Page 7 of Omega’s Fever (Prime Match #2)

Kellen

My spine slams against the metal bench as the van hits another pothole.

I’ve been fortunate enough to get Woods and Antonini as my personal chauffeurs this afternoon and they’re in fine form. Omega slick has a particular sweetness that any alpha or omega can identify. Mix that with the musk of aroused alpha and there’s no hiding what happened.

They’re loving this and right now, I’ve had enough of both of them for one lifetime. I’m not looking forward to another twenty years with them.

“Fuck me,” Woods sniffs the air dramatically, then turns to grin at me through the cage partition. “You absolutely reek, Hayes. What did you do, roll around in that lawyer’s cologne?”

Antonini snorts from the driver’s seat. “That’s not cologne.”

“No shit.” Woods twists further in his seat. “Hayes here gets a fancy Schmitt and Petersen lawyer and gets the full personal service. You know what those guys charge? Five hundred an hour, minimum. That’s one expensive whore.”

He’s trying to get a rise out of me. I ignore it, but perhaps my scent starts giving away how furious I am because Antonini glances at me in the rearview mirror and says, “Leave it alone, Woods.”

“No, I’m serious.” Woods won’t let it go. “We transport you animals back and forth, burning taxpayer money on gas, and for what? So you can get yourself an easy lay? Courthouse is gonna need to be fumigated.”

I keep my eyes on the van’s ceiling. Gray metal with rust spots spreading like cancer. One looks like a dog if you squint.

“You’re awfully quiet back there, Hayes.” Woods won’t let it go. Never does when he smells blood in the water. “Usually you’re all ‘I’m innocent’ this and ‘I was framed’ that. Your lawyer suck the fight out of you along with your—”

“Woods.” Antonini’s voice carries a warning. “Enough.”

“What?”

My hands clench into fists. The movement pulls at the dried blood on my wrists where the cuffs cut deep. I can still smell Milo on my skin beneath the copper and rust. His sweetness that doesn’t belong in this metal box heading back to my cage.

“Fifty bucks says the lawyer doesn’t show for the trial.” Woods pulls out his wallet and waves the bill. “Come on, Antonini. Easy money.”

Woods sighs and gives up on trying to keep him from annoying me. “I’ll take that action. Hayes might be a lot of things, but he’s got that whole big brooding alpha thing going. Omegas eat that shit up.”

“Brooding?” Woods laughs, sharp as breaking glass. “More like brain-dead. You see the size of him? All those muscles don’t leave much room for thinking.”

I let them talk. Their voices wash over me like white noise. The city slides past outside. Normal life happening just feet away.

The van slows, and turns left. I know this route by heart now. The prison’s watchtower appears first, then the razor wire.

“Home sweet home.” Antonini pulls up to the checkpoint. “Got one for processing.”

The gate guard barely looks up from his magazine before he waves us through. A minute lantern the van slows and stops and the two guards disembark.

“On your feet, Hayes.” Woods unlocks the rear doors. “Try not to trip on your dick.”

I shuffle out. I take a deep breath of the fresh air wanting to store it up. We get outside time but never enough.

“Move your ass.” Woods shoves me toward the processing entrance. “Some of us got homes to go to.”

Three guards cluster around the intake area, sharing some joke that dies when we enter.

“Hayes, Kellen. 83447.” The processing guard doesn’t look up from his computer. “Anything to report?”

“His wrists are bleeding,” Antonini offers.

That gets a glance. The guard’s eyes narrow at the rust-brown stains on my cuffs. “Fighting?”

“Vigorous attorney-client consultation,” Woods supplies with a smirk.

The processing guard’s expression doesn’t change. He’s seen everything twice and stopped caring somewhere around the first time. “Strip search, then medical can take a look.”

I know the drill. The jumpsuit comes off and the guards go through their routine. Bend, spread, cough.

“Wow, he really did get some.” The searching guard whistles low. “Still got scratch marks.”

Heat crawls up my neck.

“Must have been quite the legal discussion,” someone mutters.

