Page 44 of Harley & Her Ferals

I attempt to reach up to kiss my Alpha in reward, but unexpectedly, the door slams open.

That’s not River.

I roll away from Feral.

I don’t want a repeat of the threat from Allegra to shock Feral, simply because we’re lying together.

Feral growls, throwing the blanket off.

He crouches, readying himself to prowl to the front of the cage.

“Inside, Laurent. Be a good Omega.” Dad shoves a male Omega in the back, sending him stumbling into the attic.

Dad is holding his gun casually in his hand as he swaggers after the Omega into the room. He’s dressed in his favorite red suit, jabbing his pistol again at Laurent.

My eyes widen.

Laurent isn’t having a panic attack.

Instead, he sticks his hands into the pockets of his own gray suit and strolls into the blood-red concrete attic like it’s a luxurious spa.

Who the hell is this Omega?

He has some serious balls.

Laurent’s calm is fake, however, which impresses me.

I can tell because he holds himself still but he’s deathly pale. He allows himself to be steered into the room like a stiff doll.

He appears to be a prince who is being led to his execution. Yet this male Omega is attempting to look unaffected.

That takes courage.

Laurentlooks, however, exactly as Dad described the billionaire from the Romeo pack over breakfast. The sweetOmega who has been lusted over in magazines and on TV shows by millions as one of the most beautiful Omegas in America.

He’s heartbreakingly beautiful.

Laurent has waist length blond hair, which is feathered around a face that’s as sharp as a blade. His skin is so pale that it’s translucent. His hair is also made pretty with rose clips like he’s about to do a model shoot.

Laurent studies me with cool, gray eyes.

I sit bolt upright, blushing.

Why do I have to look such a hot mess, when I meet him for the first time?

I try to smooth down my tangled hair.

Laurent is dressed in a gray suit that matches his eyes with a glimmering waistcoat, which is embroidered with roses.

His suit is buttoned up to his neck and restrictive. A castle is embroidered over the pocket. He’s also wearing castle cuff links.

The medieval style castle feels at odds with the roses, hard with the soft.

Feral’s response takes me by surprise.

He sniffs, before his eyes darken. Then he launches himself forward, slamming his hand against the front of the cage, rattling it.

He lets out a deep, protective growl.

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