It got cold in the North, when the snow turned into a powder, when water lines burst, and the air was so sharp that it sliced cheeks. Sharp winds drove frost into the hollows and dips of domiciles, concealing tiles and painting roofs. With the world outside turning a murky, fading white, it was a glorious luxury to be engulfed in a bubble of warmth.
The bathroom attached to Quinn's new home was small. A rusting shower head clasped tight to a toilet bowl and a sink. But the waters ran, and the toilets flushed; it was not a latrine, and they did not use a melted jug of ice poured as the other homes did.
Luxury.
Quinn washed herself with water that stank of sulfur and was a tad too close to boiling. But her belly shivered in delight as heat swirled and her skin grew flushed with the steam, perspiration beading where water did not touch. It was heaven for her bones, currents of warmth that soothed weary flesh.
Solar had healed her completely, and all that remained from the ripped chunks of flesh and the broken bones were tender marks of pink that he wiped down with antiseptic. The medicine he'd attempted to smear over her had been useless, and she wondered then if he had misjudged his own capabilities in healing.
She hadn't seen him mend her, hadn't seen the bones form and join, and the skin mend and stretch. She'd wanted to, but she'd been far too distracted. A flush blossoming on her cheeks at the memory of Zen's lips and Solar's fingers, the smell of baked goods spilling from their bodies, turning her room sweet with their want.
Quinn hadn't noticed it then, but her room now held traces of their smells—melting butter and crumbling gooey cookies. Her body stirred like an idiot, and she pressed herself against the wall, pushing the little crack in the windows further for ventilation. It barely budged, the grills were made of a sturdy material meant for a prisoner. Palisades or bars?
But the bed was oddly too good, too soft and springy. Sheets that were far too silky for the skin, pillows that were fluffy down, and mostly goose feather. This was not the straw pad one would give to a servant or a prisoner. This she knew without a doubt, with her fingers sweeping over comforters that felt like marshmallow, like sinking sand, was a bed made for an Omega.
An Omega that would require such a space for his nest, soft and warm. In usual circumstances, he'd bring clothes soaked in scent, old blankets smeared with his perfume. And the Omega would sit and wait on a bed as soft as this one was, panting for his Alpha. Quinn's brow dipped. They didn't want her body, but they wanted her kisses, wanted her taste. How long would it take for them to ask for a different kind of service?
It was odd that her body did not detest the idea, that the convulsions did not come. Something rumbled deep within her body, as if pleased by the thought of satisfying the seven Omegas, of making them happy, of turning them wanton with lust begging for her touch. And it wanted to taste tears flavoured by nirvana, press kisses down an arched spine, suck in deep breaths of the sweetest Omega slick. It wanted them to cum.
It wanted to please.
Quinn stumbled into the room, jaw clenched tight. A scratchy pair of cotton underpants was all they had for her body, no bra. And the dresses that hung in the wardrobe for her were clearly uniforms. A modest black gown with elbow-length sleeves, below the knees, laces to tighten a hardened piece at the front that should conceal her nipples. A singular size made to fit all.
But the neckline dipped, and the fitting was far too small. The tips of her breast spilled, creamy and obscene, and she struggled to put herself in, to not have half of her tumbling out of the top, pulled and pushed at laces. She made haste, not wanting them to wait, not wanting them to come for her. But it did not take long for the door to creek open rudely, her gasp spilling as she pulled at the hems, unable to tighten it quite right.
Icarus stood at the door, eyes settled upon her, tongue pressed to cheek, white minty curls dusting the tips of his brow. "Thought you'd kill yourself before I had a taste." Violet eyes dragged across her skin, settled at her breast, where pink areolas showed, swept over the column of her throat. She covered herself with a hand, cheeks hot. The scoff that escaped him was accusatory, a huff that whooshed from his nose. "Seduction's a part of your plans?"
Her snap was out of her before she could stop it. "Knock."
