Might as well drown them in the scent of an omega who refuses to be broken.
"Should we knock her out?" the security goon with the gun asks, his hand moving toward me like he's volunteering for the job.
His scent spikes with anticipation—the smell of a man who enjoys causing pain.
I laugh.
It comes out sharp and brittle, bouncing off the warehouse walls like shattered glass on concrete.
"Go ahead," I say, meeting his dull eyes with all the fire my hazel gaze can muster. The gold flecks in my irises probably catch the sickly fluorescent light like tiny sparks of war. "Ifucking dare youto leave a single bruise on me."
I lean forward as much as my restraints allow, letting my voice drop to something silky and dangerous—the same tone I use when crafting cocktails for difficult customers who don't tip.
"And I'mconfidentthe men that are surely going to try and murder you all and your next generation—but alsothe very men you work for—willruinyou."
I let that sink in, watching the realization dawn across his face like a particularly stupid sunrise. Because whoever hired these goons clearly didn't explain who they were actually stealing from. Didn't mention that Tank has military contacts who could make people disappear. That Julian's money could destroy livelihoods with a phone call. That Elias knows every firefighter, paramedic, and cop in a fifty-mile radius.
"So go make me a fucking sandwich."
The goon's face contorts into something ugly.
His scent spikes with anger—burnt rubber and aggression, the olfactory equivalent of a red flag factory explosion. He stomps toward me, each heavy footfall echoing in the cavernous space like a countdown to violence, and I brace myself when he raises his hand.
This is going to hurt.
Worth it, though. Every second of watching these assholes squirm is absolutely worth it.
The gunshot cracks through the air before the slap can land.
My ears ring from the sudden explosion of sound, every muscle in my body seizing as primal fear floods my system.
The acrid smell of gunpowder joins the warehouse's existing bouquet of unpleasantness. The security goon crumples to the concrete floor like someone cut his strings, a dark bloomspreading beneath him that Idefinitelydon't look at because nope, not processing that right now, filing that under "things to unpack with a therapist someday."
Everyone else freezes.
Everyone except Damien, whose arm is still extended, gun in hand, smoke curling from the barrel like a gothic accessory. His face is carved from ice, expression utterly devoid of the charm he usually wields like a weapon. This is the Damien I knew existed beneath the smooth politician's smile—the one who once made me feel like I was the crazy one for noticing the darkness lurking behind his eyes.
The one who whispered threats disguised as endearments.
I smirk. Can't help it.
The expression pulls at my lips before I can stop it, and then I'm snickering—a sound that borders on unhinged, but honestly? If there was ever a time for unhinged, it's when you're tied to a chair watching your ex shoot his own employee.
The snickering escalates into full laughter, the kind that hurts your ribs and probably makes everyone question your sanity.
Join the club. I question it daily. Twice on Tuesdays.
"Well,wow," I manage between gasps of manic laughter. "Entertaining asfuckto know you'd still kill for me." I tip my head, studying him with the kind of assessment usually reserved for particularly disappointing modern art or wine that's turned to vinegar. "But you're still my ass of an ex trying to ruin my peaceful life, so you can fuck off too."
Something flashes in Damien's dark eyes—anger, possession, that sick need for control that always lurked beneath his polished surface. The kind of obsession that doesn't know how to let go, that views people as property rather than partners. He holsters the gun with methodical precision, stepping over thegrowing pool of blood like it's an inconvenient puddle rather than a person who was breathing thirty seconds ago.
The blood.
Don't look at the blood, or inhale the smell of that copper tang mixing with the mildew and motor oil.
No need to think about how easily life can be snuffed out. …how close that could have been you.
His shoes—Italian leather, probably cost more than most people's rent, the exact shade of brown he always insisted was "cognac, not brown, Rosemarie, there's a difference"—track through the crimson spreading across the concrete as he advances on me. Each step deliberate, predatory, designed to intimidate.
