Shiloh had scented this and instructed Bishop to toss it in here to torment Sarang, that much was apparent. If their goal was to tip him deeper into rut, their mission was a success.
Despite how infuriated and betrayed he felt toward the omega, Sarang’s instincts took over, driven to new heights with the alluring smell of his mate. His clothes came off in a frenzy, and he barely made it to the couch—which was closer than the bed.
Whatever drug they’d given him, it was strong. He stopped caring if there were cameras, or that he’d fallen into another trap, too focused on the feeling of his cock, erect and aching. One of his hands gripped himself, wringing his length, fingers collecting precome from his leaking slit to lube the rest of his shaft for a more comfortable stroke.
He kept Shiloh’s shirt on his face, covering his nose and mouth, breathing him in as he pumped his hips hard enough for the couch to creak beneath him. It wasn’t going to be enough, he could already tell. He needed to hold down a warm body, the taste of Shiloh’s tongue, the feel of his skin.
But Sarang refused to give in. He’d roll over and perform for his omega if that was what the prince really wanted. Would jerk off to thoughts of him, eventually probably hump the couch as he desperately rode the waves of his rut out, but he wouldn’t beg. It would take a hell of a lot more than this, than a single forced rut, to push him past his breaking point.
Sarang had spent years resisting the urge to claim Shiloh.
If this was how the prince wanted to play things, he was in for a long, drawn-out battle.
The first orgasm ripped through him, and Sarang immediately pulled the shirt down to cover himself, collecting his come as he jerked through it, mingling their two scents together. He’d barely finished emptying his first release before he was hard again, and he tossed the shirt over one of the throw pillows, settling over it so he could grind down against the plush item.
He rutted the couch envisioning Shiloh, conjuring the way his body had felt clinging to Sarang’s cock, replaying the noises he’d made.
Imagination had gotten him through some of the worst ruts imaginable, and unwittingly, Shiloh had supplied him with more ammunition. His memory fueled his determination, staving off the edge of insanity that threatened to overwhelm him as an unmated alpha.
He’d survived off of fantasy thus far.
What was a little longer?
Chapter 15:
“Overseeing the club in our brother’s absence?” Sloane appeared at Shiloh’s left side, gaze roaming over the crowd below. “Or your alpha’s?”
“Tull is right there.” Shiloh motioned to the man standing in the corner of the main floor, discussing something with three gruff looking bouncers. He and his twin were on the second level, peering over the wraparound banister to the chaos below. Friday nights always pulled in a large crowd, and the drinks were flowing, an annoyingly raucous beat blasting from speaker orbs that floated aimlessly next to ones that flashed neon lights. “That’s his job.”
Shiloh’s hands gripped the metal railing, his bruised and busted knuckles catching his sister’s attention, though she didn’t bother to ask about it. Which was good, because he was in avolatile state of being at the moment, torn between his need to win and his debilitating omega impulses.
It’d been a week since he’d last spoken to Sarang, and it was making him twitchy. He’d never gone this long separated from the alpha before, and was finding that he wasn’t a fan of the way it made him feel.
Turned out, even without the bite, his biology could recognize its mate. He feltoff. Anxious and unsteady. Like everything could fall apart at any given second.
Confidence was not something he typically lacked, and this newfound uncertainty was, frankly, pissing him off. He’d spent the past few nights taking out his frustrations on others, using stepping in for the underboss to keep things in order as a means to explain away his sudden interest in Eumia affairs.
Back on Synastry, he’d helped clean up their ranks from the shadows, usually with Diogenes’ aid, but since he’d shed the sheep clothing, he’d thrown caution to the wind and gone all out, exposing his true nature in the process.
Even now, he could feel eyes on him, different from the gazes he usually received. These were tentative, jittery, with an underlying hum of fear. There were rumors going around from those that didn’t know any better that the trauma had finally gotten to him and he’d snapped. He didn’t bother correcting them. Let them believe what they wanted so long as they all understood not to cross him.
“I heard you killed several underlings this morning,” Sloane drawled, tone bored.
“Soldiers who can’t do their jobs have no business in the family,” he stated.
“And what, pray tell, was their supposed offence?”
“They were selling elixir.” He’d destroyed the main cell when he’d taken care of Lady Luck, but it’d come to their attention that at least a hundred units of the drug had beenhanded off to lower-level members of the Eumia. “They were in league with another group. You know how Kian feels about those sorts of dealings.”
They hadn’t traveled all the way to Glyph to bring trouble, and the last thing their Dominus wanted was to be blamed for a rise in criminal activity of any kind.
“Ah, so you did it for big brother.” She was humoring him.
Shiloh didn’t mind.
“I’ve already spoken to the Hierarchy,” he said. “We’ve rooted out the rats. The situation should be handled.”
“Which means you’ll have to find some other way to vent your frustrations.”
