Chapter 4

I wake to the taste of chemicals and betrayal coating my tongue. My head pounds like someone's taken a sledgehammer to my temples, each throb sending shards of memory cutting through the fog – Cassandra's cold smile, the alphas in suits, a needle in my neck. The concrete floor beneath me leaches warmth from my bones as I try to make sense of where I am, what's happened, why everything hurts so damn much.

My eyes crack open to semi-darkness. A single bulb dangles from the ceiling, casting sickly yellow light that barely reaches the corners of what I now realize is a cell. Concrete walls rise around me, unmarked except for a small observation window set into a metal door. No bed, no toilet, no sink – just me and the floor and the crushing realization that Cassandra actually did it. She sold me. She fucking sold me.

I push myself to sitting, ignoring the wave of nausea that rolls through me. The blue sweater – the one she specifically told me to wear – is stained and wrinkled, the sleeve torn at the shoulder. Did I fight? I must have fought. My body aches in places that suggest resistance, bruises forming beneath my skin like silent witnesses to violence I can't fully remember.

A sound catches my attention – footsteps, approaching with measured purpose. I scramble backward until my spine hits the wall, as if those extra few feet might somehow protect me. The small window slides open, eyes peering in. I catch the scent immediately – alpha, but clinically sterile, scrubbed of anything that might identify them as human.

"Subject is conscious," a voice says to someone I can't see. "Pupils responsive. Bring the restraint team."

"I'm not a subject," I say, my voice coming out raw and broken. "My name is Justine Moore. I'm sixteen years old. My father was Richard Moore. People are looking for me." The lies taste better than the truth – that no one knows I'm here, that Cassandra planned this, that Kelly is probably the only person who might realize something's wrong.

The eyes regard me with mild curiosity, like I'm an insect pinned to a board. "Vocal function intact. Cognitive processes appear undamaged by sedation."

The door swings open with a metallic groan. Three figures enter – two large alpha males in what look like orderly uniforms and a smaller female beta in a white lab coat, her face obscured by a surgical mask. All wear thin latex gloves, their scents muted by what I recognize as industrial-strength neutralizers, the kind hospitals use around sensitive patients.

"Omega Subject 12, you will comply with examination procedures," the beta says, her voice stripped of emotion. "Resistance will be noted in your file and result in restrictions to your comfort allowances."

"What comfort allowances?" I spit back, glancing around the bare cell. "The luxury concrete floor or the five-star light bulb?"

One of the alphas sighs, exchanging a look with his colleague. "Another mouthy one. They always fight harder at first."

They move with practiced efficiency, cornering me against the wall. I kick and scratch, landing a solid hit to one alpha's groin that doubles him over with a grunt. A flash of savage satisfaction surges through me before the second alpha pins my arms, lifting me as easily as a child's doll.

"Note initial aggression in the file," the beta says, unperturbed by my struggle. "Standard alpha response suppressant recommended during handling procedures."

They drag me into a corridor lined with identical metal doors. My feet scrape against smooth concrete as I thrash, desperate to break free. Other scents hit me – faint traces of omega distress seeping from beneath doors, overlaid with antiseptic and something sharper, medicinal.

"Let me go! You can't do this!" My voice echoes down the corridor, bouncing back to mock me. A door at the far end opens, revealing a room bathed in harsh fluorescent light that makes me flinch after the dimness of my cell.

The examination room looks like a nightmare version of a doctor's office. Metal table in the center, equipped with thick leather restraints. Monitoring equipment lines one wall, screens displaying data I can't comprehend. Trays of instruments glint under the lights – needles, vials, things I don't recognize and don't want to. The sharp smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils, mixed with undertones of bleach and fear.

Two more masked figures await us, both in white lab coats with clipboards. Their eyes remain fixed on their notes as the orderlies drag me in, only looking up when I'm forced onto the cold metal table.

"Is this Omega Subject 12?" asks the taller one, a male with cold blue eyes above his mask.

"Confirmed," responds the beta who accompanied me. "Acquisition completed approximately fourteen hours ago. Sixteen years of age as of yesterday. Late presentation status, as specified in the purchase agreement."

Purchase agreement. The words hit me like physical blows. I'm property now. Merchandise. A subject.

"Excellent pheromone markers in the preliminary scan," says the second researcher, a woman with steel-gray hair pulled back so tightly it must hurt. "Potential compatibility rating in the upper percentile, despite the suppressed state."

"Let me see the baseline readouts," says the man, taking a tablet from her hands. "Interesting. Even with the sedation wearing off, her omega response is remarkably strong. This one might actually survive the full protocol."

Survive? The word sends ice through my veins as they discuss me like I'm not even present. I renew my struggles as the orderlies secure the restraints around my wrists and ankles, buckling them so tightly the leather bites into my skin.

"Stop! Please! You can't do this!" I thrash against the bonds, panic clawing up my throat. "I'm a person! My father was Richard Moore! He was important! People will look for me!"

The woman glances at me, the first acknowledgment of my humanity. "Subject is exhibiting typical initial resistance. Note the reference to external connections – standard delusion pattern."

She approaches with a syringe filled with yellowish fluid, the label reading "Suppression Study #4" in neat block letters.

"What is that? What are you doing?" I try to jerk away, but the restraints hold fast.

"This won't hurt," she lies, swabbing my neck with something cold. "Much."

The needle slides into my skin, and fire explodes through my veins. My back arches off the table as the substance races through me, setting every nerve ending alight. My muscles seize, locking into painful rigidity as a scream tears from my throat.

"Interesting reaction," notes the male researcher, watching dispassionately as I convulse. "More pronounced than with Subjects 8 through 11. Note the pupillary response."

The ceiling blurs and doubles above me. My tongue feels too large for my mouth, my heartbeat erratic and thundering in my ears. Darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision, the world narrowing to pinpricks of painful light.

"Blood pressure dropping," someone says, voice distant as if filtering through water. "Respiratory rate elevated."

"Within acceptable parameters," comes the reply. "Begin the baseline tests. This one's special."

The world tilts sideways, reality bleeding into darkness as consciousness slips through my fingers like water. My last thought before the void claims me is of Cassandra's words: Your mother would have understood. As if that somehow makes this betrayal easier to bear, as if maternal abandonment runs in my blood like some twisted inheritance.

Then nothing but darkness, and the distant beeping of machines monitoring my descent into hell.