21. Hate Me the Least

Hate Me the Least

Bishop

When I wake up, my body is stiff and achy, but surprisingly, I'm in minimal pain. The infirmary bed isn't comfortable, the plasticky mattress flat and hard, but I'm sure it's better than the unupholstered chair Titus is stretched out in. He looks like he just walked off a battlefield.

The soles of his bare feet are brown with dirt where they hang off the end of the small upside-down trash bin he's using as a footrest. The bandages around his midsection are equally dirty, covered with dark, rusty, dried blood. I can tell from the splatter pattern it's not his.

Even fast asleep, he still looks like he's fighting. His forehead is fretted, jaw ticking, and his shoulders occasionally jump as his muscles flex in his sleep.

Continuing to look around the room, I'm shocked when I see the date on the electric alarm clock next to me. The games were two days ago.

I push up into a seated position, expecting searing pain in my side, but I don't feel anything other than the stiffness of sleeping on a hard bed and lying in one position for too long. The mattress protector crinkles with my movements and Titus jolts awake, his fist tightening around a small knife I'm just realizing he was sleeping with.

The wild alertness in his eyes fades when he sees it's just me. "Hey, bro, welcome back to the land of the living," he says in a croaky voice.

"You look like you stink." I laugh and my voice is even rustier than his, having not spoken in two days.

"Cracking jokes already? That stuff they gave you must have really worked." He shrugs sleepily and sinks back into the chair.

"Which was?" I'm genuinely curious. I'm not in pain, but my mind isn't foggy like I'd expect if it was just pain killers.

"Alpha hormone enhancers."

"Hmm . . ." I pull down my sheet and see only a swatch of gauze taped to my side. Carefully, I peel the adhesive back and look under the bandage. My first instinct is to double-check the date because no way is this just two days of healing. I don't even have stitches.

"Well, damn." I exhale, taking in the light pink strip of freshly healed skin where a nearly fatal gash should be. It looks more like a cat scratch.

"How do you feel?"

I stretch my arms over my head and shake out my legs. "Like I've been asleep for two days, but otherwise, pretty good."

"Good. Good." He nods.

There's an awkward pause, and I know we're both thinking about the same thing, same person.

"So, uh . . . ," I start hesitantly. "The last thing I remember is Ecker telling me she would pay." I'm not quite sure what my question is. Maybe it's because I'm not sure what answer I'm hoping for.

Titus clears his throat and scrunches his nose like he's reluctant to engage in a distasteful conversation. "She didn't know the games were to the death," is all he says, which leaves me with one more question.

My throat feels uncomfortably tight. "Is she okay?"

"I don't know. I've been here for the past two fucking days," he erupts, shoving the bin with his foot as he abruptly stands. He runs his hand over his tightly cropped hair. "I mean, Jesus, man, why do you even care? You almost died because of her."

Why do I care?

Even if I can't explain it, I'm certain I do. Why else would her well-being be the first thing on my mind after waking up?

His eyes bounce around the room as he paces at the foot of my bed. This anxious and unsettled behavior is uncharacteristic. Titus isn't one for regret or guilt, but the way he's acting makes me wonder if he finally went too far . . .

"She still our omega?"

"Yeah." He scoffs, sitting back down in the chair. He sounds fed up, but I can't tell with what. My questions, her, this entire Trial shitshow? I don't know. His face is unreadable. "She's still our omega."

I hesitate, my fist hovering over Sinclair's bedroom door. She did almost get me killed.

And yet, ever since I asked Titus how she was, I've had this gnawing feeling like I'm the one with something to apologize for.

When I got back from the infirmary a few minutes ago, Ecker told me she has barely left her room since the games. He was out the door heading to a gym workout with the Beryll alphas before I could ask anymore questions. Titus is finally taking care of himself by the sound of the shower in his en suite running.

