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The Grabber sat on the edge of their low, dirty mattress. Long legs sprawled on the floor in front of him, and hands rested across bare thighs. His heavy head and occasional sighs testified to ruminations, highest among them what he just did to Finney Blake.
"I have to wait," he said. "He'll be awake." He refused to name them, but he meant that other man upstairs, whoever he was. The supposed roommate had to fall asleep before the Grabber could leave. "He'll smell it on me. I need to shower first." He prolonged his presence and dragged out its end when his cellmate wanted him gone.
Finney laid on the mattress behind him. He was curled into a tight ball with his back to the man and whatever moonlight filtered through the high window. He was sore— teetering on fresh pain— and the position did him no favors. He could not unwrap himself, not when he felt so vulnerable and exposed, so chilled. There was not a blanket or even a sheet in the room. A men's shirt barely covered him.
His naked skin was warm ten minutes ago, before he finally convinced the Grabber to pull out and stop holding him. It was not an asset worth its price.
"It's all wrong," bemoaned the man, speaking out loud but to himself. "All wrong."
Finney did not know every detail of what he did to boys between abduction and death— did not want to know— but his latest prey going into heat must have messed with the usual order. The Grabber had sex with them; he must have. It was not supposed to happen when or how it did. Finney was supposed to be beaten and broken first, and he was not meant to ask for it, no matter how much he hated every plea. The other boys must have fought so hard. They revolted once the Grabber decided they were ready.
Heat ruined everything. It upended the fine ceremony and all its mounting rituals.
"Damn it."
It was a strange thing, but the man seemed to hate losing control and having sex almost as much as Finney. The mutual nature of regret was interesting, but it did not comfort.
The boy released his posture enough to turn over, pulling unpleasantly on that formerly virgin part of himself. He looked at the man's muscled back and the silhouetted horns protruding above his hairline. The latter was an omen to keep his mind steeled against intrigue in the former.
Ever since prepubescent fifth grade and its blood tests, Finney knew he was an omega. He knew it validated any attraction he had to other boys or celebrity crushes. He did not want it now, especially on the heel of such a horrid introduction to puberty.
He was relieved to know he hated the man just as much as that morning. His handsome packaging did not spoil Finney's analytical mind, no matter how absent that mind became while the body was fucked.
Behind every pleasure dealt and itch scratched, he was still the man who killed Robin, who killed all the boys, who had very real plans to kill him.
Finney knew his sanity came back to him post-heat; the Grabber did not. Did that mean anything? Was it an advantage somehow?
What was the right way to use it?
He was not sentimental, though he suspected the Grabber was— part of him was. One dominating aspect of the man murdered boys; another side revered them first. Maybe that softer part longed for something mutual. What better occasion to find it than when biology said he did something right and natural for a change?
He was hardly the first adult alpha led astray by a young omega in foremost heat. And unlike many of those people, his surprise about it was genuine. The way he frantically paced the room, after discovering Finney but before helping him, was testament.
For once, he might actually feel he did nothing wrong.
Maybe he wanted or needed someone to excuse his behaviors. It could be very long until anyone else rationalized such evil. Some part of him, large or miniscule, had to want it.
Small, naked, and weak from exhaustion, Finney was afraid to speak. The man could make him regret it instantly. Even worse, his tired mind could say the wrong thing and burn a valuable bridge. Was it worth spoiling his chance instead of practicing the best dialogue first?
Yes, it had to happen then, when emotions were freshly upended and Finney was still considered a pleasurable little thing that might be worth keeping.
He spoke across the miles of mattress when he wanted to bury his head in it. "When they told us in health class... how it would happen, I never thought..." He never thought it would happen with a man like that, and he could never imagine the circumstances. "I didn't think I'd actually like it," Finney lied. He hated what happened to him. What he could remember was terrible. Much of it hurt and more of it was uncomfortable. Untrustworthy thoughts tried to prioritize a few choice moments, but they were so tainted by the details that he could scorn their pleasure. "Was it... Did you...?"
The omega asked for timid validation from his alpha, as if it were not obvious with the way that man moaned and howled and flattered Finney's body.
"You hated it," accused the Grabber. That was either his impression or projection. He needed Finney to hate every moment. He was supposed to. "The tip and the rest—" he waved his hand— "but I watched you take the knot, remember." He shook his head. "So don't lie to me."
