fly, songbird, fly
Chapter 2: Emergency Evasive Maneuvers
Summary: They say they're here to help... but can you really trust that?
Pairing: Eventual Poly141 / Reader
Warnings: Omegaverse, Human Trafficking, On-Screen Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, A/B/O typical sexism, Military Inaccuracies, Military Operations, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Medical Experimentation
Author's Note: Not quite out of the woods yet...
Read the full fic on AO3 here!
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17 MAR 2022 04:19 Cpt. John Price Task Force 141 Verdansk, Kastovia
God.
How long has this omega been left here, wallowing in filth?
Price lowers down until he's crouching before you, moving his gun off to the side. With one hand, he gestures the others back—it's clear you're not a threat, he can't see a single weapon on you, and with how badly you're shaking, you probably can't stand, either. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Look, the gun's down, alright?"
The reek of piss, blood, and rot fills the air—thick enough to taste. He stifles the urge to gag, jaw clenching as you fold in on yourself, lips curled back in what he assumes is supposed to be a snarl.
It’d be cute, if it weren’t so pitiful, if they were literally anywhere else in the world. More of a twitch than anything menacing.
“Christ,” he mutters, mostly to himself. You’re bloody covered in it—grime, dried blood, and whatever else had the misfortune of sticking to you. But the collar… the heavy iron band digging into your throat is the worst of it. Rusted, crude, and clearly too damn tight—cutting into the bruised, raw skin beneath.
You’re down for the count, sure, but he can see a little bit of fire left in you. The tiniest amount of fight lingering in your blood, because—while yes, you’re clearly terrified of them all—you haven’t quite given up.
He knows you’re close, though.
Poor thing.
"I'm coming closer, alright?" He keeps his voice down, making sure it's firm but reassuring. "It's just you and me. We're getting you out of here." So much mars the delicate curves of your sunken cheeks. Price lowers his hand cautiously, fingers brushing the matted hair plastered to your forehead.
You jerk away with a pained, muted gasp. The motion’s weak, there’s nowhere for you to even go, but your ragged breathing quickens and shakes your tiny form. A low whimper escapes your cracked, bloodied lips, and it feels like a punch to the gut. You’re terrified of them, and for a moment it leaves him reeling. Are you terrified because he’s a man? A soldier? An alpha? Or is it because you’ve never known a kind touch?
"You're alright," he manages, fighting to keep his voice steady despite the emotions wanting to burst through his carefully constructed facade. "You're with me now. Name's John, alright? Let's get you out of here."
“Bloody ‘ell…” Soap’s voice is rough, barely above a whisper as he comes to crouch on the other side of the cage. His usual easy demeanor is gone, replaced with something sharper, darker. Even if betas lack the primal instincts of their alphan and omegan counterparts, he can feel the barely restrained rage simmering through his pack’s bond, even from Ghost.
Soap reaches for his vest pocket, pulling out a silver emergency blanket with barely steady hands. “Poor lass looks like she’s been through the bloody wringer. No one should be left like this.”
Price doesn’t reply. He can’t, not with the bile threatening to rise in his throat. He can almost see the mounds of paperwork he’ll have waiting for him, knowing he’s about to bring this poor scrap back to base.
Every second locked in this cage clearly isn’t helping. Price shifts, knees scraping against the dirty floor as he searches for whatever is fastening this collar to you. His fingertips graze the cool, rusted metal, and his jaw tightens. Who the fuck would do this? He’s seen evil in the world for decades now, been thrown into the worst situations one could imagine.
But this?
It’s a new low.
A new threat.
His alpha roars in his chest. Desperate to pull this omega girl to safety, to shield you, to raze the Earth until every last threat to your life and happiness is eliminated.
”Gaz,” he calls over his shoulder, jaw tight. His tone stays calm, even though his pulse hammers in his ears. “Grab my bolt cutters. Now.”
”On it, Captain,” Gaz’s response is immediate, his boots thudding softly against the floor as he approaches. The clever fingers of his beta work at the straps holding the thing to his back, and Price turns his attention back to you.
