Page 118 of Fallen Omega

That ice melts. Things boil as anger, thick, black and potent, rising from the depths of hell, fill my limbs.

After he dies, I’m killing her.

The guy says something but it’s too low to catch. Shit, there’s no music. And he’s sitting there like the place pulsates with sex-filledmusic.

The breathing corpse is literally sitting there. Planning on tasting her flesh, fucking her. Having what’s off limits to everyone but her alphas.

“And,” she adds, “you can’t touch.”

She says that, but he’s not going to listen. No man, not even one living on borrowed time, would. They’d touch, grab, take. Fuck.

That blackness of rage surges into red hot. I need to kill him. Now. I pull back the curtains.

Oh. Fuck me.

“Angel? Get the fuck off that asshole, right now.”

She freezes, turns, and stares at me. She’s fucking straddling him, those slinky booty shorts that show every fucking line and crease of her rise up in the back showing ass cheek. And his eyes are locked on her pussy lips, outlined in the front.

I don’t need to see to know that. I fucking took note out on the floor.

The man’s eyes raise, and his hands—that are on her hips, in the middle of sliding down and around, which more that seals his fate—go out to the side.

“I said get the fuck off him, Angel.”

The man registers my face. The rage. Who I am.

He almost throws her across the room. She lands hard on her ass on the floor before scrambling up to her feet.

“Out.” I don’t look at her.

The man rises and takes a step.

I do, too. Towards him, the anger and rage pumping through me instead of blood.

“Not. You.”

“D-Dante?” Liz says, voice hesitant.

I don’t fucking look at her because I might lose my shit altogether. I’m very, very close.

“Get the fuck out, Angel. Now.”

“No.”

“Now, or I’m not responsible.”

She doesn’t leave. I feel the warm, fluttering buzz of her presence, but it isn’t enough to stop the storm in me.

I grab the man and slam him against the wall. “What the actual fuck? You know the rules.”

He whines, the sound scraping over my senses, rousing them into a wilder frenzy and every cell is dark and out for blood. His.

“Everyone does. They pay?—”

I grab his throat, digging my fingers in, not caring that he starts making choking noises. They just fuel me, that terrible fire consuming me, tunneling my vision to him and me and what I’m going to do.

Each time he tries to scream, it’s an unholy sound. And it only makes me squeeze harder, more vicious until he loses consciousness.

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