Chapter 21 #4
The realization should have doused the heat building inside me faster than a bucket of ice water.
Instead, some primal part of my omega biology responded with confused arousal—slick gathering between my thighs as I watched them demonstrate their lethal dominance.
The suppressants were failing catastrophically, my body registering three compatible alphas in my territory, protecting what biology said was theirs.
What the hell is wrong with me? They're killing people, and I'm getting wet? I'm sick. I'm broken. I'm some new category of psychological damage that probably requires its own DSM entry. 'Inappropriate Arousal Response to Homicide' by Leo Yamamoto, test subject #1.
"Clear to move," Marco called out, his voice carrying none of the teasing warmth I remembered, all business and cold efficiency like he was reporting stock numbers instead of a body count.
Stefano's arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me against his side as my knees threatened to stage a complete rebellion against gravity.
The contact sent electricity racing through my already overheated system—unwanted arousal mixing with terror until I couldn't separate one from the other, my body a confused mess of contradictory signals.
The next moments passed in fragmented snapshots as my omega-panicked brain struggled to process what was happening.
Being half carried, half dragged down the stairs like a particularly uncooperative piece of luggage.
The copper scent of blood overwhelming my senses until I could taste it in the back of my throat.
Bodies sprawled across what had once been our living room, positioned like macabre furniture.
The feeling of Stefano's solid warmth against my side—the only constant in a world suddenly shattered beyond recognition.
Is this real? Am I actually being rescued by the men who haunted my dreams? Or is this some elaborate dying hallucination my brain cooked up to make getting murdered less traumatic?
Outside was worse—sunlight blinding after the smoky darkness of the cottage, bodies littering the garden like some deranged landscaper had decided corpses were the new decorative rocks.
Aunt Akiko's prized hydrangeas were painted crimson, pink blossoms soaking up blood like they'd been waiting for this opportunity their entire plant lives.
She loved those flowers. Spent hours pruning them, talking to them like they could hear her. Now they're drinking the blood of men whose names I'll never know. Gardening with corpses—a new hobby she never asked for.
I made a broken sound that probably would have embarrassed me if I had any dignity left to wound, my legs giving out completely as the reality of what was happening finally crashed through my heat-addled brain.
Stefano didn't hesitate—he simply swept me into his arms like I weighed nothing, my towel slipping dangerously as he sprinted across the bullet-swept yard toward a convoy of black SUVs that screamed "CRIMINAL ENTERPRISE WITH EXCELLENT TASTE IN VEHICLES. "
The primal part of me—the omega who recognized safety in alpha strength—pressed closer to his chest, seeking protection from the violence surrounding us.
The rational part screamed in confusion and terror, unable to reconcile the alpha I'd fantasized about with the professional killer currently carrying me through a war zone like I was a particularly valuable package.
We reached the lead SUV just as another barrage of gunfire erupted behind us, bullets pinging off metal nearby with the casual indifference of death narrowly missing its target.
Stefano wrenched the rear door open and placed me inside with surprising gentleness for someone who'd just been tossing bodies around like confetti.
He shrugged out of his suit jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders, the expensive fabric still warm from his body. "Stay," he commanded.
Stay. Right. Because I have so many other options right now. Should I take a leisurely stroll through the bullet garden? Maybe go back for my toothbrush?
Two men in identical black suits materialized beside the vehicle, assault rifles at the ready like they'd been conjured from some violent magic trick. Their posture was alert, professionally detached as they positioned themselves on either side of the SUV, eyes constantly scanning for threats.
"Anyone approaches, kill them," Stefano ordered with the casual authority of someone accustomed to deadly commands being followed without question. "No exceptions."
Jesus Christ. He just ordered them to murder anyone who comes near me like he's telling them to pick up dry cleaning. Who IS he? What have I been fantasizing about?
"Yes, sir," they responded in unison, their stance widening as they took up defensive positions with the practiced efficiency of men who'd done this many, many times before.
The door slammed shut, sealing me in bulletproof silence as Stefano turned back toward the firefight with his weapon drawn.