Solar's breath was shuddering, a scream bubbled from his throat. The pain that came with it was so sharp, so awful, it felt as if he couldn't breathe. His smile was melting. The gorge within him was growing, and now blood was dripping from his eyes, spilling to the ground. And he gagged, throat heaving, agonising sobbing, he was vomiting blood, hot and red, and awful. Hers.
She'd come back for him—
He'd woken, muffled silent scream against his arm, guilt roaring as if it were all real. And for the first time in his life, he couldn't piece together dreams from visions, nightmares from prophecy, thoughts muddled with the truth. He paced. Solar couldn't tell if what he'd seen was a distant future or the worst fucking dream.
And perhaps, he wasn't so keen on murdering someone that tasted so good. He had yet to speak to his mates on his concerns and had spent hours outside biting nails, penning thoughts. A mercy kill was what they needed to do for her, an understanding that she was merely cattle and prey. An understanding that she was food, like chicken, like beef, like pork.
Like an animal.
Quinn was going to die.
That much was true.
Yet his mind was flooded with that lovelorn foolish sweetness, of his Omega's haunting lies, of the strange dreams that swept through him. It danced over his thoughts, a dart of venom, of horrible poison. The scientists and doctors had said that this was never going to be easy, that this would feel as if it were going against their being, against their Omega. An Omega that would be desperate to cling onto his Alpha. His mind burned, buzzing, sensations rippling — sensitive.
Quinn had to die.
She was there now in his space, the living room where he sat reading. The book dangled from his fingers as he stared, hiding himself behind its pages. He had wanted to be here where she worked. He'd dragged himself from his private space on the second floor, down to settle on the coach on level one. Solar had been there for hours, battling with himself to leave and when she came, he'd stretched pretending not to notice, pretending that he hadn't been here waiting for her.
And there he sat scrutinizing her. The curls that teased at her nape, the stretch of her neck, her collarbone. He watched and drank it all in, brain cells dribbling into puddling pools from the latest dream — one with Quinn in his arms, lips to his fingers. He shouldn't get attached, should stay away. And yet his dreams were determined to show him things he did not want to see.
"Your hands," she'd whispered. "Are beautiful."
"Are they?" A giggle had erupted from him.
"So beautiful," she'd laid kisses on each knuckle—
"Am I troubling you?" His eyes fluttered open, startled at her eyes, now on his, big and wide. A duster in her hand, arms crossed, worry stabbed into her scent. She was cleaning and had been dusting the cabinets. "I can leave."
"No," he choked out and sank into his couch. He hoped she couldn't see the rush of interest that flooded him, shame lingering on his cheeks as pleasure stirred within his lower belly. A crest of rising tension was growing, and he hated that he was used to the feeling of want and need from those awful dreams. "Just," he tasted his lips, her eyes were intense as if prying him apart, as if reading his soul. "The technology you used, the bed in the wastelands—"
"Found it in the rubble," she told him.
"You're joking," he choked out. Inside, his mind chided him, warned him to stay away. Her smile stretched, and she moved closer. And immediately, his fey was latching on her emotions, catching the tendrils. He flushed, a buzz growing in his head at the beguiling sweetness of her feelings, mouth sagged open in shock. There was one thing the dreams hadn't been capable of portraying, and that had been the delicious taste of her — juicy and ripe, dripping with honey.
"Alright, I built it on my own." This his fey tasted as gentle, bubbling truth. "Piece by piece."
"On your own?" he whispered. "Where did you find the parts?"
There was something in her eyes that he was familiar with— the sting of fixation, a sudden rush of yearning that had him swallowing nervously, nipples aching, body clenching. Oh, and suddenly he was aware of how scantily he must be dressed, shirt open, pecs teasing free. And yet with a shaky lungful of air, he didn't bother hiding himself, muscles flexing so he could watch the flush in her cheeks and the ragged exhale of want.
She wanted him too.
"Old things in the wasteland," she nodded, sucking on her lower lip. That habit was familiar, he'd seen it in those dreams. "Had a working fridge. Air conditioning. Bots. Anything, I could get my hands on I used to fix up my equipment, even the bike."
"That's amazing, you're incredible," he whispered. Why the fuck was he flirting with her? Why was his brain melting into the goo of stupidity, unable to form adequate speech? "We…We don't have much. Most are worn down and broken from the war. The refrigerator doesn't work well, it breaks."
"I know," she nodded. Of course, she did she worked in the fucking kitchen. "I fixed it yesterday." Her smile had him flushing, feeling stupid.
The dreams trickled into his head. "You're insatiable," she was laughing, and he was dripping slick down his thighs.
"D-don't care," he had groaned, burrowed his head in his neck, mouth on her pulse. The mark on his neck was itching, and she stroked it gently, thumbs rubbing circles, the other hand on his scars, gently massaging the base of his wings. His hips bucked against her; heart so full it felt like he might burst. "Just want you again. Just want you to let me cum again."
"I'll give you what you want, baby—"
"Solar?"
He jumped, startling back into reality, blinking rapidly, wings fluttering. He snapped them shut abruptly. "We used to have more technology," he explained. "Then it was too much of a hassle to maintain with them breaking apart so quickly. They were old you see, I had—" he stumbled over the words, and suddenly things were a little too close to his heart. He swallowed, sadness rippling through him. "A music player."
"Stopped working?"
He nodded, lips curled, hands waved as if it were nothing. "It's just a toy, it's stupid, sings little old tunes."
It wasn't stupid. It had made life feel special, Christmas feel special. He'd found it in one of his scavenges as a child, and the thing had tumbled out from the rubble like a gift from the Gods. He hadn't felt so alone then, with the crooning of a gentle voice as he settled in his little shack in the snow for dinner, a smile on his cheeks. The player had broken a year ago and he'd cried for days, weeping in his room. He'd been inconsolable, and his mates had struggled to distract him from his sorrow.
It had been a friend.
Her voice was gentle when she spoke. "Music is food for the soul. Sometimes, it can even be a friend."
He was startled at her words, trembling as it hit too fucking close to his heart. And there was a pang within him, a sudden wild roaring as his fingers trembled. He turned to look at her nervously, thumbs twiddling. "I've got the parts."
"Let me have a look at it."
He was already reaching for the bundle, conveniently placed in the drawer by the couch as if ready for her. And he peeled open the bag, handing the broken pieces to her with quivering fingers. She stepped closer, settling by his side on the couch, the leather sinking from her weight. He was flooded with the scent of her sweet peach, and he shivered. But she didn't seem to notice, with her fingers twisting over the wires, reaching for the tools as she worked on the coffee table.
"Nice tools," she whistled. "Top tier."
"Don't use them to try to escape." He couldn't help blurting out those words, twitching from her proximity.
"I won't," she gave him a look, raised brow. His cheeks burned. "A screwdriver is hardly any better than a fork or a knife."
"It's a blunt object—"
"Most I could do is unscrew all the windows," she teased. "And that will take hours, but what for? I could just open the window to escape as you say. Or I could make a run for it through the door."
"I…" He flushed, sinking into his seat. Fuck. "I'm just nervous being alone in your presence."