Chapter 21 #3
Time splintered around me. My omega hindbrain recognized him before my rational mind could process what was happening—recognized the alpha who'd spanked me into submission, who'd marked my throat with possessive bites, who'd disappeared for six months while I desperately tried and failed to forget the way his hands felt.
My body's response was immediate and mortifying—another rush of slick between my thighs, nipples hardening like they were trying to point accusingly at my betrayer.
Even facing death, my body can't stop being a complete fucking traitor. 'Sorry about the potential murder situation, but have you considered getting aroused first? Maybe make your corpse extra appealing for the crime scene photos?'
"Leo." Just my name, just that single syllable in that voice, and my body went full submission protocol, heat building under my skin with such intensity I whimpered pathetically. I pressed deeper into the shower wall, trying to somehow phase through ceramic tile by sheer force of embarrassment.
He moved with predatory grace that seemed excessive for someone already at the top of the food chain, crossing the bathroom in two strides while I remained frozen like the world's most pathetic prey animal.
When his hand reached for me, I flinched so violently I nearly gave myself whiplash, a broken sound escaping my throat as childhood terror crashed into present danger like waves in a perfect storm of trauma.
"Don't—" I tried, but the word died as his scent hit me full force, making my head spin like I'd just shotgunned three Red Bulls and a bottle of vodka.
Alpha. Safe. Danger. Protect. Submit. My brain was throwing contradictory instincts at me faster than I could process them, like my own personal psychological fireworks display.
He physically hauled me from the shower with about as much effort as someone lifting a wet kitten, my limbs too weak from fear and heat to offer anything resembling resistance.
His arms wrapped around me, and I couldn't even tell if I was struggling or trying to climb him like a tree.
My skin burned everywhere he touched me, a year of suppressed need colliding with primal terror to create the world's most confusing emotional cocktail.
Water sluiced between our bodies as he pressed me against his ridiculously expensive suit.
"I've got you," he growled against my ear, and the possessive claim in those three simple words made me sob like the pathetic omega disaster I apparently was.
I couldn't tell if it was relief or horror—maybe both, maybe neither.
My brain was too busy short-circuiting to properly categorize emotions.
Six months of silence and now he says "I've got you" like he never left? Like I haven't spent months trying to forget the feeling of his hands? Like I haven't called his name every time I touched myself, hating myself for needing him?
Another explosion rocked the cottage—definitely closer—and I cried out, burying my face against his chest without conscious permission from my pride. His heartbeat thundered beneath my ear—steady, controlled, nothing like the jackrabbit rhythm currently trying to punch its way out of my rib cage.
"We're leaving. Now." His voice carried absolute authority—not a suggestion but a command coded directly to my omega hindbrain, bypassing all rational thought centers.
When he gripped my shoulders to set me back, I whimpered at the loss of contact, then immediately wanted to slap myself for the response.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. He disappears for six months, returns during a firefight, and I'm already whining when he stops touching me. My dignity isn't just dead—it's been buried, exhumed, and cremated.
His eyes raked over my naked, trembling body with possessive heat that made me want to simultaneously cover myself with both hands and present in the most submissive position possible.
When he reached for a towel, his movements were efficient but his touch lingered as he wrapped it around my waist, fingers brushing against skin that remembered him far too well for my liking.
"Stefano," I managed, my voice high and broken as another burst of gunfire erupted downstairs. "What's happening? Who's—why are you—I can't—"
He cut me off by physically covering my mouth with his palm, his other arm wrapping around my waist with bruising force that would probably leave fingerprint souvenirs for weeks. "Questions later. Silence now."
Sure, silence now. Questions never, probably. Just another day in the 'Leo Doesn't Get To Know Shit About His Own Life' saga.
I nodded frantically against his hand, too overwhelmed to do anything but comply like the picture-perfect omega I'd spent years trying not to be.
