"Anyone approaches, kill them," Stefano ordered with the casual authority of someone accustomed to deadly commands being followed without question. "No exceptions."
Jesus Christ. He just ordered them to murder anyone who comes near me like he's telling them to pick up dry cleaning. Who IS he? What have I been fantasizing about?
"Yes, sir," they responded in unison, their stance widening as they took up defensive positions with the practiced efficiency of men who'd done this many, many times before.
The door slammed shut, sealing me in bulletproof silence as Stefano turned back toward the firefight with his weapon drawn.
twenty-two
. . .
Through the bulletproof glass, I got a front-row seat to the most fucked-up episode ofWhen Alphas Attackever filmed. And the worst part? My traitorous omega biology was treating it like premium entertainment.
Well, this is just fantastic. Nothing like watching your kidnappers-slash-sexual-fantasy-material turn into actual literal death machines to really complete the ‘Leo’s Life is a Cosmic Joke’ experience.
Stefano moved like the Grim Reaper had gone to finishing school and learned proper etiquette. Some poor bastard rushed him from behind, and without even looking—because apparently he had eyes in the back of his perfectly styled head—Stefano spun, caught the guy’s wrist, and redirected the momentum so violently I heard bones snap even through the bulletproof glass. The sound was like breaking breadsticks, if breadsticks screamed.
The attacker’s scream cut off abruptly when Stefano’s hand—the same elegant fingers that had stroked me to completion while I begged like a desperate omega in heat—wrapped aroundthe man’s throat and squeezed. I watched those beautiful hands, the ones that had made me come harder than I ever had in my life, crush a human windpipe with about as much effort as opening a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.
Those hands. Those same fucking hands that made me fall apart. Now they’re—Jesus Christ, I shouldn’t be getting wet watching him commit murder. What’s wrong with me? Is this what they mean by Stockholm syndrome, or is this just regular omega insanity?
The man’s eyes bulged like a cartoon character, legs kicking uselessly as Stefano held him aloft, watching with the kind of clinical fascination most people reserved for nature documentaries. When he finally dropped the body, Stefano actually straightened his cuffs like he’d just finished adjusting a tie instead of committing homicide.
And my cock twitched. Actually fucking twitched like my body was applauding his technique.
Great. Just great. My omega biology is apparently into snuff films now. ‘Congratulations, Leo, you’ve discovered a new kink: murder porn!’ This is definitely going in my therapy file under ‘Reasons I’m Completely Fucked in the Head.’
But Marco—oh, Marco was worse because the sick bastard looked like he was having the time of his fucking life. He caught one attacker in a headlock, flashed that same playful grin he’d given me when teasing me about fish in the pond, then drove a blade up under the guy’s jaw with such force that the tip erupted through the top of his skull like the world’s most disturbing magic trick.
Blood sprayed across Marco’s face in a crimson arc that would’ve made Jackson Pollock weep with envy, and the psychotic fuck actually laughed. Laughed like someone had just told him the world’s best joke instead of showering him in someone else’s blood.
That’s the mouth that was on mine. Those are the lips that kissed me until I forgot my own name. And he’s licking someone else’s blood from them like it’s fucking dessert. What kind of omega gets turned on by watching their kidnapper taste-test murder? The broken kind, apparently.
When another man rushed him, Marco spun with the grace of a ballet dancer auditioning forSwan Lake: Murder Edition, slashing his blade across the attacker’s throat with such artistic precision that blood fountained outward in a perfect arc, painting Aunt Akiko’s beloved hydrangeas in glistening red.
Marco actually paused to admire his handiwork, head tilted like an artist evaluating a brushstroke. “Hmm, needs more splatter on the left side,” he’d probably say if this was a normal Tuesday for him. Which, knowing my luck, it probably was.
And I’m sitting here getting slick because watching him work is like witnessing a master craftsman perfect his art. Except his art is murder and my omega brain thinks it’s the hottest thing. I need therapy. So much therapy. Maybe a whole psychiatric hospital.
But Matteo—fuck me sideways—Matteo was the stuff of nightmares. Where Stefano was elegant death and Marco was artistic homicide, Matteo was a goddamn terminator who’d learned to wear human skin. His face showed absolutely nothing as he systematically eliminated three men in less time than it took me to decide what to have for breakfast.
One shot to the first man’s head—so precise it entered directly through the left eye socket, probably scrambling his brain like eggs in a blender. Without waiting to see the body drop, he pivoted, firing twice into the second attacker’s chest with the mechanical efficiency of someone playing a really violent video game. When the third man raised his weapon, Matteo simply adjusted his aim and fired again, the bulletpunching through the guy’s throat with such force that a spray of blood and tissue erupted from the exit wound like a red fountain.
Throughout the entire massacre, Matteo’s expression never changed. Not satisfaction, not anger, not even the mild concentration you’d see on someone doing their taxes. Just blank, methodical application of death, like he was crossing items off a particularly mundane grocery list.
‘Kill three men, check. Remember to pick up milk, check. Traumatize omega witness, double check.’ This is who was watching me sleep? This emotionless killing machine who probably takes notes on optimal omega manipulation techniques between murders?
I should have been screaming. Should have been clawing at the door handles, throwing myself out of a vehicle to escape these beautiful monsters. Instead, my fucking omega biology decided this was the perfect time to stage a hormonal coup, flooding my system with a rush of slick so intense it soaked through the pathetic towel beneath me.
My cock was hardening against my will as I watched them demonstrate their lethal dominance, my body responding to their violence like it was the most erotic thing ever filmed.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me? They’re slaughtering people like it’s a hobby, and I’m getting aroused? This is beyond broken—this is some new level of psychological damage. ‘Omega develops sexual attraction to mass murder: scientists baffled, therapists weep.’
I pressed my thighs together, trying to hide the evidence of my body’s complete betrayal, but it was about as effective as trying to hide a forest fire with a cocktail napkin. The scent of my arousal filled the confined space, mixing with lingering gunpowder and terror in a cocktail that made me dizzy with self-loathing and confused desire.
They’re killers. They’re monsters. They’re the stuff of omega nightmares and wet dreams all rolled into one gorgeous, terrifying package. And I want them. God help me, I want them even more now. What does that make me? A victim? An accomplice? A really fucked-up omega with the worst taste in men in recorded history?
When the last attacker fell, the three men converged on the SUV like conquering gods returning from battle. They moved with the casual confidence of predators who’d never doubted the outcome, their expensive suits barely disturbed despite the carnage they’d just inflicted.
