Omega Bound Chapter 291

Cyrus

The warehouse is ours. Thousands of square feet of open concrete and rusted scaffolding, an old chop shop gutted to nothing but bones. Two stories of wide-open air and metal beams. Some shifters would see a mess. I see a throne room.

We hauled the couch through the doors first, and I almost kissed it right there. Our poor futon had died a violent death, snapped clean in half during Raven’s heat.

Worth it.

This beauty, secondhand but sturdy, was an upgrade, and I can admit it.

Raven dropped her end in the middle of the floor, wiping sweat from her brow.

“New couch,” she said with mock reverence, like she was christening a ship.

“Upgrade,” I corrected, collapsing onto it with a dramatic sigh. “This beauty’s seen less ass than the futon ever did, I’m sure of it. Which means we’ve got some catching up to do.”

Raven smirked, giving it a testing bounce before dropping beside me. “Better hold up this time.”

“Oh, it’ll hold,” I promised, already plotting how fast I could prove it.

The couch sat like a crown jewel in the middle of the warehouse. No walls. No divisions. Just a couch, a  TV on a stand, a fridge humming in the corner, and the bathroom/kitchen we had built into one side.

“This place is perfect,” she murmured, spinning in slow circles, arms out like she could catch the whole warehouse.

“Damn right it is,” I said, dragging a box of knives to the couch. “It’s a fortress. , A kingdom. All three at once.”

She crouched by the box, pulling a blade free and twirling it between her fingers. “Needs something though.”

I grinned. “Weapons. On the walls. Everywhere. Screw paintings. Screw art. We’ll hang knives, chains, maybe a rack. Terrify anyone dumb enough to visit.”

Her grin mirrored mine, wicked and sharp. “And turn us on.”

“Already does.”

We didn’t unpack like normal people. We threw things around, kicked boxes open with boots, and laughed when we broke stuff. Raven yanked out a lamp, and I immediately snapped the shade off because it “looked too civilized.”

She threw a roll of duct tape at my head. “We need some function, psycho.”

“Duct tape is functional.” I started tearing strips and sticking them to the fridge just to piss her off.

She shook her head, muttering, “You’re lucky you’re hot,” and went back to lining her knives on the couch like they were kittens she had to name.

Meatball scuttled across the couch armrest and plopped down on the armrest like he owned the place. I leaned in, grinning. “What’s up, Gerald?” He blinked at me, whiskers twitching.

“Fine, not Gerald today. You feel more like a Steve. Or maybe a Detective Clawhands. Yeah, that fits.” He just stared at me, little pink nose wiggling, and I swear the bastard smirked. “You get it, don’t you? You’re the only sane one here. Don’t tell Raven I said that.”

I stood staring at the long concrete far wall, both of us already seeing it filled.

“That’ll be the knife wall,” Raven declared.

“Correction: knife and chain wall.”

She arched a brow. “Chains don’t count as art.”

“Everything counts as art if you hang it right,” I shot back. “Hell, we could put up a flamethrower.”

She smirked. “You don’t own a flamethrower.”

“Not yet.”

She shook her head but didn’t say no. That’s why she’s perfect. She never reins me in, just makes me worse.

We started drilling to hang our things up, sparks flying once or twice. The sound echoed like a promise.

“Better than paintings,” I said proudly.

“Paintings don’t stab people,” she agreed.

My phone buzzed, and I almost ignored it. Probably Thane is telling me to stop being me in some way. But when I pulled it out, I froze. A selfie.

Rhonda grinning ear to ear, neon gas station lights buzzing behind her. And beside her? Poor, gaunt Mikhail, wearing a sombrero. His expression was pure misery, like someone told him the Fates made this his afterlife.

And to top it off, Suki had her mouth latched onto his shoulder. Teeth in him like he was a chew toy. Jill was behind them, throwing bunny ears. Marla’s hand was suspiciously low on his hip.

I burst out laughing so hard I almost dropped the phone. “Raven. Babe. You’ve got to see this.”

She padded over, knife in hand, and leaned against me. One look and she lost it, doubling over with a laugh that echoed off the scaffolding. “Oh my god. He looks like he’s begging for death.”

“He probably is,” I wheezed, wiping tears from my eyes. “Look at Rhonda! She’s so proud. And Suki....he’ll probably look like he stuck his arm in a lawn mower by the time she is done with him.

Raven moves the photo around the screen, “This is insane. He looks like a hostage. A sombrero-wearing, grandma-hostage.”

I nearly dropped the phone. “Holy shit....zoom in. Look at the dash of the car behind them.”