I tap my foot, debating whether I should even knock. If she wanted company, she probably wouldn't have locked herself in her room for forty-eight hours. I'm not used to feeling indecisive, and it makes my chest tight.

I'm used to being able to quickly weigh and measure every option before picking the best route forward with confidence. So why is a goddamn door making my stomach flutter?

My heart lodges into my throat when the door suddenly opens. I stumble back as Seventeen nearly collides with me. The plate and silverware on the tray in her hands rattle as she jumps, startled.

Processing it's me, she quickly clears her expression and retrains her gaze on her feet. "Excuse me, Alpha, sir. I wasn't expecting you."

I step out of the doorway to let her by. "Can I see her?"

Her eyes flit up to me with a flash of confusion. I realize why when she says, "Of course, whatever you wish."

Alphas aren't supposed to ask permission. But this goddamn fluttering in my stomach has me all tongue-tied and I try again, quieter in case Sinclair can hear, "But does she want to see me?"

Seventeen pauses. My palms start sweating. Then, diplomatically, she answers, "You're her alpha, sir."

"Right."

She takes a few steps toward the exit before turning around. "The fact that you asked what she wants . . . I don't think she'll mind." She gives me a small nod in parting and leaves.

I look in from the threshold of Sinclair's bedroom. She must still be in the bathroom since I don't see her. The hole Titus left in the door the night of the ceremony is still gaping, but someone's long since cleaned up the splintered wood from the floor.

I find I'm soothed by this discovery, picturing her cutting her feet on the debris. I can't help but think I should have already thought of the potential harm and been the one to clean it up.

After a moment, I realize the small lump under the comforter is Sinclair. She's curled up in such a tight ball that she nearly disappears. The covers are pulled up so high that I can only see the top of her head. She seems so fragile like this. Breakable.

Is that what happened? My stomach sinks and my chest tightens. Did they break her?

She doesn't stir when I walk into her room even though my footsteps are intentionally heavy so as not to startle her. She doesn't appear to move a muscle, but I hear, "I wondered when you'd come." It's more despondent than snarky and makes me curl my hands into fists.

She's hurt. And the urge to hurt whoever hurt her is so powerful I have to grab onto the wooden banister at the foot of her bed. I want to rip open my sternum to free this feeling in my chest. I want to barricade every piece of furniture in this room in front of the door so it's just me and her, and no one can ever hurt her again.

The wood cracks in my grip. Jesus, these hormones are fucking with me more than being around her usually does.

I could probably snap wood like this on a normal day, but never accidentally.

"Sin—Omega." Saying her name sounds too intimate, too precious.

She rolls over and pokes her head out. "Bishop?" She sounds breathless and surprised.

"Yeah." My voice sounds like coarse sandpaper. "How are you?"

"Me? How are you?" She sits upright, her silver hair mussed, and she tucks it behind her ears. "Shit, I'm so sorry. I didn't want—I didn't mean for—Christ." She rolls her eyes with a frustrated huff at her own stumbling apology. She sighs and tries again, "I just wanted out. I didn't want you dead."

I haven't been able to move from the foot of her bed ever since the sheets fell to her lap and I could see her braless tits pushing against her T-shirt. My cock jerks and I tamp the growl rolling in my chest as I imagine sucking one pert nipple through the thin fabric.

"Are you okay? In pain?" There's concern in her voice, and I realize I'm now gripping the banister with both hands as I fold partially over, breathing in slow, heavy drags.

"No, no, I'm fine." I straighten and try to relax the tension in my jaw and down my back.

There's a weight to the slump of her shoulders. I want to go to her. I want to lift the burden. But I don't trust myself. Especially not like this—god, my cock throbs. I would tear. Her. Apart.

She looks at me with weary suspicion. "You're fine?"

Words evade me as I struggle to push this burning rut down before I lose control, so instead, I lift my shirt and show her the healed wound. Her eyes widen then they slowly move lower and lower. The fluttering in my stomach returns as her gaze burns my skin then settles at my hips.