He keeps his touch gentle yet deliberate. One hand braces your shoulder as he tilts your chin up, hoping to relieve the pressure on your neck. Your skin burns with fever, a sickly sheen catching the faint light filtering from their flashlights. “You’re alright,” he murmurs, the words soft, coaxing despite the knot forming in his chest. “Just hold on. We’ll get you out of this.”
Your wide, glassy eyes flicker to his face. For a split second, he thinks you might relax—or pass out. But the moment flees as quickly as it comes, and you shrink back again. Your entire body curls inwards like you’re trying to disappear. A pitiful, broken sob tears through the silence.
He exhales sharply through his nose, frustration threatening to boil over. Not at you—no, never, he could never be angry at someone who’s so clearly a *victim—*but at the bastards who put you here. The ones who left you to rot.
Soap lets out a low sigh, shaking his head as he finishes spreading the blanket. “She’s scared outta ‘er bloody mind.”
”I know,” Price mutters, fingers curling into fists. He doesn’t want to think about that now—can’t afford to. His instincts continue to scream at him, begging him to fix it, to protect you, but there’s nothing he can do at the moment except pray that you’ll hold on long enough for the four of them to bring you to safety.
”Bolt cutters, sir,” Gaz’s voice cuts through the tension as he returns, crouching down and handing them over.
“Good lad,” Price takes them, motioning for Soap to ready the blanket as he angles the cutters around the collar. “Hold still, sweetheart. Just for a second.”
The sharp snap of metal breaking is deafening, the collar falling to the floor with a heavy sound. His heart clenches—you flinch at the noise, a pitiful whimper slipping from your lips as it hits one of your hands. It’s becoming even more clear that you’ve been beaten into submission, into silence as Price drags it away before tracing a finger over the marks left behind.
”There we go,” he says softly, forcing the tension from his voice. “Better, yeah?”
You don’t answer. You don’t even look at him. The only sounds that escape are your tiny, breathless whimpers as he and Soap work to pull you from the cage. You’re so light it startles him—skin and bone, nothing more. The emergency blanket crinkles faintly as Soap tucks it around your body, the silver sheen stark against the bruises. The violent trembling wracking your body feels worse up close as he gathers you in his arms—each shiver vibrating through his arms like an earthquake.
”Shh,” Price murmurs, adjusting his hold to cradle you closer. His gloves graze your hair again, and it’s enough for your breath to stutter—shallow and weak and entirely too quick. Your entire form reeks with fear, bitter and sour. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
But… you aren’t safe. Not yet. Safer than you were minutes ago, sure. But the words feel hollow, almost cruel, and he hates that it’s the only thing he can offer you until they’re in the air, leaving this dreadful place behind.
”She’s tiny,” Gaz mutters from behind him, voice tight.
Price glances down at you, lips pressed into a thin line. He’s not wrong. Your head lolls against his shoulder, and he instinctively shifts you higher, tucking your face against his kit to shield you from the mess around them. The less of it you see, the better. You’ve clearly been traumatized enough for one lifetime, and he’s not keen on adding to it.
”Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost growls.
”Aye,” Soap agrees, blue eyes dark as he rises to his feet. “They probably didn’t give her more than scraps, bastards.” He gestures vaguely towards you, expression flickering between anger and something… softer. Tender, almost.
Price doesn’t answer. He can’t, not with his alpha still clawing at his ribcage. The urge to protect you, to shelter you and keep you safe, to make sure nothing ever hurts you again is overwhelming. It’s sharp, raw, something he only ever feels when his pack is in danger.
But… you’re not in his pack. He has to keep reminding himself of that one single fact, because you’re not even really his responsibility. Just an objective… One they didn’t expect, and once again the thought of the mountains of paperwork that’ll be waiting to greet him leaves his head throbbing.
”Watcher, this is Bravo 0-6,” Price says, voice tight as he presses a hand to his comms. The other still holds you tight, nodding to Gaz as the beta fiddles with your blanket.
”This is Watcher. Go ahead,” Laswell’s calm, clipped tone crackles through his earpiece.
”No sign of the target. Six armed hostiles down. Intel recovered,” Price reports, words measured. He hesitates for a moment before continuing, voice lowering. “But the objective… it’s not what we expected.”
