The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 255

I listened.

The second is younger. A runner who used to move messages between packs. He sits on the edge of the chair like he is ready to bolt if the air shifts wrong, knees bouncing once before he stills them with effort.

“They never hit me,” he says quickly. “I want that on record.”

“There is no record,” I remind him gently.

He nods, embarrassed, color rising in his cheeks. “Right. Sorry. Habit.”

I wait while he resets, shoulders loosening by fractions, breath evening out only after several seconds.

“They just made sure I understood what would happen if I slowed down,” he says. “Or asked questions. Or forgot my place.”

“What happened if you did,” I ask.

He shrugs, too casual, like the answer should be obvious. “You disappear for a while. Or someone else does. After that, you learn fast.”

He leaves with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched like he is bracing for impact that does not come.

One by one, they come.

A caretaker who raised children that were not hers and learned which ones were safe to comfort and which ones were watched too closely. She speaks softly, like she is still afraid someone will hear, even here.

A cook who learned to stretch meals so punishment looked like scarcity instead of cruelty. She lists ingredients like they are confessions, like naming them might finally strip them of their power.

A woman who cleaned blood off floors and learned not to ask where it came from. She scrubs her hands while she talks, even sitting at the table, like the motion is the only thing keeping her grounded.

No councils. No witnesses.

Just voices that were never meant to carry weight, finally allowed to exist without interruption.

One she wolf stays after the others have left. She lingers in the doorway, then sits back down, fingers twisting together in her lap until her knuckles go pale.

“I should have spoken sooner,” she says quietly. “I knew things were wrong.”

I meet her eyes. “Regret is not the measure.”

She frowns. “Then what is it?”

“Survival,” I say. “You did what kept you alive in a system designed to punish truth.”

Her shoulders shake once. Then again.

It created space.

Not safety. Not healing. Space.

Space for voices that were trained into silence. Space for stories that cannot be told loudly without breaking the people who lived them. Space to exist without immediate consequence.

Healing will take generations. Longer than laws. Longer than councils. Longer than me.

In the morning, I tell Sally yes.

Yes, I will document their stories. Quietly. Carefully. Without names unless they ask for them. Without urgency. Without spectacle.

Not to punish.

To remember.

Because silence protected abusers once.

I will not let it erase the survivors too.