Chapter 8 – CARLISLE
Chapter
Eight
CARLISLE
T he omega's touch burns against my skin like liquid fire.
Usually, physical contact with strangers feels like static electricity—mildly irritating, easily dismissed.
This is different. This is... electric. Alive.
The sensation lingers even after she pulls away, phantom fingers trailing across my fingertips where hers brushed them.
Fascinating.
I watch her through half-lidded eyes as she moves ahead of us, that pink slip swaying with each step like a pendulum counting down to something delicious. The fabric clings to soft curves on a delicate frame.
But it's not just her body that captures my attention.
It's the way she moves—fluid one moment, jerky the next, like a little rabbit ready to bolt at the faintest sign of a threat.
There's something broken about her, something fractured that shows in the tilt of her head and the way her fingers flutter against her thighs.
The others follow behind me, their discomfort so plain it make me want to laugh.
Poor little soldiers, so out of their element in this den of sin and silk.
Archer keeps shooting worried glances at the omega, that savior complex of his already kicking into overdrive.
Bane's jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth, and Elias moves with the usual control, but fraying around the edges.
Me? I'm enjoying the show.
The omega stumbled when I handed her that invitation.
Just for a moment, her pupils dilated and her breathing hitched, like she'd seen something that shouldn't exist. Most people look at me and see exactly what I want them to see—charming, harmless, perhaps a bit eccentric.
The mask holds because I've perfected it over decades of practice.
But those hazel eyes... those hazel eyes saw something else entirely. Something real. As if the little rabbit knows she's in the presence of a wolf.
How delightfully perceptive.
The corridors we're walking through reek of artificial pheromones, the kind of cocktail designed to make omegas pliant and alphas stupid.
It's working on my companions. I can smell their arousal mixing with their moral outrage, creating a bouquet that has them all transfixed on this omega leading us deeper into this maze.
She stops at a heavy wooden door that screams expensive, her hand trembling slightly as she reaches for the handle. There's something almost ritualistic about the way she pauses, like she's gathering courage for what comes next.
The door swings open to reveal a room that belongs in a Victorian brothel, with its velvet and brass and shadows that seem to move independently of their light sources. And there, seated on what can only be described as a throne, is our host.
He's beautiful in the way predators are beautiful—sleek, dangerous, perfectly designed for what he does. Dark hair pulled back to show the sharp angles of his face, silver eyes that miss nothing, and a body that speaks of violence wrapped in expensive silk.
But there's something off about him, something that doesn't quite fit the role he's playing. The way he holds himself is too controlled, too careful. Like he's performing a part he's studied but never lived. Interesting.
Because I know a fellow monster when I see one.
The omega slips in behind us, and I hear the soft click of the lock engaging. Such a subtle sound, but it sends a thrill down my spine. We're trapped now, all of us, in this little theater of lies.
"Gentlemen," the man says, rising from his throne with liquid grace. His voice is cultured, educated, with just a hint of an accent I can't place. That alone is suspicious. "Welcome. I'm Jonas King."
Jonas King. What a wonderfully obvious alias. I almost want to applaud the lack of creativity.
He gestures to the plush seating arranged around a low table laden with crystal decanters and expensive cigars. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."
Bane takes the lead, as he always does, settling into a chair that groans under his bulk. The rest of us follow suit, though I notice the good doctor positioning himself with clear sightlines to both the door and our host.
"Why don't you get us some drinks, sweetheart?" Jonas says to the omega, his tone casual but commanding.
She nods and moves to the bar with that same fluid-jerky motion, like a marionette with a few strings caught. I watch the way her hands shake as she pours, the way she bites her lower lip in concentration. There's something innocent about her focus.
"So," Jonas continues, settling back into his throne, "I understand you're interested in expanding your operations."
The dance begins.
Bane leans forward, playing his part with the dedication of a method actor. "We've been looking for new suppliers. Someone with quality merchandise and discretion. You come highly recommended."
"Discretion is my specialty," Jonas replies smoothly. "As is quality. I only deal in the finest omegas—young, healthy, properly trained. And as you can see," he pauses, gesturing to the woman across the room, "Beautiful."
The words should roll off me like water.
I've heard this conversation a thousand times.
Our prey have little variation in their interests, or the scripts they all seem to be reading off.
But something about the way Jonas says it, the slight tightness around his eyes, suggests he finds the words as distasteful as I find them predictable.
Curious. No one with a conscious would survive long enough in this industry to reach the position he occupies.