A grown man knotting him was almost torture, and Finney begged for it to stop. Then he demanded, thrashing and kicking and slapping. The words and groans uttered in that moment made him believe it was the Grabber's favorite part. He liked the resistance. He liked causing the pain. He liked choking Finney to distract him while he forced it in.
Both of them got off, but only one enjoyed it. Finney was not proud of the fact he crumbled and cried like a lost child after.
Saying he liked it at all was a bold lie, but he was fortunate to have an audience seeking some form of approval. If the Grabber's childhood were anything like Finney's, he did not receive it often. There was opportunity in that.
"I didn't like it... at first," said the boy. "It got easier." Every time the knot went in hurt just as bad, but it was over with sooner. "And by the end, I thought it was good, really good." He lied and lied. "You... you didn't?"
The Grabber weighed his reply carefully. The act fell short for him in several ways. It took a little more cruelty than that to fulfill him. The truth, however, was obvious. "That's a silly question," he remarked. Of course he liked it. Finney was every inch his fantasy, regardless of the fact he barely cried or bargained. That was the concerning part: admitting how Finney could do it for him without additional measures. "Adequate maybe," he called it, refusing to grade him higher. Despite everything, 'more' was still what he wanted. He scoffed. "If you think you're broken now..."
Just wait.
Finney did not want to imagine it hurting worse. Despite everyone calling it natural, the back of him throbbed with abuse, and that occurred under the haze of heat. How terrible would it be fully sober? Would he carry a lasting advantage by being an omega, or did he only reap its benefit under the mindless malaise?
He did not know enough about his own body.
He knew it was tender and defiled. The inside of him still felt hollowed out from the space the Grabber made for himself. The opening between it and the outside felt irreparably changed by a man's knot. It was too dilated and corrupted to ever again be familiar to yesterday.
He assumed.
Finney did not know enough. He knew what he wanted more than anything— other than freedom.
"You said you have to wait until he's asleep," Finney said, bringing back the topic of the roommate. "Does he ever leave?"
The Grabber turned a cruel, suspicious eye on him, what Finney could see of it behind the equally intimidating mask. He was not supposed to mention the man upstairs, and he was certainly not meant to imply some benefit from his absence, as if it opened the house for him. But he needed it to. He needed to use his godforsaken advantage while it was fresh.
"It's just that..." He tried not to cower under that piercing gaze, knowing a caressing hand could kill him just as easy. "You mentioned a shower, and..."
Finney felt utterly soiled. He was days without a bath, and now sweat and disgust were layered atop. He could not imagine the further hell in accepting its permanence.
His petition was considered but dismissed. "No."
"You can blindfold me," Finney offered, "gag me." Even blind and mute, he might be able to work free if he tried. "I don't care."
His willingness to submit was another mark that separated him from other boys. Finney did not know if they ever tried to gain the man's confidence. Maybe they did not have time to think of it, or they did not have the disadvantage of being an omega to force new circumstances.
"I'll figure something out," the man muttered, and Finney knew the solution would not land in his favor. At best, he might have to settle for a basin bath brought to him. At worst, the Grabber might tie Finney up and wash the boy himself.
No.
No, the worst outcome would be for the killer to execute his dirty boy altogether, no matter how unsatisfying its climax after Finney ruined the rest.
Once the thought of it was in his mind, he realized it was already in the Grabber's. It had been for several minutes.
What was there to say or do to stall sentencing? How much could Finney get away with faking, and how effective could it possibly be?
"Okay," he said. "Okay, I- I trust you."
The Grabber was taken aback by that statement, that lie. "Why?" He knew it made no sense. Even if the boy understood nothing of his previous victims and thought the only objective was kidnapping, Finney had no reason to trust him.
The mattress was no great size, but it felt like a baking parking lot when Finney dragged himself across it to the last place he wanted to be. The eyes behind the mask watched him touch a thick arm and request its hand. Despite apprehension, it was given. A large palm slid into one half its size, confident it could do him no harm. He was wrong.
Finney held his violent, murdering hand. "I don't know," he said. "I didn't... You know, before." He let it hang between them, heavy and unsaid. He let the man think an omega was so simple. Sex and hormones changed him so completely that it made the boy trust an alpha at the expense of his own best interest.
"Fucking little idiot," spat the man. He did not let go of Finney's hand.
It was good. He was willing to believe the lie. The simpler he thought Finney's mind and wishes, the easier it would be to deceive him later. All that mattered was living to the surprise.
