Page 9 of A Shot in the Dark (Fated Mates Collection | Triple Threat #1)

I nearly have to pour myself into the backseat of the car an hour later.

“I think I might be sick,” I complain, my body flushed.

Everything feels strange, wobbly, and the most I’ve achieved today is getting my bra to match my panties and my top to match my skirt.

I take comfort in that: as crazy as things are, at least it will never change.

“You’re not sick,” Boots says like he’s some doctor. “It’s the heat.” He cranes his neck to look out the windshield at the sky. “It’s only temporary.”

I give a sidelong glance out the window as the world rockets by. “It’s only like seventy degrees out there…”

“Not what I mean, princess…”

“I never know what you mean.”

“I’m just a grunt—it’s not my place to educate you.”

“Oh, I think you’ve been quite educational,” I laugh. “Why not tell me? What is ‘your place?’ Other than between my legs?”

He snorts. “Anywhere, nowhere.”

“Boots gettin’ deep—somewhere other than between my legs.”

Another snort.

“You are not what I expected, princess,” he concedes, an odd note to his voice.

“What did you expect?”

“Rich bitch needing to be put in her place. And wanting to be put there. Probably looking to slum it.”

“Ah.” Ouch. “Do you see that often…? In your line of work?”

“Often enough. Though I’d guess you see it more often in yours—from a different angle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Men. Trying to get into your pants. Just to tell their buddies they did.”

“Yes…” He’s not wrong. “That definitely happens.” I’ve had more than a few men try to pull that shit with me—and at least one that made me believe that wasn’t all he wanted.

I was wrong and my reputation took a hit for it.

His reputation? Glowed briefly and brightly from landing me on my back.

So I dealt with him more…creatively. “Like you aren’t going to report back to your buddies in some locker room… ”

“No buddies to report back to. Not anymore,” he adds darkly. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You don’t kiss at all.”

He snorts. “‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’” He shifts in his seat, stretching his neck from side-to-side. “Looks like another three hours…”

“Until we’re in Greenbriar? Impossible!”

“Not until we’re in Greenbriar. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

“Until what then?”

He groans. “Something’s definitely up with you, princess, and, since my kind and yours don’t mix… I need to touch base.” He reaches over into his glove compartment. “Here.” He hands me a set of state-of-the-art headphones. “I need to make a call, and I need privacy. Care to cooperate?”

I readily accept because whatever’s flooding my blood makes me happy to comply with at least the majority of his request; I slip the headphones on, and watch as we pass a sign announcing our arrival in Ohio.

Boots takes out his phone and begins speaking into it, and I carefully—subtly—lift up an edge of my headphones to listen. “Petey? Thank god.”

“Yo, Boots, my man! My favorite brooding man of mystery—the man of few words. What’s up?”

“I have a hypothetical.”

“Go ahead.”

“ Hypothetically , if an omega fell into someone’s lap?—”

The laughter on the phone’s far end is unmistakably crass. “If one’s in your lap, you know what to do with it!”

“I do not ,” Boots counters, the words coming out in a dangerous growl that only serves to excite me. I squirm on my seat, my focus fixed. “My rank precludes access. Operating on a need-to-know basis, my intel is spotty at best. So now I need to know.”

“Seriously… Why the fuck do you need intel on omegas?”

“Let’s say I ran into a bitch that may be in heat—but maybe there’s something… different about her… As a result of… morbid curiosity… I need every bit of data you have on omegas.”

“Dude, tell me you’re joking. You better be joking…

Omegas are dangerous little bitches. Leadership is clear on this and so are the rules.

A ranking alpha must be in control of any and all identified omega.

Every wild thing that scents an omega will want a taste.

And legally? Any male but those ranked among the Order of the Kinsmen—like you, my dude—are entitled to having a taste.

Except in cases in which bans or bonds apply. ”

“Right, right… The bond. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“At your rank you have a total of seven days’ bond. And you’ve got access to… all seven days’ coverage.”

“Yeah,” Boots says grimly. “I know.”

“Even with all seven days intact, you have to apply in advance?—”

“I know.”

“And as a member of the Kinsmen ranks, you… shouldn’t even be considering accessing an omega.

They’re a no-go for your rank. Strictly off limits.

And this sorta forbidden fruit? It’ll fuck you up.

If she’s just some bitch in heat, do what you will, but if she’s an omega—she’s something you can’t and shouldn’t try to handle.

” The other man begins to rattle even more words out—all of them coming too quickly for me to truly grasp.

