Page 60 of The Omega Trials: Part One

“Our boy must be giving it to her real good if she’s looking at me like she’s ready to let bygones be bygones.” His usual teasing tone is half serious and his voice drops a pitch, rut beginning to call to him.

She worries her lip between her teeth like she’s fighting a coy smile, then starts gliding toward us. Her dark maroon dress’s neckline drops in a V but doesn’t reveal much of her carving. My chest pangs as I wonder how it’s healing, but I know I don’t deserve to know.

Suddenly staring at her hurts too much. So, I look anywhere else. Spotting a server, I flag them down with a huff. “Fuckingfinally.”

“How can I be of service, Alpha, sir?” the server asks, one hand tucked behind his back and the other holding a sterling silver tray.

“Double vodka,” I order gruffly right as Sinclair reaches us.

“Careful there, Tight-ass, or you might actually start having fun.” She rolls her head to the side, her hair falling off her neck and showing off her bonding bite.

Her cheeks are flush from dancing. The same shade of pink her pussy was after a few of my slaps.

I swallow a groan and sneer. “Seems like you’re having enough fun for all of us.”

She glances over her shoulder at Bishop, who’s standing like her bodyguard a few feet behind her. Then she flashes me a devious smirk. “More thanyouwill ever know.”

She turns to Ecker and he’s already halfway out of his seat when she grabs his tie and pulls him toward the dance floor.

“Just remember,” I hear her say, “no touching.”

He looks like a dog being offered a fat, juicy bone. “Yes, ma’am.”

And that’s when the real torture begins.

Everything devolves into debauchery as the night progresses.2 Some old geezer in a wolf mask is railing an omega over the back of a couch, his wrinkly ass flapping with every thrust. Across the room, a topless dancer with tassels on her nipples twirls fire batons.

None of it matters because Sinclair keeps throwing me these glances every time she switches between dancing with Ecker and Bishop. The first couple of times it happens, I think I’m imagining it. But by the fourth or fifth time, I know I’m not.

She spins again, draping her arms over Bishop’s shoulders while he pulls her closer, wedging his thigh between her legs. His hands splay wide on her ass, and my stomach groans like it’s physically starving. Behind her, Ecker tucks up against her but never quite touches her. Somehow, watching himnottouch her is worse than watching her with Bishop.

The tension is so palpable that I can feel it pulse in those spare inches between them from where I’m sitting. Involuntarily, I imagine how my skin would be humming if I were Ecker. How every nerve in my body would be aching to close that gap while also savoring it, dragging it out, building and building until the delayed gratification finally hits.

Sweat drips down my back, and no matter how many shots of chilled vodka I throw back, I can’t beat this burning sensation under my skin. My jaw is beginning to cramp from how tightly I’ve been clenching it, and I can feel every seam in my clothes like razor blades.

I’ve never been so uncomfortable yet so unwilling to do anything about it. She looks at me with those drunken, golden eyes and I become cemented to my seat.

I know the want I see in her isn’t for me. Iknowthat. And Iknowshe’s aware of exactly what she’s doing. I know, I know, I know . . .

Andstill,I can’t tear myself away. I stay for that blissful half second when our eyes meet and my heart beats before my mind catches up and I believe it’s me she wants.

She whispers something in Bishop’s ear that makes him stiffen. She pulls on his hands like she’s trying to come across sweet and pleading. Whatever it is, he must agree because she jumps up and grasps his face, kissing him earnestly on the cheek. She spins to give Ecker a coquettish smile and the three of them head for the exit.

Without a single glance my way.

Slicing pain bites my palm.

“Fuck,”I curse, realizing I crushed a shot glass in my fist. I shake my hand out over the floor and ball a cocktail napkin in my hand.

“I guess the Ceruleans will be winning the Intelligence Trial.” A man in an elephant mask flops down in Ecker’s old seat.

“Excuse me?” I ask, trying not to keep my tone neutral until I figure out who he is and what he wants.

“You know, with your whore and all—”

“She’snota whore,” I grind out with a poorly restrained growl, physically struggling not to launch out of this chair and strangle the man.

“Right, right, of course, she’s your omega now.” He holds his hands up in concession, and I just now realize how drunk he sounds. “Listen, I meant no offense—it’s a compliment really.”

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