Finney did something that disgusted himself, something he would never forgive. He climbed, aching, to his knees, until his petite body loomed above the sitting man, and then he leaned down to kiss him. It was different from all the times the Grabber forced him into it during sex. Not only did Finney reciprocate, he instigated.
The opportunity, the gift, was welcome. Strong hands framed his face and petted his hair. Finney could not back out if he wanted. He tried to give as good as he got, pretending the man had anything for him anymore. The physical spark left with his sated heat, but he did his best to fake interest in an open mouth pushing against his, teeth biting at his lip, and a tongue licking his cheek.
There were bite marks on his neck. Finney remembered getting them before and felt the sharp press as more were added. He let it happen. He even whimpered and sighed at the pressure, as if a clear head could ever want that man latched onto his body.
An unclear head was grateful for the alpha and his knot once it was in. He felt satisfaction after maddening need, but that was not all. He was warmed by something other than damning loneliness, in a way only Gwen could ever soothe. With fevered skin forced open just shy of its breaking point, Finney experienced something akin to acceptance and peace and worth.
Then his heat ended and he felt lower than before.
The man taking advantage of his first willing victim— biting into its skin like a wolf— could never fill those holes in him. But Finney had to pretend it was exactly what he wanted, needed.
He endured the paranoia that five sets of eyes watched and judged, and he could do nothing to tell them of a broader plan. He was forced to let a theoretical and unseen audience think him weak and stupid. He had to show them an absolute traitor.
His hands gripped wide shoulders for something to hold, something safe. He imagined strangling the man the same way he starred in the Grabber's own fantasies.
Lips closed over sharp teeth to kiss his bruised neck and shoulder. A horned mask collapsed against Finney's chest, listening to a frantic heartbeat, holding him by the hair and bare thigh to keep him from leaving.
He exhaled, "Oh, Finney." He laughed, genuinely amused. "You are so dangerous." It was an odd thing for a grown adult and repeated killer to say about someone barely a teenager. A man like him had different fears.
Discovery by the police.
Dead boys in his ear.
A distraction from— an end to— the game.
Finney could ruin him without ever leaving that subterranean cell. Because he was a different sort of game, one the Grabber did not want to play but one which was already underway.
He fucked a fertile omega in his basement, one for whom he felt an increasing endearment. Either he killed Finney soon or he might never do it.
He needed his prison vacant for the next boy. A bottomless defect must be fed.
Finney had to keep him entertained, for his own sake and for the welfare of every boy who might come after. He touched the man, pressing long, sweat-damp hair against his chest, careful not to disturb the strap of a mask which seemed crucial. He held the Grabber, telling himself that affectionate, sacrificial gestures would help.
A solid weight fell heavier against him.
"I watched you for a few days, you know," said the man. "Yeah, before we met, I observed a little first. The way you looked out for your little sister, walking her home every day but Friday. You didn't... seem like an omega." It surprised him. The other boys must have been betas, or they were young enough not to show. "Never thought you'd be such a little slut either."
That was how the Grabber had to make sense of Finney's actions. Little boys were not supposed to want it. They were not supposed to want him. There had to be meaning in that, projection from a distant time in a distant, unspeakable past, a time when he did not want it.
Finney dared not mention that suspicion. Even if it happened before puberty and he presented, an alpha would not want reminding of when he was forced into submission. Even Finney, an omega, did not want to be reminded of it happening to him.
It was cruel how embracing it was the only card in his hand.
One palm on the Grabber's firm back and one brushing over his hair. He wanted it. He wanted to keep compassion for himself a little longer. He wanted to keep Finney.
It seduced with unwise temptation. Leave the omega alive. Forget about any other boys.
There had to be purpose in Finney's suffering. Maybe he could do it if it meant something, anything. He never wanted to be a sacrifice, but he might distract a murderer long enough to make someone's life better and longer.
If the man wanted him.
If he could not hide behind why. He did not get to simplify it, pretending Finney purposefully beguiled him and that was why everything happened.
"That doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter, right?" Finney insisted, holding him, leading him. "We gotta, you know, do better from here." The man did not understand what childish nonsense he spouted, so Finney was forced to spell it out. He let the tears well and fall. He rubbed the Grabber's back when he wanted to hit him. He opened his mouth, hoping that if there were a God, every divine intervention would mediate to keep him from getting pregnant. "So we can be a good family."