his arm around the tree trunk is the only thing that keeps him from falling the six feet to the ground. He's lowering himself and detangling from the net as you swell with desire. You can feel more slick escaping you, dribbling down your thighs, soaking your pajamas with every wave of cramps. You turn and run.

Inside the house, you peel off your damp socks and tear at your shirt. The buttons are too difficult. The fabric is too rough. You're too hot. The air inside is stifling compared to outside. You whine, and the beta is there, helping you. You pant, not quite hearing the words he says to you—something about drying off your feet. But you can't stay here, the alpha will catch up. You hear his footfall on the deck, entering the house. Finally free of your shirt, you run topless through the kitchen, feeling a thrill at hearing his steps and panting breath close behind.

["I watched them from the deck. I was nervous about them getting hurt in one of the traps, especially John, since he wouldn't be as familiar about the placements. But I think she was testing him, putting him through the gauntlet, to see if he was worthy of being her alpha. Thankfully, John wasn't hurt, aside from a shallow stab of some cutlery from a trap in the kitchen. They ran all about the house, her stripping her clothes as she went. The chase and the scents were almost enough to make me want to give chase as well," Kyle adds with a soft laugh. "I was surprised though, when she ended up in the master bedroom instead of her nest in the saferoom. I wonder why she chose that room instead?"

"Hm, that explains the rope I tripped on in there," Allen mumbles, and Johnny snickers before Simon silences them both with A Look.

"Continue, Gaz."

Kyle shrugs, "well, after that, it seemed to go fairly well. She seemed satisfied by John's performance, and presented herself to him in the master bedroom. She was definitely deep in her heat by then, her instincts fully in control. And John wasn't far off from that state of mind either."]

You present yourself to the alpha on the large bed soaked in delicious scents. He did so well, such a big, strong alpha, chasing you down through all your traps. He's worthy, you're sure now, he can knot you. But really, you need a knot so badly, it doesn't take much to convince you anymore. You have lava under your skin, sweaty and panting and naked, slick oozing from your pussy as you offer it up. The alpha approaches, peeling off his clothes, his pupils blown wide, his cock erect when he unveils it. He too is panting. You're looking at him over your shoulder, groaning at the sight of his naked form, muscular, scarred, hairy, well hung. You sway your hips side to side, widening your knees, a little demanding chirrup coming from you. The alpha rumbles in response, coming closer to kneel on the bed.

The beta is in the room too, closing the curtains on the windows, shutting out the last of the dying sunlight and removing the lit candle from the bedside table. He leaves, shutting the door, and the room is cast in shadow, the light coming from under the door just barely allowing you to see the alpha's figure. That's fine. You don't need light to be knotted. And you need need need a knot. You whine, long and high.

"I'm here," the alpha says, with a commanding growl at the edges of his voice. "You'll be a good omega for me won't you? Take my knot?" His hand caresses your ass cheek, squeezing the meat of it.

You nod your head frantically, your arms and legs trembling as you try to push your ass closer in his direction. Please please please, need a knot, need it. You garble non-words and then whine again.

"Hush, sweetheart, I've got you."

But he's a liar because it isn't his cock you feel, but his hot tongue, sliding between your folds. He sucks on your clit and easily sinks two fingers into you. Your opening is already wide because of your heat, your body accommodating for the thing it desires most. Proper knots wielded by rutting alphas are very large after all.

["And then I left them together in there to," Kyle waves a hand vaguely, not wanting to be too descriptive for Simon's sake, "do their thing. And waited outside, listening for the lull in noise that would signal the time to check on them, make sure they drink and eat a little, you get the idea."

The others are nodding. Soap has briefly rolled up the garage door to snatch up some snow to give to Simon. He puts it over his aching crotch. Even just listening about this isn't helping him, especially now that he's noticed the bond inside him, shining and taunting him with faint, shivery echoes of your and John's pleasure.

Normally, as another alpha, Simon wouldn't be able to feel the bond so strongly when John is the one who claimed you, but he and John have exchanged claiming bites themselves, connecting their hearts the same way they connect with their betas, and now you. So the bond is as strong for him as it is for Kyle, circulating and rebounding through the hearts of every pack member, tying all of them together.]

You moan as he eats you out. It feels incredible. It isn't what you need, but it still feels very good. You choke on your vocalizations as you easily crest over your first orgasm, feeling a very brief reprieve from the ache in your core. Your arms give out as your body trembles with it, your elbows bowing, your face pressing into the sheets on the bed. The alpha hums with approval, the vibrations making you clench and sending even more slick gushing over his face, soaking his beard.

The relief is short term as the cramping pain returns, your inner walls clamping on nothing and aching for it. You yammer a cry, trying to beg for what you need, but the ability to beg was taken from you by the last alpha that knotted you. That thought is quickly washed away, replaced by the hunger, the need, the necessity desired by your mind and body.

"Eeeeeeeeeeee," you moan, please please please.

The alpha rumbles again behind you, and you feel him shifting, not even paying attention to his words. They mean nothing now. Only one thing matters. [John had been doing his best to ensure that you are deep into your heat before properly fucking you, knowing that once he enters you, he will not be able to resist his instincts any longer, to hold back from knotting and claiming you. So he makes you cum a number of times, again and again, waiting, ensuring enough time has passed that your mind is no longer clear enough to fear his bite. Making you cum repeatedly was easy enough, considering how sensitive omegas are during their heats. The hard part was staying in control and denying his alpha for as long as he could.]

When his cock finally sinks into you, you keen with relief, biting down on the sheets below you, fingers bunching in the fabric. You're immediately moving your hips frantically, but he gives your ass a light slap, jolting you. He says something, a delicious growl in his voice, and his large, calloused hands grasp your hips as he sets the pace, finally, finally fucking you. You're rubbing your face and whimpering into the bed as another orgasm washes over you. The alpha's hips stutter and he groans as your interior muscles do their best to encourage his knot, to milk his cum from him. He starts up again, faster, and your body shakes with every pounding thrust. Your eyes are rolling. Knot knot knot knot knot.

One of his hands grasps your hair, tugging you back up onto your hands and you moan, pussy clenching. Then he tugs you up farther on just your knees, your back arching as he brings your neck closer to his face. His other hand goes around to roughly grope one of your breasts, pressing your back to his body as he licks a long stripe up the side of your neck. His chest vibrates against your back with a deep growl. The lava inside you is roiling hot, making your sensitive clit throb as the alpha mouths your scent gland. You rock back into his thrusts, whining, begging as best you can.

Disappointment crashes through you when he lets you fall back to the mattress, his cock slipping out of you. You cry out, feeling betrayed and horribly empty, but he silences you with another growl and slap to your ass. It isn't that hard, and the sting is immediately gone anyways, replaced by your arousal and need. He flips you over before folding his legs under him, sitting on his heels, his muscular, hairy thighs bulging delightfully, his flushed cock at attention in his lap so prettily. You want it.

The alpha pats his thigh, holding out his other hand to you, and you scramble to obey the summons. You wrap your arms around his neck, and squat over his lap, letting him do the work of guiding himself back inside you as you sink down. Fully seated on his cock, you lean forward, pressing your breasts flush against his and nuzzle at his neck. The intense, direct smell of him sends you swiftly into another orgasm. He groans as your walls undulate around him again and he steers your mouth to his for a searing kiss.

When you pull away, a string of saliva connects your mouth to his before it breaks. You're bouncing on his cock in his lap now, panting, mouth open, that string of saliva dripping from your chin. The alpha is sucking one of your nipples, his teeth nibbling at it. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you, twitching and hot. You sense it coming. You will finally have it. You exhale a high pitched, skipping sound as your bouncing accelerates. One of his thumbs is suddenly toying with your puffy clit, and you shudder, spiraling into yet another orgasm. And then your clenching pussy at long last gets what it wants.

Pulling you down hard to fully sheathe himself into you, the alpha groans salaciously, his body twitching, fingertips bruising your skin with his grip as he moves your body for you, grinding you in circles without pulling out, but you don't feel any pain whatsoever. Because you can feel it now. His knot, expanding inside you. His cum soon follows, rope after rope painting your insides. You sob with immense satisfaction and relief, cumming again on the knot, clinging to the alpha even as he clings close to you in return. His breath is heavy at your neck.

A few seconds pass as you catch your breath. With the alpha's knot secreting it's special pheromones, your head clears a little, just

enough to be aware

that you're in the midst of your heat

in a dark room.

["And when I felt the bond…" Kyle's voice goes soft. "It was wonderful, but so short lived."]

"My good little omega," John murmurs against your skin.

Then he bites down, sealing your fates together with a pack bond. He feels you go rigid in his arms. You gasp loudly, almost crying out. But he is too focused on feeling the new bond, and assumes that is what you are reacting you. It surges to life, throbbing from his teeth in your neck, through your heart and his, pulsing in his cock as his semen fills your womb. A closed circuit of a solar flare spiraling joyously through your connected bodies.

Your legs stick out straight behind him, your thighs squeezing his hips with surprising strength. Your cunt clenches around his cock, squeezing his engorged knot, and he grits his teeth, grunting as more cum spills out of him into you in response. Your entire body shudders once, violently, and for a brief moment, he thinks you've merely had a very intense orgasm. But then your body is sagging out of his arms, falling backward on the bed, the base of his cock straining painfully as the motion tugs the knot. He's gasping to catch his breath, wincing, leaning forward to slide his hands under your back and head to lift you again so your crotch is settled correctly on his lap once more.

But you're limp. You don't move anymore. A drop of blood slides from the bite in your neck down to the hollow of your throat. Your arms hang at your sides, your head lolls without his support. Have you passed out? No. You are…

No.

He can't feel that new brightness inside him anymore. He calls your name, eyes searching your tranquil face. Then he feels it. Like a thread slipping out of the eye of a needle, the tether is loosened from his heart. John chokes on his next breath. Tears spring into his wide eyes and spill over. He licks at your neck, kissing your chin, your jaw, your mouth, whispers your name around the lump in his throat. Begging you to open your eyes.

No.

There's noise and rustling and he snaps his head around to snarl at the intruder. But it's just his beta. Kyle can fix this, Kyle can fix this, can't he? John sobs, turning his face back to yours again. This can't be real. You must be asleep.

No.

What kind of an alpha kills his omega when he claims them?

Answer: The Worst Kind.

When Kyle finishes speaking, there are tears in his eyes. He wipes them away before they can fall, Johnny whining softly and leaning into him.

Allen is the first to break the following silence.

"When an alpha is tied to an omega, the knot releases pheromones that eases the ache, that soothes the heat symptoms, that allows the haze of it all to lift temporarily so the pair can be of clear mind enough to sleep and eat and hydrate." He speaks with a cadence that suggests this is a passage from a textbook he has memorized.

"She was afraid," Simon rasps, keeping Allen from rattling off any more facts. "She came to enough to be aware of being bitten. She literally died of fear." His voice sounds rougher than usual, choked with emotion. He both wants to think 'how could they have let this happen,' but also, 'what could they have possibly done to prevent this?' Other than simply not claiming you. Is that it? Is their selfishness in wanting to officially claim you as theirs really what almost took you away from them permanently? You had told them, again and again, that you did not want to be claimed. And still they pushed you toward accepting that outcome. Simon shudders. They killed you. However brief, they caused your death.