”Price?” Laswell’s tone is sharp now.
Price exchanges a glance with the others. Gaz nods firmly, one hand still holding his rifle as he murmurs wordless reassurances at your miniscule form. Ghost and Soap are crouched near a stack of crates, sorting through hastily abandoned paperwork.
”We didn’t stumble onto an arms deal,” Price murmurs, jaw tightening. “It’s a bloody omega trafficking ring. Found one survivor. The others didn’t make it.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.
”Say again, Bravo 0-6?”
”I say again, trafficking ring,” Price repeats grimly. His gaze drops to you, still trembling in his arms, and oh how he wants to absorb you into himself, to tuck you safely behind his ribs and nestle you close to his heart where nothing could ever hurt you again. “Single female survivor. Adult omega, but young. Barely alive.”
Laswell exhales sharply, the faint sound of her typing in the background filtering through. “That wasn’t in my intel. No mention of hostages or… livestock, no indication that this was anything but a weapons deal.”
Price rocks on his heels. “Yeah, well, someone cocked it up,” he growls in reply. “Place was bloody empty save for the six we took out. No sign of weapons, just empty shelves, empty crates… and a single truck with a shipping container. Six cages. The others were put down in the firefight, the traffickers didn’t bloody try to fight us. They executed the victims instead.”
Laswell is silent for a moment, and Price can almost picture her reaching for a cigarette. “Any intel?”
”Ghost?” Price turns towards the masked alpha, one eyebrow raised. Ghost shakes his head.
”Not much. Manifests, mostly, but they’re vague. We’ll need analysis. One commonality, some kind of symbol.”
”Grab anything that looks useful and get out of there,” Laswell orders. “I’ll scramble a bird to the safehouse, but we’ve got a short window. Weather’s getting bad.”
”Of-bloody-course it is,” Soap groans. “Counae send us somewhere tropical?”
”Maybe next time, Sergeant,” Laswell remarks dryly. “Get the survivor out of there.”
”Roger that. Bravo out.”
Price’s hand lowers from his mic, and his eyes rove over his team. “Ghost, status?”
”Intel’s sorted,” the broad-shouldered alpha answers, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet. He nods towards a small stack of paperwork, piled neatly on one of the crates. “Like I said. Manifests, shipping logs. Some names. Nothing solid yet, but it’s a start.”
You shift weakly, and Price adjusts his grip on your frail form. “Good. Soap, Gaz, sweep the area one more time. Make sure we’re clear before we move.”
”On it,” Soap murmurs, already moving towards the door, rifle at the ready. Gaz glances over at him one last time, expression grim before he follows Soap away. Without the two of them, the room falls into silence, broken only by the faint shuffle of papers and the wet rasp of your weak breaths.
Price exhales slowly, letting his gaze drift down to your face properly, to take in your high cheekbones and slightly crooked nose—almost like it’d been broken and never healed right. Your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, your lips trembling with the faintest hint of a sound.
A whimper.
It’s so quiet he nearly misses it. You’ve noticed his gaze on you, and it’s scaring you—proven by the way your body tenses in his arms.
”Easy now,” he murmurs, leaning his head down slightly, voice low and gentle. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
You don’t relax much, the rigidity in your small frame still clinging on even as he strokes a thumb over your shoulder. It’s instinctive, his alpha desperate to soothe you, to shelter you and heal you. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, shoving the anger and frustration at this hell to the back of his mind. There’s no time for it now.
No time to dwell on the fact that his instincts are treating you like one of his own when you’re not.
Not yet…
No. He shoos that thought away as the scuff of boots on concrete fills his ears, looking up to see Soap and Gaz return.
“All clear,” Soap reports, clipped. “No sign of anyone else, but we should move quick. Weather’s gettin’ a wee bit baltic.”
”Great,” Ghost groans. Price glares at him as you stiffen more, looking towards the source of the noise with a fearful expression.
“Bravo Six, on me. Move out.”
