Page 54 of Feral Omega

Anger. Shame. Resentment.

And something fucking weird I can't put my finger on, but it feels a hell of a lot like desire.

I hate that anyone, especially Plague, can make me feel this way. Hate that he seems to know me better than I know myself.

But most of all, I hate that some small, traitorous part of me is already looking forward to the next time I have an excuse to do this shit with him.

I shake my head, pushing myself off the exam table on slightly unsteady legs. The alcohol is still sloshing around in my system, but the edge has been taken off. I no longer feel like I'm going to fly apart at the seams.

I shuffle out into the hallway, intent on going right back to pretending like nothing has ever happened between us.

"Whiskey?"

The deep rumble of Thane's voice stops me in my tracks. I whip around to find him standing there, arms crossed over that massive chest of his, brows drawn together in a scowl.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" he asks, dark eyes flickering over my disheveled appearance. "And why do you smell like alpha musk?"

I open my mouth, some blistering retort on the tip of my tongue, but Thane cuts me off with a curt shake of his head.

"Never mind, I don't want to know," he says. "I've got a call with my father. Sounds like we might have a new mission dropping soon."

A new mission?

Finally, a chance to blow off some steam—in a less humiliating way—and get the fuck away from this shitshow for a while.

"Thank fuck," I mutter, swaying slightly on my feet. "I need to get out of this place before one of you fucks snaps and finishes me off."

Thane's eyes narrow to slits, dark and assessing. "You're in no condition to go on a mission," he says. "Not like this."

"Are you kidding me?" I demand, the words slurring together. "I'm in more danger here than I would be out there! At least the bad guys only want to shoot me, not rip my dick off for looking at them sideways!"

And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I'm not sure how I'm gonna look Plague in the eye—or those creepy ass golden lenses—over the next couple of days.

Thane stares at me, then laughs. "Maybe if you stopped bugging the shit out of people, they wouldn't be kicking your ass all the time."

I open my mouth to tell him he can fuck off, too, but he cuts me off with a sharp look. "But fine," he says, relenting with a sigh. "You can come on the mission?—"

"Damn right!" I crow, triumphant.

"—If you can pull your shit together and behave yourself for once." His eyebrow ticks up meaningfully. "And that includes not eating all our goddamn rations while you're drunk off your ass."

"What the fuck, bro! Why do you all keep saying I'm fuckin' fat?"

Thane shakes his head, already turning to continue down the hallway. "Get sobered up and ready to roll out. That's an order, Whiskey."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter as he walks away. "Whatever you say, boss."

Always with the orders, the commands, like he's got a stick shoved so far up his ass he can taste the bark.

Sometimes I wanna grab that stick and make him choke on it.

Chapter

Twenty-Two

THANE

The heavy steel door clangs shut behind me as I step into the briefing room where a massive screen dominates one wall, the only source of light. Whiskey's petulant bitching still echoes in my ears, chafing at my already frayed nerves.

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