The mostly melted snow drips from Simon's crotch and puddles on the ground. Outside the snowstorm is raging, battering the house. The room only has a faint hint of your heat scent. Simon hopes that once his erection is gone, he will be able to resist obtaining another one if he stays here for the time being. Similarly to you, the betas will have to make sure he is fed and hydrated as well, since he doesn't dare to enter the house proper again.

"I don't think she was fully dead," Kyle says, repeating his earlier thought. "It was difficult for me to be sure, I mean, I really thought she had no pulse, but maybe she did. Because, because I could still feel the bond. Only just barely, but it was there."

Allen again repeats what he told Kyle earlier about the different possibilities before adding, "Some researchers have recorded instances where a pack member claims they can still feel a bond for hours, even days after their loved one has died, refusing to believe they are actually gone until it fades." He shrugs helplessly. "The human brain and the bonds it is capable of creating are mysterious and still not fully understood."

"So she might have died, she might naw have, aye, right," Soap says impatiently, "But she isnae dead now."

Allen nods, "Yes, that is something we can be grateful for. And we will have to make sure to keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't have any lasting brain damage from her heart being stopped for five whole minutes."

"I should go check on them," Kyle says, starting for the door. Even though he can feel the bond proving you're alive, he is anxious about being away too long. What if something happens again?

Allen turns to Ghost, dipping his head to show subservience. "If it is alright with you, I will check on them as soon as they knot and their minds are clear of the haze of their instincts."

"Make sure Price will tolerate it before you barge in," Ghost grunts, trying not to imagine barging in himself.

The second time John knots you is the first time after your short-lived "death." Not long after he ordered the three betas to exit the room.

His mind clears, and remembrance and realization start to dawn on him.

You were dead.

He had killed you.

He had told you before your heat started that he would make sure you had nothing to fear. And he had claimed you, and you had died. It isn't hard for him to draw a connection between biting you and your reaction and sudden death. He gave you a heart attack.

He killed you.

The only thing that keeps him from a mental downward spiral is your heated body underneath him, moving and very much alive. He presses his face into the hair at the nape of your neck, inhaling your scent, reassuring himself that you are full of life. Not dead. He grunts as his balls contract, periodically ejaculating, but otherwise pays it no mind as he continues to comfort himself by touching you. He smooths his hands down your arms to interlock his fingers with yours, pressing your palms to the bed and kissing your shoulder. You mewl and try to press up into him, he rumbles in his chest to soothe both you and him. The splint on your broken finger has come undone, probably when you were scrabbling to try and attack that medic. Price frowns, recalling the stranger now. That's right, Soap had come home, that stranger with him. Did everything go well at Shaire?

He briefly wants to summon Simon and Johnny to get their reports on what happened, before your whimpers bring him back into focus. There's no chance Simon will allow himself to come near this room while you're in heat. In normal packs, if there is more than one alpha, there's a fair chance their rutting instincts will lead them to fight each other over an omega in heat, and while he and Simon are closer and more intimate than many alphas tend to be, he knows Simon would still want to be cautious. The lad would never forgive himself if he caved to his base instincts and hurt you or John in the process—and John knows this because he feels the same way.

John sighs, heart heavy, resting his cheek on your head. He is tired already, but you still have vigor in you, squirming under his weight, moaning as your walls shudder around his knot and cock. You don't hold still even when he starts purring to try and settle you. Even though the fog of his rut has temporarily lifted for him, your mind still seems lost in your omega instincts. That makes worry prick at his insides.

Once he stops cumming inside you, his knot can still remain for up to an hour (a length of time he is secretly a bit smug about, even though waiting so long can be a bit tedious if you have somewhere to be—which makes it a good thing he doesn't need to be anywhere but here with you) so there is still time for you to calm and get some rest. He isn't a beta with a naturally soothing scent, but he does his best to keep his scent mellow as he continues to rumble with purrs. But even after fifteen minutes have passed, you're still panting, doing your best to grind up into him, your hands clenching and unclenching in his grip.

Kyle comes in then, having returned from the garage to check on you both. His legs are steadier now, the time he spent speaking with the others having given him a chance to calm down. He carries a nutrition bar and an electrolyte drink, unscrewing the lid for Price. John lifts his torso, leaning on an elbow to drink deeply before trying to get you to drink as well. He wraps one hand under your chin, tilting your head up and to the side and angling the bottle. You get barely a mouthful, spluttering and hissing, feet kicking from under him. John growls.

"Settle down," he orders, "you need to drink."

"Ah," you croak shortly, sounding petulant.

He narrows his eyes and hands the bottle to a very worried looking Kyle.

"Get ready to make her drink," John says, his one hand still propping up your chin, the other snaking its way down between you and the sheets. His fingers find your clit and he rubs you out as he gives one harsh thrust into you, his knot pressing your gspot. You're docile immediately as an orgasm crashes through you, muscles quivering. Kyle had the bottle close to your mouth, ready, and as soon as you're done moaning and go limp, he pours some of the drink into your mouth. You drink obediently, much to John's satisfaction. He pulls his hand away from you to next take a bite from the bar his beta hands him. He bites off a small piece and gets you to chew it before taking another bite for himself. Kyle would rather you and John eat an entire bar each, but he will take what he can get. You're already squirming again, making small, muffled sounds like you're conversing with the sheet you press your face into.

"I thought you were knotted," Kyle says softly, thinking he must have come in too early. But no, that can't be right because John is clear-headed right now.

"We are," John says lowly, resuming his purring though it isn't helping much.

Gaz bites his lip, his anxiousness returning. He leans down, crawling onto the bed to bring his face closer to yours.

"Hey," he calls softly to get your attention.

With dazed eyes you look at him for the first time since he entered the room and hiss, baring your teeth. John presses you down more firmly against the bed as Kyle pulls back a little, his heart frantic in his chest. You are acting like your inner omega is the one in control. Like you've distressed. No, this must be some fluke. You're still in your heat, you're just lost in your instincts, that's all. You aren't being violent the way a distressed omega would be. Then he remembers how furiously you had tried to attack Allen after your "resurrection."

"What is it?" John rumbles, almost growling. He can see a look on his beta's face that looks too close to fear for his liking.

Kyle shakes his head saying, "It's probably nothing to worry about, but I think Allen—that's the medic Simon brought back with them—I think he should check her." Kyle peers down at his alpha, checking again that he does seem to be calm and not currently ruled by his instincts. "Is that alright, can I let him in?"

John nods.

"Where's Simon?" he asks as Kyle goes to the door and opens it for Allen who had been waiting just outside.

"Johnny is keeping him busy in the garage, he'll be fine," Kyle reassures.

Allen approaches the bed cautiously, not wanting to spook you, but you're busy trying to wriggle on John's knot to find more sensation. Allen sets down his bag, pulling out a stethoscope and a thermometer as he speaks gently to Price.

"I'm Private Joseph Allen. Laswell recommended me for this… expedition."

"Captain John Price, if Laswell sent you, then I'm all the more glad to have you," he nods formally, introducing himself in return as if not currently naked and stuck with his cock in another person. Allen gestures at him with a hand wave.

"Do you think you can flip her over, so I can listen to her heart?"

Price hooks one arm around your neck and the other around your waist so your arms are fixed to your sides, keeping you fairly still and pressed close to his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Gaz helps to put some pillows behind him so he can sit up slightly. You're sitting on his lap now, facing away from him this time unlike when he claimed you, and now that his weight isn't pinning you to the bed, your hips are free to move and grind as much as you can while his arms are still holding you close. Kyle can see now where your entrance is stretched wide around John's knot, and seeing that, along with being so close to you and your pheromones again has the wetness growing between his legs, his dick pulsing. His face feels hot, and he focuses instead on what Allen is doing.

The medic is using the stethoscope to listen to your heart, ignoring his own unwanted bodily reactions.

"Her heartbeat is very fast," he murmurs, a slight frown appearing on his brow.

"Too fast?" Kyle whispers, thinking of how fast an omega's heart beats when distressing, often causing them to die of the strain.

"Maybe," Allen replies. He hangs the stethoscope around his neck before holding up the thermometer.

"I don't want her to bite and break this, so I'm just going to…" Allen trails off as he lowers himself to your crotch. Price shifts you slightly so Allen can access and slip the thermometer into your asshole.

"Rah," you croak, hardly bothered and even seeming pleased by the protrusion.

Allen sits back up. He pulls a small pen light from his breast pocket, clicking it on to check your pupils. They are heavily dilated, not shrinking at all when the light shines on them, making you squint and squirm, John's thick arm around your neck keeping your jaw shut so you can't snap at Allen, who then holds up three fingers in front of your eyes.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Allen asks. "Can you hear me? Can you tell me how many fingers this is? Blink if you think this is two fingers. Blink if you think this is three fingers. Blink if you think this is four fingers." You just silently bare your teeth at him, hips still moving on John's cock. Allen hums thoughtfully. He brings his hand to your pubic mound, pressing firmly on the swell, feeling the hardness of the knot inside you—Your entire body shudders, eyes rolling back and gasping quietly as an orgasm rolls through you. Kyle has saliva building in his mouth when he sees that; he really wants to move the other beta aside and take his place, pressing you again to get another delicious reaction out of you. He shakes his head. He needs some fresh air.

"You are knotted, yet she remains in the state of mind sans knot," Allen is murmuring, biting his thumb as he thinks. "Her inner omega is in control despite this being the time when it shouldn't be. Hmmm." You are temporarily docile again, sighing softly and languidly rolling your hips with your eyes closed, no longer interested in biting the medic.

"So she is lost in her instincts," Price says, trying not to feel frustrated that Allen cannot give him more exact answers. "She's in heat, it can't be too unusual."

Allen shakes his head, bending down to retrieve the thermometer. It reads the correct high level for an omega's body temp during heat.

"No, not too unusual, just slightly unusual." Allen gets off the bed, folding the thermometer in a cloth to wash later and stowing his items away. "We will check her periodically, keep an eye on her. If she is still in this state after her heat ends, then that will be the time to start worrying, but not yet. Hang in there chap, and make sure you're getting plenty to eat and drink yourself as well." His eyes go to Gaz when he adds that, and Gaz nods, though he doesn't need Allen to remind him of his duty. He will make sure he is a good beta for his alpha and new omega.

The third time he knots you, John asks you to look at him, to hold up three fingers, to nod your head if you know your name, if you know who he is.

The fifth time he knots you, John asks you the same questions again. "Look at me. Hold up three fingers. Do you know your name? Do you know who I am?"

The eighth time he knots you, John whispers your name over and over again into your ear, hoping it will jog your memory, shake something loose. Make you come back to him. Even though his body is literally tied to yours, he feels an incredible loneliness without you "awake" and lucid at the same time he is.

The eleventh time he knots you, John begs you to give him some sort of sign to let him know you're in there, that he isn't just caught in a macabre cycle of rutting and forgetting, then remembering and worrying. He is sure now that you are not yourself, and your inner omega is the one at the forefront of your mind. So then where are you?

The first time John manages to sleep is at the thirty-first hour of your heat.

