1. Rook
Centrifuge is broken again, and I don’t trust my bloody drones to do a thing.
I’m hunched over my makeshift workbench, screwdriver in hand and a mess of wires and vials spread out before me. The antidote’s a stubborn son of a bitch, dancing just beyond the edge of my intellect. A faint hum buzzes through the air, the telltale sign of another late night with nothing to show for it.
Then it starts—the rhythmic thumping from above, punctuated by a moan that cuts through the silence like a siren through fog. I thrust the screwdriver down and push back from the table, frustration gnawing at my insides.
Can’t be a break-in; thieves don’t moan like that.
But I have a good idea who does.
Climbing the stairs, I brace myself. Sure enough, as I near the top, the sounds get clearer, filthier.
It’s Aisling and Oberon going at it.
Again.
I lean against the wall, shaking my head, the heat from their frenzy seeping through the floorboards.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath, “my house, my goddamn sanctuary turned into a 24-hour porno theater.”
It’s not like I didn’t know what I was signing up for when I offered Aisling and Oberon a place to crash. But fuck me if I’d anticipated the non-stop skin flicks. I can practically hear the soundtrack of their lust from any corner of the house, at most hours…and I’ve mentioned it once or twice, but they didn’t seem to care.
And then there’s everything else—Gunnar is MIA, probably plotting his next move or licking his wounds, who knows with that guy now that he’s gone rogue. Luka’s turned his spooky old church into his personal fortress of solitude, trying to keep his head and heart away from Aisling’s pull. And Vance? Last I heard, the big bad Archangel’s holed up in his mansion, playing hermit.
‘Fuck palace’ doesn’t even begin to cover the madhouse my life’s become.
I retreat back to the lab, the echoes of Aisling’s pleasure haunting my descent. Back amongst the vials and microscopes, I try to focus on the task at hand—but the antidote’s allure has faded, replaced by the carnal soundtrack upstairs.
“Guess it beats being alone,” I say to the empty lab, pouring a sarcasm that no one’s around to appreciate. One of my drone’s cameras swings toward me, but there’s no sign of recognition.
Robots just can’t take a joke.
With a sigh that feels more like surrender than relief, I shove my hands in my pockets and trudge toward the kitchen. Maybe there’s a bottle with enough bite to drown out the soundtrack of my housemates’ escapades.
My hand finds my phone as I head upstairs, thumbing through the contacts until Luka’s name pops up. He’s probably the last person who wants a chat, but hell, maybe he’s got a lead on where the hell this new form of eros is coming from. I thought we’d rooted it out when we took over New Eden, but apparently it’s got a new source…and it’s not in Pacific City or Oasis, our neighbors to the east. Luka’s always had stupid intuition for these things, and I haven’t caught up with him in a while.
“Rook,” Luka’s voice crackles through the speaker, rough as sandpaper. “What’s up?”
“Was I interrupting your beauty sleep?” I ask, though I know the answer.
“Sleep?” He laughs, but it’s hollow, no humor in it. “I don’t do that anymore. Not with her haunting every damn dream.”
“Aisling?” I say, even though it’s obvious. Since they were locked up by Terra Vitae together—since he marked her in a drug-addled haze, and she him—he’s changed.
“Always Aisling,” he confirms. “I can’t stop thinking of her.”
“Want me to drop off some downers? Got oxy, xannies, or even just some weed to take the edge off?” I offer, though I doubt he’ll bite.
“Thanks, but I’m cutting out all that shit. Going clean,” Luka replies. I can picture him, white-knuckling it through the withdrawal…but I get it. He got drugged, the drug made him do shit he didn’t want…
Aisling said they described eros as a chemical lobotomy.
Fuck.
“Alright man, stay strong,” I say, though words feel cheap. He’s in a pit deeper than any drug can drag him out of.
“Later, Rook.”
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at the screen, a ghost of concern etching my face.
