We’re the last to arrive.
Chapter Seven
Anastasia
Instead of entering, I continue past the door, turning to look at Vander once I’ve left plenty of space for him to traverse into the room safely.
After a long, silent moment of close perusal, he slips past without a word.
Taking a stilted breath, I use the pain in my decrepit body to strengthen my defenses.
I step into the silent room, checking everyone’s placement to note the largest empty area.
Distance is best.
Finding most of the occupants on the right side, I move to the left, standing near the corner.
Every Alpha in the room holds an aura of deadliness, their presence just as shocking and intense as the first time I stood in this room with them. There were more people before, but the crowd did little to hide the way they held their bodies. Their eyes don’t look at things, they seem to see through objects, understanding the history, intended purposes, and most lethal ways to use them.
Perhaps that was a reason I held back my explanation. A part of me expected them to recognize what I am without me having to say a word.
I was wrong.
So were they. They refused to see the danger lurking behind my Omega façade.
Best to clear up any confusion.
There are people whose names I know only because I overheard Vander address them. I’ve only introduced myself to a few of them.
Marvelous. A place to begin.
My shoulder spasms, sending a wave of agony through my entire body. Firming my muscles after the initial barrage of pain, I wait no longer.
“My name is Anastasia. I have a contagion, an infectious particle in my DNA. It infects others via direct contact, either through touching my skin or handling my blood. Symptoms begin one to four hours after initial contact, resulting in death anywhere from two to seventy-two hours from time symptoms begin”
The horror blasting from the female occupants of the room causes a chain reaction, yet no one moves to interrupt me. Hackles rise, Alphas pull their Omegas closer, and tension fills every crevice of the room. Jumoke’s stance doesn’t change, but his anger seems doused by concentration.
I continue. Prolonging the inevitable would be cruel.
“Symptoms typically begin with a headache, sore muscles, and general malaise. Duration times vary, but symptoms worsen. Vomiting, diarrhea, fever, and swelling accompany a painful rash. As the skin infection grows, internal organs fail. Survival rate of those infected equals zero.”
Silence blankets the cockpit, the controls not even daring to make noise as the weight of my words sinks into my audience.
Refusing to give way to my body’s injuries, I stand tall and unmoving, giving them time to assess the predicament.
Of course, the Alpha requiring the most effort to keep distanced speaks first.
Jumoke’s explosive words are combative, but there are reasons for everything.
“Why did you come with me, then? When I opened your cell door, why didn’t you say something? Why the hell did you come willingly?”
I take a deep breath, meeting his eyes and infusing every word with as much gentleness as I can manage.
“The enraged male who busted down my locked door was not open to discussion. What would you have done if I had refused you?”
The silent room seems suspended in time, utter stillness permeating every muscle. Knowing I have everyone’s full attention, I lay my weakness out for them to see.
“You would have reached for me, touched me. You would have died. You would have taken me, then lost your life in the most excruciating and wasteful way. I cannot, Jumoke. I cannot be the reason another soul shrivels and dies. I will not be the downfall of another being, especially not you.”
His furrowed brows rise, one settling higher than the other.
Tons of emotions flicker through his eyes, skepticism squeezing through them and taking a prominent position.
He sucks a breath in through his nose, the cock of his eyebrow and waves of disbelief emanating from him making his stance on the matter obvious. Before he can speak, Vander intercedes.
“How many have been affected?”
I’m glad for the logical, straightforward, yet neutrally worded question.
Not how many have died, nor how many have been murdered.
How many affected. Medical terms for a medical issue.
Yet, even with his diplomatic word choice, he may as well have stabbed me through the heart. The answer plagues me constantly.
“Twenty-seven.”
The smell of salty liquid yanks my focus to Shya. Her perch on Dirk’s lap allows her the opportunity to hide her face, but she makes no effort to conceal her emotions. Electric pink eyes leak tears, the sorrow in her heart overflowing and expressing things I’ve never allowed myself to show others.
Britani’s shaky tenor voice registers through the multiple low vibrations permeating the room only because the words bleed with misery.
“You carry the guilt of twenty-seven deaths? That burden is too heavy. Oh, Anastasia…” Britani’s tentative attempt to comfort my heart reaches inside my chest as her green eyes pierce mine. I give her a sad smile, accepting her offering, but encompass the link between us with my own endearment. Her untamed newness, the wildling within her soul still trying to find its strength, soaks up more encouragement than it gives.
Which soothes me in ways I cannot explain.
Having a living, breathing connection in my heart holds bittersweet meaning. I brush the tendrils she’s extended toward me and give them a gentle nudge back to her, sending a coaxing suggestion to cling to her mate.
They need each other, I see it in their joined souls and clasped hands. Britani’s lifemate wraps the rope trailing from her braid around his other fist, pulling her against his side as he gentles her with a quiet purr. Wet tracks trail from her eyes down to her chin, but she melts into her lifemate and swallows down her sobs.
Shya hiccups, her crying an open show of care, her sadness clouding the air around her. Dirk’s
