Page 20 of A Murderous Omega

“Omegas who take down asshole alphas?” Conor asked.

Lark snorted. “Unregistered omegas, so-called feral omegas, who do whatever the fuck we want, and look out for one another. We take the names of birds because we’re fucking free.” She swallowed. “We help resettle abused omegas when we need to.”

I swallowed hard. My sister could have used a helping hand when her pack abused her. Only, unlike Lark, she hadn’t escaped.

“My sister would have loved that,” I murmured. “She suffered from an abusive pack. Killed herself to escape.”

“I’m sorry,” Lark said simply, then purred, a hesitant, halting sound that gained confidence as she continued, the sweet rumble in her chest healing the gaping wound in mine. “We’re criminals first. Helping omegas is a side gig.”

“I think I met one,” I said quietly. “A woman named Wren.”

Lark’s smile was a shade unhinged. “She promised to shiv you if she didn’t like you.”

“She didn’t, so we must have passed the test,” I said, kissing her forehead.

She smiled, and it was like the fucking sun coming out. “I had to know who the men who thought they could catch and keep me were.”

“Then you know who Conor is too,” I murmured into the top of her head, as comforted by her touch as I was Conor’s.

“Yeah,” she muttered, then leaned up to kiss his jawline. “I’m sorry.”

Conor shrugged. “Poor little rich boy isn’t a persona that suits me.”

“No,” Lark laughed. “But serial killer is.”

He grinned and tipped her chin up to force her to meet his eyes. “Think that’s sexy, do you?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

But she perfumed, and I held onto that hope with both hands.

9

LARK

I was going to lose my fucking mind.

Three days locked in this luxurious cage, and I’d already exhausted every weapon in my arsenal of petty revenge. Restlessness crawled under my skin like fire ants.

I needed to move. To fight. To hurt.

“Come spar with me.”

I spun around to find Emile leaning against the doorframe of the home gym, arms crossed over his chest. He’d changed into workout clothes—fitted black technical fabric that showed off every carved line of muscle.

My mouth went dry. It was unfair that he looked so delectable.

“No thanks,” I said, turning back to the treadmill. “I’m good.”

“You’ve been running for forty minutes. You’re not good.” His voice was soft and reasonable and it pissed me the fuck off.

“Fine,” I said, stepping off the treadmill. “But don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you have a pretty face.”

“All I heard was you think I have a pretty face.”

Oh, fuck him and the way he drew a smile out of me, my lips curving up despite myself.

“First blood, first to tap out, or first pin that lasts five seconds.” I snarled.