Page 38 of Savage Trap

I swallow a groan, balling my fists so I don’t reach out and shake her. “How do you not get it? Are you still punishing me, or are you really this fucking clueless?”

“Hey, ease up.” I don’t know where the fuck Cam came from, but he slides a hand between us, giving me a warning look. He’s lucky I don’t break his wrist, especially when he turns his sappy smile Elvana’s way. “Come on, let’s go wash up and get some rest. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

But Elvana’s waiting like she expects me to spill my guts all over the floor. And when she presses a cautious hand to my chest, it rips something inside me. “Why did you do it? Are you into him? Is that why you risked Rory and Cam? Or are you just focused on him so you don’t have to deal with me?”

None of that’s what I wanted to say, of course, but jealous bile has been sitting on the back of my tongue since I saw her light up at the airstrip.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. I grip her shoulders, sending Cam a death glare when he moves to get between us again. “Back off!” I hiss. “Give me five seconds where one of you isn’t pushing me aside!”

That makes him blink, but he keeps his meddling ass out of the way and I give Elvana a shake. “You nearly fucking died. Rory gave me a play-by-play as it was going down, but all I was getting from you was static. No Arben, no Kelly, means I can’t fucking hear you! Do you get it now?”

She nods numbly, but I can tell from the bewildered look on her face that she doesn’t. So I let her go and grab my jacket off the chair back. “I’m going downstairs for a drink,” I mutter, taking my sulky ass to the door.

Because I need to get the fuck out before I say something I can’t take back.

Like begging her to fucking pick me, even if it’s just to settle the bonds.

No one tries to stop me, which I tell myself is how I want it. But I haven’t even made it to the elevator before Kelly is checking in. Babe? You want company?

He knows I don’t, but Kelly has zero problems with rejection. Not sure where he got his titanium balls from, but it’s something I’ve always envied about him. Even though his dad tossed him away like defective goods, he has no problem trusting the world to see how awesome he is.

Just clearing my head. Won’t be long. I hesitate as he shoots a bolt of pure love down the bond. He’s way too good for me, which is why I feed him back a dose of sulky asshole. Can you sleep in the other room? I don’t think I can do a fucking puppy pile tonight.

There’s a flicker of sadness, but he clamps it down as fast as he can. Of course. I’ll keep the bed warm.

Because our sunshine loves my moody ass.

Shaking my head, I bypass the hotel bar and head to the street. It’s cold out, with a hint of rain in the air, and I pull on my jacket. It has to be close to three am, but there are still airport shuttles zipping about, and people staggering around between the late-night bars. I chose one called Daggers, because it suits my mood, and push my way through the pretty people at the window to the bar. It’s disturbingly bright inside, but as I snag a free stool, I realize why. The back of the room has a line of booths, like batting cages, only people are throwing knives at wooden targets. When the bartender puts a glass of Jack in front of me, I ask, “Is this like the hipster axe throwing thing?”

He smirks. “Yeah, but then we’d need to be called Axes.”

Smart ass. “Well, those are knives, not daggers. So, maybe you should just call yourself pretentious and leave it at that.”

The guy just snorts and wanders off to serve a less surly customer. Which sucks, because I’ve already knocked back my drink. But before I can wave him down, a guy appears at my elbow with a clipboard and a blinding white smile. He’s got a black polo on with a picture of a dancing knife and the bar name on the pocket. “Aren’t your fingers just twitching to join the fun?”

I cock a brow at him. If my fingers are twitching for anything, it’s my laptop, or the trigger on the gun under my jacket. “Not interested.”

“There’s a thousand dollars in the kitty,” he sing-songs, shoving the clipboard at me again. When I shoot him the equivalent of a dagger stare, he just grins. “If not for money, what about for pride?”

The question stops me and I stare at my reflection in the bar mirror. I look like shit. Black circles, eye bags, frown lines. Yeah, I could do with a bit of fucking pride.

But when I hand over twenty bucks and scrawl my name on the form, I stare at my signature. Lincoln Hila.

Fuck. It’s been a long time since I called myself that.

Scowling at my reflection, I follow Mr. Clipboard to one of the throwing booths and stand silently while he flips my form over and reads out a bunch of safety instructions. I amuse myself watching the drunk guy in the next booth fumble his knife and nearly chop off his thumb, then Mr. Clipboard is handing me my first blade. I flip it in my hand, studying the weight and balance. It’s a piece of shit that would get you laughed out of the WKTL, but there’s no denying the buzz in my blood as I let loose and bury it dead center in the target.

“I’m guessing this isn’t your first time handling a dagger, Mr. Hila. You have impressive technique.” It takes me a moment to work out he’s flirting with me, but I’m even less interested in him than I am in the low-rent knife. But that doesn’t stop him from leaning over his clipboard and giving me a coy smile. “You know, if you scoop the pot, I could always arrange a private celebration.”

“Thanks, but my alpha has me on a tight leash.”

I pull down my collar enough so he can see the massive chunk Arben took out of my throat in his monster form. The guy’s eyes go comically wide and he backs up so quickly he nearly trips over the guy in the next lane. “Fuck, yes. Sorry. Enjoy your tossing. Throwing. Whatever.”

I grin, picturing his reaction if the Death Doctor waltzed in here in person and scrawled his name on his clipboard. But the smile quickly slips off my face when the guy in the next lane belches and leans my way. “You can’t blame him for trying,” he tells me with a bleary-eyed leer. “You smell like vanilla pussy.”

I roll a lethal eye his way. “What the fuck did you say to me?”

The guy must have a death wish, because he just gives another belch and scratches his balls. “You gotta hot little omega at home? I’m in the market myself, but so far nothing’s caught my eye.”

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