He has once again maneuvered himself to be propped up by some pillows against the headboard of the bed. You are awake, and have been since your heat started (John is trying not to worry too much about you not getting any rest. Allen says that you will sleep eventually, when you can no longer go on, so he just has to let you tire yourself out.), laying curled against him in his arms. You have your legs spread over him to accommodate his cock still knotted in you, one arm wedged behind his back and the other on his chest, your hand rhythmically flexing against him like a cat kneading biscuits as you suckle his scent gland at his neck. You had tried to lick him, but couldn't manage it with your shortened tongue, resorting to mouthing and sucking at his skin instead. The soothing pull of your warm mouth on his scent gland lulls him, your slow hip movements and occasional orgasm not enough to keep him awake. He only manages to get an hour or two of sleep before his knot deflates and his rut kicks back in, your needy whimpers and heady pheromones egging him on.

You both are lucky he is a powerhouse of a man, no stranger to sleepless nights and intense physical activity, or you might have otherwise been the death of him.

The second time John manages to sleep is at the sixtieth hour of your heat.

Without the omega pheromones that are directly secreted by the interior walls of said omega, Simon can't be sure he will grow a knot. The pheromones in the air might be trying their hardest to trigger his rut, but it doesn't ensure that swelling at the base of his cock. He's desperate for it, as horny as he is, but sometimes desperation isn't enough.

He's lucky this time, though, because as he thrusts hard into Johnny, nearing his climax, they both feel it, that swell. Simon pushes in when his knot gets too big for Johnny's entrance, letting it further grow just beyond that tight ring, ensuring he is locked to his beta.

For the past few hours, securing his knot in a tight, wet hole and breeding it was the only thought Simon was capable of thinking. No matter how many times he aired out the garage, breathed in the fresh wintry air, used snow to chill his body, still, your heat scent managed to slowly crawl under his skin, hooking into his brain and giving him a near endless hard on. If there hadn't been a bloody snowstorm outside, he might have been able to take a hike and get some distance from you, but he is stuck in the house for the time being. And stuck with his raging boner.

Allen confided with the other two betas that such a prolonged erection wasn't good for the alpha's health, so here Johnny is, letting his alpha knot him (and loving it). None of them being omegas, John and Simon (and Johnny) don't often produce knots during sex. They're still physically capable of it, so it does occasionally occur whenever the body decides to, but it isn't reliable without those key pheromones.

"Take my knot so well," Simon rasps, panting as he thrusts hard a few more times, quickly closing in on his orgasm. "gonna fill you up with my pups, breed you till it takes." Rationally, they know that isn't possible, since Johnny is not an omega, but they are certainly enjoying the sentiment nonetheless.

Simon groans long and lewd, as his seed is safely expelled into a knotted hole, none gone to waste outside a body. He lowers himself over his beta, pushing Johnny down from his hands and knees to his stomach. The alpha rumbles in his chest with satisfaction, temporarily distracted from your scent. He licks at Johnny's scent gland, nibbling his skin as Johnny pants and moans under him, the knot pressing his prostate and causing him his third orgasm. Ironically, once Simon pushed his knot into him, the base of Johnny's cock engorged as well with his own surprise knot.

They lay there for a while on the bedrolls laid out in the garage, the shared heat of their bodies cozy in the chilly room, waiting out Simon's rhythmic ejaculations and both their knots (though Johnny isn't locked in to anything or anyone, Simon will still wait with him as his deflates too). Simon chuffs happily as Johnny pulls his alpha's hand to his mouth to kiss it.

But the moment is ruined when Allen comes in. Ghost snarls heatedly, shifting so that his pulsing cock strains at Soap's backside, causing him to whimper and bury his face in a pillow.

"I need to speak with you."

"This had to be now?" Ghost snaps, teeth flashing with the desire to tear into the medic.

"I couldn't be sure you wouldn't return to your rut after your knot deflates, and I need to speak with you while you are fully lucid and not distracted. It's about your omega after all." Allen always makes such rational points.

Ghost growls a loud huff before settling back down on Johnny who is doing his best not to get turned on by the slight involuntary voyeurism being forced upon him right now. Allen doesn't look remotely interested in their sexual deeds anyways.

"There's not a lot we can do right now, we just have to wait this out, since she's still in her heat," Allen starts.

"Naw shite," Soap grumbles under his breath. Simon hushes him by harshly jerking his hips once into the Scot, causing him to moan into the pillow.

"Get on with it," Ghost growls at the medic.

"It's been forty-eight hours, and she hasn't slept once according to Price—which shouldn't be the case considering the hefty amount of exercise she is getting. She should be exhausted and napping every time the knot satiates her." Allen rocks back on his heels, biting his thumb, lost in thought. "But that isn't happening. She also isn't returning to her normal state of mind during those times."

Soap is trying his best to pay attention to what Allen is saying but he is talking so much, can't he just sum it up in a few words? This is important stuff. He really is trying to listen, but ohh his alpha is so deliciously heavy and large on top of him, his knot so tight in him. Johnny's own knot is pressed to the bedroll underneath his and Simon's bodies. His cock is tingling with another impending release. Simon must feel the tight muscles of his hole contract as he approaches his peak because while Allen is still yammering on, Ghost starts shifting his hips, so, so slightly, grinding his knot into Johnny's sweet spot. One of Simon's large hands grasps Johnny's head and pushes his face into the pillow, smothering his orgasmic moans to keep from interrupting the medic.

"Without proper machines and monitors in a real medical facility, it can be difficult to know exactly what happened to her, but…" He bites his thumb, hesitating about saying this next part. "Well, it will depend on her mental state, we will have to see how she acts after her heat is over, but… I have a theory. It isn't common. But…" He bites his thumb again before shaking his head. "We will just have to see."

Ghost growls a dangerous warning. (Soap shivers under him.)

"If you have information about our omega's well being, you will share it."

Alarmed, Allen waves his hands around, yipping.

"Hold on, hold on, I'm not purposely withholding anything, it's just that this would be an unlikely condition."

"What is it? Spit it out," Ghost snaps.

Yet Allen still hesitates before finally relenting. He sighs and asks,

"Have you ever heard of Distress Lock?"

Allen takes a few minutes telling them about the rare syndrome. It is not the kind of thing easily reported or studied, so there is not much knowledge about it—not to mention how it would be highly immoral to perform any tests by inducing distress on omegas. It is so rare in fact, that scholars do not often agree on what causes it or how to "fix" it.

Very rarely, when an omega distresses, there is a slim chance that—if the person survives the distress itself in the first place—the inner omega will remain in control of the body while the outer mind switches places to instead be the one residing in the hindbrain. Some speculate that the omega does not switch back because they can't for whatever reason, and some think it is because they choose not to. They would rather yield their body to the inner designation than continue suffering whatever led to them distressing in the first place.

"I am in the camp who believes that the outer mind must be willing to return to the forefront in order to do so."

The two men on the floor are very still.

If you are experiencing this Distress Lock syndrome as Allen suggests, then there's a possibility you might never return to normal? If what he believes is true, and you choose not to return… it would be their own fault for scaring you away. For making you hide away in the recesses of your mind after being pressured into accepting a claiming bite and experiencing a heart attack because of it.

"What if she doesnae want tae come back tae us?" Johnny whispers, his eyes tearing up. He whines, long and low and miserable.

"She will," Simon assures, brushing his beta's cheek with a hand and kissing the back of his neck. Then he looks up sharply at Allen. "Don't tell this to Price, not yet. I don't want him worrying about this before her heat is even over. You said yourself we should wait and check her state when it does end."

Allen nods sadly, sympathetic to the turmoil in them.

"We just need to wait and see."

The second time John manages to sleep is at the sixtieth hour of your heat, almost three full days in, and when he wakes, he knows something is different.

Every time he knotted you, his mind would become clearer and clearer with each successive tying, but yours never did, your inner omega stayed in control, feral with need. You would admittedly be calmer with a knot than when you were untethered to him—leaning into him and mewling and purring (before your voice gave out) and incessantly suckling at his scent gland at his neck as you shiver on his knot—, but you never slept. And when his knot deflates, you're wild again, nearly inconsolable with need (though at least that part was normal behavior for an omega in heat). When his knot deflates, his own instincts help ease him back into action with you, but not this time. Not after hour sixty.

When he wakes, he first notices how incredibly sore his body is, particularly his entire pelvic region. After only three days of your heat, he swears he's more raw and exhausted than thirty days spent in an intense firefight in the field.

Then he notices that your heat scent has faded from the room, just a little of that honey sweetness left at the edges of your true scent. You'd told them that your heats the past few years had been short, the last one only being two days long, so perhaps this means it is ending.

John is incredibly groggy from his short nap, so only now does he notice the next thing; the sound of you sniffling, crying, and he when he peels open his eyes to look, he realizes the throbbing ache in his cock is so sharp because you are sitting atop him, grinding your pussy down on his very tender bits. You're rutting against him, tears dripping down your face as you desperately chase any sort of friction or hardness, but since he's not erect, you're finding none.

Without your heat pheromones to induce his rut, his spent cock refuses to get hard. His body is worn out, physically and mentally not prepared to have any more sex without his rut to help him. John groans, shifting and reaching his hand down to your still wet core.

He lets you ride his hand, both so save his poor cock, and to give you the relief you apparently still need. The wailing look on your face transforms into a relieved ecstasy when his the heel of his palm stimulates your clit with his middle and ring fingers inside you.

"I think your heat is over, sweetheart," John says not unkindly as you fuck yourself on his hand. You don't seem to hear him, tilting your head back as you thrust your hips with greater urgency as you near your peak. You don't make much noise anymore, just breaths and gasps of varying volume. Your voice gave out long ago. For hours and hours you had kept trying to vocalize even through the strain on your throat, but now you are mostly silent. If your inner omega really is the one controlling your body, then John wishes it had been more gentle with you.

There's a soft knock at the door and Gaz and Allen enter. Kyle has a surprised look on his face at seeing you atop John, thrusting on his hand and gasping with pleasure. Because of the faded heat scent, he had expected to finally find you asleep. Allen on the other hand looks somber. Your head tilts slightly to lazily take in the intruders, your body not stopping its chase. Allen holds up three fingers. Your gasps are becoming more high pitched.

"Nod your head if this is two fingers. Nod your head if this is thr—"

Your body convulses with your orgasm, your cunt clenching on John's fingers. After you ride it out, he moves to pull his hand away, but your hands clamp on his wrist. You silently bare your teeth, shoving his fingers back inside. For a moment, John thinks this means you are going to try and get yourself off again, but instead, you close your thighs around his hand, curling up against his chest. All three men wait with baited breath, watching you settle, yawn, close your eyes, nuzzling against John's hairy, ample pecs.

At hour sixty-one, your heat ends, and you finally sleep.

It's like looking in a mirror. The reflection IS you, but there's a distance, a separation. It is you, but it is you over there.

You are you right here, and your omega is your reflection right next to you.

You're in the darkness of nothing. You don't remember how you got here, how long you've been here, or when you will wake as yourself again. You aren't worried about that though. There is no reason to worry when you are over here and your omega is over there.

