Page 8 of Sweet Heat

“Let go,” I demand through gritted teeth, glad to see Tyler, one of my teammates, headed this way. Like fucking Superman, he swoops in.

“Hey there, pretty darlin’.” He lays on a thick southern accent, which has Blondie retracting her octopus arms almost instantly when she detects new prey. She uncoils from around me, and a sigh of relief bursts from my lips.

Escaping as quickly as possible, I rush to the booth like my ass is on fire. With a loud groan, I slide in next to Crimson. As soon as I’m safe, I look back at Tyler, who mouths, ‘You owe me,’ and there’s no doubt that I do. The blonde paws at his crotch, and he grimaces, grabbing her hand and giving her a twirl.

“They still here?” I ask, ready to turn my attention to the real reason I’m here—some fucker touched my Puff, and now he needs to learn a lesson.

“Who?” Damien asks, a teasing light in his eyes. Dick. The man lives to needle me. Owen shoulders him good-naturedly before jutting his chin toward the far corner. I follow his line of sight, scanning the crowd.

It takes a moment, but soon enough, my eyes lock with the dirtbag Alpha who dared to mess with my sweet girl. He’s already sizing me up with fury simmering beneath his fake-ass grin.Let the good times roll.He’s a powder keg, ready to blow, and I’m eager to light the match. It won’t take much to get his ass over here.

“He sees us,” I mutter, taking a swig from my beer and using the bottle to salute him before flipping him the bird.

The disrespect is enough to have him rushing over to us like an angry bull, full of bluster and ready for castration. Excitement races through my veins—my Alpha rising to the surface. I’m a lot more dominant than most people realize, usually hiding behind a friendly mask.

But the beast inside me wants blood and won’t be denied.

Wanna dance motherfucker?

I don’t even stand when he and his cronies approach the table, instead bringing the cool bottle to my lips. The hoppy-flavored bubbles burst on my tongue, and I swallow it down, completely unbothered.

“What’s your problem, man?” He stops by the side of the table, pressing his beer belly into my shoulder. The scent of beer and stale popcorn assaults my nostrils, but I don’t answer, pushing him to make the first move. His friends crack their knuckles, trying to look scary.So pathetic.“Why’d you get me kicked out of the game? I paid good money for those tickets.”

Slurred speech?Check.

Already intoxicated and belligerent?Check.

I’m no idiot. There are phones and cameras everywhere. Am I going to pound him into dust? Hell fucking yes. But I need it to at least look justified.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” he says, louder this time. Slamming his stomach into my shoulder again, he leans toward me and then exhales his putrid breath right into my face. “Never expected the great Miller Phillips to be such a douche.”

“Well, you know what they say—never meet your heroes,” I reply dryly, finally looking up into his beady eyes. “Especially if you’re a useless, pathetic excuse for a man.”

A condescending smirk twists my lips, goading him, practically begging him to take the bait. His packmates glower at me, their eyes flashing with something dangerous. Too bad they don’t realize I have years of pent-up aggression I’m dying to unleash. The words hit their mark, bringing a deep flush to the ringleader’s face. As I watch, his cheeks redden to the ripeness of a tomato before becoming nearly purple. Rage rises within him, turning his scent acrid, and when Owen and the rest of my teammates at the table laugh it further bruises his fragile ego.

The Alpha reaches toward me, grabs my shoulder, and attempts to pull me out of the booth.

“The hell you say to me?” he pants, already out of breath. “You gonna shit all over your fans for fat omega snatch?”

Fuck, yes, here we go.

“Hey! What are you doing?” I shout for the cameras as I launch myself off the seat. Hopefully, it’s enough to keep me out of trouble, but even if it’s not, this man is about to lose most of his goddamn teeth… and I’ll add in some broken fingers. Just for good measure. “Take your hands off me.”

Now on my feet, I straighten my back, gathering myself to my full six-three height. I easily have a few inches on this pissant, and I can’t wait to use every single one of them to put him on the sticky beer-covered floor. His eyes widen, perhaps realizing his mistake, but it’s far too late for him. It was too late when he first touched Posie’s dark-chocolate braid… maybe even too late when he looked at the crescent birthmark on her neck.

Mine.

Behind me, I can hear grunts and moans from the other two as Pack Moore works them over. Knowing they have my back,I turn to the whining little weasel in front of me. The one who dared to put his filthy hands onmyomega.

Dead man walking.

Possessiveness roars through my veins, a red haze descending on my vision. With a snarl, I rocket back my fist and send it straight into his nose. Bones crack. Blood drips. And I let loose an animalistic howl—singing my enjoyment at the moon. He comes back, drunk enough to be brave, and I pull him in close to my chest and grab his finger.

“Nevertouchmy omega,” I hiss in his ear so quietly only he can hear me. His eyes widen, and I bend the digit back until it snaps. Tears stream down his ugly face as he screams and blubbers.

“Neverlookat my omega.” Crack. Another finger. Another pathetic scream. Snot comes to join the party, bubbling from his soon-to-be broken nose.

“Neverspeakto my omega.” A thrill runs up my spine as I break another. He tries to lurch away, but I hold him tighter.

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