I shove the phone in my pocket, already feeling the itch of irritation as the walls start shaking from the acrobatics happening upstairs. Aisling and Oberon are at it again, their passion a constant soundtrack in this house that was never meant to be an erotic stage. I consider marching up there, laying down some ground rules about shared spaces and soundproofing.
But hell, what’s the point? They’re tangled in whatever mess fate threw at them, and I’m just the guy who gave them a room.
With a sigh that feels like it’s dragging the weight of my frustration behind it, I grab a bottle from the rack and pour myself a glass of wine, the crimson liquid looking like blood in the dim light of my kitchen. The wine doesn’t taste as good as it looks, but it does its job well enough, sending warmth through my veins.
I head up to my room to at least try to catch some sleep, flicking on the TV and putting my glass down before stretching out in bed. The screen lights up with some cop show rerun, all hard faces and endless chase scenes. It’s background noise more than anything, something to drown out the rhythmic creaks and moans filtering through the ceiling.
But they don’t stop.
Aisling’s pleasure-laden sounds weave through the dialogue on TV, and Oberon’s growls punctuate every line. I set my wine glass on the nightstand, the clink of it louder than I expect. My thumb moves over the phone screen, half-hearted swipes through a feed of nothingness—memes, ads, the occasional rant.
None of it holds my attention.
And then there’s this heat curling inside me, unbidden.
My body’s reacting to them, to the sheer animal intensity of their coupling. An image flashes in my mind—hot, vivid, undeniable.
Aisling, with her pale skin glistening.
Oberon, all muscle and intent, their bodies locked in a dance as old as time.
Can’t say I haven’t noticed; I’ve never been one to turn down a good time, alpha, beta, or omega…and they’re both gorgeous. If it weren’t for the fact that all my friends seem to be going nuts for her, I’d have had Aisling’s number the moment I laid eyes on her.
But I’m a beta—and she’s got four alphas at her beck and call.
Gunnar. Oberon. Luka. Even Vance.
Not gonna take them on.
I slam my eyes shut, press the heels of my palms into them until I see stars. My heart’s kicking up a fuss, doing its damnedest to keep pace with the relentless cadence of Oberon and Aisling going at it like the world’s ending just a few doors down.
“Jesus,” I mutter, my voice barely a thread in the thick air of my bedroom. It’s just lust, just the primal part of me reacting to their frenzy. But something about the image—the rawness of it—sticks like tar.
In my head, the scene unfolds sinfully clear. Aisling, her grey eyes clouded with desire, lips wrapped around me. Oberon, towering and powerful, driving into her from behind. The moans, the gasps, the slick sounds of flesh on flesh—they blend into a rhythm that’s got nothing to do with the cop show still playing on TV.
It’s a shock, really, this heat stirring in my gut. Being a beta means not getting rocked by the same carnal storms as alphas or omegas, right? Wrong, apparently. ‘Cause here I am, my hand betraying me, slipping down below the waistband of my sweats.
“Fuck it.” The words slip out ragged as I wrap my fingers around myself. There’s no point fighting it—not now. I’m all in, the illicit fantasy too strong, too damn enticing. I start to jerk off, rough and without finesse, chasing down a release I hadn’t known I was desperate for.
The pictures keep coming.
Aisling with tears of pleasure in her eyes, legs spread. I wonder what she’d taste like…fuck, better than anything in my liquor cabinet, that’s for damn sure. My pace increases, the friction good…but not enough.
Not enough, when I can hear her moaning all day and all night, and Oberon snarling as he comes…
It’s happening now. Their voices grow to a crescendo, panting, rocking, growling. Fuck, fuck—
I come without expecting it, ruining my damn pants with the most powerful orgasm I think I’ve ever had. My back arches and I curse, rocking into my palm.
I slump back to the bed, using my free hand to rake my hair back, still charged up with sensation.
Fuck me.
I want to fuck her, just like everyone else.
Guess I should fucking get in line.