4. Conor
CONOR
Emile had stumbled upon our delightful little murderer when she’d beat us to a kill two years ago.
We discovered the alpha face down in his own blood, his cock sliced off and stuffed down his throat in a macabre imitation of what he’d forced half a dozen young, unregistered omegas to do before trafficking them.
Then she took out a beta who’d been hacking into the Omega Institute’s registry and murdering likely omegas before they presented.
But we fell in love when she took out a pack of alphas who forced an unregistered omega into a bond, then whisked the omega away without leaving a fucking trace that he ever existed.
Exquisite.
She never left a signature—just bodies twisted and mangled in ways that spoke to their crimes.
I almost came in my pants the time she set up a human centipede of men who trafficked children.
Instead, Emile sank to his knees and sucked me off right there, while we imagined spit-roasting our vicious little omega.
I started killing at nineteen—bored, wealthy, and disgusted by how families like mine made their wealth and kept it by using omegas to trade and bargain between them.
The first kill was almost an accident—a business associate of my mother’s, drunk, dragging an omega into a coat room. I followed and snapped his neck before I’d consciously decided to do it. The high lasted for weeks.
After that, I learned to hunt and how to cover my tracks. It gave me purpose in a life that had been nothing but empty luxury and performative philanthropy.
Lark killed more often than most serial killers, but her lack of a signature—the lack of ego—made her harder to trace.
That and, I suspected, her innate omega ability to make alphas relax.
She was brilliant, and every time she killed, terror shot through my heart.
What if this was the time she got caught? What if we didn’t get to her in time?
Lark purred in my arms, a real omega purr signaling her contentment, and turned onto her side to burrow closer.
I stared down at her in wonder. Two years of chasing this woman, of planning, of making it impossible for her to refute the connection between us, and we finally had her in our arms.
She brushed her cheek against my chest, as if marking me with her scent, and I melted a little bit more.
I was so gone for this woman—I had been since the first murder, but now that I held her in my arms?
If I hadn’t worked so hard for this, if we hadn’t moved heaven and earth to find her, to catch her, I’d be embarrassed by how satisfying it was to lay here with her.
Emile met my eyes over her head. “She’s going to run,” he said sadly.
“We’ll chase her, and we’ll catch her,” I vowed.
Lark laughed quietly, revealing she was awake, despite her sleepy snuggles. “You’ll chase me for sure. Catch me? We’ll see.”
Goddess, I fell a little bit more in love with her right there—arrogant, deadly, perfect.
To no one’s surprise, Lark was gone by the time we woke up the next morning.
I rubbed my chest, despairing to find the space between us cold, still smelling of her, missing her delicate touch already.
“She’s insane,” I murmured. “We can’t lose her. She’s too fucking right for us.”
Emile stretched and rolled over to drag me into his arms. “We’ll get her back,” he promised.
“That’s the plan.”