Raven leaned closer, squinting. “Is that…? That is a bottle of Jack. And...” she pinched the screen wider, laughing so hard she snorted, “yep, that’s a gun. Classy, Rhonda. Parking lot dunk selfies.”

I slapped my thigh, tears in my eyes. “And Mikhail’s in the middle of it with a sombrero like he’s the damn mascot. You can’t make this shit up.”

Raven was doubled over now, holding her stomach. “Look at Suki’s face...she’s chewing on him and grinning like she just won bingo. He’s dying inside.”

“Not dying,” I corrected, feral grin stretching wide. “Already dead. That’s the look of a man whose soul packed up and left.”

I fired back a reply selfie of us, Raven flashing her knife, Meatball crawling up the back of the couch. Caption: *"Enjoy your hostage, we’ve got our palace. No, you can’t come over and play."*

By midnight, the place looked like chaos had won. Knives on the wall, couch in the middle, fridge stocked with cheap beer. Raven lit candles around the couch, which only made the warehouse look creepier.

“This needs rules,” I said, grabbing a marker and an old pizza box lid.

“Oh no,” she muttered.

I started scrawling. “Rule one: clothing after midnight....minimum. The earlier the better.”

“Agreed.”

“Rule two: knives stay sharp.”

Raven smirked. “Good rule.”

“Rule three: Meatball gets the final vote on visitors.”

She laughed hard. “He’s gonna eat half of them.”

“Perfect.”

By the time I was done, we had a list of rules that would terrify normal people but made us laugh until our ribs hurt.

When the sun finally dipped, the warehouse was ours—couch in the middle, fridge humming, knives hung, chains draped like décor. It wasn’t finished, not even close. But it was home.

Raven stood in the middle of the space, arms wide again. “Feels right.”

I stalked toward her, heartbeat picking up. Hypothetically...if someone needed to be tortured for information, where would we do it in here?”

Raven’s eyes glittered. “Torture corner?” she said, like she was naming a plant. “We can rig the scaffolding. Drop chains. Maybe a pulley. Practical and decorative.”

“Practical,” I agreed, already pacing imaginary routes. “Corner....good acoustics for screams. Plastic on the floor, so there’s less mess. Hooks on the beam. A little table for instruments, for morale.” I could see her rolling her eyes, but she was smiling, which pleased the feral beast within me.

Then...because the universe likes to throw softballs when you least expect it...Raven cocked her head. “Wait. Didn’t Thane and Ayla ask us to be on pup duty when she’s in heat? Are we pup-friendly here?”

“Pup-friendly?” I echoed, picturing a squalling ball of skin on the couch. I glanced at the scattering of chains and hooks I’d just mentally earmarked for the torture setup. “We have chains. We have knives. We have a possum that will eat anything. Pup-friendly is… not the default setting.”

Raven went through it like a checklist.  No sharp pointy things within reach.”

“Also,” I added, thinking fast and only half-joking, “No booze within arm’s reach. Lock the Jack in a cabinet. No rat poison. No....” I stopped, hand on my face. “We are going to be terrible with pups.”

A tiny, ridiculous panic crawled up my throat. “If Ayla’s in heat, and pups are bouncing around, what do we even do? We can’t have them running past the torture corner. Imagine a toddler with a screwdriver.”

Raven actually laughed then, because what else do you do? “We’ll send the pups to Damon,” she said, practical. “He’s mated now. Stable. He’ll babysit. He’s got that whole normal-life vibe we don’t have.”

“Damon,” I repeated. “Yeah, perfect. He’s got a house, not a blood-and-knives showroom. He’ll probably hand them fluffy mittens and read them bedtime stories about… well, not murder. Good plan.”

We considered logistics like two idiots planning a heist. Who would pack nappies? Who was on spit-up duty? What do we do when a pup decides the knife wall is a climbing gym?

Raven’s face went distant for a beat, then she shrugged.

“Okay,” she said. “If Damon can’t, we set up a pup corner. Soft blankets, a little playpen, a Meatball-proof snack station.” She pointed at the possum, who was busy ignoring us. “Meatball can be the mascot. He’s terrifying enough to keep other animals away.”

I wrote it down on the pizza-box list—pup corner: blankets, toys, lock knives. Then I grinned like a maniac. “And house rule: anyone who brings a pup has to sign a waiver acknowledging that they accept minor scrape risk from our decorative décor.”

Raven chuckled, leaning forward to kiss the top of my head. “We’ll be gentler than we look.”

“Speak for yourself,” I muttered.

Then I texted Thane a single line: *“We might chain a toy to the torture corner just to be extra parental.”* With a photo of our knife wall. Raven read it over my shoulder and snorted. “He’ll love that,” she said. “He’ll definitely love that.”