You are in your body, you are sure of this. But there's a distance, a separation. This time, you are the reflection, tucked away in your hindbrain. It almost feels like being asleep, except you don't feel heavy or pinned down by a sleeping body, you feel as if you can move freely in the darkness, and you can very faintly hear the voices of those near you, muffled as if underwater.

You aren't afraid. You feel safe and contained, cradled by the darkness while your omega worries about the world around you in your stead.

There's also something else here with you, it doesn't have a form or a mind or a realness the way you do, but still, it is here. It sings to you, telling you you are not alone, warming you. It is a pillar inside you, branching as it arcs away from you, splitting into four pathways. After spending time with it, you are sure that at the end of each shining branch is another heart, echoing down the line to yours.

Your pack.

It's the bond, connecting you to your new pack. You cry joyfully, laughing and dancing and holding the bond close in a tender embrace, and plucking at it whenever it shivers with a call from their hearts, responding with a call of your own.

You feel so full and cherished. This is it. This is what it means to be claimed by a pack who loves you.

Chapter Text

"You're dismissed."

The Shadow quickly makes his exit, closing the office door behind him. Phillip Graves is seething. Instead of getting his own Shadows tangled up in this mess, he'd hired a mercenary to follow Riley home and find out what the hell the 141 is up to. But now the report has come in that the imbecile had lost his target and the snowstorm coming down on them from the north made it too difficult to pick up the trail again. It would have been riskier, but he should have just used his own men for the job. Now he won't be able to locate the Price pack until they deign to show themselves again.

"Shit!"

He slams his hands on his desk top, gritting his teeth. Graves was counting on finding them with their pants down so to speak. He was counting on finally gaining evidence that Price and his precious 141 task force aren't worth all the resources and allowances given them. What other soldier could be allowed to essentially go on vacation for a year "hunting Shepherd"— and to not even return on the agreed upon time limit! But did Riley get reprimanded? No! He got more supplies, and a medic, to take back into the field to continue their little jaunt off base. The favoritism makes him want to puke. For years he and his company of Shadows have been slaving away to be the best of the best, to deserve what they are given. And have they gotten any down time? Have they been allowed to do fuck all for an entire year? No!

And most of all, Graves had been counting on finally being able to stick it to Riley and Price.

Phillip Graves is not a man who forgets grudges.

He is not a man who forgets what was taken from him.

As soon as your heat ends, Kyle is throwing logs into the master bedroom's hearth. Your body temperature has returned to normal and even without the winter chill creeping into the house, you would still need the extra warmth while you recover. The storm has abated, though the sky remains clouded, and the snow has been piled high, many of the drifts taller than Ghost at their peaks. Except for the little tunnel the men have dug out to the newly built outhouse, everyone is otherwise stuck inside for the time being. Kyle likes the coziness of it, and he has a good feeling you would too if you were awake right now. The snow and the clouds over head make their world seem small and contained. Safe. No worries or threats can break into the globe of the pack's nestled existence.

John falls asleep quickly after you do, and sleeps heavily right alongside you for the first few hours, unresponsive even when Kyle and Allen clean the two of you up as best they can with warm, wet rags. John wakes after only five hours and eats and drinks and takes some painkillers before the betas urge him into the large en suite bath. Johnny and Simon have been melting snow and heating the resulting water in order to completely fill the tub, glad to have a physical task to set their minds to and accomplish. Johnny and Kyle carry the heated buckets into the bathroom while Simon keeps an eye on the pots on the woodstove. John attempts to move you to the bath himself, but his exhausted body screams at him to stop moving.

"Hold on, it's alright," Kyle murmurs as he takes you from John's arms so the alpha can hobble to the bath.

Once in the water, Kyle uses a cloth to first wash Johnbefore turning his attention to you. The bite mark on your neck is still red and inflamed, having been reopened and sucked at multiple times during your heat. He has also given you a few bites elsewhere, John realizes, his large hands sliding tenderly down your skin as he swallows thickly. He has bitten your shoulders and upper arms, exactly where a few faint, pale scars had been, turning them into fresher reminders of an alpha marring your skin. They aren't very deep, they won't leave horrendous scars, but they will still be visible when you wake. How much will you hate him for altering your body further? Kyle gently dabs your claiming mark with a medicinal ointment Allen gave him. Once you're out of the water, he'll put more of it onto the other, less serious bites.

You had been shivering before you were put in the warm water, and now as the water cools, you start to shiver again. John makes a sound almost like a whine, glancing around for a solution, feeling strangely unsettled.

"It's alright, she's okay, she's okay," Kyle says softly, grabbing a towel to wrap you in when John lifts you from the tub. John stands from the water and winces and sucks air in through his teeth when he tries to quickly move to follow his beta to the door. Kyle pauses to look at him sternly, your shivering form held close to his chest. "Dry yourself off, I've left you clean clothes on the chair there."

While you were being bathed, Johnny had used the opportunity to strip the bed of sheets and plastic covering, replacing the bedding with clean sheets and warm blankets. Kyle carries you to the bed where he and Johnny dry you, Kyle quickly checking your skin for more bites and applying the ointment— you have a few on your thighs, breasts, and arms—, as Johnny, strangely feeling shy, keeps his eyes on your placid face. Then they dress you in your flannel sleep wear.

"She slept through all that?" Johnny whispers as they lay you down in the bed and cover you with the blankets.

"She's just tired," Kyle responds, his tone saying that he will take no argument on the matter. You're fine. You just need more sleep.

You're fine.

A day later, and you are still fast asleep, curled against John's side. He doesn't leave you except to relieve himself, and when he does, Kyle slides into his place to keep you warm. They manage to make you drink; you swallow the fluids automatically, but you don't truly stir into consciousness. Allen says not to worry yet. After all, you'd gone three days without sleeping and with nonstop, intense activity. Though that night, Allen tells Soap and Ghost that they should also spend time with you while you sleep. Part of it is for Simon and Johnny, but he also says it for Price's benefit. John's sleep the past few days has been restless and more tiring than anything helpful. He cannot escape dreams of you dead in his arms, on his cock, his horror and self-revulsion choking him awake. Even Allen who is not pack can see the strain in Price, a strain that stretches and contaminates the other pack members. Simon is restless, fighting guilt while his inner alpha wants to greet the new pack omega; Kyle and Johnny are pulled taut between the alphas, vibrating like livewires with the troubled emotions they sense. Allen knows they feel distraught over what happened with you, but now he needs to force them all together to initiate the mending that needs done.

"It will help to ease her, should she wake," he says to the two hesitating soldiers. "And it will have benefits for all of you, to be physically close to your new omega."

Simon has to beat down the anxiousness he still feels at the edges of his heart. But he reassures himself that your heat is over. There are no more pheromones affecting his body, against his will or not. But what if Allen is wrong, and seeing all of them there after you wake does the opposite of easing you? What if you resent them for what they've done to you?

After their evening meal, Johnny can sense Simon's slight hesitation, and takes him by the hand to lead him to the master bedroom. There, with the curtains drawn and the fire crackling in the hearth, warming and lighting the room gently, they find you, bundled in a blanket between John and Kyle. The two men on the bed smile at them, Kyle moving to usher Simon into his spot next to you.

Simon can't help but think that you look so small as you are right now, a little breakable thing. How many cracks can they give you before you can no longer stay in one piece?

"I'm not weak." Simon can picture the contemptible snarl on your mouth should you write that. He almost laughs. Of course, he thinks. He lowers his face to nuzzle at your half buried head, listening to your soft breathing. You're not weak at all, are you?

John hums approvingly at the sight, relieved to have the entire pack together in the bed. You'll be safe, with all of them here with you, you'll be safe enough for him to sleep easy through the night. The alphas curl around you, and the betas around them. All four men take comfort in the faint echo of your heartbeat, felt through the bond, a signal of your life yet burning strong.

Not weak at all.

You wake and the first thing you are conscious of is the pain.

Everything hurts.

All your muscles feel sharp when you move them, your vagina aches, your throat—oh, you can't even whine, you can't make a single sound. You gasp and clutch at your neck, tears springing up in your eyes at the pain swallowing you whole. You blink a few times and try to steady your breathing because crying makes the hurt worse. You realize you can feel something on one hand, and something on your neck as well, a soft pad of material covering an acute pain in your neck. You hold your hand up to your face. It's dark in the room, a nearly dead fire in the hearth the only light. You can just barely make out the thing on your hand, on your finger to be more precise. It's a new splint, and a more official looking one. Did they loot a hospital or something? You gently prod the pad on your neck, assuming it is a bandage of some kind. It's covering your scent gland. And then it hits you.

You've been claimed.

Your heart beats a little quicker, and oh fuck, even your heart physically hurts. Your chest feels as if it's been stomped on by actual horses. Your lungs feel too noticeable as you pant air through your ragged throat. Water. You need water.

Your attention turns outward as you search for something to aid you, to ease the pain, to wet your throat, to conk you on the head so you can be unconscious and not have to deal with all of this right now, please. You realize there are other bodies in the bed with you. Oh. Something in you goes soft. The Price pack, your pack, are all here, snuggled close and warm.

My pack.

Now tears want to well in your eyes for a different reason. You sniffle and lean toward the body on your left. Price—John. He's on his back, mouth slack and snoring. He's out like a light. In the dim lighting, you look at him fondly. You have survived your heat, and though you are in great pain, you feel that it is something you can live with. The bond connecting your heart to his feels vibrant and warm and safe. It is nothing like the heavy, poisonous thing that shackled you to your kidnapper when he claimed you. You can feel the care John has for you, for all of them. He loves his pack dearly.

Your breath catches. Love? You know he cares for you, has feelings for you, but romantic love? He hasn't known you that long. Can love be grown and nurtured in such a short time frame? Is his pull to you more than just a blooming friendship, more than obligation and fondness and lust? You wince at the thoughts and half memories brought up by "lust." You can't really remember much about your heat now, but the pain is evidence enough of all that occurred. You want to whimper at the severe ache between your legs. Right now you feel that if you should never have sex again, it would still be too soon.

You want to go back to sleep, but the hurt is too loud. And you're starting to notice that you're famished. And you still want water. You shakily lift your head to glance at the nightstand on the other side of John and instead notice Kyle, asleep as well. A smile starts to grow on your face, but fuck, the pain. You rest your head back on the pillow with a shaky exhale, your heartbeat pounding in your skull. Tears spill from your eyes against your will. You don't want to cry, you don't want to make your headache worse, or for the sobs to inflame the ache in your chest. But you can't help it, it all hurts.

You weakly shake John's shoulder. You feel bad disturbing his rest. He's probably just as sore and tired as you are. But John doesn't wake, he doesn't react in the slightest. Fuck. You don't have the energy to get out of bed yourself. You can't reach over him to grab at Kyle either. You try to make a sound again, even just a whimper, but it catches in the rawness of your throat and you curl in on yourself with a cough, your entire body throbbing.

After a few minutes of relaxing your muscles and easing back into your pillow, you lean toward your right. There lies Ghost. Simon. Though he isn't the alpha that claimed you, you can still feel a strong connection with him just like with Kyle and Johnny. Your mind is too clouded with pain to wonder why. You reach out with your non-splinted hand and grab at his shirt. You rub your face against his thick arm, getting his sleeve damp. You can feel him stir slightly. You don't want to wake him, you don't want to wake any of them, but you need help. You look up at the profile of his face, willing him to open his eyes. You're gathering the strength to shake him when you hear the bedroom door slowly creak open.

