Page 92 of Foxy Filthy Omega

“I can manage on my own.” She got out and closed the door, but I didn’t move from where I was standing and she bounced off of me.

Frankie looked up in surprise and I grabbed her arms again, but this time I managed not to shake the shit out of her.

“I’m sure you could manage on your own if you had to,” I agreed. “But I’m right here. Let me help you.”

She flinched and my grip on her tightened before I forced myself to release her.

“Please.” I knew this was starting to cross into forbidden territory, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted to help her. I needed to beusefulto her.

“Fine.” Frankie waved her hand like I was being annoying. “Do whatever you want.”

Oh, that was definitely a dangerous thing to say.

I yanked my backpack and then scooped her up, heading for the elevator as I carried her in my arms instead of on my back.

“Soren!”

My lips twitched. I couldn’t help it. Her impotent rage and the way she kept saying my name was too fucking adorable and I wanted to grin like an idiot because it felt like I’dwonsomething.

“You said I could do whatever I wanted,” I reminded her as I hit the button for the elevator.

“You’re so literal.” She held onto my neck, practically pouting, and the sudden urge to kiss her hit me like a truck.

Thankfully, I was saved by the elevator doors opening.

I stepped inside and bent down so she could press the right button for her floor. Frankie smashed it and then crossed her arms, looking anywhere but at me.

She was so fucking cute, I wanted to eat her right up.

How many other faces could I get her to make? How much would she let me get away with?

I was dying to find out.

CHAPTER 28

Soren

I setFrankie down on the couch and dumped my backpack on the floor before sitting down beside her. Then I pulled her leg up and set it on my lap, untying her laces.

She didn’t argue or try to protest this time. She just watched me slowly and carefully take the boot off her injured foot. Her sock came off next and I studied the slightly swollen area around her ankle.

It wasn’t bruised yet, but it was puffy.

“Does this hurt?” I held her foot and moved it this way and that, watching her face closely for any sign of pain.

“It’s sore,” she admitted, grimacing slightly when I pushed her toes toward her knee. “But I think it’s fine. It probably just retraumatized me more than anything.”

I raised an eyebrow instead of verbally asking what the fuck she was talking about.

“This was the leg I broke back during that…incident,” she explained.

So, she’d been buried alive with a broken leg?

I released her just in case I accidentally lost control and hurt her.

Every single thing I learned about this so-called pack was infuriating.

Did they really put their children through that kind of trauma?

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