Page 50 of Feral Omega

I hiss through my teeth, the alcohol-soaked haze of pain fracturing for a white-hot burst of agony. "Easy there, featherweight," I growl. "You're supposed to be fixing it, not wreckin' it more."

"Then hold still," Plague says, his voice a low rumble behind the mask. "The more you squirm, the harder this will be. For you."

I’m pretty sure I’m gonna do more than squirm. But then his pokes and prods turn to light caresses. I tense up again, but after a minute, I relax a little.

“Who gave you this octopus tattoo?” Plague asks curiously, brushing his fingertips over the grayscale ink covering my bicep. “I can’t imagine the artist was licensed.”

I shoot him a look. “One of the betas made a tattoo gun out of machine parts. And no, I didn’t ask if he was fuckin’ ‘licensed.’ By the way, it’s a kraken, not an octopus, asshole. It’s just faded.”

Plague hums. “Well, if you didn’t need to drink to get through it, the ink would have kept better. And it isn’t a kraken. It’s an octopus.”

“What the fuck do you know about krakens?” I mutter.

“I know they’re not small enough to hold beer bottles, guns, and grenades in their tentacles,” he replies curtly. “Have you ever even seen the ocean?”

I roll my eyes. Such a fucking bitch. “Seen it in movies and shit.”

Plague moves behind me, one strong hand braced against my back while the other grips my upper arm. “We should see it sometime,” he muses. “Take a trip after the wars are over.”

“Like it’s ever gonna be over,” I snort.

“Perhaps not.” He leans in close enough that I can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of my tank. “This is going to hurt.”

With a sharp tug and a sickening pop, he wrenches my shoulder back into its socket.

"Son of a cock!” I yell, black spots dancing across my vision. Asshole was just fucking distracting me. Lulling me into a false sense of fucking security.

"Don't be such a baby," Plague chides, his voice far too mild for the fresh hell he's just put me through. "It's back in place now. You'll be fine."

I turn to glare at him, chest heaving, only to find myself face-to-face with that damn plague mask. Up close, I can see the intricate detailing etched into the leather, the gleaming metal beak curving down in a wicked point. My gaze traces the sharp lines, the harsh angles, before meeting the eerie glow of those golden lenses. His hand is still on my upper arm, gripping slightly.

"Gee thanks, Doc," I sneer, letting as much venom as I can muster drip from the words. "What would I do without your expert hands all over me?"

Plague is silent for a beat, those unnerving lenses boring into me. Then, without a word, he reaches up and begins to unlatch the mask, each click of the buckles loud in the tense quiet.

"Oh, you're not afraid I'm gonna contaminate you?" I taunt.

"Don't be ridiculous. Idiocy isn't contagious."

I tell him to fuck off under my breath and drink another swig, watching out of the corner of my eye as he pulls the mask away to reveal his face. Aristocratic features. A sharp jawline dusted with stubble. Full lips curved in the barest hint of a condescending smirk.

I swallow hard, the lingering burn of alcohol doing nothing to dull the weird twisting in my gut.

Fucking hate this asshole.

"There," he murmurs, voice deeper and richer without the mask to muffle it. "That's better, isn't it? Now you can look me in the eye when I tell you what an insufferable ass you are."

I bristle at the insult, lips peeling back in a sneer that feels far too forced. "Fuck you, Plague."

"Mmm, I don't think so," he says lightly, setting the mask aside. "Not in your condition." His gaze drops meaningfully to the front of my pants. "Besides, we both know that's not the way it would go."

My cock twitches.

What the fuck? Why am I hard?

I hate this fucking guy.

Heat rushes to my face as I shift uncomfortably. Of course he noticed. The fucking bastard notices everything. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, birdbrain?"

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