Unknown Date/Time Omega-06348 Unknown Location
Your head lolls against the alpha’s vest, too weak to hold up any longer even as the coarse fabric scrapes against your cheek. Every jarring step sends new waves of pain coursing through your body, the raw bruises and wounds irritated by the movements. The smell of him—smoke and leather, deep and intense—fills your nose.
It’s too much.
You want to pull away. But there’s nowhere to go. His arms are a cage, strong and unyielding, yet his hands seem… careful…
…gentle, even.
Safe?
No. Not safe.
It’s wrong, all of it, alphas aren’t gentle. Yet his hands are steady and careful, they’re not crushing you. But… you know he could, and the thought turns your stomach wile panic wells in your chest.
”Easy, easy,” he murmurs, low and rough. You don’t even realize you’re hyperventilating until his words break through the haze. His eyes—kind and warm and so, so confusing—crinkle at the edges as he glances down at you.
It’s a nice look on him.
It terrifies you.
Why is your omega purring at this man? Why is the primal part of you curling up to him like a feral creature desperate for safety? You can’t trust him, you can’t trust any of them.
”I know you're scared,” he murmurs, voice even softer now. “Hell, I'd be scared, too. But we're gonna get you out of here, get you somewhere safe. Just close your eyes for me.”
Safe. He keeps saying that word, like it means something. But you know better. You shudder against him, unable to meet his steady gaze any more, but uncertain if it’s safe to close them like he wants. You can’t trust him, can’t trust any of them, alphas aren’t safe.
A pathetic sound escapes your lips—a quiet mewl you barely recognize as your own. Your fingers twitch weakly against the rough silver blanket as you try to pull it tighter, to bury yourself in it, but you can’t. Your hands barely manage to grip the thing, and the way it crinkles under your touch… it’s not soft. Not at all, and yet it’s somehow the most comforting thing you’ve ever seen.
You need to hide. You need to run, to get away, you just want to be somewhere away from this place you want to go home—
There is no home left for you. Would you even remember which way to go if there was, now that you’ve been dumped God only knows where? Have you traded one hell for another?
The thought sends a surge of panic through your veins, and you twist feebly in his grip. His hold tightens in response, broad hands steadying you against his chest even as you snarl weakly at him.
“Relax,” he mutters, shifting his stance to brace your weight more securely. “Keep your eyes closed. You don’t need to see this part.”
See what part?
Your lashes flutter open, and—
Oh.
This is the first time you’ve seen the space around you. For so long, your entire world revolved around the metal bars of your cage, the steel walls of the container, and the fearful cries of the omegas trapped with you. The soldiers’ flashlights cast shadows on the cold concrete floor. Blood smears the walls, dark and tacky, like the room itself is bleeding. The scattered debris around you glints in the dim light—bullet casings, shards of glass, something… some lump, human shaped and staring ahead at nothing, a hole torn straight through its head—
Bile burns its way up your throat, and you gag, weakly tugging away from his hold.
”Shit,” he crouches immediately, tipping you forward with a hand wrapped around your abdomen. “Go on, then, let it out.”
You don’t want to—but you do anyway. Your entire body convulses with the effort, the acidic sting tearing through your raw throat, but his grip doesn’t falter even as you collapse against him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, soft and steady. “You’re okay. Water soon, I promise.”
It hurts so much, burning through your throat, jostling your form and constricting your lungs to the point where you can’t even breathe. The gentle pressure of his hand against your spine comforts you, at least a little. He’s not hurting you, not forcing your face down into the mess, he’s… he’s helping you?
No, that can’t be right.
You try pressing deeper into the blanket, try shrinking away, try smothering the unwanted feelings bubbling in your chest because it’s not safe. It doesn’t matter that he seems to be trying to spare you the horrors surrounding you, you can’t trust him. You can’t trust any of them. Disobedience means punishment, though, and you didn’t listen when this alpha told you not to look.
These men—they’re tall, broad-shouldered, and armed—they could crush you without a second thought. Your breath comes faster again, sharp and shallow, as the terror claws its way back to the surface.
