Which can mean only one thing.
I’m so fucking screwed…
CHAPTER TWELVE
LAZ
Fuck.I run my hand over my face, my heart pounding in my chest.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
I’m furious.
I’m aroused.
And I’m fuckingdevastated.
Those tears shining in Aurora’s eyes threatened to destroy my soul. But I can’t let her use my men as a form of revenge. If she wants to hurt me, she needs to do it directly. Not play a dirty game by tempting my second into a kiss under false pretenses.
Someone tsks as I walk down the hallway, and I don’t need to turn around to see who is bold enough to be taunting me in my current mood.
“That wasn’t very nice,” the suicidal maniac sing-songs at me. “Should we make ‘no bullying our omega’ rule number eight? Or are we on rule number nine? I’m losing count.”
I ignore Noah and continue walking.
Knowing him, he’ll just follow.
After last night’s events, we’re both pent up with blood rage. Add in the sweet, honey-scented slick permeating our home, and we’re all on the edge of a fucking rut.
I walk swiftly out of our residential wing, Noah hot on my heels, and practically skip steps on my way down the main staircase.
“What about a rule that requires her to walk around naked?” the unhelpful assassin suggests. “Maybe clothes should just be forbidden for all of us.”
Of course, his words inspire images.
Images I don’t want to think about.
Images of a very naked Aurora. Wet. Panting.Begging.
Fuck.
My dress shoes sound loud to my ears, echoing across the marble foyer as I head toward the basement stairs.
We have a full gym underground. Pool. Workout space. Sparring rooms. Even a fucking racquetball court.
I head to one of the fighting areas, aware of which one Johan typically favors. He’s a fan of bojutsu. So I’m not surprised at all to find him waiting for me with a bo in his hand. He’s put on a pair of black track pants. Nothing else.
I take off my jacket and hang it up on the wall. A whoosh of sound echoes behind me as Johan begins to warm up. I don’t look at him, just continue to undress while a series of subtle whistling noises taunt the air.
“You and your stick,” Noah drawls.
“You love my stick,” Johan returns.
“I do,” Noah admits. “I really fucking do.” It comes out as a groan, causing my eyes to roll.
“I want to fight, then fuck,” I tell them both, my shirt joining my jacket on the hook. “In that order, preferably.”
“And you always get what you want, yeah?” Noah’s sarcastic tone has me glancing at him in the doorway. He’s leaning against it, still dressed in his outfit from last night’s hunt. All black.To hide the blood.
I suppose he’s not in the mood to work out after all that. He did most of the heavy lifting with our “interrogation.” Not that he looks tired, though. If anything, he appears to be energized and ready to play.
