Page 111 of Rot In Knotty Pieces

I slap her pussy.

She swears up a storm, but she gets wet, so wet.

I focus on her, forgetting everything else. Hours pass in bliss.

But I made sure it was good. For hours, all we feel is good.

Raven

Iroll out of bed, trying not to sigh in exasperation. Honestly, I like sex as much as the next person, but I swear, some of these alters just want to have cum oozing out of our pores.

I go into the bathroom, muttering in distaste as I clean myself with wipes and promise that I’m going to go to the nearest sex shop and get a chastity belt and hide the fucking key.

I yank on my clothes and slip out of the house.

Pix appears from the shadows and crooks a finger. I follow him in the dark to where he indicates a black motorbike. It is so pretty, I want to go and cuddle it.

“I’m driving.”

“Not a chance in hell. You’re riding bitch. You have a temper, and I don’t want us to get caught,” Pix says firmly.

I consider that and agree. “Fine.”

He climbs on, looking damn fine in his reflective black helmet with his leathers on and curled over the powerful engine. I swing my leg up and over, pressing myself against his back and wrapping my arms around his waist.

He starts the bike and takes off, quickly reaching speeds that make me feel like I’ve got wings. I do wish I could fly.

The key with our alphas is distance.

It is always distance. As fast as is humanly possible.

But Pix was built for speed and stealth. He gets us far very quickly, and then he settles to a comfortable speed and just cruises.

He parks the bike a long way from the city apartment I’ve already sussed out. We walk down dark streets, moving between yellow streetlights, ignoring feral cats and hungry rats. The city stinks after spending so long in the country, and the smells assault me in a way that reminds me vividly of some jobs I’ve already compartmentalized.

Pix glances at me. We don’t need to talk to each other to communicate now; everything’s done in the minute movement of a facial muscle or a glance of an eye. The flick of a finger.

If we fuck this up, we might never find him again.

I climb the stairs, taking them two at a time. I reach his window and pause. The glass is broken. There’s blood on a sharp shard, glittering ruby in the light. I duck through the hole and into the mess.

My boot crunches on glass. The furniture isn’t broken; it’s destroyed. The walls are painted with graffiti, and it's filled with a myriad of scents, none of which belong to the one I’m looking for.

“Who are we here for?”

“Korax.” I purse my lips and crouch down, lifting a scrap of material and revealing a brick with blood on it. “He’s a friend, I think. I needed to make sure he was still alive. That nothing had happened to him.” Technically, he’s as close to a brother as I’ve ever had.

Pix moves fluidly through the mess, not disturbing anything. He lifts a hand and studies the wall before he punches it hard, and suddenly, the wall splits apart and reveals a dark shape. The ghostly figure made of dark shadows and danger explodes out, shoving Pix back.

“Wait!”

He pauses, and for one long second, we stare into each other’s eyes, and then he’s gone. That quickly.

I blow out my cheeks and put my hands on my waist. “Well, I guess that was a waste of time.”

“Seems like it.”

I groan and rub my face. “Our alphas are going to kill us.”