Oh god, they’re all bigger than you—
The thought is enough to make you panic again, body desperately fighting against his hold in an attempt to escape. You shove weakly against his chest, sobs spilling out in ragged gasps. You need to get away, you need to run as hard and fast as your legs will let you—
“Hey, easy, you’re alright,” he says again, a little firmer this time, but it doesn’t help. Your mind is too far gone, consumed by visions of what could—no, will—happen if you don’t find a way to escape this alpha’s hold.
His grip falters for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. You struggle to your feet, but before you can take more than a few steps, your legs buckle and send you sprawling.
Then the world bleeds into chaos.
”Oi, lass, steady!” One of them—the stocky beta with the mohawk—shouts, the sound sharp and urgent as three sets of footsteps close in.
Before you can scramble away, stronger hands clamp around your arms, hoisting you upright. The blanket flutters to the ground, useless, while a strangled scream rips free from your throat. Your vision whites out with terror as the person’s grip tightens, burning against your skin, crushing, pulling, they’re going to—
“Careful, Ghost, ye’re hurtin’ her!”
”Christ—“ The pressure lessens immediately, but your knees give out again, your exhausted body sagging into the soldier’s legs.
”P—please…” the word rasps from your throat, barely audible, but enough to shock all of you. Speaking out of turn—oh, you’re so dead. But that doesn’t stop the next words from breaking free: “Stop… stop…”
The hands holding you disappear, replaced by the same broad chest from earlier. His warmth surrounds you, and even though you so desperately want to run still, your body sags into his, betraying you. “Shh, it’s alright,” he murmurs, crouching as another set of hands works to secure the silver blanket back around your frigid skin. “Stay with me. Breathe. We’ll get through this. You’re safe, but I need you to trust us.”
Safe. There’s that word again.
You want to believe it—god, you want to—but you don’t dare.
”Please…” you whimper again, like finding your voice has unlocked something uncontrollable—a tidal wave that threatens to drown you. It’s barely audible against the sound of you scrambling to escape the alpha’s arms, clawing at the edges of the blanket. You twist and squirm until you drop to the floor, until your heel strikes something solid, sending shockwaves of pain up your limb.
A soldier’s leg.
Oh god.
The movement stills everyone at once, and you freeze. They’re going to kill you. You kicked one of them and now they’re going to make you pay, they’re going to hurt you, they’re going to force you to the floor and brutalize you and they’re closing in—cutting off every escape route and leaving you trapped.
The light shifts as one of them kneels—the alpha who’d been carrying you. Your breath catches as he meets your eyes, holding them with a sharp blue gaze.
But there’s no anger in them, no malice. Just a steady warmth hidden by a grizzled beard and faint age lines.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly, hands open and low. His gloved palms face you in some kind of… of peace offering? “You’re alright. Take my hand.”
You’re not alright.
Your omega screams at you, but even her thoughts are jumbled. Do you move and try to flee, risk their anger properly this time? Or do you crawl closer and beg for forgiveness? All you can manage is staring at him, frozen, terrified, until he inches forward. His hands reach for you, slow and deliberate, enough to make you flinch violently the second they make contact.
”Easy,” he murmurs, tone barely above a whisper as he gathers you close again. “That’s it, I’ve got you.”
Slowly, as he lifts you against his chest, your trembling legs wrap around his waist. He nods, a silent encouragement for you to slip your shaking fingers beneath the rough fabric of his tactical vest, body pressed against all the things stashed in the pockets. You don’t know why you do it—why your body reacts like this—but the warmth radiating from him feels like the only thing keeping the cold away.
”I’m gonna wrap the blanket around you,” he explains, tucking the thing in. “We’ll get you proper clothes soon.”
The rhythmic thud of his heart beneath your fingers anchors you, even as fear continues to claw at the edges of your entire being.
But then his hand brushes your neck as he adjusts his hold, and your breath stutters… except he doesn’t move to scruff you. Doesn’t force you down, doesn’t tighten his hold beyond what’s needed to keep you steady. Instead, he leans close, his breath warm against your temple. “Hold onto me, sweetheart. We’re gonna get you somewhere safe.”
Safe.
That must be his favorite word.
