Chapter 18
Maeve
Prague - Over Nine months Ago
The wig was a problem.
Blonde, synthetic, and aggressively determined to slide off my scalp. I'd bought it from a shop in Manchester that also sold costume swords and fake blood, which should have told me everything I needed to know about how this evening was going to go.
The coat was worse. White and fluffy, the sort of thing a film producer's mistress might wear to a premiere. I'd chosen it because Finn had a type. The type was loud. The type was obvious. The type looked expensive and temporary and grateful for the attention.
I'd been his type once.
Now I was sitting in a cigar bar in Prague where drinks cost more than my old caravan, wearing a wig that itched and a coat that made me look like an extra from a music video, staring at a glass of vodka I had no intention of drinking.
Across the room, Finn O'Shea was laughing at his own joke.
Nothing new there.
Three men sat at his table. Big men in expensive dark suits who had a stillness that showed their intentions. I catalogued them the way I'd learned to catalogue all men in Finn's orbit. Determine the threat level, locate the exit routes, and run if they looked at me twice.
The one with black hair and pale eyes was the most restless, tapping a finger against his glass.
The largest one, all bulk muscle and a scar cutting through his eyebrow, watched the room like he was memorizing it.
And the one across from Finn, the one with the dark beard, darker eyes, the sort of presence that made the air around him feel occupied, was doing none of the talking and all of the listening.
Finn's business partners. It didn't matter. I wasn't there for them.
I was there because two years after a doctor had terminated the bond, my body still hadn't got the message.
Phantom ache. That's what the internet called it.
A polite term for the rolling, cramping heat that woke me at three in the morning with my teeth clenched and my stomach in knots.
The bond was gone on paper, but my omega biology was a slow learner.
Finn had to die. That was the maths.
Not with a gun. I couldn’t afford it. I'd checked the prices, and black-market firearms in Prague cost more than three months of my rent. But a steak knife from a hardware shop in ?i?kov had cost me forty crowns. Eighty pence. I'd tested the blade on a tomato. It was sharper than my life choices.
The plan was simple. Lure him out. Wait in the alley. Finish it. Claim my body as my own.
I moved in the booth. The coat slipped off one shoulder. I caught Finn's eye and gave him a slow, deliberate look, the one that said, “I'm expensive and available and you're exactly the man to afford me.”
He didn't recognize me. Two years, thirty pounds, a wig, and more make up on my face than left in the cosmetic bag. The old Maeve had been meek. This one looked like trouble.
I planned to be lots of trouble.
His gaze flicked down my body, and true to form, lingered over my breasts. The expensive bra worked.
But the reason I was there came on worse than ever before. Just being in his vicinity.
It was not a phantom ache. And not the dull, familiar cramping I'd been living with for two years. This was different. Real. A wave of it, rolling up from my stomach and spreading outward until my skin felt two sizes too small.
I stood. Grabbed the coat. Walked and hoped he was following.
My heels clicked on the pavement, and I was counting steps until I was in the alley, back against brick, knife in my hand. The blade was cold. My palms were not.
And then I smiled when I heard footsteps at the mouth of the alley.
But not one set but three got closer and closer until they were standing in front of me.
The men from Finn's table.
The tall one stepped forward first. The one with the scar above his eye, another along the jaw, and dark sand colored hair cut close. The black-haired one flanked left. The one with the beard moved right, blocking the exit.
They didn't look like they were passing through.
"You need to leave," I said. Voice steadier than my hands. "I have something to do."
"Put the weapon down." Slick ran at hearing the low, rich Russian accent. The kind of voice that expected compliance and got it from people more dangerous than me.
"You don't understand—"
“Drop it.”
My fingers had opened without permission and the knife hit the cobblestones. My body was shaking, my stomach cramping and more slick was running down my thighs.
I could smell them now, all three of them, and the ache wasn't phantom. My body wasn’t reacting to Finn, it was reacting to their scent.
Was this the real heat since I had the bond dissolved?
But I still had a man to kill, and that man had something to do with them.
My hands landed on a solid chest as I pushed past and ran.
Heels snapped on cobblestones. Someone shouted behind me, but I was already across the road, dodging a tram, aiming for the neon sign of my hotel. The heat was building in waves now, each one worse than the last, and by the time I reached my room I could barely work the key card.
I took a deep inhale, begged my hand to stop shaking and it did for long enough to get inside the room. I locked the door. Ripped off the wig. Stripped my body of the coat and my clothes.
I needed relief before I hunted for Finn again.
