Page 58 of Awakened

My Omega—who moments before was so cautiously smug—is despondent, hiding behind her wall where she thinks she’s safe. She’s not safe. We will never be safe.

I want to ask why. Why am I the only one who has to take suppressants. Why do I have to deny my Omega instincts, like they’re something to be ashamed of? Why is it only my Omega they’ve decided to eradicate, breaking us both down until there’s nothing left of us?

“You didn’t eat much.” Silas gestures toward Branwen’s plate with his fork, his mumbled words barely clear enough to understand around his mouthful of what might be toast.

Or eggs.

Or… honestly, I’m not sure. And if I keep trying to figure it out, I truly will vomit again.

“Apparently, the five minutes to eat are up,” she replies, long finger tapping a beat on the arm of her chair.

“The time limit is for her—” Daxen gestures toward me dismissively. “You can eat what you want.”

I didn’t think Branwen’s spine could straighten further, but apparently it can. She sits taller, placing her hands in her lap and squaring her shoulders.

“I see.”

Her tone is flat.

“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight.” She sweeps her gaze from Alpha to Alpha, leveling each of them with a glare full of judgment and hostility. “A meal is indulgence for me, but for Idril, it’s deprivation.”

The smile she forces on her face drips with disgust. “How… charming.”

“The Omega woke up and chose violence today,” Silas stage-whispers to Vae, who doesn’t reply. In fact, he’s not paying attention to Silas at all. His eyes are trained on his plate, his face a mask of confusion as he pushes his food around aimlessly with his fork.

“You are not a prisoner, Branwen. Idril is. That’s the difference.”

The smile she turns on Gavran is feral.

“I look forward to watching you all eat crow. In fact, I brought you a recipe all the way from the UK. A gift from my grandmother. I’ll gladly pass it on to your chef.”

Gavran leans back, clasping his hands together and resting them on his stomach that’s so muscular I can actually see the outline of his abs from halfway down the table.

He is not the kind of male I’d want to argue with.

Branwen doesn’t share my fear.

“Why don’t you tell me, Branwen, what you think we should do with an Omega whose actions nearly caused the death of one of my best Commanders. An Omega who lied, time and again, claiming to have shared an imaginary Mate Bond with the male she almost killed?”

“Allegedly,” She corrects.

“Not allegedly,” Daxen snaps. “She⁠—”

“I thought I told you last night, I have no interest in your stories. Stop talking.”

I suck in a sharp breath, eyes widening in horror. I’m so shocked by her words, I almost don’t realize she’s turned her attention toward me until she reaches out and gathers my hands with her own.

“What do you want to do, Idril?”

“M-me?”

“These Alphas—and I use that term very bloody loosely— want to interrogate you with Alpha Command. What do you want?”

The concept of having a choice in any of this is so novel that I take a moment to consider her question, despite knowing it will never happen.

What do I want?

My answer comes immediately, and just like the concept of having a choice, it’s equally impossible.