Welcome to the Sexy Saturday Oh My Mpreg Blog Hop 9/1/2018, where we go behind the *music* with Quinn!
I know I've been off the grid for the past 2-3 weeks, but as we say goodbye to summer (*sniff*), I wanted to let you know that I am in the land of the living and I am still writing. Yay!
First, for all who haven't been in the loop, Chapters 1-2 of To Save and Defend His Omega are up now. Start with Chapter 1 here!
I've been back and forth about if Tommy (Thomas Justice) is a deputy or a sheriff, and after some deliberation, I've decided he's a sheriff. Sheriff Justice just has a really nice ring to it, lol!
Here's a sneak peek into Chapter 3:
By the time they opened the back of the van to lift me out, my legs were shaking, sweat was running down my back, and it felt like an oppressive oven even though it was evening and cool outside. My heart was thumping in my chest, and my fingers were curled into a fist so tight that my nails dug into my palms. My rapid breathing sounded like I were underwater as they hauled me out of the van and into a standing position.
What had my father said: Run, if they catch you they will kill you or do horrible things to you.
Oxygen flooded in and out of my lungs, but it didn’t help. I started shaking in the cool night air.
Somebody removed the sack from my head. “Take it easy,” Hastings said wrapping his arms around me. It’s not like I had a choice but to let him do it — tied up, hyperventilating, dizzy and disoriented — no, I had no choice. One of his companions undid the rope around my legs. “You might be the one,” Hastings said.
“One what?” I whispered looking around in the dark. “Why have you done this?” I didn’t want to hear his answer, but I knew that I needed to hear his answer. It was the only way I could begin to process what just happened. He killed my parents, and part of me wanted to scream in agony from the loss. What had they done to him, besides being good parents? Was I the cause of their death, just being who I was? That was no explanation, but I was shackled by fear that slowly twisted a knife inside me.
Hastings Smith smiled down at me; he put his arm on my shoulder which made me want to puke on his gold and black shoes. I wish I’d been able to get up the gall. But while my guts churned, they weren’t up to rebelling yet. I waited for his explanation, one which I realized would do little to settle me. No matter how much this man smiled, he was a cold blooded killer, but at least if he had a plan in mind, I wouldn’t die as quickly.
I felt more hope than when I was in the van.
“It’s a long story, one that I will share with you once we’re inside and warm.” He signaled one of his cohorts who hustled me away into a dark, dank corridor, past an ancient-looking, wooden door.
I complied as best I could, stumbling in the gloom. The man who was half-dragging, half-carrying me appeared to have done this before, because he didn’t miss a step navigating the dim corridor. We came to a door, which opened into a warm albeit antique-looking kitchen. All of the modern conveniences were installed, but it was old-looking, and quite the opposite from how I was used to living. I never thought I’d long for my mom’s marble kitchen island. One thinks of the stupidest things when terrified.
The floor was equally old, bearing the characteristic hues of American walnut, dull, but in a way more beautiful than any modern, engineered product could be. What little I saw of the outside was equally ancient and looked as if it had seen many winters and hurricane storm seasons. I hadn’t seen that much of it, and I knew my critique was only there to keep my panic at bay.
The man led me to a chair at a round table. Formica top, it had been a long, long time since I had seen one. My mind scrambled away from the present situation to a memory of a fishing trip me and Dad took when I was young. It was early morning, and the sun was hovering below the horizon. We stopped at a diner near our fishing spot and enjoyed what my Dad called a heart attack on a plate: eggs, sausage, grits with lots of butter, salt and pepper and wheat toast. The wheat toast was a nod to healthy eating as nothing much else on the plate qualified. It was all served on a formica topped table on plastic plates with plastic cutlery. Not a fine dining situation, but some of the best food I’d experienced to date.
I must have been about 8-9 years old. My dad started talking to me about what it meant to be an omega. He had talked about the wonders of finding an alpha and how it would be once that happened. You will love that person more than you love life itself, he had said. His words held magic for me. omegas dream of finding a mate, and I was no different.
Now, in this dark, evil place I wondered if I would live long enough to experience that bliss, to feel the love of all loves as my mate wrapped me in his warm, loving embrace. I wondered if I would survive the night, and if my dream of earlier was less a whimsy and more a premonition of something I would never attain…
I hope you liked this! I'll have Chapter 3 up quickly, as well as Chapter 4 of Omega Challenge, which I'm also cleaning up.