Gooseflesh rises on your skin, your hair standing on end. All four men are in bed with you—who the fuck is coming into the room?!

Fear and adrenaline shoot through you as a silhouette enters, the embers in the hearth showing the form of a man as large and bulky as Gaz, maybe larger, and you spring upright, fingers scrabbling for the bone whistle—but it's not around your neck!—and a croaking scream breaks from your throat, hardly any volume to it before you are wracked with another coughing fit, this one wet and you can taste blood in your mouth—and Simon is up, snapping to wakefulness [he had started to wake slowly but when he both felt and smelled the surge of fear from you he was fully awake in an instant, looking to see you clawing at your neck and then coughing after attempting to scream, and his inner alpha is howling at the scent of your blood in the air] and he wraps you in his arms and is growling viciously at the intruder, the sound so loud compared to the quiet of the room just moments earlier, and the others are stirring from the disturbance as well now, anxiety reeling down the bond, ricocheting fast between the pack members as violence is threatened in the form of more growls and quickly grabbed weapons and—

"Woah! Hey, hold on, it's only me, its okay," the intruder says. His tone doesn't imply danger, but you can smell his foreign beta scent, trying to soothe you. Fuck that. You bare your teeth silently, shaking in Simon's arms, fingers clenched in his shirt. But after a few moments, you feel the energy in the room shift. Calms. Simon isn't growling anymore as he dips his chin to rub his cheek against yours, his arms still holding you against his chest.

"It's alright, we know him," he rasps quietly in your ear. "He's not an enemy." His words and scent reassure you, the bond smoothing out and returning to its steady connection between you all. The pistols and knives all vanish from their hands back into their hiding places. "That's it, it's alright—"

"Och, bonnie lass! Yer awake!" Johnny leans around Simon, draping his arms over his alpha's shoulders. He's beaming when you look up at him.

"How are you feeling?" Kyle and the stranger both ask you this at the same time. (You don't notice that John doesn'tsay anything.) Then the stranger takes another step toward the bed, and in the dim light you can just make out that he is raising a hand, holding up three fingers.

"Blink if you think this is two fingers. Blink if you think this is three fingers. Blink if you—" You look up at Simon, confusion clear on your face. [You look like you've seen Allen grow a second head, and Simon almost laughs, his relief heady. It's you in there, he's sure of it.] Kyle climbs out of bed to stoke the fire, add more logs, and John grabs your notebook and pencil from the bedside table.

Johnny is blathering excitedly, "It's been days since ye fell asleep, and we were all wonderin' when ye'd wake, ye're just like our own wee sleeping beauty—"

"Private Joseph Allen," the stranger says as John hands you your notebook, already open to a blank page. Your hands still tremble as you take it, though it isn't entirely from the fear anymore. (You're distracted and don't take much notice when John doesn't get back into his spot next to you, doesn't look you in the eyes.) "We've technically already met, but you probably don't remember that, do you?" With the fire now brightening the room, you can see a surprisingly relieved looking grin on Joseph Allen's face. Why is this person happy to see you?

You swallow thickly and try to steady your hands, resting the notebook on your thighs to write. You have to lean heavily on Simon, you're glad he is still supporting you. You feel so exhausted already after having been awake only a handful of minutes. What to address first? You don't have a lot of patience right now, the adrenaline having left your body now makes the pain feel even louder.

"Hurt"

"Allen has some painkillers for you, dove," Simon says immediately without you needing to lift the notebook.

"Yes, but you should eat first," Allen says, and one of your hands goes to your neck as you grimace. "Yeah, your throat is a bit roughed up from being so vocal during your heat, but we need to make sure you get something in you."

"A soup broth should be easy to swallow, and nice and warm, right?" Kyle asks, already heading to the door and out toward the kitchen, a happy spring in his step. To your surprise, John gets off the bed to follow him. [With Simon's head above your shoulder, Johnny and Allen are the only ones who see the look that crosses your face; something akin to panic or perhaps dread. Both betas find themselves wanting to scramble to fix what has suddenly distressed you, Johnny because you are his omega, and Allen because you are his patient, and he is determined to not let you fall back into your hindbrain.] You automatically try to call out in some way, to whine, to plead, where is my alpha going? But again, you cannot handle the attempt and you cough wretchedly, a single blood droplet making its way onto the page in your lap.

"Shit," Simon grumbles, hands going to the notebook as if to wipe away the drop before settling back on you helplessly.

"Don't try to speak," Allen says as Johnny leaps off the bed to grab John's arm. "And you, where do you think you're going?" Allen demands of John, who doesn't look at you, just stands staring at the bedroom door. Why won't he look at me? Your inner omega is large inside you. You feel close to her, almost as one, and you're easily swept up in her anxiousness.

You drop your notebook and pencil on the comforter and hold out your arms to John, a pleading look on your face, breathing ragged and eyes teary. Johnny is looking into his eyes, leaning close to whisper something. The beta holds John's face in his hands for a quiet moment before urging him to turn back to the bed. Finally, finally, your alpha looks at you. There's guilt and grief in his expression. Simon's arms tighten around you.

"I've wronged you," John says, his voice thick with emotion. "Do you even remember what I've done to you?"

Your hands lower, you can't keep holding them up, your tears flow freely down your cheeks. You shake your head. He isn't rejecting you, right? What is he even talking about?

Allen is glancing between you two, biting his thumb. [He wants to point out that an alpha needs to stay close to his new omega, that John needs to get his butt back in bed and cuddle with you and settle your nerves. You're too fresh from your trauma, they need to ensure you do not slip anywhere close to distress. You might not be able to come back from it a second time. Simon doesn't say anything. He's distraught over the thought of you not even knowing that you fucking died because of them. And worse, he's too selfish; he doesn't want to tell you about it. But the other beta left in the room is the one who comes to the rescue.] Johnny whines but then firmly pushes John to the bed.

"She needs her alpha close, ye numpty." John tries to protest, but Johnny will have none of it. "Ye can talk it over all ye like, but ye have tae do it in bed, together." You're so relieved when John gets back into the bed that you could kiss Johnny for it. You slump back against Simon as the tension blows out of you. Johnny sits down on John's other side, preventing another escape.

"MacTavish is right," Allen says, "you need to be close right now. I'll go help Garrick, and you all can talk about… things." He leaves and gently closes the door behind him.

Your eyes are focused on John, watching him scratch at his beard, then rub his palm over his face, then sigh, then, finally, he turns to look at you again. His expression is set in grim acceptance.

"Do you remember being claimed by me?"

You're about to shake your head, but… You frown. Do you remember it, or are you getting the memory mixed up with old memories of your kidnapper? You think you were afraid, very afraid. You remember darkness, and, fear… Your brows knit together as you try to parse through the half memories. You pick your notebook back up.

"But that's what we wanted right? To let the heat haze make me unafraid of being claimed."

"I, you came to, when knotted, you came to." John's voice is hoarse, his words getting quieter until he stops and just looks at you so sorrowfully. You can feel the turmoil in his heart when you turn your attention inward. You can feel the heavy regret, a pulse of information through the bond. Don't say you regret claiming me, anything but that.

Johnny had been silently fidgeting with the edge of a pillowcase, tugging at a loose thread. When John doesn't continue, he blurts out;

"Yer heart stopped, ye were naw breathin' and Kyle had tae pump yer heart even."

Your hand slowly lifts to your chest. Is that why it hurts so much? You shake your head, hand resting over your heart. But I'm alive. I'm alive.

"You were dead," John says with a flat tone like a hammer on a final nail. "You had a heart attack. I killed you." Simon's hands are rubbing up and down your upper arms. You're shaking again. You want to lie down, go back to sleep. You shake your head again, your skull feeling too heavy.

He didn't do it on purpose. He didn't try to hurt you. He is NOT like your kidnapper. He cares about you. Just his emotional distress alone over what happened is evidence enough of how much he cares. Your kidnapper never felt any sort of regret or guilt over what he did to you. You have to repeat this to yourself a few times. John Price is not a bad alpha. He's not a bad alpha. He isn't your kidnapper. Your breath hiccups as you try not to cry any more than you already have, his regret still searingly loud through the bond, and your lettering is shaky as you write.

"Do you regret claiming me?"

John is shaking his head immediately when he reads that, and Simon's hands briefly squeeze you a little tighter, and you feel an emotion snap along the connection between them, making you realize that all those times you thought they were somehow communicating telepathically, they were really just reading each other's hearts.

"No, no, no," John is murmuring as he crawls toward you, Simon releasing you to be held by the other alpha. John holds you close, gentle but strong, comforting, your inner omega calming instantly from being held by her alpha. "I don't regret it, never. You're my omega." He nuzzles his face into your hair. "My good, sweet omega. I'm so sorry for how I've hurt you, for what I've done, I'm so sorry." His words catch in his throat, on the verge of a sob.

You close your eyes and lean into his embrace, breathing in deeply, letting his scent soothe you, surround you.

My alpha.

He didn't mean to harm you. He didn't do it on purpose. Just feel how much he cares, this bond a stark difference to the first time you were claimed. You never felt anything like this through the connection with your kidnapper, you didn't even realize that so much could be felt through a bond. You can feel four bright tethers leading to your pack, giving you glimpses of their emotions whenever you turn your attention inward.

It doesn't have immense nuance, and you cannot know their thoughts, but you can feel the care for you. It's bigger and more genuine than you would have guessed, and does look very similar to the love you can feel pulsing between their hearts for each other. Your knee-jerk reaction is to be nervous or deny that they do love you that way as well, the way they love each other. It is too soon, after all. But you do feel sure that this great thing they feel for you will be love soon enough. It makes you feel a bit proud and your inner omega more than a little smug. Okay, you think at her, so maybe you chose well after all.

You rub your face into John. This is your alpha, and you are glad it is him. You are glad to be claimed by a loving pack. You… you can forgive anything that might have happened during your heat. It was an accident. He didn't mean it. And it's partially your own fault for letting your fear take hold so strongly to the point that it ended up… killing you. (You distantly think how strange it is, to know that you were once dead. To think thoughts like, "I was dead," with a very much so, not-dead brain.) You should have tried harder to work through your fear before it became a problem. And now you've given John a source of guilt when it's not even his fault—

"Stop," John commands, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you gently. You look up at him questioningly. "We are bonded now, sweetheart."

"We're not betas but even we can feel that surge of guilt," Simon grunts, shifting closer and dipping his head to rest his forehead on your shoulder. "Don't even try to feel that way." [The two of them had been carefully reading your internal reaction, looking for the hatred they dreaded. Your heart is in much turmoil, as expected, but they are a little bit surprised they do not find any hate directed toward them. Do you really not despise them for this?]

"It's not yer fault, hen," Johnny says in a rare, soft tone. Then he adds, a little more sternly toward the alphas, "It's not anyone's fault."

You reach a hand out for your notebook, not having the energy to, nor wishing to, break from John's embrace. Simon grabs the notebook, and holds it steady as you shakily write.