And… it’s working, somehow. Your exhausted body begins to give in, the tension in your muscles slowly releasing even despite your inner turmoil. Your eyes flutter shut—not from trust, but from a bone-deep tiredness that you can’t shake.
The alpha chuckles softly, low and warm and almost soothing. “Good girl.”
You’re so tired… and his scent is so nice… he smells like smoke and leather and the faintest hint of something sweet. It’s so different from the chemical smell that’s burned your nose for so long now, he doesn’t hurt you or force anything on you…
…that doesn’t mean he won’t, though.
Your panic surges once more—set off by the waves of confusion and fear coming from the men around you—as the warehouse floods with a stark, blinding light. Shouts echo in the distance, the sound cutting through the quiet night and forcing you back to reality. The alpha holding you tightens his grip as the sound of boots crunching through gravel fills the air.
”Shit!” Someone hisses, and the four men crouch as a unit.
“Stay low,” he growls, voice sharp and commanding now, and it’s then that you remember he called himself Captain, that he’s an alpha and will have no issue making you comply— “Low and slow. They’re coming from the north, our exfil is south. Hold your fire.”
The low murmurs that follow—a chorus of confirmation—make your stomach twist. The alpha holding you shifts again, one hand leaving your form to press against a button near your cheek. “Watcher, this is Bravo 0-6 actual. Something’s spooked them. Multiple guns on foot, unknown number of hostiles. We’re heading for our primary evac, we need exfil!”
The reply that comes is muffled—spoken directly to his ears and the ears of his team—but the way his jaw tightens makes your heart race. He nods sharply to one of the other soldiers, the one with the skull mask, before glancing down at you with an almost mournful expression.
Is he… is he going to leave you behind?
”Honey,” he whispers, tone softer but no less firm. It does nothing to soothe you, nothing to prevent the tears budding in your eyes—how is there even enough water left in your body for this?—and you grip him harder. Is your only safety about to be ripped away? He… he wouldn’t, right?”
”I know you’re scared, but I have to do this.”
For a moment, you want to ask what he means. Properly ask, voice and everything, but there’s not even time for you to process his words before the other alpha clamps a gloved hand over your mouth. At the same time, the captain scruffs you, his fingers pressing against the glands in your neck—
—and the world goes dark.
17 MAR 2022 04:41 Cpt. John Price Task Force 141 Verdansk, Kastovia
The way your eyes roll back sickens him, your entire body falling limp against his, but he can’t let go. He has to follow through, no matter how fucking much he hates taking advantage of someone so defenseless. “Stay quiet,” he growls, letting the full force of his alpha tone cut through the air, slice whatever remains of your free will like a blade. “Not a sound. Hold on tight to me.”
Price’s hand lingers at your neck for a few more heartbeats, massaging the pressure points to ensure your obedience. He lets go after a few moments, after he knows you won’t wake from this forced stupor for a while.
With any luck, you’ll be borderline comatose until they reach safety.
“Clear to the blue storage container,” Ghost growls, jerking the end of his rifle towards their waypoint as he releases your mouth. Price nods, tucking your limp head in against his chest before standing a little taller.
”Move,” he commands, voice cutting through the growing downpour as the team begins to push forward, clumped tight around your broken form.
The storm is relentless, soaking through their kits and turning the ground beneath their boots to sludge. At the very least, the sound is enough to dampen their footsteps, to buy him some time to cobble together a better plan then ‘get the fuck out of here.’ Price shifts your limp form in his arms, firm yet careful as he holds you tight. Even for an omega, you’re alarmingly light, barely more than a tiny bird.
“We’re not alone out here,” Ghost mutters from ahead, barely audible over the hammering rain. Price doesn’t need the reminder—his senses are already on edge, the scent of enemy operatives on the wind. At least that means they’re downwind—their own scents won’t carry any further.
“Low ground ahead,” Soap calls, nodding toward one of the smaller hills they’d passed during infiltration. “If they’re hidin’, we’ll see ‘em comin’.”
”Or they’ll see us first,” Gaz replies, clipped and short as he glances toward Price. “How’s the omega, Captain?”
