Page 46 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

Through the glass wall, I can see him settling into his chair, already reaching for his phone. He doesn’t look my way.

Focus on the job. Find the mole. Get out.

That’s all that matters. That’s all that’s ever mattered.

I turn back to my spreadsheet and pretend I know what I’m doing.

The day passes in a blur of meetings and introductions.

By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’m so tightly wound my head is throbbing. I’m not used to staring at a screen all day. Not used to the fluorescent lights, the constant hum of conversation, the way my face aches from holding that pleasant, eager expression for hours on end.

Usually my missions take a couple of hours. Get in, do the job, get out. This, pretending to be someone else for an entire workday, is a whole different thing.

It’s... exhausting. Exhausting in a way that combat training never is.

Celine starts packing up her things, her cardigan over one arm, the container of cookies she brought in that morning.

“Heading out, dear?” she asks, glancing over at me.

“I think so.” I save my work, or what passes for work, and shut down the computer. “It’s been a long first day.”

“They always are.” She pats my arm as she passes. “You did wonderfully. Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time tomorrow.”

I follow her out, but we part ways at the elevator bank.

My room is quiet when I step inside. Quiet and still and blessedly empty.

I close the door behind me and immediately reach for the buttons of this godforsaken blouse.

The fabric has been itching all day. Every time I moved, every time I breathed, I felt it rubbing against my skin like a constant, low-grade irritation.

The buttons slip free one by one and I shrug the blouse off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. The skirt follows. Then the flats, kicked off toward the closet.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in nothing but my underwear and finally, finally, feel like I can breathe.

My hair is still down, those ridiculous waves I spent twenty minutes styling this morning using the technique Kit taught me. I gather it up and twist it into a tight ponytail, the familiar weight of it settling against the back of my neck.

Better.

I study my reflection. The face staring back at me is one I’ve never quite learned to love.

My mother’s eyes. Deep-set, with that slight upturn at the corners. Every time I look in the mirror, I see her looking back at me. Even now, hidden behind brown contact lenses, they’re still hers.

My lips, fuller than I want them to be. My fingers drift up to touch them, tracing the shape, and for a brief moment I remember the kiss with Finn. The warmth of his mouth. The way his hand came up to cup my jaw.

It feels like a lifetime ago. Like it never actually happened.

I drop my hand.

Like always, my gaze travels downward. My fingers follow, tracing the familiar map of my scars.

The one on my shoulder, thick and raised, the skin puckered and shiny where it never healed right. The ones along my stomach, three deep gouges that have faded to angry pink but never flattened, never smoothed over. The ones on my inner thighs, the worst of them, ragged and ugly, hidden where no one would see them unless they were looking.

Then there are the others. The thin white lines from stitching myself up in motel bathrooms and safe houses over the years, faded now to almost nothing. The puckered circle on my left shoulder where a bullet went in and came out the other side.

But it’s the ones from Detroit that I can’t stop looking at. Ten years since Pack Thorne carved their ownership into my skin, and the scars are still there. Will always be there.