Page 51 of Isla

King

BeforeIenteredthe room, I knew she’d been there, because her perfume seemed to be all around me and the primal hunter rose from deep inside my gut. That darker side of me which craved for my omega to submit to me, the one that craved the hunt.

The omega I wanted to chase down, scent her fear, her awe, her arousal, then pounce on her, licking and tasting her skin, before I plunged my cock in her body and my teeth into her flesh.

My pack mates were right, she was here. I just hoped we were scenting the same omega.

I got it wrong before—I can admit that now.

Paula was beautiful, with dark skin and long, dark brown hair. I claimed our scents matched—they didn’t. I wanted her. Loved her. But my pack mates refused, and we had a pack agreement.

"The right omega or no omega."

I gave up Paula and had nobody since her. That was five years ago. And as my nose tilted, scenting the berries that infiltrated the air. I growled.

My pack mates were right, and this was her and she was here somewhere close. I hadn’t seen her yet. None of the omegas had entered the room—but they were nearing.

I stalked around the room with the other alphas, all wearing the same white masquerade masks. I read on the flight that the Omega Resort liked to do this to make things equal, but everyone knew it was to protect omegas from alphas after the event.

But it was her perfume I was interested in—this omega was mine.

Pushing my shoulders back, my spine straight, and my chin tipped. I was the most alpha of alphas and if any other these upstarts tried to take what was mine, they would know about it.

I’d just got Ronaldo Ernesto off on his latest charge. I’m not proud of it. The man’s a murdering bastard. But he saved me when I was younger, and now I was forever saving him.

Recalling seeing my father’s raging, bloodshot eyes when he turned up at the bar my mother worked. Remembering him pointing a gun to her face, but before he pulled the trigger, he saw me cowering on the floor at her feet. She pushed me there the moment she heard his voice screaming outside the bar.

“Get out here, you fucking slut!”

“Stay low Kingsley, don’t let him see you here,” my mother said, pushing my head down, and at the same moment, he stormed into the bar.

I wished I didn’t cower that day. I wished I picked up the knife she used to cut the limes and stab my father in the back.

But I didn’t.

I did as she asked and cowered at her feet. Trouble was, I screamed when the gun fired and again when she slumped at my feet.

“Get up, boy,” my father yelled.

“Leave the boy alone, you have no gripe with him,” a man with a European accent said. His voice was calm, which I needed at that point in my life.

“Get up, boy!” my father shouted again, ignoring the man. I slowly rose from where I was. A gun pointed directly at my face as he smirked and hissed, “you always were stupid.”

I locked eyes with my father, not wanting to blink, not wanting to cower away from his stare. I was only eight years old, too stupid to know what was to come.

My body stiffened when his finger cocked the gun. Blood pounded in my ears as I stared at my father, waiting for him to squeeze the trigger and take my life as he had done to Mom.

The gun blasted. I tightly closed my eyes as blood splattered over my face. I waited for the pain, for me to slump onto the floor.

And there was a thud—but it wasn’t me.

I gasped as I opened my eyes and the piece of shit sperm donor was dead on the floor. And standing ahead of me was a man I now knew as Ronaldo Ernesto.

The man who became my father, the man who raised me for a couple of years, until the day my aunt fought for me in the courts.

My aunt was an attorney and won.

After that, I spent my teenage years with her before she pushed me to go to law school. But a few years after graduating, Ronaldo sought me out to defend him. I never felt good enough, experienced enough. I never felt worthy of defending this man in his high-profile case.

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