Price doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flicker down to your form, thumb grazing your shoulder over the silver blanket. Your breaths are shallow, almost labored, and even with the blanket you’re soaked. They need to get you out of this storm—and preferably soon.
“She’s alive,” he mutters finally, still watching your pale, slack face. “That’s enough for now.”
They move as one—silent shadows cutting through the tense atmosphere as they head toward the waypoint. Every step feels heavier than the last, slogged down by the drenching they’re all receiving, cold seeping into their limbs. None of them slow—they can’t. Not when stopping means death.
The storage container comes into view—blue paint peeling and flaking to the puddles on the ground, rust streaking the edges. They push past, towards the ridge, towards safety. Every so often, you manage a weak whimper—soft, broken sounds that twist something deep in his chest.
How did you end up in this world? Did you have someone—anyone—out there, looking for you? A pack, a family, anything? At least his alpha’s settled enough to think. Isn’t pacing the perimeter of his thoughts anymore, ready to tear anyone who dares threaten his newest charge limb from bloody limb. It’s a foreign feeling, in a way. Price is protective over his mates, that much he knows.
But this?
Someone so… small? Defenseless?
Maybe it came with the territory. A military pack—all alphas and betas—wasn’t unusual, especially not in special forces. He knows of other SAS packs, a few in the SBS—hell, even Spetznaz and JSOC have them. But omegas, especially in their line of work? Not unheard of, but certainly uncommon.
Sure, his boys could be vulnerable. After the things they’d all seen—and *done—*Price would worry if they weren't sometimes. But even in all those moments, in the soft rooftop conversations, in holding each other after another string of endless nightmares, none of them ever seemed this fragile.
”Just a bit further,” he murmurs softly, hoping at least a little of the reassurance reaches your ears. You’re starting to stir, he thinks, scent still sharp with fear, laced with pain and exhaustion. That’s what’s still prickling at the edges of his control, his alpha resuming his demands to do something, anything to make it stop.
He can’t. Not yet. And certainly not for too long, because eventually he will have to let you go. Getting attached is not only foolish, it’s dangerous. You’re a civilian, tangled up in a world you don’t belong in. You deserve a pack, somewhere safe to lay your head at night, an alpha to hold you close and treat you the way you deserve.
You could be that alpha. You and Simon, and she could have two betas to round out her pack of men who would lay down their lives to protect her—
No. The mission comes first, and there is no place in those plans for any of this.
“How far to the vehicle?” Gaz asks, low and urgent as they stop on the ridge. Soap peers down the trail below, eyes sharp and narrowed as he searches for any stragglers. The lights in the distance have gone out—or at least dim, with how hard the storm continues its deluge—and there’s no sign of anyone following. If they’re lucky, they lost the rest of the traffickers—whoever they are—in the rain.
”Another kilometer,” Ghost grunts, already heading away. Price barely hears them, too busy sparing another glance down to your tiny form. Grime and rain streaks your face, head lolling slightly when he shifts his weight. Your body remains limp, still trembling with tiny, uncontrolled movements.
A soft noise keeps his attention from drawing away—your voice, weak and fragile. You’re trying to say something, but the words don’t come out. Price leans in a little closer, brows furrowing.
”Hey, shh,” he murmurs, holding you a little tighter. “Stay with me, you’re alright. We’re almost there.”
The words feel hollow in his throat. Everyone—you, him, his pack—knows they’re a lie. But it’s all he has.
They march forward. Left foot, right foot. Adjust, scan the area, and keep moving. Thankfully, it’s not long before he sees the vehicle in the distance, the four of them breaking into a jog as it comes into view properly. But his foot lands wrong, jostles your form, and you flinch hard. A strangled, gurgling noise rips from your throat as your head tips back, eyes rolling in fear as you make a feeble attempt to squirm out of his arms, away from the agony you must be in.
”Shit,” Price mutters, crouching to adjust you again. “Gaz, in back with me, get the medkit!”
”On it!” His beta is already moving, hand darting to the pack they stashed in the trunk as Soap and Ghost jump in front, gunning the engine and speeding away.
”Come on, sweetheart,” Price whispers, voice rough but coaxing as he tries to draw your attention. “Stay with me. Don’t go quiet on me now.”
