Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Heath
I GROWLED AND SNARLED, instinct taking over as four burly private security guards converged on me like a rugby scrum. I might’ve gotten my answer about the fictional Adrian, but I was also an idiot running on soured adrenaline and no sleep.
Screams and raised voices echoed around the high-end hotel event room. Even if I’d had a gun on me, I wouldn’t have dared use it. A meaty hand closed around my wrist and twisted, nearly dislocating my shoulder as the paid muscle wrestled me face-first onto the polished marble tile.
Something cracked in my pocket with a sound like crunching glass. Sharp edges jammed into my hip. Great. That was the end of my phone, then.
I craned around, trying to catch a glimpse of Lorenzo Vozzina’s omega mate—but all I could see were legs and feet. A heavy blow hit the base of my skull, stunning me. The sea of legs tilted, and the sounds of panicked confusion warped in my ears, ringing like a cathedral bell.
A hand yanked me up by the hair. More hands forced my arms behind me. Something thin and flexible looped around my wrists and tightened until it dug into the skin. A zip tie.
Two of the goons hooked hands beneath my armpits and hauled me upright.
My injured shoulder screamed; the room spun around me in dizzy circles.
Another fist impacted my cheek, snapping my head sharply to the side.
Blood flooded my mouth from a cut cheek.
I spat it onto the white floor—an ugly red splash of color.
“Come with us,” grunted on of the goons.
I sneered at him, tasting blood on my teeth. “Why? Am I under arrest, officer?”
“Bring him,” said the goon, ignoring me.
A fist drove into my left kidney, and my knees buckled. I tried to get my feet back under me as the two paid grunts supporting me dragged me forward, but I only succeeded in reeling drunkenly within their grip.
‘Drunk’ sounded pretty nice right about now, actually.
“What’re we supposed to do with him?” one of my captors asked.
“Gotta check with the boss,” said the one who seemed to be giving orders. “Get him some cement shoes and dump him in the lake, maybe.”
“No one actually does that,” muttered another goon. “Takes too long for the cement to dry.”
I had a confused glimpse of Head Goon pulling out a phone and raising it to his ear as I was dragged into an elevator car.
“Hey boss?” he asked, as the door slid shut. “We captured some asshole that was bothering your mate at the party. An alpha. Hair and beard like a fire engine. He was pretending to be a waiter. What d’you want us to do with him?”
There was a pause, then unintelligible buzz of the answer came. The elevator slid smoothly downward, threatening to send the meager contents of my stomach on a final farewell tour as we headed for the basement.
Fuck, I was dense. I’d been in such a hurry to get away from Gage’s fucking bedroom—and the omega sleeping in it—that I’d delivered myself straight into Lorenzo Vozzina’s hands. No one knew I’d come here. No one except Vozzina and his goons would have any clue where I ended up next.
No one was coming after me, and Vozzina had every reason to want me gone. After the way Adrian—or Paolo, rather—had reacted to Jez’s name, it was pretty obvious that he and Vozzina had orchestrated Knox’s attempted murder. Gage and I would be the next obvious targets on the list.
Lead Goon put his phone away. “Take him to the hotel’s loading dock. The boss wants us to throw him in a van and take him to that warehouse where they film all the shit with the omegas.”
I growled and braced myself, struggling as the doors slid open to reveal the hotel’s dark underbelly—utilitarian concrete full of clanking machinery and hissing boilers.
The goons dragged me out, cursing under their breath.
I was manhandled toward a large overhead door surrounded by carts of laundry and crates of god-knew-what.
Head Goon pushed a big yellow button on the wall, and the door began to slide up, revealing the darkness of the city night beyond.
A heavy blow came out of nowhere, impacting my temple, and I crumpled like a ragdoll as my consciousness fled.
When I woke up, I’d been dumped on a metal table in an unfamiliar room. My wrists were still zip tied behind me, and now my ankles had been bound, too. I groaned, trying to roll sideways to get the strain off my trapped arms, but my muscles wouldn’t cooperate.
The voices that had been buzzing meaninglessly around me went silent. I blinked into the glare of an overhead light, trying to bring the dark blobs leaning over me into focus.
“He’s awake.” Not-Adrian’s light tenor came from somewhere on my right.
“Yes, we can see that.” The deeper rumble, laced with a permanent sneer of disdain, set off alarm bells in my head. I blinked several more times until one of the blurs resolved into a pock-marked, olive-skinned face topped by greasy, overly coiffed hair fashioned into fussy little finger waves.
Lorenzo Vozzina.
He waved impatiently at someone. “Get the stim shot into him before he starts flopping around too much. Are the cameras set up?”
