Page 17 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

Please. Please let me not be too late.

CHAPTER 6

Finn

We’re weightless, the two of us, suspended in the dark with stars scattered in every direction. Her dark eyes find mine and hold them, and I reach out to touch her cheek, as gently as I can. And she lets me. There’s a sadness in her eyes that reaches something deep in me, surfacing for a moment and then gone. Her scent wraps around me, rain and crushed rose petals, threading into my lungs and through every fiber of me. She leans in, her breath warm against my mouth, her lips almost brushing mine⁠—

Sylvie.

The alarm shatters the dream. I jolt upright, my heart hammering, the sheets tangled around my legs. For a disoriented moment I’m still in that suite, feeling the warmth of her lips against mine.

Then the alarm registers.

Fuck.

I’m out of bed and through my bedroom door in seconds, bare feet thudding against the hardwood floors of the house. The alarm is louder in the living room, a pulsing wail that makes my head throb.

Max and Ethan are already there, both dressed. Max’s jaw is tight, his eyes sharp. Ethan is running a hand through his hair, his one tell when he’s stressed.

I’m standing in my boxers.

“There’s been a break-in at Synthera.” Max’s voice cuts through the alarm like a blade. He must see the confusion on my face because he snaps, “Get dressed. We need to leave. Now.”

I don’t argue. I’m back in my room, yanking on jeans and a sweater, shoving my feet into boots. Seconds later I’m following my packmates out the door.

The house sits at the edge of the Synthera estate, separated from the main complex by half a mile of manicured grounds and a line of oak trees that the three of us planted the year we broke ground. Ethan had insisted on it, said the building needed something living around it. Max had rolled his eyes and picked up a shovel anyway.

This land used to belong to his family. I still remember what stood here before, a sprawling old manor that looked dark and oppressive, something I had sensed even as a teenager. Now it has been replaced with Synthera, the complete opposite of what used to be there.

We cross the grounds at a near-run, the security alarm still wailing in the distance. The main building looms ahead, four stories of glass and white stone, dark now except for the emergency lights flickering in the windows.

Nathan Grint, head of security, meets us at the entrance. He’s a compact man in his fifties, former military, with a face that rarely shows expression. Tonight, he looks worried.

“Mr. Cavill. Mr. Brooks. Mr. Preston.” He nods to each of us. “This way.”

We follow him through the lobby, past a reception desk that’s usually staffed by someone cheerful, and into the main corridor. Our footsteps echo in the silence. The building feels off without people in it, like a body without a heartbeat.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Someone broke into the Clinical Wing,” Nathan says over his shoulder. “Basement level.”

I exchange a look with Ethan. The Clinical Wing is where our most sensitive work is kept.

“The basement?” Max’s voice is clipped. “That’s three levels of security clearance. How the hell did they get through?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine, sir.”

We reach the elevator bank and descend two levels, emerging into a corridor lined with reinforced doors and biometric scanners. Nathan leads us to a door marked CLIMATE-CONTROLLED STORAGE. Or rather, to what’s left of it.

The access panel has been torn open, wires spilling out like entrails. A small device, some kind of bypass module, is still attached to the circuitry, blinking faintly.

“They used this to override the security code,” Nathan explains. “Sophisticated tech. Not military-grade, though, I’d recognize that. This looks more like something a private manufacturer built.”

“And the temperature control?” Ethan’s voice is tight.

Nathan hesitates. “It was disabled for approximately fourteen minutes before we got it back online.”

Fourteen minutes.