“Omegas need to be delivered to the ranking alpha so they can either be brought to heel or put down. And one of the keys to omega transport is containment. Bitches may move freely, but omegas? They need to be kept under lock and key. If you can’t bring her in for some reason…

” he pauses as if he’s deep in thought “...an omega in heat can make it impossible, you can initiate a bond to provide cover and reduce the call to the wild. BUT. In case of emergency application of the bond your rights can be revoked and leadership’ll take it out of your hide. ”

“I also know that.”

“And if you’re unwilling to risk leadership raining down on you, you must initiate the Huntsman Protocol.”

“Fuuuck.”

“Or you can unleash her, get a few pokes in with everyone else and stay clear of the resulting melee. An unidentified and unbonded omega is just an omega—a liability to the hierarchy. The bitch has gotta go, you know? Might as well have a little fun before you do her in.”

Boots wipes the back of one gloved hand across the space between the brim of his hat and the top of his glasses. “Not how I’m wired, man.” The words are simple and somehow sad.

“And that’s why you’re still stuck at your rank. All that ‘knight-of-the-realm’ shit you carry like it’s your burden.”

“It should weigh on someone…”

“Do you think leadership worries about the things you do?” Petey’s laugh is harsh, dark. “They would never ask what to do with an omega— any omega at any moment—they’d just do what they want. Alphas do what alphas wanna do.”

“Fuck leadership.”

“Yeah, dude, fuck leadership!” Petey’s tone grows softer. “But a few pokes, man? You deserve at least that much. Who doesn’t?”

Boots shakes his head.

“Look,” Petey continues, “the odds of any omega you run across being a bloodline omega? Slim to none. And they’re the most dangerous.

Don’t forget: If some unbonded omega’s in heat, you must either take the risk and provide cover or clear the board by initiating the Huntsman Protocol.

No muddying things. I mean, bond and go all dick in?

Fine if you’re willing to risk it, but then it’s either haul her in and turn her over, or it’s gun out, and be done with it.

Otherwise the alphas will hang your hide in the Hall. ”

Boots shifts in his seat. Adjusts his grip on the steering wheel.

“Tell me this is all just wildly hypothetical.”

Boots says nothing; he keeps driving.

Petey’s voice becomes strained. “Boots. If this isn’t hypothetical, you have to make a choice. It’s in the rules , man.”

“I respect the rules,” Boots grinds out from between his clenched teeth. He puffs out a breath. “So, hypothetically , how can I be certain if one’s in heat?”

“How sheltered were you? You’ll know. You’ll definitely know.”

“Great. And…when they’re in heat they can still consent, right?”

“Uhhh… This sounds less and less hypothetical…”

“Answer the question, Petey.”

“You know how it is with bitches. Leadership says a yes is a yes, no matter how it’s obtained.”

“Ah, the bedrock on which our legal system structures its interrogation methodology.” Boots pauses, taps the steering wheel. “Leadership says that, but…?”

“Depends on who you read.”

“What if I’m behind in my reading?”

“It’s debatable. Engage your best judgment. If you have to engage an omega in heat, the key is to keep them from running off and fucking or being bonded to anyone available, and that requires you keeping their temperature down and keeping them under control.”

“Which is accomplished by…”

“Fucking. Regular and repeated fucking. The bond can take some of the pressure off, though.”

There’s a pause and Boots reaches beneath his glasses with his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, his other hand’s wrist resting on the steering wheel and keeping us on course.

“But, dude, I’m looking at your schedule and, as much as I like chatting with you… You’re on a Red Riding Hood delivery run right now, aren’t you?”

The word drags out of Boots: “Yeaaahhh.” He adjusts his cap. “I’m working on it..”

“Well, don’t fuck it up and miss your deadline. Eyes on the prize. There’s only three of you at your rank with perfect scores and leadership is starting to consider promotions again. You might finally get dragged out of the basement and get a glimpse of the sun, my friend.”

Boots hisses. “Livin’ the dream. Eyes on the prize,” he repeats, and ends the call.

I adjust my headphones and am left with more questions than answers.

Two hours later the warmth is building in me again, reaching a boil that threatens to soften my bones. “I think I have a fever,” I grumble.

“You don’t have a fever.”

“Prove it. Come back here and take my temperature,” I tease.

“ No .”

“Then how do you know?”

“I know .” He turns down the music. “If I pulled this car over right now, would you want me to fuck you?”

I don’t appreciate how quickly my body softens, reacting. “Yes,” I say earnestly.