AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Every time I cringe, my pheromones pulse.
All I want to do is shut this auction down, but I haven’t come this far to spin out of control.
I won’t kill my father.
I won’t kill my father.
I mean, I’m definitely going to kill my father, but I can’t pull the trigger until the math makes sense.
I let myself be dragged through guard-lined corridors, counting bodies and waiting for the perfect time to let loose.
I won’t kill my father.
I won’t kill the enforcers staring at my throat.
I won’t even kill the door guard with the mullet who sneakily brushes my ass as Nikolaj herds me past.
Yeah. No. Definitely killing that guy.
My stomach bubbles when we reach the stage.
The SAS prison cells smell freshly laundered compared to the smoky leather lounge where cigars and aggressive pheromones massage my sinuses with sandpaper.
Nasty.
Alphas spiked with lust and greed and violence.
Liquor and toothpaste.
Diesel and corn chips.
Toilet water and mushrooms, and a dozen shittier and shittier scents leave me shuddering on a hair-trigger fight-response that begs me to go for their necks before they come after mine.
The alphas’ up-and-down gazes rake my throat, tugging at the flimsy layer of lace holding back my lies. Their old-boys-club is walled in bookshelves and wild-eyed alphas pumping lust like their dress slacks are already unzipped.
Nikolaj tosses me to the sofa at stage center, taking the armchair/throne and giving me the second I need to holster my shit.
I let out a tainted breath and hold off on taking another, trying to ignore my vibrating throat.
When I try to think of sweeter things, I slide into Reese’s cocoa like I’m slipping into a cozy bath. Jin’s crackling storm clears my head, and Bishop’s sweet champagne bubbles through the gross cigars.
Dutch probably smells like a muffin.
Something big, soft, and huggable.
Even though I’ve never tasted his scent, the idea of him—of them—is all the reset I need.
Mates or not, the guys are my people, and with them hovering somewhere nearby, not even my A-game is enough.
I have to be perfect.
Four gangster packs stare with enough dominance to decapitate. I’d heard their names over the years at the SAS before I memorized their faces from Marie’s cheat-sheet.
Kitagawa. Al Sharin. Bourg. Salerno.
I tuck my neck to hide from their laser-beam attention.
I’m not giving in, just shifting to bottle the urge to hit back.
