Page 16 of Captive Omega

I give it a quick, delicate pat. It doesn’t feel like his cock, but I’m not eager to stick my hand in a strange man’s pocket. “Why can’t you do it?”

“Can’t without them seeing me.”

My pursuers' eyes narrow with suspicion. Probably because I’ve stopped shoving this pretend drunk off me.

They slow their steps.

“What’s he saying?” the shaved haired guy who has at no point lowered his weapon calls out.

“You don’t want to know,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

And if you did, you wouldn’t believe me.

Karl chuckles. “Hey, drunk guy! Find some other wall to piss on. Or a woman to fuck. This one is ours.”

I bite back my complaint. If things go the way I hope they might, I won’t have to worry about them for long.

“You ready?” I whisper. I’m not sure I am.

“Just waitin’ on you to put your hands on the goods, beautiful.” Pretend drunk grins.

“You’re making me want to punch you,” I warn him.

“And you pouting like that makes me not mind if you did.” His eyes sparkle as he winks.

We are literally about to die, and he thinks now is the time to flirt.

He also wasn’t lying about what was in his pocket.

Everything happens fast.

Within seconds of slapping the gun into his palm, I drop, hands over my ears. By the time my ass hits my heels, two men are down, a gun is smoking and this beta with the cheeky wink is offering me his left hand. “Your chariot awaits, my lady.”

I tell myself he’s lucky with his shots. He couldn’t have had time to aim with how fast he spun.

It’s only when he escorts me past the two bodies and I get a good look at the holes in the middle of their foreheads that I realize this guy doesn’t just know what he’s doing. He’s a professional. Or he must be. Ordinary people do not make extraordinary shots like that.

We leave the alley behind us, and I lower my head when the few people on the street turn our way.

I’m scratched up from tackling a tree. My right sleeve is hanging off my shoulder, and the soles of my feet burn as I try desperately not to hobble.

The beta with the ability to make impossible shots tucked his gun back into his pocket while I wasn’t paying attention. His left palm is a little calloused—from target practice, maybe?—but his grip is loose as he steers me down the street.

“Aren’t you worried about being arrested?” I speak out the side of my mouth, hoping to hell I’m imagining the suspicious glances cast my way.

“Arrested?” he echoes in a voice so innocent I don’t buy it for a second. “Whatever for?”

It’s strange, but pretend drunk guy is different.

He tucked his shirt into his pants and raked a hand through his blond hair. Even his expression is more… or less distant. He’s a taller, more put together version of the man he was seconds before.

Someone gasps behind me and I instinctively turn around.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, stopping me. He slides his arm around my shoulder and draws me close. I get another good serving of musk, clean lemon and raw masculinity. “We’re just two beautiful people on our way home from a date.”

Has he seen the way my sleeve is hanging off my dress?

But he’s right to have stopped me from peering over my shoulder. Someone would have heard the gunshots and wondered about the black truck with its engine running at the end of the alley. Whoever gasped couldn’t have found the bodies.

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