His hands. The same hands that just snapped necks and painted gardens with blood. But they still feel like safety, like home, like everything my omega biology thinks it needs.
"I don't call your names," I lied, the words about as convincing as a toddler claiming they didn't eat the cookies while covered in chocolate. "And I don't need you. I've been doing just fine without?—"
Before I could finish my pathetic denial, Stefano's hand moved, and suddenly the jacket and towel were gone—just gone, yanked away and tossed aside onto the plush carpet. Cool cabin air hit my overheated skin, but that was nothing compared to the embarrassment of being completely naked on silk sheets with three fully dressed mafia bosses who were looking at me like I was the main course at an alpha buffet.
Well, shit. There goes the last shred of my dignity. Completely naked in a flying bedroom with three fully dressedmafia bosses who are looking at me like I'm their favorite dessert.
The silence that followed was deafening. Three pairs of alpha eyes examined every inch of my exposed body with the intensity of art critics studying a masterpiece. My cock was hard, betraying my arousal despite every attempt to maintain some semblance of defiance. Slick glistened on my inner thighs, evidence of my body's complete surrender to their proximity.
But it was Matteo who broke the silence, his voice carrying that appreciation that somehow made everything worse. "Perfect," he murmured, his gaze dropping to where my cock stood proud against my stomach. "Absolutely perfect. Not a single hair anywhere."
My face burned with humiliation at the reminder of my genetic abnormality. "It's not normal," I muttered, trying to close my legs despite being trapped on Stefano's lap on the silk-covered bed. "I know it's weird?—"
"Weird?" Stefano's laugh was rich with dark amusement, his hands settling on my thighs to keep them spread wide, putting me on complete display against the cream silk sheets. "It's perfection. You're an omega prime, little prince. The rarest of the rare. And you're ours."
Omega prime. What the hell does that even mean? Some new category of broken omega biology? A special classification for omegas with daddy issues and hairless genitals?
Before I could ask what the fuck he was talking about, he was reaching into his discarded jacket pocket, producing something that made my blood run cold. A ring of platinum and diamonds that caught the suite's soft lighting like captured stars—beautiful, expensive, and definitely not meant for fingers.
Oh, hell no. That's not—they can't be serious. A cock ring? They brought a fucking cock ring to my kidnapping? What'snext, matching nipple clamps and a collar with their names on it?
"What the fuck is that?" I demanded, my voice cracking as I tried to squirm away from his grip on the silk sheets. "If you think you're putting that thing on me, you're more delusional than I thought. I draw the line at decorative genital jewelry, thank you very much."
The ring was beautiful in a way that made it even more terrifying—clearly custom-made, clearly expensive, clearly designed with one specific person in mind. Me. The diamonds were arranged in an intricate pattern that probably spelled out something possessive in a language I didn't want to learn.
They had this made. Actually had a custom cock ring designed for me while I was locked away in my cottage prison. The level of premeditation is both impressive and absolutely terrifying.
"This," Stefano said, his voice carrying dark satisfaction as he held the ring up to catch the light filtering through the shuttered portholes, "is insurance. You don't get to come until we say so. And we're not saying so. Not yet."
Insurance. Right. Insurance against what—me having a good time? Against my dignity surviving this encounter intact? Because that ship has already sailed, crashed into an iceberg, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.
"Like hell you're—" I started, but Marco's hand suddenly gripped my jaw, fingers digging into my cheeks hard enough to bruise.
"Such a dirty mouth," he tsked, his thumb pressing against my lower lip with enough force to make me wince. "I think someone needs to learn some manners. What do you think, Stefano? Matteo? Should we teach our little prince how to behave?"
Little prince. Right. Because being the disappointing omega son of a yakuza boss totally qualifies me for royalty. Though I suppose in their world, I am technically criminal nobility. Mafia royalty with daddy issues and a tendency toward violent threats.
"I think," Stefano replied, his free hand wrapping around my cock with devastating familiarity, "our little prince needs to remember whom he belongs to now."
The contact was electric—hot skin against hot skin, his large hand engulfing me completely after six months of nothing but my own inadequate touch. My back arched involuntarily against the silk sheets, a gasp escaping my throat before I could stop it.
His hand. His actual hand. After six months of trying and failing to recreate this exact feeling. The perfect pressure, the way his thumb knows exactly where to—fuck, I'm so pathetic.
"That's it," he murmured, his grip tightening as he began to stroke with deliberate slowness. "Remember how good this feels. Remember what you've been missing."
His fist slid from base to tip, thumb sweeping across the head where precum had already gathered. The combination of his rough palm and the slick of my own arousal created friction that had me gasping, my hands clutching desperately at his forearms.
This feels too good. Way too good. How is this even possible? It's just a hand, but it feels like he's rewiring my entire nervous system with every stroke.
"Look at you," Marco said with obvious delight, his grip on my jaw forcing me to meet his eyes. "Already desperate. Already falling apart. Six months without us, and you're ready to beg after five minutes of touch."
"I'm not begging," I panted, though my hips were already bucking into Stefano's grip like my body had completely divorced itself from my brain. "I'm just—this is just?—"
Biology. Omega response to alpha stimulation. Completely involuntary physical reaction that has nothing to do with actually wanting these psychotic murderers. Right. Keep telling yourself that, Leo.
Before I could finish my pathetic explanation, Stefano was sliding the ring down my shaft. The platinum was cold against my overheated skin, the diamonds catching the suite's recessed lighting as it settled at the base of my cock with snug perfection.
Well, that's just fantastic. Decorative cock jewelry that doubles as torture device. They've really thought of everything, haven't they? What's next, a matching ball gag for when my threats get too creative?