Her pink lips part ever so slightly, and I can hear a hitch in her breath. I know what she sees without glancing down: my dick tenting my shorts. I can't look away from the way her tongue flicks out the smallest bit before her throat bobs on a dry swallow.

My voice is strained and deep. "Look at me."

Her eyes jump to mine and instantly that heady, heated quality to her gaze cools. She tugs the sheets closer as if embarrassed. That's when I notice.

Her hands clutch the covers and the red band of damaged skin around her wrists stands out against the white fabric.

I'm at her bedside in an instant, pulling her hands into my own. I flip them over and back again with a low growl. The injuries encircle both wrists . . . like the rusty shackles on the victor's prize would.

"What did they do?"

Her voice is quiet and defeated again. "They made me pay."

My stomach roils, and my chest pangs. My bodily instincts want me to rage against whoever did this, but my mind knows it was my brothers doing what they thought they had to . . . for me.

I drop her hands like they've burned me, taking a few strides back. "Listen, I get why you did what you did. We chose this; you didn't." Her face is stricken, like she never expected anyone to see her side. "But I get why they did what they did too." Instantly, her face hardens.

It's a complicated jumble in my head. I got hurt because of the choices she made. My brothers made her suffer the consequences of those choices. And yet, somehow, I feel responsible for what she endured.

I feel torn in two different directions. I swallow the barbs in my throat. "What else?"

Her brows furrow, and she asks, "What else did they do?" I nod. "What does it matter? It happened, okay? I learned my lesson and know my place."

I don't like this answer.

Her submission soothes the alpha inside me, but at the same time, it doesn't feel right, doesn't feel earned.

An omega should submit because she accepts her alpha. Accepts his care, his protection, and in turn, offers her obedience, submission.

But this . . . No, this doesn't feel right. And with it comes the familiar feeling of failure. I didn't protect my mother. I didn't protect Sinclair . . . . I don't deserve her tacit complacency.

I hang my head like a dog tucking his tail. "I'm sorry I wasn't there." I go to leave, but cowering doesn't feel right either. Walking away, pretending nothing happened . . . I turn to face her. "You don't have to tell me. But show me." Not willing to take no for an answer, I alpha growl the last sentence.

She looks bitter as she slides off the bed. As soon as her feet hit the floor and I realize she's only wearing a shirt, I start to second-guess everything. Her smooth thighs disappear under the hem of the oversized tee. I don't think I will be able to handle seeing the marks of another man on her, even if they are my brothers.

Under my command, there's no room for her to have reservations. She begins lifting the shirt. When I see the first bruises, my jaw clenches so hard I expect my teeth to crack any second.

Somehow, I keep it together enough for her to finish removing the top. She's left in only her underwear and quickly covers her chest with her arms. Without a word, she rotates, showing me her back.

The sight takes the breath straight from my lungs.

Bandages cover some areas that must be even worse, but the spots on her back that are uncovered look like she was dragged behind a car.

Her shoulders twitch like she's uncomfortable with her back to me.

"Turn around," I order.

She drops her arms. Her breasts rise with a vulnerable, deep breath as my eyes canvas her chest carving with fresh wounds. My stomach twists, my heart sinking. She may have poisoned me, but at the end of the day, she's the one who is sustaining injuries. I'm standing here miraculously healed while she's still bleeding.

I stand there mute, no words feeling adequate. Eventually, I pathetically say, "I wish there were something I could have done."

She looks off to the side and chews on her inner lip as if in thought. After a beat, she says, "You really mean that? Even though it was your brothers?"

I'm not sure where she's going with these questions, but I feel compelled to answer honestly. "Yes."

My response makes her lip tug in a half-smile, like she just won a game I didn't know we were playing. She lifts her chin and there's a spark in her eyes I haven't seen since before the games. "Then claim me."

"What?"

"Make me your mate and they won't be able to hurt me again."