“Yeah, boss,” said another voice. “We got ’em set up on the ceiling so he won’t be able to get at ’em.”
A big hand grabbed my skull, the thumb digging into my bruised temple.
I hissed and bucked as the grip jerked my head to the side, forcing me into a position like a scared omega showing throat.
An instant later, a sharp prick in the side of my neck made me go still.
Something cold pushed into my vein, only to start burning like acid as it spread.
“What the fuck?” I slurred, sounding drugged and stupid to my own ringing ears.
The needle pulled out, and Vozzina leaned over me again.
“Heath Dawson,” he said. “Age twenty-nine. Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Emigrated to Chicago at the age of three with your parents, now deceased. Former alcoholic; former card-sharp. Now in the employ of one Matthew Knockley, soon to be deceased.”
“Go fuck a razor blade,” I snarled.
“You know, your pack has caused me no end of trouble, these past few years,” Vozzina went on.
“No idea what you mean,” I grated out. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”
“Don’t act stupid,” Not-Adrian said, his voice dripping with contempt. “You ruined my reception. Now my mate’s going to ruin you.”
A terrible itchy, jittery sensation was spreading along my nerves, moving outward from my shoulder and jaw in hot waves.
“What did you drug me with?” I demanded, as the urge to scream and thrash against the zip ties rose, growing stronger with every second.
“Oh, that?” Vozzina asked, all innocence. “Just a nice big dose of rut-stim. It should kick in within the next few minutes.”
Not-Adrian gave a harsh little laugh, and I was struck by the sudden need to get my hands around his throat and squeeze until his eyeballs popped like overripe grapes.
At the same time, blood rushed inexplicably southward, while some sick, deeply buried part of me whispered about all the things that could be done to an omega once I’d subdued him and killed his mate.
I cringed back from him with a gasp, so violently that I nearly slid right off the metal gurney.
“Get him to the cell,” Vozzina said, sounding as amused as his hateful little mate.
He grinned down at me with teeth. “Oh, and someone go get the kid. Don’t worry, Dawson.
We’ll throw you a bit of fluff to shred into pieces, so you don’t lose your marbles completely.
And, as you may have heard just now, we’ve got cameras all set up to record and stream the whole thing, directly to the kind of internet cesspits that enjoy that kind of content. You’re going to be famous.”
Not-Adrian tittered again. “Famous with the deviants and pedos, anyway,” he added.
Icy dread replaced the burning acid in my veins.
“Wh-what?” I stammered... but the gurney was already moving, its wheels jarring over the uneven concrete floor.
Strong hands held me down, keeping me from rolling off the juddering thing as we traversed hallways and echoing, open spaces.
Eventually, the metal cart was pushed through a cell door.
I looked around wildly. The room was completely bare, and maybe twelve feet long by twelve feet wide.
The front wall and door were made of heavy iron bars.
Other than that, it was a concrete cube without so much as a sink or cot.
The gurney tipped sideways, sending me crashing to the hard floor.
Before I could get my bearings past the conflagration burning through my body and mind, the men retreated through the door, leaving me still bound and wriggling like a hooked fish.
The sound of terrified crying penetrated the rushing sound in my ears. Just as I managed to get my body turned around so I could see the door, a huge goon shoved a small boy into the cell before retreating and slamming the bars shut.
The terrified scent of lemon and smoky paprika exploded across the back of my throat. The kid was a male omega—about twelve, or maybe a bit older if he was malnourished.
“Have fun, now,” Not-Adrian sing-songed. “Oh... and smile! You’re on Candid Camera!”
Laughing, Vozzina, Not-Adrian, and his goons all trooped away, the gurney squeaking and rattling into the distance as they left. The omega, still weeping hysterically, scrambled backwards until he was jammed into the farthest corner from me.
My muscles began to shake with rage as the reality of what was happening truly started to sink in. They’d given me a rut stim, and locked me in this tiny fucking cell with a terrified baby omega. An omega who was not my mate.
The out-of-control emotion that had been churning through me like a wind-driven wildfire exploded into an inferno.
With a roar, I jerked my arms apart with uncontrolled alpha strength, heedless of the way the zip-tie tore into the flesh of my wrists as it snapped.
I grabbed at the strap around my ankles with hands like claws, and snapped that as well.
The omega boy screamed, curling sideways into a ball to hide his face.
The memory of caramel and espresso curled through me like liquid torment. Mate, it whispered. Mate. Mate. Your mate is out there somewhere, and you’re trapped in here.
Another agonized howl ripped free of my chest, and I crab-crawled backward—jamming myself into the opposite corner from the child and hugging my knees to my chest as the rut rose up and swallowed me whole.