Page 106 of Feral Omega

A small, secret part of me doesn't want this reprieve to end. I want to stay just like this. Cocooned between these strange alphas with their musky, reassuring scents surrounding me.

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

VALEK

The couch squeaks as I shift my weight, trying to find a comfortable position. Sleep eludes me, not that it comes easy on the best of nights. Not with the screams echoing in my skull, the phantom tang of blood on my tongue.

Tonight it's her scent that haunts me, clinging to the air like a ghost. Honeysuckle and spice, sweet enough to make my teeth ache. It coils through my head, sinks into my bones until I'm half-mad with it.

Footsteps thud on the stairs, heavy and graceless. I sit up, lips curling back from my teeth in a silent snarl. Thane and Whiskey stumble into view, smelling of sex and omega musk.

"You're up, psycho," Whiskey grunts, jerking his chin toward the upper floor. "She's all yours."

A dark thrill rushes through me, my cock twitching against the confines of my fatigues. I'm on my feet in an instant, shouldering past them without a word.

I take the stairs two at a time, her scent growing thicker, headier with every step. By the time I reach the master suite, I'm hard enough to hammer nails, every nerve ending alight.

I shoulder open the door, nostrils flaring as Ivy's essence crashes over me in a dizzying wave. She's curled in the center of the nest, dark auburn hair freshly damp and tousled against the pillows. A low growl rumbles up from my chest at the sight, possessive instinct flaring white-hot.

Ivy tenses, crystalline eyes snapping to mine as I stalk closer. Wariness flickers in those haunting depths, threaded with the unmistakable tinge of fear. She shrinks back against the headboard, sheet clutched to that enticing body like a talisman.

"Afraid of the big bad wolf, little rabbit?" I rasp, a slow grin spreading across my face.

Her plump lips purse, defiance sparking behind the trepidation. But she doesn't answer, gaze darting away.

I chuckle low in my throat, prowling to the edge of the bed. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" I crook a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to meet my heated stare. "Or are you worried I'll punish you for that little stunt you pulled?"

Her breath hitches, pulse fluttering wildly against my fingertips. I can practically taste her panic, the sour notes bleeding into her honeyed scent and the aroma of fresh soap.

Slowly, deliberately, I lean in until my lips brush the shell of her ear. "I'll let you in on a little secret, sweetheart," I purr, relishing her full-body shiver. "I have a hard time respecting anyone who hasn't tried to kill me at least once."

Ivy freezes, eyes widening in shock.

I take advantage, claiming her parted lips in a searing kiss that has her arching into me with a breathy, nervous whimper. My tongue delves past the seam of her lips, stroking along hers in a slick glide that sends cold and hot sparks sizzling through my veins.

She tastes of ambrosia, sweet and sinful and more intoxicating than the finest vodka. I could drown in her, lose myself completely in her and die a happy man.

My hands roam the delicate curves of her body, fingers dancing over silken skin as I map every hollow and ridge. She mewls into my mouth, hips canting up to meet my exploring touch as if begging for more in spite of her fear.

I growl my approval against her lips, palm molding over the perfect handful of her breast. The pebbled peak grazes my skin and I pinch it roughly, swallowing down her sharp cry.

A harsh knock shatters the charged air.

Rage spikes through me at the interruption. I tear my mouth from Ivy's with a snarl, head whipping toward the door.

"Fuck off!" I snap.

Ivy tenses beneath me, but she doesn't shatter the way a normal omega would even if my ire isn't directed at her. But I'm really going to have to work on sanding down some of those rough edges if she's going to become a regular part of my life.

Who am I kidding? I'd disembowel anyone who tried to take her from me and use their entrails to hang up a warning sign for the next fucker dumb enough to consider it.

The handle turns anyway, because someone is clearly jonesing for my knife in his occipital lobe. Plague slips into the room on silent feet. I curl my lip at him, a vicious curse on the tip of my tongue.

"Why bother knocking if you're just going to barge in anyway, birdbrain?" I demand, muscles coiling with the urge to vault off the bed and tear his throat out.

On a normal day, I'd use my knife.

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