"Not your fault"

John kisses the top of your head.

"Not your fault," he repeats out loud.

Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

"The last item on the agenda is the letter from Urki base in old Russia," says the secretary primly. She hands the letter to her superior, the commander of Shaire base.

"Ah yes," says the grey-haired man. He holds the page up to glance over its contents once more before giving it a lazy wave. "Urki base has written to tell us that they have successfully captured a live Horse and plan to use it to study its weaknesses in more detail."

"This does not sound like a good plan…" Horangi says almost to himself.

Graves scoffs, "At least Russians still have balls."

"People have already tried containing them in the past," Laswell snips. "They can't be contained."

"They claim they've managed it this time by supercooling the beast, slowing its functions to a near death state," the commander says, holding the paper loose in his hand like a dead thing he wants no part in cleaning up. The letter slips from his fingers and flutters onto the table.

"Well, it is an observable fact that they do not roam in large herds in colder climates. They tend to congregate where there's warmer weather most of the year," says a shrew-like man with little teeth. He used to be important before the end of the world. He still thinks he is. Laswell often finds herself annoyed at how many unhelpful men believe themselves to be important, even now, under these circumstances. The man continues, "Perhaps we should follow their example, catch our own creature to use in researching their weaknesses. Now would be the best time for it, in winter's peak."

"I don't think that would be a smart choice," Horangi cuts in. "There are a lot of civilians taking shelter here. What if the containment fails and the creature escapes? Could you live with that blood on your hands?"

"This isn't even your base, you're just a visitor," the shrew snaps back. Laswell bites the inside of her cheek. She is glad to have Horangi here, and wishes there were more sensible people like him in this meeting room right now.

Horangi is opening his mouth to respond when the base commander stands.

"We will send a response letter to the Russian base asking for more details. In the meantime, this discussion will be shelved."

Laswell huffs and gathers her things, shuffling out of the stuffy room with the others.

The very first time someone tried to capture a Horse, the creature abandoned its own skeletal innards and much of its body mass, slipping out through the cracks in its containment. It quickly formed a new skeleton with the remains of its human captors. Repeated attempts over the last three years have always ended in disaster one way or another. Messing around with live Horses is a death sentence waiting to happen.

Laswell grumbles and exits the building, pulling her coat tighter around her against the cold. She's going home early today, to cuddle with her wife and forget about all this bullshit.

Kyle and Allen return with the soup, painkillers, and a glass of cool water. You're grateful for all of it, even if swallowing feels like knife blades in your throat. When you're done eating, Kyle takes your bowl and John's, and heads back to the kitchen, taking Johnny and Simon with him with the promise of feeding them some soup as well. He lets Allen know there will be a bowl for him on the counter when he's done examining you before shutting the door behind him.

You fight against fatigue as Allen checks you over, inspecting your bite marks to make sure they are all healing properly. You hadn't realized John had bitten you so much, and it feels strange to not be upset about it the way you were when your kidnapper bit you. Is it merely the bond mollifying you? But no, you were technically bonded to your kidnapper, and you still hated him, even with that forced connection. You glance at John, suddenly a little bashful as you ponder why you do not mind that it was him specifically that left these new marks on you. Because he did it without malice? Because he gave you a chance to avoid it, to deny him, and suffer your heat in solitude? Or perhaps because, even now after tasting your heat, he still looks at you as he did before; like a person, and not a sex toy.

(You are also surprised and a tad embarrassed to find out, when Allen gives John a quick check up, that you also did some biting. One particularly deep bite on the meat of his breast is already scabbed over and bruising up the nearby skin as it heals. John doesn't seem to be upset about being bitten by you, and in fact, he seems a little proud of the wounds. Your alpha being pleased by your "feistiness" makes you feel like you're glowing. Gone are the days when you are muzzled and used without care for your own pleasure. Gone is the notion of an alpha who does not care for you or the way you express yourself, during your heat or otherwise.)

There are also the tender spots where his hands had obviously grabbed you bruisingly tight. Not to mention your chest which looks a bit splotchy, bruises disrupting the natural color of your skin, and you realize that is where Kyle's hands had been when he was performing chest compressions. Allen says you are lucky you didn't acquire a broken rib or sternum in the process as is often the case. You gently place a hand on the tender flesh of your chest, feeling grateful for this particular wound. It is strange, to be hurt in exchange for your life, and to be glad of it. You feel a swell of emotion for Kyle. He saved my life. You really want to hold his hand and hug him and tell him thank you a hundred times. How wonderful, to be glad for life now, when you had been wishing for death the last time you were claimed.

Pounding footsteps down the hall bring you out of your thoughts. You, John, and Allen all tense as Kyle bursts in, a little breathless and a lively look in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" Price rumbles.

Kyle walks to the bed and kneels in front of you sitting on its edge. He grabs one of your hands in both of his and holds it to his lips. The devotion in his gaze makes you completely forget to be embarrassed about currently being topless.

"I felt you call for me," Kyle murmurs against your knuckles. "I've never felt that sort of thing before, not like this."

Your heart swells again in your chest, so full of emotion that you want to shout and howl. Instead, you lightly tap the pointer of your free hand on your breastbone and then push all your feelings of gratitude and love and joy for life down along the bond. (You haven't really purposely communicated with anyone like this before, but it comes to you almost naturally, easily, spectacularly.) You can see the moment he receives the information, your wave of emotion crashing over him, and his expression fills with such wrenching joy—and then you feel it return, care and love sweeping back to you from his heart to yours. You exhale sharply and fling your arms around his neck, Kyle returning the embrace readily, standing enough to move to sit on the bed with you. You squeeze him as tightly as you can manage with your aching body, burying your face in his neck, letting his wonderful scent roll through your mind. He kisses the side of your head, your ear, your neck, and breathes in your scent in return.

[Price watches the exchange with a hollowness in his gut. He crushes down the feelings of guilt as best he can, careful not to project anything along the lines of the bond. He is moved that his beloved beta is receiving such love and attention from you. Kyle deserves to be showered with praise after saving your life, John too wants to give him that praise and love.]

After another minute or so of just floating in each other's scents and embrace, Allen clears his throat and speaks up.

"I'm sorry, I truly don't want to interrupt this important bonding moment, but I still need to finish examining you."

You pull away from Kyle, a little sheepish about forgetting your surroundings and what you were supposed to be doing. Kyle remains sitting on the bed with you, holding one of your hands—the constant contact settling you, making you feel calm throughout—as Allen continues his work. He shines a little penlight down your throat [also using the opportunity to examine your cut tongue; its blunt end looks to have healed cleaner than one would expect in that situation, giving him a chilling thought that your kidnapper must have had practice in the matter of cutting people's tongues], and instructs you to try to avoid making any vocalizations for a while as your throat heals.

Allen listens to your heart next, and notices a slight arrhythmia. He tells you that you need to keep taking it easy, no excitement, no exercise, nothing to get your heart going too quick while it rests and heals. You don't mind following those orders, as tired and sore as you are. You gingerly pull your nightshirt back on.

As you climb back under the blankets, Kyle joins you and John gets up to go use the restroom. You grimace, not looking forward to when you'll inevitably need to go as well.

You settle against Kyle's side, curling into him, one of his hands in yours. You sleepily trace the lines on his palm with your fingertips. There's a scar on his palm that looks relatively new. It goes all the way through to the back of his hand.

"That's from one of those shits that burned down your old cabin," he remarks. You look up at him sharply. "Don't worry," he adds with a lopsided grin, "I gave it good to him right back."

You nod, satisfied, and rest your head on him again. Your eyes are heavy as you lift his palm to gently kiss the scar. You immediately feel another pulse of emotion from him, and he wraps his arms around you, kissing your cheek before settling you both on the pillows. You yawn, grateful to feel the painkillers taking effect.

You're once again deeply asleep by the time John returns and slides into bed next to you and Kyle, lovingly squashing you between two large men.

The next time you wake, you still hurt quite a bit, but at least you feel a little less stepped on. After eating and using the toilet, you're exhausted again, happily returning to bed.

Johnny and Simon are now standing at the foot of the bed, each holding something behind their backs.

"We got ye some things from base," Johnny says excitedly. "Sorta like welcome gifts, tae the pack." Your interest is certainly piqued.

With a flourish, Johnny shows you a little cloth pouch holding a handful of little gold colored rocks. They look almost translucent, like amber. Maybe it is amber? You smile, holding one up to the pale daylight streaming through the window. It's very pretty.

"Go ahead, try it," Johnny urges. You tilt your head, brows scrunching. Like, try throwing it? "Do you not like butterscotch?" Johnny's energy suddenly wilts, his entire demeanor like that of a sad puppy.

Oh! A breath escapes you, wanting to laugh. You pop the "rock" into your mouth. Holy shit, it tastes amazing. How long has it been since you've had a sweet treat? You grin at Johnny, shoving all your happiness and gratefulness toward him internally. He beams at you, sending good feelings right back. This bond thing really is useful.

Simon is more subdued about handing you his item. His mask is off, allowing you to see the pink dusting his pale, scarred skin.

"You don't have to use it if you don't want to, but, this was Roach—Gary's. We all ended up using it to learn along with him, so he didn't feel weird about it." Then he adds more softly, "He was mute, like you."

He hands you a well used book.

'Learning Sign Language for Dummies.'

Tears prickle in your eyes. This is so thoughtful. You hold the book and bag of candies close to your chest, looking up at them with big, watery eyes. You happily swamp the bond with all the big emotions you're feeling in your heart.

Thank you.

Later, as you flip through the first few pages of the sign language book, you get to thinking about their trip to the base. Did they get permission to stay here with you longer? When will they need to check in again? Simon and John are bracketing you, leaning against you on either side, lazily watching your hands flip the pages and test out forming a few words and letters.[They have nothing on their minds right now, no worries, just enjoying being with you.]

Johnny and Kyle are sitting on the end of the bed, refreshing their memories on sign language. It has been a year since they used it, after all. They sign at each other in rapid succession, and whenever either of them pauses too long to try and remember, the other will punch their arm. (You suspect they are needing some activity, after being snowed in for nearly a week.)

You switch the book for your notebook.

"How did it go at your base?"

Simon grumbles low in his throat, his head resting on yours. John is resting his head on your shoulder. You feel that it can't be that comfortable of a position, but this way, they can easily read what you write without you needing to lift the notebook from your lap to show them.

"They were pleased we succeeded in bringing down Shepherd," Simon finally says.

"When do you need to go back again?"

"We can worry about that later."

You frown.

"I wish you didn't have to go back."

"We have a responsibility," John cuts in. You roll your eyes. Yeah yeah.

"Doesn't change that I want to keep you all here with me." You can keep them safe here, among your traps. Your new pack. You swallow, wishing you could purr.

John hums and Simon rubs his cheek on your head. Johnny and Kyle's game has devolved into outright sparring. They swing their fists and attempt to knock each other to the ground. They disappear past the edge of the bed, and as you listen to them playfight on the floor, you realize you don't want to be separated from them. You can't bear the thought of any of them leaving again. You understand they would come right back after reporting in, but even so, you can't shake the need to keep them together and close by. It unnerves you a little, how strongly you feel this way.

