Page 14 of Penny for Your Saints

Now that he isn’t merely a silhouette against the midday sun—I can see the de facto ringleader of this band of criminal idiots; a well-built man with a toss of wild shoe polish-black hair and a shaggy beard over his square jaw; something familiar in his Prussian blue eyes besides the flickering fires of hatred.

I keep my eyes on my captors over the chipped rim of the mug, slaking my thirst enough to manage a few words that don’t crumble to dust on my tongue.

“Sorry I fail to impress after being drugged and kidnapped. Oh wait… I don’t give half a rat-fuck what you amateurs think,” I snip back.

Grim though it may be, I take stock of my surroundings. Quiet, mostly clean. While I don’t have a working memory of the last… I don’t know how many hours; from what I can tell, they haven’t done any tampering with me besides the initial tranquilizing.

Lucky for me, these idiots are still running amateur hour—I’m still alive, and my left arm is blissfully intact, and thus the digital tracking device installed deep in my forearm is still broadcasting my location to my superiors back at FBI headquarters. It’s only a matter of time until they successfully trace the signal and get me the fuck out of here.

Now, I just gotta play for time.

“Kitty’s awake, and she’s still got claws.” Mr. Most-Likely-In-Charge beams, his eyes wild with possibility.

I pass the empty mug to my handcuffed hand, offering the boss man my middle finger—thumb extended, as my quartet of captors looms over me.

“She’ll play nice and be a good girl if she knows what’s good for her,” the tall one scoffs, like some cruel prince laying forth his edict.

“Please, you’re obviously one of those insecure men who’s pissed off that I kicked your ass.” I roll my eyes, extending the empty cup to the blonde one—the obvious baby of the crew, batting my auburn lashes at him. “Can I please have some more water?”

The loud burbling of my stomach seems to remind me that this water is the only thing I’ve taken in since breakfast before checking into the Diamond Center, god knows how long ago.

“No water or food until we get some cooperation out of you,” Bossman interjects, reaching into tall, dark and handsome’s ratty sweatshirt pocket to retrieve the beat up box of 27’s.

Like a petulant child, I keep eye contact with him—those dark blue pools of deep cold fixed on me—as I lift the mug high over my head before spiking it downward onto an exposed square of hardwood, my legs folded protectively beneath me on the sofa; the white ceramic and pink glitter paint shards scatter everywhere in a high-pitched shatter of glass.

“That’s about as much cooperation as you shit stains are going to get out of me,” I sneer, slumping back against the beaten up couch cushions, my eyes still locked on Mr. Leaderman.

I’ve been so focused on the boss I don’t even see the tall, fancy one until he eclipses my vision—his massive frame suddenly all I can see. Before I can open my mouth—his open hand flies across my face in a stinging stroke of pain.

He hits me with such force that everything dazzles—little stars dancing at the edges of my vision.

“I have a feeling you’re going to be changing your tune sooner rather than later, darling,” Posh Spice sighs as if he’s bored, leaning down so that we’re nearly nose to nose.

Then his perfume hits me like a ton of bricks.

Panic grips me. I should be able to sense his aura, but I’m on higher-than-market-grade suppressants provided by the government that not only block my sigma perfume production, but also minimize my susceptibility to impact from others’ scents. Such precautions are mandatory for field work, but I’m admittedly on the downward swing from my last dose, considering I was anticipating several weeks stay at a placement center in order to be matched with my prospective partner(s)—and right now, I am feeling the impact of his omega scent deeply.

Rich, creamy Bulgarian rose—sweet, earthy sandalwood, and peaty scotch invade my nostrils, threatening to bring me to my knees.

He’s 1000% omega—and he smells so delicious that it takes every last fiber of my being to keep my head clear of lascivious thoughts and focused on maintaining a closed, cold front until the cavalry arrives.

I must be making one hell of a face, because pretty boy’s lips part in an easy smile as if he knows he has me exactly where he wants me.

“There we go. Someone seems a bit more pliable now.” His yellow-green eyes soften, lids hooded with pleasure as he senses the edge of my desperation.

I sit on my right hand, so that I don’t try to reach for him with it.Quentin, that's what the boss man called him.

“Tch, that’s cheating! Cazzy could put her to sleep too—but you don’t see him flexing that shit.” Tall, dark and handsome scoffs, waving his smoking cigarette through the open air as hegestures to both boss man and blond buzz boy; as if making his case to a judge or an umpire at a sporting event.

“Jealousy isn’t a good look for you, Sebby,” Quentin sniffs imperiously, tilting his head like an observant bird of prey at me. His big chartreuse eyes with their coppery lashes are almost in line with my own gaze. I bite my tongue, unsure of how much my body—my mind—will betray me in favor of my base sigma biology.

Right now, every cell in my body is screaming out to touch him—to crush his mouth with mine and taste him.

I don’t trust myself, even with my hands tied and my pride on the line—so I close my eyes and breathe deeply through my mouth, doing my best to minimize taking in his scent, but the damage is already done. I can feel his aura expanding, encroaching on the frayed edges of my resolve.

“Oho, she’s a tough one!” he croons approvingly—one of his long fingers tracing its way through the open air to rest beneath the point of my chin. “She’s already shown more resolve than any of you lot did the first time I flexed my aura on you.”

My eyes fly open, and I grit my teeth in silence—lest I beg him for the opportunity to… I don’t know what—dosomething.

---