Page 18 of Delta (Alpha #12)

U nease prickles through me—a tickling down my spine, a raising of the fine hairs on the back of my neck.

We're strolling down a street whose name I can't even begin to pronounce, just outside the train station in Lyon.

Once again, Rush seems in no hurry at all, holding my hand as we walk; we must seem an ordinary couple on vacation—sorry, holiday .

I'm not at ease, for a lot of reasons.

I was okay on the train, mostly because it didn't seem likely that we'd encounter any bad guys—our ticket purchase was cash, and last minute, so unlikely that anyone could know where we were going and get on the train with us. Plus, that little nap, and then…

The hotness.

Good lord, the hotness.

The man's cock is divine. Truly. I know I'm somewhat prone to exaggeration and hyperbole, but in this case, divinity isn't much of a stretch.

Godlike, but little g—not God as in the Big Kahuna, the Almighty, with whom I have a distant and pretty disinterested relationship.

Recent events do, I must admit, have me rethinking that position, but waiting until I experience attempted rape and murder seems like a shitty time to find Jesus.

Is it a sin to think about Jesus one second and Rush's big, beautiful dick the next?

If it is, I'll say a Hail Mary or whatever—I don't know, I'm not catholic. I just know that first, the man gave me an orgasm I won't soon forget with no more than a finger or two, and then….hoo-boy. That dick.

I'm a horny bitch, okay? I get it from my mama, I'm pretty sure, although to be honest, I don't really want to think about that.

I just know that Killian and I learned very early on to give their wing of the house plenty of distance whenever they disappeared together.

Which is frequently . I'm sure I may get some of it from Dad, but for some reason, it's less icky to think about Mom's sexuality than my dad's. Not looking at that too closely.

I digress. Where was I?

Rush.

The things he says? Dirty, aggressive. Commanding.

I'm not a girl who typically likes being told what to do—in fact, I'm pretty sure Mom would say I'm allergic to obedience.

But when Rush tells me to swallow his cock and tells me I'm a good girl for swallowing all of his cum? Ooh, girl —I am not okay.

There might be a certain amount of distraction value to the situation, though.

I mean, this is life or death—or worse. I'm far from home, alone, and being pursued by sex traffickers.

I've killed people. So yeah, it's a nice, welcome distraction to put all that out of my mind and just focus on the much more pleasant subject of sex. Meaning, my favorite subject.

I'm under no illusions as to the score with Rush, though. He’s going out of his way to help me, to protect me.

Which is nice. And I doubt he'd say so in so many words, but I feel like there may be a certain expectation of us playing together in exchange for his protection.

It's not…explicit. He hasn't even hinted at that.

The moment on the train seemed very organic to me—it just happened.

Maybe I'm overthinking things. Another fun gift I have courtesy of my genetics—although I think that's from Dad.

Maybe I should feel Rush out on this.

"So, you, umm…do this a lot?" I ask.

He looks at me. "Do what?"

“Rescue girls from sex traffickers and have them blow you on the train."

"Preceded by me fingering you, I’d like to point out.

Don't forget that." He eyes me suspiciously.

"I gotta say, sweetheart, I really hope you're not implying there's any expectations on my end.

Because if you think I'm only helping you so you go down on me or what’ave-you, I'll be a bit miffed. I ain't that sort of bloke."

"It did cross my mind afterward," I admit.

He stops walking. "What'd I do to give you that impression?"

"Nothing, overtly."

"Look, Bryn. I'm a lot of things, not all of 'em very good. But one thing I’m very fucking much not is a man who has to coerce women into doin' things with me.

" He's pissed . His gaze is gray and sparking with arrogant fury.

"You wanna know the truth? I can walk into any bar or pub or club and crook my fuckin 'finger, an' I'll have my pick of slags gaggin’ themselves for 'alf an hour with me.

I don't say that to be crude or to brag, but so's you under-fucking-stand.

I don't need to help you. I don't even know if I want to help you.

I certainly don't need to help you to convince you to have my cock down your throat.

And don't forget, love, you came first .”

I grin at him. "Good answer. And just F-Y-I, you're not the only one who can walk into any bar, pub, or club, crook your finger, and have anyone you want. Doesn't make you special… love .”

He smirks back. "Good to know you don't hold that against me."

I shrug. "Why would I? You don't owe me any explanations. Also, I know a fuckboy when I meet one."