Kyle and Johnny sit up from the floor suddenly, looking over at you. [Unknown to you, your desire to keep them close rang out just loudly enough for them to feel the call through the bond.] The betas crawl onto the bed, laying themselves over your legs, looking up at you sweetly.

Even though the world has ended, the military is still strict. You don't want your boys to be labeled criminals because of you, for not returning to their duties. I need to go with them, you think. How funny, you don't even consider merely waiting here in your home while they go themselves. No, this is your pack now. You never want to leave them or be left behind by them. You belong to each other now.

"I'm going with you." The alphas don't say anything. "When you go back to your base, we will ALL go." They still give no response, so you turn the notebook around to show Kyle and Johnny. A frown passes over their faces simultaneously.

"I don't think that's a good idea." "Ye shouldnae worry 'bout going tae the base." They speak at the same time. You shake your head, insistently pointing at the words you just wrote.

"It's too dangerous."

"Ye cannae trust anyone."

"Who knows what we could run into on the way."

"None of them, from the top brass tae the runts guarding the latrines."

[Their inner betas are telling them to keep you hidden from potential threats. And there are plenty of threats both on the way, and on the base itself. Even allies can have bad actors hidden within their ranks. They know this well. But John and Simon do not need to be convinced to have you go with them. Neither of them can envision leaving you behind.]

"I'm going."

You hold up your words with dissuadable finality. You will not let the pack divide, you will hold them all close. Unlike last time, everyone will go, together. Johnny's shoulders droop in defeat and Kyle sighs, slowly nodding his head.

"We're all going together," John murmurs against your shoulder before kissing it. Simon hums agreement. Johnny stretches out on his belly to lay his cheek on your blanket covered thighs and Kyle rests his head on his arms folded over the Scot's back.

[Though the betas don't want you to go, there is no truthful weight behind the wish. Before your becoming an official part of the pack, they felt reluctant to part with you, yes, but they had a duty, and were forced to make the choice of who would report back to base and who would stay. But now, it is no longer a choice they could dream of making. They would never leave you, they cannot leave you. You are theirs now, and they can feel the sentiment echoed back to them through the new connection, thrumming with the surety that they are just as equally yours.

Perhaps it is merely the honeymoon phase of the post claiming that is speaking, but oh how sure they are that they will never leave you, and oh how sweet the steadfast loyalty tastes compared to the bitter loyalty they've championed for the military all these years.

And oh how wonderful it is to be yours.]

You rest and recuperate for a few more days. Allen checks your healing progress, and you are relieved each time he declares you to be doing well, as he puts it, even though your throat feels like it is hardly "doing well." Not to mention the heart murmur he says he can still hear. He assures you that you just need to allow yourself more time to heal without straining it.

He is examining you one last time before the trip to the military base, and for the first time, you are alone with him, the others attending to needs or preparing their supplies and gear. You feel like you also need to prepare, but you don't really have much to pack besides clothing and the few gifts they've given you.

You study his face as he listens to your lungs, then your heart. He seems older on a second glance. His face is lined, and while he is quick to smile reassuringly at you whenever he is near you, you've seen the way his face falls solemn as he drifts off into his thoughts when he isn't speaking with anyone. You have a feeling that being a medic has led Joseph Allen to experience some heavy things.

"Your lungs sound nice and clear, but the arrhythmia in your heart is still there," he says with a slight frown. "I don't think the physical exertion of traveling to Shaire base will be good for you just yet."

"They've already told me they will carry me. I couldn't even argue it, just walking to the outhouse is tiring."

He chuckles.

"That's good then." His demeanor shifts, becomes more serious. "And… you're doing well with them?" You tilt your head in question. "You're happy to be bonded? No lingering fears? MacTavish and Riley told me a little about you. About your fear of alphas and being claimed."

You don't particularly enjoy thoughts of being bitten without rhyme or reason, but the claiming bite itself, as performed by John, no longer fills you with great dread. And… perhaps even, hypothetically, if Simon also wanted to claim you… well, maybe you wouldn't mind that either. Your omega purrs inside you at the thought. To have a mark from both your alphas. You feel a burst of silly giddiness bubble in your chest at the notion of wanting an alpha to mark your body. Could all of this lightheartedness you feel be a dream?

"I'm happy to be part of their pack," you write, wearing a little smile as you think of them. Your omega hums inside you. "I don't remember being claimed, so it doesn't really upset me now."

"Good," he says, giving your knee a pat. "That's good. That's how it's supposed to be, after all. A distress event was nature's way of protecting an omega," he taps his temple with a finger, "of protecting your mind from trauma." He drops his hands to his lap, a sorrowful shadow passing over his face. "It's just a shame that evolution has led us to where we are now, with omegas who often don't survive the physical repercussions of their own protection system."

You rest a hand over your heart. The arrhythmia has made it weaker physically, and in return, you were shielded from further experiencing your heat and the claiming. The only faint memories you have are from before the moment John claimed you. You are only faintly surprised to find that you are not angry at your inner omega for what she did. It's true, you're a tad more sore than you otherwise would have been, but you feel a self love blossoming from the event. She did her part, she protected you from the thing that was causing you so much fear and anxiety.

"When I was… with my kidnapper, he would scruff or sedate me whenever I started to distress. She became very small inside me, battered by his alpha—" You realize suddenly it had been the bond.

That was how he always seemed to know your omega was taking over. That was how his inner designation intimidated and crushed yours beneath his metaphorical boot. It seems so obvious now, after communicating with your new pack using the bond. You sniffle and wipe your face with your sleeve, erasing the beginnings of tears. Allen looks anxious to comfort you, his hands fluttering about. [He does not want to get on the Price pack's bad side by making their new omega cry.] You wave him off, shaking your head with a small smile to reassure him. You aren't going to dwell on a dead abuser. Your inner omega— your inner self— did not hijack your body out of maliciousness. She couldn't do anything in the past, but this time, she did her best.

Thank you, you think at her.

While Allen is putting away his things, you ask him some questions that have been bothering you ever since he introduced himself to you, mainly,

"How do you know so much about omegas?"

He smiles ruefully and closes his bag.

"My twin was an omega." Was. You can already tell this is a sad story.

He tells you about his brother, David, about how they were never treated as equals, his father being the kind of man who thought omegas deserved no human rights as glorified incubators. And about how David ended up running away at a young age and falling in with a bad crowd, one of them an abusive alpha who ended up causing his death when he was merely nineteen.

"It was sort of out of spite toward all those like my father and that asshole that I went to university to major in Omega Studies. But part of it was out of love for the brother I missed so much." [He might not admit it, even to himself, but he can't help relating you to his brother, a little part of him desperate to help you, since he was unable to help him, right up until the end.]

You put a hand on his arm, tears in your eyes. This story struck hard. Allen looks at you gently, shaking his head.

"It's alright. It was many years ago. And I've become a pretty decent doctor from it, I'd say." He grins, playfully bumping his shoulder against yours. "And now—especially these days—I like to help anyone I can, particularly omegas." You smile back. He's a kinder person than you initially thought.

"Thank you for your help."

"You're very welcome. I didn't do much though…" He stands, grabbing his bag and slanting another smile at you. "You've got a good pack taking care of you."

It's true. You can't help thinking how incredibly lucky you are to have crossed paths with them. A small part of you whispers that it's what you deserve, after what you've lived through.

Maybe it is.

You're a little nervous about leaving the safety of your traps, but you steel yourself. You can suck it up long enough to make sure your boys (your boys!) get the result they need by returning and reporting in. It won't be forever. This is your home, and you will return to it.

You are resting one last time, snuggled under the blankets, when Kyle comes in to ask if you're almost ready to go. It will soon be time to leave, the morning sunlight cresting over the icy treetops. But you are distracted by a thought you had earlier.

"Johnny told me he and Simon stayed in the garage during my heat. It must have been hard for them to endure. Was it hard for you too?" You frown.

Kyle sits on the edge of the bed next to you, and you lean back into the pillows as he leans forward over you, his arms on either side of you. His eyes are warm as he looks down at your face, a cheeky little smile playing at the edges of his mouth. You can't help staring at his full lips—does he use chapstick? His smile widens, prompting you to look up again to his lovely brown eyes.

"Right, very hard," he says softly.

Heat starts rising up your neck to your face. You drop your notebook and pencil to the side and gently place your palms on his chest. His body is warm through his shirt, and you want to wrap him around yourself, soak in that warmth you love so much. He lowers his head slowly to gently kiss the bandage at your neck, you shiver.

"Simon took care of me though," he continues, settling another light kiss on your jaw. "Near the end of your heat, Johnny watched over you and John while I got a good de-stressing session with Si." His mouth hovers close to yours, his breath warm on your lips.

You lift one hand to form the signs for the letters "C-A-N I ?" You don't know the word for 'kiss'. You don't know the word for 'can' honestly. You've only looked at the first few pages of the sign language book and have just a slight grasp on the alphabet so far. It's merely been a few days after all.

"Can you what?" Kyle whispers.

The entire world narrows to this moment, this space between you two. Your heat aside, you haven't actually been very sexually intimate with any of them. Your face is very hot and your fingers tremble with nerves when you tap your lip, then tap his.

"Would you like a kiss, love?" he breathes.

You nod, your stomach fluttering with anticipation. He is still smiling a little when he closes that small gap between you, kissing your lips almost chastely. When he pulls back to look at you, your hands go to the sides of his face, and you pull him close again. A small chuckle from him is swallowed by your mouth as you take the lead on the second kiss, eager to explore him like this. Your hesitation starts to fade as you crush your lips to his. His tongue swipes at the seam of your mouth, seeking entry, and you gasp, surprised at the feeling, but also realizing you forgot about breathing. You pant for a moment, eyes roving over his pretty face, thumb tracing a small line of a scar near his ear and hairline. How is he not out of breath like me?

Inexperienced in these matters, you deepen the next kiss sloppily. You accidentally bite his bottom lip harder than you mean to, and he quietly moans. A thrill shoots up through you, your body feeling flushed all over. You really liked hearing him make that sound.

A wolf whistle makes you jump. Kyle sits up, looking much more casual and put together than you feel. Johnny and Simon stand in the doorway, kitted up in all their gear, and Simon even has his skull mask on already. They look deliciously formidable and strong.

"What lovely scents are comin' up in here, aye, Si?" Johnny comes around to the side of the bed. Simon hums. You already miss being able to see his face.

"Gaz, suit up," Ghost rasps.

Kyle sighs and leans down to quickly peck your cheek before leaving. Soap takes his spot on the bed next to you, feeling even bulkier than usual with all his gear on. He's got a sly grin on his face, looking at you sideways and fiddling with a buckle on his vest.

"So, were ye and Gaz havin' a nice chat?"

Simon steps into the room as Johnny speaks, his heavy boots slowly pacing toward his beta. You swallow and nod. You feel nervous, but not in a bad way. It's more like a great anticipation. Johnny turns fully toward you, one of his hands resting on the blanket over your legs. Simon stops at Johnny's side, tall and dark in his get up. You're leaning back against the stacked pillows still, glancing between the two of them.

