OMEGA IN HUMAN HANDS

The murmurs swelled as the auctioneer finalized the sale, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat. Damian Cole rose from his seat, his tall, commanding frame slicing through the crowd. He moved with the deliberate grace of a predator, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe.

The cold night air stung my skin as I was led outside, flanked by guards who didn’t spare me a glance. Damian walked ahead, his strides unhurried, exuding an air of absolute control. He never looked back, as if I were no more significant than the shadows stretching behind him.

We stopped by a sleek black car, its glossy surface gleaming under dim streetlights. A guard opened the door and motioned for me to enter. I hesitated, my instincts screaming to run, but I had nowhere to go. The auction hall loomed behind me, a grim reminder of my captivity.

“Get in,” Damian’s voice cut through the silence, calm but edged with steel.

I climbed into the car, the leather seat cold beneath me. Damian followed, sitting across from me. The door shut with a soft thud, sealing us in.

For a moment, silence hung heavy, suffocating. I stared at my hands, refusing to meet his gaze, though I felt its weight pressing down on me.

“You’re trembling,” he said, his tone detached.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I replied, the lie thin and shaky.

He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. “Brave words for someone so vulnerable. Lying doesn’t suit you, Omega.”

The word struck like a blow, the reminder of my status igniting anger in my chest. My jaw tightened. “What do you want from me?”

His gaze locked onto mine, cold and unyielding. “What I want,” he said slowly, “is for you to remember who owns you now.”

The car slowed as we approached a wrought-iron gate, its menacing spires silhouetted against the night. Beyond it, a sprawling mansion loomed, its dark windows reflecting the moonlight like predatory eyes.

The car halted, and the guards pulled the doors open. Damian stepped out first, his presence even more imposing in the dim glow of the estate’s lights.

“Welcome to your new home,” he said, his voice laced with mockery.

Inside, the mansion was as cold as its master—gleaming marble floors, harsh lighting, and an air of rigid control. Damian led me upstairs, his footsteps echoing against the high ceilings. At the end of a long hallway, he opened a door.

“This is where you’ll stay,” he said.

I stepped inside, noting the sterile space: a bed, a wardrobe, and a single window shrouded by heavy curtains.

“And if I refuse?” I asked, my voice defiant.

He stepped closer, the air between us crackling with tension. His eyes shifted to my shoulder, narrowing at something just visible beneath my collar.

“What’s this?”

Panic surged as I raised a hand to cover the scar. “It’s nothing,” I snapped.

His gaze hardened, and he grabbed my wrist. “Who did this to you?”

“It’s none of your business.”

His grip remained firm, but his tone softened, dangerous and low. “It is my business now.”

I yanked free, my voice trembling. “You don’t own my past.”

He held my gaze for a moment longer, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. “You’ll tell me eventually,” he said, turning to leave. The door slammed shut, leaving me alone with the weight of his words—and the strange tightness in my chest that refused to fade.