I’m sent to med bay next. No one at the prison cares if my wrists are injured or not but they do care about lawsuits and ticking boxes. The nurse there doesn’t speak. She just efficiently cleans and wraps my wrists

And just like that I’m back in gen pop. A few heads turn as I pass. News travels fast in here. By now, everyone knows something happened at the courthouse.

“Hayes is back,” someone calls out. “Yo, Hayes! That true about your lawyer?”

I keep walking, but I can’t get Milo out of my head. All I can think about is his weight in my lap, the broken sounds he made when he came.

I finally get back to my cell. Thackeray looks up from his bunk, thick book spread across his lap. The book is some fantasy thing. There’s a guy on the front carrying a ridiculously big sword and looking all broody.

“Eventful day?” His tone is carefully neutral.

“Could say that.” I climb up onto my bunk and freeze.

There, placed dead center on my flat excuse for a pillow, sits half a playing card. It’s the Jack of Spades, torn diagonally.

“When?” I hold up the torn card.

Thackeray’s face goes blank. “I was at the library for two hours. Got back maybe twenty minutes ago.”

“See anyone near our cell?”

“You know I don’t see things.” He returns to his book. “Things are bad for my health.”

I study the card, noting the clean tear. Cobb always was particular about his messages. In the fighting rings, a torn card meant you were being watched. It meant you’d stepped out of line. It meant consequences were coming if you didn’t correct course.

But I haven’t done anything. I haven’t talked to anyone about the case. I haven’t pointed fingers or made waves. I never once said Cobb’s name out loud. Yes, I say I’m innocent, but that’s normal for any con in here. If I claimed I’d done it, it’d be way more suspicious.

“You alright up there?” Thackeray asks without looking up.

“Peachy.”

I pocket the card and lie back. The pillow smells like cheap soap. Nothing like Milo’s expensive shampoo. Nothing like the soft sound he made when I first pushed inside.

Stop, I tell myself. I can’t think about it. That way lies madness.

“Dinner’s in thirty,” Thackeray offers. “Salisbury steak night.”

“Mystery meat in gray sauce. Can’t wait.”

He chuckles. “Could be worse. Remember last month’s tuna surprise?”

“The surprise was it wasn’t tuna.”

“The surprise was anyone survived eating it.”

I lie on my bunk until the call for dinner comes, and then I make the decision to stay anyway, not hungry for mystery meat or the social dynamics of the dining hall. The torn card burns in my pocket. Cobb owns this place as surely as he owned The Pit.

“You should eat.” Thackeray marks his place in his book. “Need to keep your strength up.”

I ignore him. I wonder if I’ll see Milo again or if I’ll be facing jury selection with whatever burnt-out public defender they scramble up as replacement. Smart money says his expensive legal firm will do everything they can to pull him, despite what Melkham wants.

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” Thackeray heads for the door, then pauses. “That thing with your lawyer. It’s got people talking.”

“Let them talk.”

“Some of the talk involves Cobb.”

I sit up, meet his eyes. Thackeray never mentions Cobb. It’s part of our unspoken agreement. He doesn’t see things, I don’t put him in positions where he might have to.

“What kind of talk?”

“The kind that wonders if a lawyer who’s... invested... might dig deeper than the others.” He adjusts his glasses, clearly nervous. “The kind that remembers what happened to the last person who complicated Cobb’s business.”

That had been only last week. A small-time dealer who tried to skim from Cobb’s operation.was found him in his cell with a sharpened toothbrush between his ribs. Suicide, the report said. Amazing how many suicides happen in prison. Amazing how often they involve people who crossed Cobb Sewell.

“Message received.”

Thackeray nods and disappears into the corridor noise. I lie back down, adding this new wrinkle to my growing collection of problems.

Milo. He’s all I can think about. I’ve been with omegas before, of course. They’re always lovely, sweet-smelling and soft. This is something else. They were drops of water compared to the tsunami that was Milo Warren. I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.

Instead I just lie on my bunk and daydream because all I want to do is scent that heavenly vanilla fragrance again.