"Aye right," Johnny says, leaning forward the way Kyle had. "Maybe we can also have a wee chat?" The impish look on his face turns a bit unsure, but hopeful. Does he hide insecurity under his games? Your hands cup his cheeks, thumbs swiping across his cheekbones. You had intended to tease him a little, but now... You stare him in the eyes, assessing. The longer you take, the more his bravado falls away until his sincerity is there, stark and lonely. You are sure that this first kiss needs to be sincere. No teasing.

You pull his face closer and gently but fully kiss him on the lips. You can feel a brightness shining between you on the bond. It's his happiness, you realize. That's what Johnny's happiness feels like. You look up at Simon, holding out one hand. He lifts his mask enough to free his mouth, leaning down over his beta until their faces are side by side. You put that hand to his cheek, his stubble rough on the heel of your palm. You guide him closer, but he stops before he kisses you, his chapped lips just barely not touching yours.

Almost inaudibly he murmurs, "Doc said no funny business to excite your heart."

It takes a moment for you to realize what he said, and he's pulling away from you as you do. Your mouth flaps in silent protest, mouthing foul language, and you gesture for him to come back. He laughs huskily, shaking his head and pulling his mask down.

"Don't want you overexerting yourself, princess."

You stick your middle finger up at him and he laughs as he leaves the room, towing a grinning Johnny along with him by the vest.

"We're leaving in ten minutes!" his graveled voice calls from down the hall.

Simon leans against the wall beside the front door, breathing slow, steady lungfuls of the fresh, cold, morning air. After smelling you and Kyle getting aroused, he wanted to jump your bones, the memories of your heat scent and knotting Kyle's pussy teasing the edge of his alpha. He wanted to take the two of you right there, fuck going to the base. He feels like a dog whining for a little action. Hadn't he gotten plenty during your heat? His lovely betas had treated him so well. Simon's growl turns into a pleased purr at the thought of Kyle and Johnny under him. He just needs to be patient. Once his pack returns to base, he can have a little fun with them again, and maybe even test the waters with you—though you'll probably need more time to heal before anything serious can happen.

Simon tilts his head, squinting against the bright snow shining in the sunlight. Why is he so easily ginned up today? Is it really just a reaction from the arousal he scented? He hums. Perhaps it is because for the past few days he hasn't felt weighted by stress. They have avenged Gary, killed Shepherd. You are alive and whole. You are theirs, their precious, fierce omega, your scent and presence and bond a soothing balm to their inner designations. They are returning to base to report in and avoid reprimanding over desertion. He needs to worry no longer about any of these things.

Johnny comes back around the corner of the house after yellowing some snow. He looks cheery enough, a light step to him compared to the last time they set out. This time, you're going with them. Simon likes that you chose to do that; he too does not want to part with his new omega.

"I call dibs on carrying her first!" Soap says when he reaches the front door. Ghost grunts.

"Wrestle you for it."

When you come outside with Price, Gaz, and Allen, you find a snow-dusted Soap pouting. A slightly less snowy Ghost walks up to you and picks you up without comment. Simon feels warm inside when you instantly tuck your face into his neck, sighing contentedly, your arms thrown around him loosely as you relax in his hold. He rumbles a short churr and feels you rub your nose against his covered scent gland in a silent response. A calm washes over his heart, your warm body in his arms a comfort to his alpha, the low sweetness of brown sugar and pine so familiar now, like an old friend.

The scents of his pack are his most favorite smells in the world.

Once the party has finally set off, and Simon has settled into an easy stride—and is therefore sufficiently unsuspecting—, you begin your plan for revenge.

You casually adjust your arms until your hands are resting near his neck. His head tilts slightly, registering your movement, and you still, waiting patiently for a few minutes before you inch your fingers to the bottom edge of his mask. You ready yourself, then in a swift motion lift the fabric high enough to expose his scent gland and plant a kiss there. His arms tense slightly, though he doesn't say anything. But you know you've had an effect when you see the skin of his neck flush pink. A thrill spins in your stomach at the sight. You grin. This time, you are the impish one.

You pull the mask edge higher, exposing more of his flushed neck, peppering kisses as you go.

"Cut that out," he grunts.

You situate the neck of his mask back into its proper place, then lean back enough to look him in the eyes. You grab the sides of his skull mask, leaning close to kiss the cool, hard material on the forehead, then the cheek, then the spot just below the nose hole and just above the teeth. It's difficult to properly pucker your lips for each kiss because of the grin still commandeering your mouth. Your body shakes with a silent laugh as he narrows his eyes at your continued attentions. Too bad you don't have any lipstick, or you would be able to leave visual evidence of your attack.

"What are you doing?" Ghost grumbles. "Can't see where 'm walkin'."

You lean back in his arms, tempering your smile into a small mischievous one. You trail a finger down one shoulder strap of his tactical vest, across his chest, teasing a buckle. You notice his dog tags, the chain disappearing under his vest. You pull them out, lifting them up for you both to see. (Despite your current playfulness, you aren't sure about whether the info printed on dog tags is personal, and as such, not for anyone to read on a whim, or not, so you decide to err on the side of caution and purposely don't read the text stamped into the metal.) You bring the tags to your lips with great care, kissing them gently as you hold his gaze. Through the eye-black and the mask, you can feel a smoldering heat in his stare. He rumbles lowly, tightening his arms around you.

After you kiss both dog tags, you tuck them back into his vest and lean close again to his face. Just a thin space of air and his mask separate your mouths. You stare into his eyes for a good few moments longer, his breaths come as pants, his eyes half lidded and watching your mouth as you slightly tilt your head to line up a kiss, then… You pull away, yawning, wiggling in his grasp to indicate you want to be set on your feet. [Simon is still a heartbeat behind, setting you down automatically while his brain catches up to what just happened.] You start trotting toward Soap to have him carry you, and then Ghost is chasing you.

"Oy! Get back here!"

Your breathing heaves as silent laughter when he quickly catches you, sweeping you back up into his arms and spinning you around a moment before continuing walking. The others look at you both with interest, wanting to play too, except for Allen, who calls out with a half-hearted, "No over exerting yourself." Your belly aches from doing your best not to vocalize your laughter and strain your throat, your cheeks starting to cramp a little from smiling so wide.

"You got a bee up your nose or somethin'?" Ghost huffs, clearly pretending to be mad. You can feel his joy through the bond.

You smirk as you make the hand signals for the letters, "P-A-Y-B-A-C-K." You had spent the precious minutes before you left your cabin memorizing these specific letters. (You'd also left off your gloves so you'd be able to make the signs clearly, which is why your fingers are now freezing. You'll put them on in a minute.)

He laughs shortly, narrowing his eyes once again at you.

"Cheeky minx, I always knew you were the conniving sort, from the moment I first saw you."

That reminds you of when he fell into your pit trap. You lean your head on his shoulder, wrapping your arms back around him, shaking with more quiet laughter.

The sun is setting and you are exhausted. You'd only walked for a short while around lunchtime, and yet you feel as if you've been walking for hours. You hear Allen reassuring the others that you just need to rebuild your stamina after laying in bed so many days after your heat. You nuzzle the back of Johnny's neck, letting his comforting scent carry your mind as you drift in and out of a light sleep. You stir when you realize Soap has stopped walking.

The group has arrived at a small town, standing on a street lined with houses that would have looked quaint before their caregivers left them behind. The sun is just touching the clouds piled on the horizon, painting them lovely colors as it slowly slips behind them. The evening is already turning colder, and you squeeze Johnny tighter as you watch Gaz and Ghost enter a house with their pistols drawn.

"All clear," Ghost reports when they return.

After he sets you down, you inform Soap you need to use the toilet. He stays where he is, watching you amble away and turn the corner of a tool shed for some privacy. Johnny had given you a tiny backpack before you left your cabin. You filled it with certain essentials like an extra pair of underwear, a toothbrush and paste (you were absolutely overjoyed to find those particular items in the saferoom stockpile), a roll of toilet paper (so bougie), and of course your notebook. John had also given you a few pieces of jerky to keep in it as well, in case you got snackish on the road. The rest of your clothes and sleeping bag are in a larger pack carried by Price.

By the time you tromp back to Soap, the others are already inside, diving in to a simple dinner of hard bread, jerky, and granola bars. You've quickly become spoiled by the wonderful meals your pack cooks for you, so this would be hardly appealing if not for your ability to remember what it was like to go hungry at times during the last three years of your life. You wonder if there will come a day when you take what you have for granted, the way you used to, before everything.

The men take turns on watch, Allen included, and you sleep fitfully, waking every time one of them gets up to swap. You keep close whoever isn't on watch, curling against them in your sleeping bag. You remember to keep your boots on while you sleep, and notice that none of them remove their tactical vests. But unlike before you were claimed, you aren't so terribly afraid of what might happen. Your pack makes you feel safe, even though you still worry for their safety.

You awake earlier than you'd like. You assume it's close to morning, though it is still dark enough outside that you can't be sure. A lid of flat, grey clouds covers the night sky, you can't see the stars or moon. Even so, the white of the snow is just enough to navigate your way to a good spot to relieve your bladder. [John stirs and sits up as you leave, fully awake in moments and following you out the door. You seem sleepy enough that you don't even notice him quietly padding along behind you.] You pass by Allen on watch, who whispers for you to not go too far. [When you round the corner of the tool shed, Price rumbles to Allen, ordering him to go in and get a little bit of shuteye before the sun comes up. He will take over watch. Allen complies, going back inside the safehouse with a yawn.]

You are wiping your hands in snow, idly looking past the wooden fence along the edge of the property. The house next door has an old swing set and slide in the backyard. It reminds you of the tree swing in the yard of your family's house. You used to love swinging on it as a kid, and when you got older, you would push your younger siblings on it as they laughed and screamed to go higher. Your scent turns, an old ache for your missing family clutching your heart for a moment before you put it away. It's been over three years since you've seen them. You considered the possibility of them having been evacuated to one of the military bases, but… If you do go looking for them, and do not find them, the surety would be worse than not knowing. You'd rather live in the ignorance of the unknown, to hope that they are all alive out there somewhere, than to look for them, and find nothing. Did they also think this way about you when you went missing?

You shake your head, staring hard at the rusty slide. No, it's no use regurgitating these old worries. You made your peace with—

You freeze.

You realize the slide is not covered in snow. You realize there are footprints leading from it to the house.

There are others living here, in the house next door.

You hear a snap and your head jerks up. The branches of the large tree in the neighboring yard hang over the fence, reaching into the yard you are standing in.

You realize there is someone in the tree, staring down at you.

Your heart is starting to thud more quickly in your chest as you stand there, frozen like a deer. Allen is just around the corner. Just start walking. This person might mean you no harm whatsoever. Yeah. It's fine. Just walk away.

The back door to the neighboring house opens, and a weathered woman holding an old fashioned lantern peers out, pulling a sweater tighter around her figure. She whisper shouts;

"Kian, how many times have I told you not to traipse around in the dar—" She spots you, just on the other side of the fence and she looks incredibly surprised. "Who…?" Her gaze swings up into the tree, and even in the dark she must be able to make out the figure in the branches, and her eyes dart back down to you. Her face goes pale. "WAIT!"

The person in the tree drops down on top of you.