Page 13 of Broken Dreams

“Don’t judge, Short Stuff,” Duncan says. “We’ve been staring at the computer for forever.”

“Then stop,” she suggests. There’s not a lot of room for her because we haven’t shifted to make space, so she is sitting on our thighs. “You need to eat if you’re going to brood and drink. I’ll go make something.”

“Woah there,” Duncan says, sitting up from his previous sprawled position. “Being packed up doesn’t mean you immediately know how to cook.”

“Then why don’t you come with me?” she asks.

My lips twitch because I know Adira is trying to distract us. Duncan will allow it because he doesn’t want her to burn the kitchen down. For whatever reason, measuring ingredients and cooking is beyond her. Or, Adira does this to get us to help her, which sounds more like her speed.

I’m pretty sure this girl can do anything, which is why her cooking issues are funny.

“I guess I’ll have to,” Duncan sighs, smirking. “What are we making?”

“Pasta. You two will need something to soak up all of this alcohol,” she grumbles, standing.

“Is it possible you have a craving and aren’t at all as magnanimous as you’re pretending?” I tease her.

Rubbing her stomach, she gives a small, secret smile as she turns to face me. It’s still very new, but fuck if I’m not happy for her. Adira will be such a fierce mother.

“I really want fettuccine Alfredo,” she admits.

“Want a protein with your pasta?” I ask her.

Adira has had a hard time with food, so Duncan and I refuse to fuss at her about her preferences. Whatever she wants is hers, even if we have to substitute something here and there to try to see if we can widen her options.

“Chicken sounds really good,” Adira says, thinking. “I’m craving something sweet too.”

Duncan chuckles under his breath, leading her out of the room.

“Anything you want, Short Stuff,” he says.

Mission accomplished.Well, at least on her end.

Glaring at the laptop, I take another sip of my scotch. I want to curse out my contact, message him to see if he’s taking the job or not, but that’ll make me look fucking psychotic. I typically tone down my crazy, since I’ve learned it gets me the best results.

Forcing myself to take a breath, I piece together the ragged edges of my control.

Unknown:

Wow, you’re patient. Still want that information?

“Goddamn fucking asshole,” I growl. I’m not at all amused.

Me:

Yes.

If that one word could say everything I’m feeling, this person would burst into flames. Since there are no names exchanged, and I wire money to them when the job is completed, I don’t even know if this person is male or female.

You have to be willing to trudge through the worst parts of society to gather the information I’m looking for. I’ve also portrayed myself as a predator, someone searching for sex for hire, even if I’m doing it to find Quinn.

Unknown:

There’s an omega as described whose heat is being sold next month. It’s ten thousand dollars a person. How many people are you looking to book with her?

The way they speak about this omega makes the hair stand up on my arms with disgust. It’s like they’re talking about anamusement park ride or a hotel room. Clearing my throat, I shudder as bile threatens to rise up my throat.

God, I fucking hate the human race so much.

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