"Fuckboy, ey? What gave me away?"

I flick a finger at his face. "The smirk."

This gets me a puzzled frown. "Smirk? I'm not followin', mate."

I roll my eyes. "Fuckboys tend to employ a particular kind of smirk. Some may call it a smolder. You look at us with a cocky little smirk that says you know you're hot shit and that it's only a matter of time before we give in to the inevitable and beg you to dick us down."

"Bleh." It's a non-word sound of disgust. "I fuckin' hate that phrase. Dunno why, I just fuckin' hate it."

I laugh. "To be honest, I don't like it either. But I only use it when I’m being funny or sarcastic."

“Or insulting."

"You're insulted by me calling you a fuckboy?"

"Nah, love. I'm insulted that you think what happened on the train was somethin’ I expected because I'm helping you.

If I thought you thought that, I wouldn't have so much as looked at you.

" A tip of his head to one side. "But that said, calling me a fuckboy is an insult.

Just because it's true don't make it not an insult. "

"You're not denying it."

"Nah. I like sex, I'm good at it, and I've never fucked around with the whole 'feelings' and 'relationship' shite. I believe in havin' a good time and makin' sure expectations are set out clearly from the jump." He looks at me. "What about you?"

"What about me, what?"

"Are you workin' up to tellin' me that givin' me a gobbie on the train wasn't really like you? That you're not really that type of girl?"

"A gobbie ? Really right now?"

He adopts a nose-in-the-air, hoity-toity expression. "Well, excuse me for using such crude terminology, your highness." He even does a remarkable high-brow accent. "I meant performing the act of fellatio."

I can't help a laugh. "I don't mind slang, but I draw the line at 'gobbie'. It feels juvenile to me."

He snorts. "A fair point, that is."

"So." I look around pointedly. "Again, where are we going? Because it seems like we're just sort of strolling around aimlessly."

"That's cause we're bein' followed." His tone is as breezy as ever.

When I go to look around, he briefly squeezes my hand hard.

"Nah, nah, don't look. Jesus. I clocked the clumsy fuckwits ages ago.

They picked us up in the station." He stops walking abruptly and yanks out his cell phone, putting it to his ear and carrying on a fake conversation—it's all a ruse to give him an excuse to pivot in the street.

"Yeah, yeah, got it. Right—right." To me, in a low voice, then. "Two fat blokes in trackies."

I spot them immediately when I turn sideways on the sidewalk to face him, as if waiting for him to finish his call.

Like the assholes back in Berlin, these guys are on the wrong side of middle age sporting beer bellies, heavy stubble, and matching tracksuits, the halfway-zipped tops of which bulge obviously with guns.

"Jesus, whoever is doing the hiring has a typecasting issue."

Rush glances at me. "Say what?"

"The guys in Zermatt, Berlin, and now here? They're all basically the same dude."

He snickers. "Oh, yeah. Hired guns is all. The sort of chaps who'll sell out their own grandma for a handful of euros. They're in plentiful supply, unfortunately." He grins. "Means I won't be bothered merkin' 'em." In his accent, "bothered" comes across with a 'V' sound instead of a ‘th’.

I frown at him. "Merk?"

"Do in. Off." He does a finger gun, complete with a soft "pew" noise. "Murder 'em."

"Oh."

Rush pretends to end his call, pockets his phone, takes my hand, and sets off again the way we were going.

"So, what's the plan?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Dunno yet. Lead 'em on a merry chase till they're knackered, and then find a likely spot to do a nice little renovation on their skulls."

"So if I'm interpreting you correctly, you mean to tire them out by walking around a lot, lure them into an alley, and shoot them?"

"Right-oh, love."

"Can’t we just skip right to the murdering?” I suggest. "As much as I'd love to explore the city of Lyon on foot, that nap on the train was the only sleep I've had in forty-eight hours, unless you count a good twelve hours of being drugged unconscious."

He glances at me. "Good point. Drugged sleep ain't exactly restful."

"You know this from experience?"

His expression shutters. "I know a lot of unpleasant shite from experience, love. Among those experiences is being drugged against my will, yes."

"You know my story."

He sighs. "Mine's not got the happy ending yours has. I mean, I survived, so I suppose that's happy enough." A gruff, annoyed growl. "Fine. But only because that gobbie you gave me was some serious fuckin' top work."

"You're a dick."