You don’t respond—eyes still half-lidded and glazed, pupils dilated even now. You stare past him, somewhere in the middle distance, only reacting when they hit a particularly large bump. A pitiful, pained yelp escapes your lips as his hand grazes one of the many wounds on your body, holding you on the seat. Your breath hitches with suppressed sobs, terrified and helpless as Gaz’s hands press against a rancid looking laceration.
”We need to clean this up,” he mutters, voice tight, “before it gets worse.” Price knows the undercurrent of his words, can hear the fear and frustration warring in the beta’s voice. Are we too late?
“Do it,” Price growls, tightening his grip on your torso. The vehicle lurches as it flies over the rocky terrain, cabin vibrating enough to jostle all of them. Gaz’s fingers—slick with blood—tear the cap off the miniscule bottle of antiseptic, and god he hopes it’ll be enough. The sharp smell of alcohol stuffs his nose, filling the cramped interior, seemingly enough to tear you from your stupor.
And the moment the alcohol hits your skin, you jolt hard. Your thrashing is weak, almost pathetic as your body contorts in an attempt to find relief from the fire licking through your veins. Price’s jaw clenches as he holds you down harder, fingers digging into your already bruised skin as you whimper louder and louder. It’s clear you’re exhausted, that you’re losing your battle with consciousness, that the pain you’re in is terrifying you—
“Hold her still!” Gaz snaps, almost alphan in the way his voice sharpens. Suppose that’s what happens when you have two alphas and another beta for mates. His hands struggle to keep pressure on the wound, bloodied gauze spilling around his fingers. Your movements, even though they’re feeble, are frantic enough to risk tearing your ruined flesh open further.
“You’re alright,” Price manages through gritted teeth, forcing his voice to stay low and steady no matter how badly he wants to bark at you to just stay bloody still. “Just breathe. Just breathe.”
Is the panic gripping at his chest even a fraction of what you’re feeling? His alpha is screaming, destroying his thoughts faster than he can recover, because he needs to protect you. He won’t listen to reason, he doesn’t care that you are not his omega you are scared and you’re beginning to fall into distress and if someone doesn’t fucking do something—
The scent of fear is sharp and suffocating. He can feel it gnawing at the edges of everyone’s restraint, rattling through his pack’s bond like a live wire. Everyone’s thoughts are frantic, chaotic, a tangled mess of confusion and desperation and fury, just as hopelessly knotted as his own.
They all want the same thing: to make this poor omega’s pain stop. Even Ghost, and he knows what the alpha will say to him the moment they’re alone.
Don’t get attached. You know what happens if we do.
But your fear is laced with something bitter and overwhelming—pain and exhaustion so deep it’s dragging you under. You’re so far gone that he’s not sure he has any choice. So Price does the only thing he can do: he clenches his jaw, bile rising in his throat as he moves his hand to the back of your neck.
He fucking hates himself for this.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raw as he digs his fingers into the tender skin and nerves at your nape.
The reaction is instant. Your body stiffens, jackknifes out of its precarious perch between him and Gaz, before going limp with a shuddering gasp. It’s like he’s flipped a switch, the way your agonized sobs cut off, like he’s stolen the voice from your body. In a way, he has. The only things that remain are the faintest tremor of your limbs and the soft, ragged hitch of your breaths.
At least you’re still breathing. It’s a hollow reassurance, but it’s all he has left. He’s not sure what he would do if you don’t make it out of this.
Get it together, John.
“Good girl,” he mutters, softly, lamely as he strokes the back of your neck. “I’ve got you. Just stay with us, hold on.” It’s enough of a reprieve for Gaz to finish cleaning the wound, quick and efficient now that there’s no resistance left in your frail body. “Just hold on.”
“We’ll get her out of this,” Soap murmurs from the front seat. His eyes briefly flicker to Price as he speaks, hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline, knuckles white with tension. “We have to.”
Price doesn’t answer. He can’t, all he can do is cradle your slack, pale form to his chest once Gaz nods, never once tearing his eyes from your face.
We have to.