The omega returns with a tray of drinks, moving between us with that almost feline grace.
She serves Bane first, then Elias, then Archer, each movement rustling the bows and silks clinging to her body.
When she reaches me, our fingers brush again as she hands me the crystal tumbler, and that same electric shock runs through me.
She freezes for a moment, those hazel eyes meeting mine, and I see something flicker in their depths.
Fear? Recognition? The same hunger stirring in what was previously the unoccupied pit of apathy that was meant to house my soul?
She's on to the next alpha before I can figure it out, but the impression lingers like smoke.
She serves Jonas last, and he immediately pulls her down onto his lap, his hand settling possessively on her thigh. The gesture is casual, proprietary, the kind of display alphas use to mark their territory.
I hear Bane's barely suppressed growl, feel the intensity spike in the room as my companions react to the sight. Even I feel something twist in my chest—not quite jealousy, but something close enough to be uncomfortable.
How interesting.
The omega sits stiffly in Jonas's lap, her body language loose and comfortable. There's something wrong with this picture, something that doesn't fit the narrative we're supposed to be buying.
"She's lovely," I say, letting my accent carry just enough appreciation to sound genuine. "Local talent?"
"Recent acquisition," Jonas replies, his fingers tracing the top of her stockings. She doesn't flinch or freeze the way she did in response to my far more innocuous content. Very interesting. "Still adjusting to her new circumstances."
The blatant lie tastes bitter in the air between us. I'm certain of it now. This isn't a trafficker showing off his merchandise. This is something else entirely.
I lift my drink to my lips but don't drink, watching as my companions do the same. None of us are stupid enough to consume anything in a place like this without testing it first. The amber liquid smells like top-shelf whiskey, but there's an underlying chemical note that makes my nostrils flare.
How thoughtful. They've prepared party favors.
Jonas notices our hesitation, his silver eyes sharpening as he takes in our untouched drinks. The omega shifts in his lap, and he gently pushes her aside, his movements suddenly predatory.
"Gentlemen," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to call bullshit."
The pretense shatters like glass.
We move as one, trained reflexes taking over as we toss our drinks and draw our weapons. Crystal explodes against the walls, expensive whiskey mixing with whatever cocktail of chemicals they'd prepared for us.
Jonas moves like liquid mercury, rolling behind his throne as Bane's first shot splinters the wood where his head had been. The omega scrambles away from the gunfire, pressing herself against the wall with wide, terrified eyes.
"Get the girl!" Bane bellows over the sound of gunfire, his voice carrying the authority of absolute command.
I holster my weapon and lunge for the omega, wrapping my arms around her waist and hauling her toward the door. She comes willingly at first, letting me pull her away from the violence, and I actually feel a moment of satisfaction at playing the hero.
That satisfaction lasts exactly three seconds.
Her knee drives into my groin like a homing missile, sending white-hot agony shooting through my nervous system. I double over on the other side of the door, gasping, and she follows up with a headbutt that catches me square in the temple.
The world goes sideways.
Stars explode behind my eyelids as I hit the floor, my vision swimming in and out of focus. I can hear gunfire in the distance, muffled voices, but it all sounds like it's coming from underwater.
Something cold presses against my throat, and I force my eyes open to find the omega crouched over me, my own pistol in her delicate hands. She's grinning now, that innocent mask slipping to reveal something wild and dangerous underneath. Something beautiful and lethal, like deadly nightshade.
"Sorry, handsome," she says, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "I'll be taking this."
The gun comes down hard against my skull and fresh pain blooms through my already scrambled brain. I try to move, to fight back, but my body isn't responding properly. Everything feels distant and sluggish, like I'm moving through molasses.
I'm not used to being caught off guard. Then again, I'm not used to such delicate prey.
She reaches into her hair and produces a syringe with the fluid ease of a magician's sleight of hand. The needle slides into my neck before I can even think to resist, and I feel whatever was in those drinks burning through my bloodstream.
"Shh," she whispers, her fingers carding gently through my hair. Like she's soothing a wounded bird. "Only sleep now."
The contrast is staggering—the violence of her attack followed by this tender gesture. This omega completely mad, utterly unhinged, and absolutely magnificent.
My vision starts to tunnel, darkness creeping in from the edges as the drug takes hold. The last thing I see is her face hovering over mine, those hazel eyes bright with something that might be madness or might be joy.
The last thing I think, as consciousness slips away like sand through my fingers, is that the impossible has finally happened.
I'm completely, impossibly, irrevocably in love.