Page 27 of Savage Trap

Regroup.

Review.

Adjust.

My fingers twitch with longing for the smoothness of my keyboard, while my galloping mind needs the hum of my hard drive, and the glowing backlight of my spreadsheets.

Because for the first time in months, I feel lost.

How did the Alpha of Boston respond to the Rawson offer? Did he look at the Atlanta twins with their big dicks and perfect pedigrees and feel flattered? Did he see them as a gift, from one powerful alpha to another, or did he see the trap beneath their gleaming hair and smirking grins? Did he know he would be inviting a snake into his nest?

The urge to run back there and expose them is so strong, I can taste it like acid on my tongue. But impulsive – or suicidal – I’m not. So, instead, I take the service elevator to the street level, using my master key to swipe myself out.

And like all predictable things, Randall Trench is waiting there, right in the alcove at the back door. No doubt he tracked my ride down through the hotel, counting each floor until I reached the last. I can see in one glance he’s pent up, frustrated. His shoulders are bulging under his tight suit jacket, his fists clenched like a guillotine ready to fall.

“Not so fast,” he growls, his hand coming down to grip the nape of my neck. Like most alphas, his touch is both repulsive and alluring to me at the same time. But I focus on the hot breath on my cheek as he crowds me against the wall. It’s alpha musk, cigarettes, and the bourbon he’s always sneaking from his desk drawer. “You have some explaining to do, runt.”

Normally that voice, those words, might be enough to stop me in my tracks. But not tonight. “I don’t have time for this, Randall.”

He grunts, wedging his fat cock along my spine. He’s so big, it’s like being stuffed into the back of an old closet when he grinds me into the wall. But instead of mothballs, I’m suffocating under alpha musk and too much cheap body spray. Not to mention the grime of a Chicago alleyway that hosts the majority of the hotel’s dumpsters.

“You don’t get to choose when or where,” he grunts into my hair, his fingers sliding around to grip my throat. “That’s what it means to be owned, runt.”

I’d roll my eyes if I indulged in such things, but instead, I blow out an annoyed breath. “I mean it, Randall. I don’t want this right now.”

“You always want it.” Untrue. “You can’t get enough of alpha cock.” True, but not from him.

He thinks he’s got me where he wants me, but he’s just another coping mechanism to be manipulated and used.

Not that he understands me well enough to know that.

“I’ve watched you, runt,” he hisses, his breath ripe on my face. “Flaunting yourself all over the damn city. And then you bring that fucking pup into my domain and give him access to my information.”

He’s talking about last night, when I took Cam into the hotel’s security hub and gave him access to the feeds of both the hotel and the club. Cam returned every one of Randall’s glares twice over, hovering at my side like he planned to repay my bruises with interest. I’d told him not to bother, but the way he’d frowned down at me – part frustration, part concern – had filled my belly with a delicious flutter.

“You’re getting too close to them,” Randall mutters into my scalp, grinding me harder into the wall. “I should tell them who you are. How little you’re really worth; their shiny new toy.” He grabs my chin, forcing my face to the side until he can look into my eyes. “But the Alpha of Atlanta will take care of that, won’t he?”

It’s pretty clear Randall – the Leon’s Head of Security – gave Rawson the keys to the castle. Or, at least, granted them access to the rooftop, so he could march his precious sons up there and hijack the party.

Bitterness coats my tongue for a moment, but it’s not at Randall’s betrayal. You don’t spend as much time in a spider’s hole as I have and not work out he’s a fucking insect.

“Don’t overstep, Randall,” I tell him while we’re eye-to-eye, my breath a sour puff between us. I don’t have much of a scent, but there’s more to intimidation than just whipping out an alpha dick and a measuring stick. “For every bit of dirt you have on me, I have a dumpster load on you.”

I look pointedly at one of the trash receptacles next to us and raise my brows. Once upon a time, he’d threatened to strangle the life out of me and dump me in one unless I swallowed his cock. All it took was one of my spreadsheets – listing every underhand thing he’s done, along with a forensic audit of his financial records - and he’d decided indulging in my kinks was healthier than feeding his own.

I push off the wall and his hand falls away, although he only moves back an inch. Stupid alpha instincts. Even when his brain is firing off red flags, his dick is still telling him to fuck me into submission.

But he doesn’t try to stop me as I leave the alleyway and climb into the back of a hotel car. I have no interest in learning to drive – my anxiety is particularly tuned into traffic – so sometimes I make use of the perk of being Warren Leon’s son.

I close my eyes as the hotel driver heads towards my apartment. He’s a regular, and one of my dad’s older beta wolves, so I can let my guard down for a moment. But that doesn’t stop my overactive brain from trying to ambush me.

I’d been doing so well. Right on track with the plan. Unlike Rawson, I know how to be subtle, and I doubt the Starling-Ferriers even realize they’ve been my targets all along. We’ve talked, danced, and they’ve opened up around me, like they’re starting to trust me. But then two things happened. Elvana asked me along to their pack run tomorrow night, and Rawson tried to muscle in on my territory.

The irony makes me want to howl.

“Not the apartment,” I say suddenly, even though my body aches with the need to go through my nightly routine. But discomfort is a small price to pay for moving another hurdle out of my path. “Can you drop me at Finch Street?”

The driver glances over his shoulder. It’s not the first time I’ve taken this detour, so he doesn’t question me. But I can feel his tension rising the closer we get to the drop-off point.

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