The doctor’s head had been dressed with gauze, but the blood had already begun to soak through. Backing into the corner wall of the room, he cleared his throat. “Only temporarily,” the doctor protested.
Shutting the door with force, Cassian made sure nobody could see or hear them speak. “When it comes to my release, I don’t have a preference for gender. Don’t make me take you here. It will hurt more than your head.”
Acknowledging his weakness, the doctor kneeled and scowled. “You’re right. I came to you, not for my own advantage.”
“I employ 25 percent of this city,” Cassian growled.
“Including me,” he said.
Cassian reached for his holster, where a long pistol lay strapped. “Your advantage is quite clear.”
“Either way. The world must go on. Your ideas must continue to spread,” he said.
Ideas spread like a virus. Cassian didn’t care about the meaning behind his actions as long as he got to the goal. Even if he didn’t, he’d be remembered. His death would mean nothing against the grand realization that the copies would bring the new world.
“Are you a prophet?” Cassian asked.
The doctor stumbled on his words and tried to work back through his error. “I am not,” he said, “but—”
Cassian pulled out the pistol and arched it down against the sopping mess of blood. “Who are you then?”
Closing his eyes, the sad sack lunged forward with crocodile tears. “I am just a loyal servant.”
“You offer cures to God’s afflictions,” Cassian said. “Who gave you the right to direct the course of the world, beta?”
“I am not laudable,” he said.
Cassian’s voice was thunderous. “You are pathetic. You aren’t worthy enough to untie the straps of my sandals.”
Sputum graced his lips and chin. “I am just a voice who calls to you for forgiveness,” he said.
Cassian cocked the handgun, cringing when the metal clicked into place. “Where is he?”
Finally, real tears boiled against his aging eyelids. Leaning forward, he laid prostrate and vulnerable. “They spoke of the barracks.”
Firmly planted on the trigger, Cassian felt the warm heat of the gun explode outward like entropy. His wanton disregard for any life but his own or his mother’s was clear. The doctor slumped in a pool of ordure, now past his prime.
He got what he came for. Next, he’d have Vash and the concubine begging for his seed.
Chapter Nine
Surrounded by the sound of the pouring rain, Wren clung to the bed sheets and cowered. Her ears were focused on the abrupt tapping, but with each window boarded up, Wren had to leave her imagination to paint the stormy scene around her beautiful house.
“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.
Weeks ago, she would have been ecstatic to escape. But as she found a new rhythm with the alphas, she wouldn’t accept their exit. The men had coddled her too much. They fed her fruit and took a liking to her cheery, chubby smiles.
“Precious, we can’t stay in the city. We’ve discussed this,” Vash said.
Wren didn’t understand their reasoning. Would she be forced to move every few weeks? Was that what omegas were forced to do?
Sitting on the mattress, Killian traced a finger around the lock of her collar. “You must listen to us, Precious,” he said.
Wren looked at the alpha and sighed. “You’re right.”
Naturally, the ovulation ritual was of biological imperative. They tended to each wound and fed her pills to filter out the pain. When she was healthy, the alphas checked her lips, savoring the fluctuating flavors.
Lucas moaned and fed her a taste. “Delightful.”