When he removed his palm, he replaced it with a grip on my jaw that forced me to look directly into his eyes—no longer the controlling alpha who'd made me beg for release, but something far more dangerous.
Oh shit. This isn't Stefano the kinky alpha from the woods. This is Stefano the… whatever the hell he actually is that involves killing people professionally.
"You will do exactly as I say," he instructed, each word precise and cold enough to form ice crystals in the steam-filled bathroom. "You will stay behind me. You will not speak. You will not try to help. Understand?"
I nodded again, tears streaming down my face without my permission, like my tear ducts had decided independent operation was the way to go.
Everything was too much—the heat burning through my veins, the violence surrounding us, the sudden reappearance of the alpha who'd broken something fundamental inside me and then disappeared like smoke.
Where were you? Six months of nothing and now you're here ordering me around like you never left? Like I haven't spent every night remembering what you did to me, what you made me feel? Like I haven't been trying to hate you for abandoning me?
He released my jaw only to grip my wrist, his fingers circling bone with frightening ease, like he was handling fragile crystal instead of human limbs.
The contrast between his controlled strength and my trembling weakness made something deep in my omega hindbrain purr with approval even as my conscious mind screamed warnings about Stockholm syndrome and trauma bonding.
As he pulled me toward the shattered doorway, my legs nearly gave out beneath me like they'd suddenly been replaced with overcooked pasta.
The suppressants fighting against sudden heat symptoms left me dizzy and uncoordinated, the world tilting dangerously with each step like I was on some nightmare carnival ride.
Only his iron grip kept me upright as we moved into the smoke-filled hallway, my body apparently deciding that vertical mobility was an optional feature.
Through tears and terror, I caught glimpses of destruction that would make disaster photographers weep with professional envy—bullet holes peppered the walls where family photos once hung, blood spattered across Aunt Akiko's hand-painted wallpaper like some deranged Jackson Pollock had been commissioned to redecorate.
This was the shattered remains of the life I'd known for eight years, turned into a war zone in minutes.
My prison is being redecorated in Apocalypse Chic. The interior designer is bullets. The accent pieces are corpses. Aunt Akiko is going to be so upset about the wallpaper—she special-ordered it from Kyoto.
"Where's Aunt Akiko?" The question tore from my throat unbidden, high and desperate in a way that would have mortified me under normal circumstances. "Uncle Jiro? I can't leave without—"
"Secure," he answered without slowing, his grip tightening until I whimpered like the pathetic omega I apparently was. "Now move."
Secure. What does that even mean? Dead? Alive? Kidnapped by more murderous alphas in designer suits? Is 'secure' a euphemism for 'we've got them tied up in a van'? The mafia thesaurus must have very different definitions than the standard edition.
As we reached the landing, my vision swam with omega panic and heat-driven confusion, the world reduced to snapshots of violence like the world's worst photo album.
Through the haze, I saw them—Marco and Matteo, moving through my home like avenging angels of death.
They wore identical suits to Stefano's but carried themselves with lethal grace I'd never seen before, like they'd been hiding their true nature behind a mask of playful dominance.
Marco fired through a broken window with the casual expertise of someone who'd done this a thousand times before, his usually playful expression replaced by something coldly professional that made him a complete stranger.
The Marco who'd teased me about fish in the pond, who'd kissed me until I couldn't remember my own name—gone, replaced by this efficient killer who dropped men without changing expression.
That's not Marco. That's not the man who kissed away my protests. That's a fucking terminator in a designer suit who's using my living room as a shooting gallery.
Matteo stood over what could only be bodies, speaking into a communication device while checking ammunition with mechanical efficiency.
Nothing remained of the observant, quiet alpha who'd studied my every reaction—this was a predator in human skin, measuring death with clinical precision like he was taking inventory at a particularly violent office supply store.
These aren't my alphas. These are killers. These are monsters wearing familiar faces. The men I've been fantasizing about are actually professional murderers with exceptionally good tailors.