"Not interested in your tits," he laughed, as gorgeous as always, handsome features, rude tongue to cheek, voice a raspy timbre that purred. There was sourness on his gorgeous face, one incensed with a waft of yearning that betrayed his truth. Jaw clenched, cheeks hollowed and with the most dangerous eyes. It was hunger that stained his soul. "Just your neck."
She glared, spun around then, breasts tumbling out of her dress. His eyes betrayed him, tumbling to focus upon her chest, tracing the curve, the dips, the hardened tips against the thin fabric. The expose of her nipples. And oddly, her body thrummed, pleased that he looked. "The dress is small," she answered simply, hand on her waist, gestured wide. "Do you have a shirt I could borrow?"
"Not mine," he said, eyes darting away, body lazy against the wall. "We're not that close yet, darling." His smirk grew, a strange nervousness dancing in his features over pale features. And her nose caught a sweetening of zest that grew bolder with the flavourful depths of alcohol. "Not until I've got half my body weight in your blood. And I'm creaming your fluids."
His crudeness had her grappling, and she found that her fear forced her to meet his banter with a sharper tongue. "I'm just livestock to you, aren't I?" she drawled.
"Yeah," Icarus shrugged, having heard her voice curling in the wind, but a snarl and he was stepping closer. "Our rude suicidal cow." He sniffed the air, a low whisper, then a groan so low it vibrated across her skin, scattering like wind. "I'm so fucking hungry. I could suck you dry from your messy little cunt and then fuck your dying corpse."
Quinn forced her body to relax, didn't want the truth of her fear spilling from her in waves. She craned her neck over, eyes daring him to continue. "You can't do that. They won't let you. He won't—"
"Zen won't let me?" Icarus's laugh was dark, and she grew quiet, suddenly aware of the danger at hand, at the sore spot she'd prodded. The crazed glint in Icarus's eyes was bright with rage. "You think you have power over us because of him?" He stalked forward, scent twisting in the air, spilling thick and malty. "The rest won't come to save you. And Zen? He's my fucking mate, you bitch." His eyes grew bright with silver. A flash and he was slamming her against the wall. Her breath escaping her from the impact.
He was thrusting a knee between her thighs, one hand spanning her waist, the other slammed above her head, pressing her hard against the wall. Chest to chest, hard body radiating heat. Fear should cloud her mind, fear should render her speechless and trembling, but in his lavender eyes she saw his fear, lashed out like a hissing cat. Euodia's memories told her that Icarus was all bark and no bite, kinder than the rest, gentler than most. Unless, the years had changed him. She looked him in the eye, moved only closer to speak.
She should be afraid, but her voice was cold and eerily soft. "I'm not interested in your mate."
"Your eyes betray you," Icarus hissed, orbs sharpening into slits. "Your scent betrays you. So much sweeter around him, and sour with me. The dislike you have for us burns our throats, and then you smell so pretty with him. It makes me fucking sick." And yet he had her pressed up to him against the wall…His fixation, his choice of words. It spun in her head in confusion. But she supposed he must be afraid that she'd steal Zen away from him under his nose.
"I like him," she agreed, as his face drew only closer, his scent was transforming into one of lemons and limes. "Because he treats me well, not because I want him. Do you think I'd enjoy the presence of an Omega that I don't know? And one that pins me up against the wall?" And something in her bubbled and frothed at the thought of cowering before yet another fucking man. A sudden craze seemed to burn up in her, Float hissing in her ears, ready to strike him where it would hurt the most. "If you get jealous so easily, then you should have kept him indoors."
"I should lock you up," he chuckled darkly, "a little cell meant for mouthy Alphas. We'll see if you cans still smile."
Her eyes narrowed colder, body hissing for battle. But Euodia's memories pounded in her brain, of his own trauma, of his believes, his rage at Euodia whenever she raised a hand. And when her gaze searched his face, she found that there was no truth in his words.
Icarus despite his bravado, would be the last person to hurt her.