The moment the last piece of fabric hit the floor, I was on the bed, thighs already slick. The ache between my legs was brutal, a deep, throbbing emptiness that the broken bond had left raw and demanding. I shoved two pillows under my hips, spreading my legs wide, knees bent. No time for teasing.
My fingers slid straight down, parting soaked folds, and I groaned at the first contact. I was drenched. I circled my swollen clit with two fingers, fast and rough, the way I knew I needed it right now.
The pleasure hit like a spark on dry tinder. My back arched off the mattress as I pressed harder, rubbing tight, frantic circles.
“Yes…” I hissed through clenched teeth.
It wasn’t enough. I needed a knot. Instead, I pushed two fingers inside myself, curling them deep, stroking that sensitive spot while my thumb kept working my clit.
The wet, obscene sounds filled the quiet room.
I fucked myself harder, hips rolling, chasing the edge that felt so close yet so far.
My free hand grabbed my breast, pinching and tugging the nipple until the sharp sting blended with the pulsing heat between my thighs.
The orgasm slammed into me without warning.
My thighs shook violently as I came, walls clenching greedily around my fingers. A broken moan tore from my throat, but I didn’t stop. I kept pumping through the spasms, drawing it out, riding every aftershock until my legs were trembling and my chest heaved.
Still not enough.
I rolled onto my stomach, arse in the air, and reached back between my legs again.
Three fingers this time, stretching myself open as I ground my clit against the heel of my hand.
The new angle made me whimper. I imagined a thick cock replacing my fingers, pounding into me, and the fantasy pushed me over again.
I came a second time, harder, muffling my cry into the sheets as my body convulsed.
Panting, skin glistening with sweat, I finally collapsed onto my back and stared at the ceiling. The edge had been taken off, but the hunger still simmered under my skin. They’d turned me into this needy, aching, insatiable omega. This was more than a bond termination gone wrong.
Somewhere in the fog, there was a knock at the door.
Room service.
I'd ordered dinner before leaving. Just pasta, the cheapest thing on the menu, but if I was doing this alone. Then food would help. Eating would ground me. I'd sleep it off. Wake up tomorrow and find another way to kill Finn.
A hammer, maybe. Hammers were cheap.
I wish I could afford a gun.
I grabbed the silk robe from the bathroom, didn't bother tying it properly, and opened the door.
Not room service. It was the three alphas from the alleyway who now stood and filled the doorway.
"Do you need some assistance?" The bearded one's voice had gone softer, but the edge was still there underneath. His eyes dropped to my throat, my collarbone, the robe slipping.
"I'm not—" The words came out in pieces. "It's not a heat. My body's confused. It's just—"
The tall one inhaled. His pupils swallowed the gray. "You’re burning."
"Tell us what you need." The black-haired one this time. Blue eyes. No blinking.
The control I'd been running on since Dublin, since Finn, since the caravan and every careful, terrified choice I'd made for two years—snapped.
"I need it to stop."
The bearded one stepped forward and caught me before my knees gave out.
"We've got you."
Two days later I woke up in a different room. A suite that I never remember moving to.
It came back to me in fragments afterward.
Skin. Teeth. The taste of champagne that I'd later learn was their pack scent.
Ivan laughed against my throat while Gregor lifted me out of a bath I didn't remember getting into.
Artem fed me food and water. His voice in my ear, low and constant, promising things in Russian I couldn't understand and didn't need to.
They didn't stop. Over and over they knotted me, individually, together. And I loved it all.
It wasn’t until the fever broke and I surfaced like a diver coming up too fast, gasping and fuzzy-headed and alone in a hotel bed with sheets that would need to be burned.
Morning light through curtains I didn't recognize.
Voices came from the next room. Russian. Low. Discussing something that made one tone go sharp and the others go quiet. Another voice came over the air. Finn’s.
I sat up. The sheet pooled around my waist. My body felt like someone had disassembled me and put me back together in a slightly different order.
On the coffee table by the bed was an empty champagne flute, a plate with fruit rinds, and a dossier.
The crest on the folder stopped my heart.
Finn's crest.
The Irish mob.
Then it came crashing back. They were his business partners. They'd been at his table. They were working with him. And I'd just spent two days in their bed.
Was he in the room next door? Or on the loudspeak on the phone?
I didn't think. I moved. I grabbed my clothes and I was out the secondary door before the Russian voices in the next room could pause long enough to hear the lock click.
The staircase was cold concrete and led to an alley that spat me out into a Prague morning.
I stood with my back to the wall. I had a choice. Go to my room or run. I reached into my pocket for my hotel card and that was when I found a shiny black credit card.
I smiled as I ran to jump onto the bus.