Oh shit. This isn't Stefano the kinky alpha from the woods. This is Stefano the… whatever the hell he actually is that involves killing people professionally.
"You will do exactly as I say," he instructed, each word precise and cold enough to form ice crystals in the steam-filled bathroom. "You will stay behind me. You will not speak. You will not try to help. Understand?"
I nodded again, tears streaming down my face without my permission, like my tear ducts had decided independent operation was the way to go. Everything was too much—the heat burning through my veins, the violence surrounding us, the sudden reappearance of the alpha who'd broken something fundamental inside me and then disappeared like smoke.
Where were you? Six months of nothing and now you're here ordering me around like you never left? Like I haven't spent every night remembering what you did to me, what you made me feel? Like I haven't been trying to hate you for abandoning me?
He released my jaw only to grip my wrist, his fingers circling bone with frightening ease, like he was handling fragile crystal instead of human limbs. The contrast between his controlled strength and my trembling weakness made something deep in my omega hindbrain purr with approval even as my conscious mind screamed warnings about Stockholm syndrome and trauma bonding.
As he pulled me toward the shattered doorway, my legs nearly gave out beneath me like they'd suddenly been replaced with overcooked pasta. The suppressants fighting against sudden heat symptoms left me dizzy and uncoordinated, the world tilting dangerously with each step like I was on some nightmare carnival ride. Only his iron grip kept me upright as we moved into the smoke-filled hallway, my body apparently deciding that vertical mobility was an optional feature.
Through tears and terror, I caught glimpses of destruction that would make disaster photographers weep with professional envy—bullet holes peppered the walls where family photos once hung, blood spattered across Aunt Akiko's hand-painted wallpaper like some deranged Jackson Pollock had been commissioned to redecorate. This was the shattered remains of the life I'd known for eight years, turned into a war zone in minutes.
My prison is being redecorated in Apocalypse Chic. The interior designer is bullets. The accent pieces are corpses. Aunt Akiko is going to be so upset about the wallpaper—she special-ordered it from Kyoto.
"Where's Aunt Akiko?" The question tore from my throat unbidden, high and desperate in a way that would have mortified me under normal circumstances. "Uncle Jiro? I can't leave without?—"
"Secure," he answered without slowing, his grip tightening until I whimpered like the pathetic omega I apparently was. "Now move."
Secure. What does that even mean? Dead? Alive? Kidnapped by more murderous alphas in designer suits? Is 'secure' a euphemism for 'we've got them tied up in a van'? The mafia thesaurus must have very different definitions than the standard edition.
As we reached the landing, my vision swam with omega panic and heat-driven confusion, the world reduced to snapshots of violence like the world's worst photo album. Through the haze, I saw them—Marco and Matteo, moving through my home like avenging angels of death. They wore identical suits to Stefano's but carried themselves with lethal grace I'd never seen before, like they'd been hiding their true nature behind a mask of playful dominance.
Marco fired through a broken window with the casual expertise of someone who'd done this a thousand times before, his usually playful expression replaced by something coldly professional that made him a complete stranger. The Marco who'd teased me about fish in the pond, who'd kissed me until I couldn't remember my own name—gone, replaced by this efficient killer who dropped men without changing expression.
That's not Marco. That's not the man who kissed away my protests. That's a fucking terminator in a designer suit who's using my living room as a shooting gallery.
Matteo stood over what could only be bodies, speaking into a communication device while checking ammunition with mechanical efficiency. Nothing remained of the observant, quiet alpha who'd studied my every reaction—this was a predator in human skin, measuring death with clinical precision like he was taking inventory at a particularly violent office supply store.
These aren't my alphas. These are killers. These are monsters wearing familiar faces. The men I've been fantasizing about are actually professional murderers with exceptionally good tailors.
The realization should have doused the heat building inside me faster than a bucket of ice water. Instead, some primal part of my omega biology responded with confused arousal—slick gathering between my thighs as I watched them demonstrate their lethal dominance. The suppressants were failing catastrophically, my body registering three compatible alphas in my territory, protecting what biology said was theirs.
What the hell is wrong with me? They're killing people, and I'm getting wet? I'm sick. I'm broken. I'm some new category of psychological damage that probably requires its own DSM entry. 'Inappropriate Arousal Response to Homicide' by Leo Yamamoto, test subject #1.
"Clear to move," Marco called out, his voice carrying none of the teasing warmth I remembered, all business and cold efficiency like he was reporting stock numbers instead of a body count.
Stefano's arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me against his side as my knees threatened to stage a complete rebellion against gravity. The contact sent electricity racing through my already overheated system—unwanted arousal mixing with terror until I couldn't separate one from the other, my body a confused mess of contradictory signals.
The next moments passed in fragmented snapshots as my omega-panicked brain struggled to process what was happening. Being half carried, half dragged down the stairs like a particularly uncooperative piece of luggage. The copper scent of blood overwhelming my senses until I could taste it in the back of my throat. Bodies sprawled across what had once been our living room, positioned like macabre furniture. The feeling of Stefano's solid warmth against my side—the only constant in a world suddenly shattered beyond recognition.
Is this real? Am I actually being rescued by the men who haunted my dreams? Or is this some elaborate dying hallucination my brain cooked up to make getting murdered less traumatic?
Outside was worse—sunlight blinding after the smoky darkness of the cottage, bodies littering the garden like some deranged landscaper had decided corpses were the new decorative rocks. Aunt Akiko's prized hydrangeas were painted crimson, pink blossoms soaking up blood like they'd been waiting for this opportunity their entire plant lives.
She loved those flowers. Spent hours pruning them, talking to them like they could hear her. Now they're drinking the blood of men whose names I'll never know. Gardening with corpses—a new hobby she never asked for.
I made a broken sound that probably would have embarrassed me if I had any dignity left to wound, my legs giving out completely as the reality of what was happening finally crashed through my heat-addled brain. Stefano didn't hesitate—he simply swept me into his arms like I weighed nothing, my towel slipping dangerously as he sprinted across the bullet-swept yard toward a convoy of black SUVs that screamed "CRIMINAL ENTERPRISE WITH EXCELLENT TASTE IN VEHICLES."
The primal part of me—the omega who recognized safety in alpha strength—pressed closer to his chest, seeking protection from the violence surrounding us. The rational part screamed in confusion and terror, unable to reconcile the alpha I'd fantasized about with the professional killer currently carrying me through a war zone like I was a particularly valuable package.
We reached the lead SUV just as another barrage of gunfire erupted behind us, bullets pinging off metal nearby with the casual indifference of death narrowly missing its target. Stefano wrenched the rear door open and placed me inside with surprising gentleness for someone who'd just been tossing bodies around like confetti.
He shrugged out of his suit jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders, the expensive fabric still warm from his body. "Stay," he commanded.
Stay. Right. Because I have so many other options right now. Should I take a leisurely stroll through the bullet garden? Maybe go back for my toothbrush?
Two men in identical black suits materialized beside the vehicle, assault rifles at the ready like they'd been conjured from some violent magic trick. Their posture was alert, professionally detached as they positioned themselves on either side of the SUV, eyes constantly scanning for threats.
