Page 12 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings (Alpha Mafia Kings #1)

“Truth,” Mr. Storm said, his eyes tracking my movement as I approached. Unlike the others’ more overt stares, his gaze was subtle but somehow more penetrating, as if he could see through my skin to the chaos within.

I snorted, though the sound came out shakier than I’d intended.

“How generous of you. And what truth is that, exactly? That you’re perfectly capable of breaking out of here but are choosing to stay for what?

The ambiance? De Luca’s sparkling personality?

The gourmet hospital food? Because I’ve gotta say, the five-star accommodations don’t seem worth the whole ‘captive breeding stock’ situation. ”

Mr. Iceflare didn’t answer directly. Instead, his lips curved into a calculating smile that revealed nothing while promising everything.

The look in his eyes was one I’d seen before, in chess players several moves ahead of their opponents.

He shifted position, the sheet slipping lower on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle disappearing beneath the fabric.

It was a deliberate move, I was sure of it. Alphas and their power plays.

Mr. Enigma exchanged a meaningful glance with his companions, a silent communication that excluded me entirely.

His casual shrug did fascinating things to his shoulder muscles, drawing my unwilling attention.

“Curious little mouse, aren’t you? All questions and sass, even when you’re drowning in your own heat. ”

Mr. Storm leaned forward slightly, the movement deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. His quiet voice carried more weight than the others’ more forceful tones. “Worth waiting for.”

The way he said it sent a conflicting wave of fear and heat through me.

I clutched the lapels of my robe tighter, suddenly very aware of how little it concealed as three pairs of alpha eyes devoured me from across the room.

The air was thick with their combined scents—crisp winter pine and sandalwood from Mr. Iceflare, cinnamon and warm vanilla from Mr. Enigma, fresh rain and cedar from Mr. Storm—mingling with my heat.

Their scents enveloped me completely, each distinct yet harmonizing in a way that made my omega instincts purr with recognition even as my rational mind screamed warnings.

“I’m not that interesting,” I said, aiming for flippant but landing somewhere closer to breathless. “Just your average omega trying to avoid getting my father killed while simultaneously not becoming a baby daddy incubator for a geriatric mob boss. You know, Tuesday stuff.”

“We disagree,” Mr. Iceflare said, his eyes darkening as they tracked a bead of sweat rolling down my neck. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, the gesture quick but predatory. “You’re quite the puzzle. The desperate omega who doesn’t want to be here but keeps coming back.”

“I told you why,” I snapped, heat flaring in my cheeks. “My father?—”

“Yes, yes, your father,” Mr. Enigma cut in, waving a dismissive hand.

His movements were languid but purposeful, each gesture designed to draw my eye to the flex of muscle beneath his skin.

“A compelling reason, certainly. But not the only one, is it?” His green eyes glinted with knowing amusement as he inhaled deeply, his chest expanding.

“Not with the way your scent spikes every time one of us speaks. Sweet like honey but with something sharper underneath. Something I’ve never encountered before. ”

“That’s called ‘desperation mixed with loathing,’” I shot back. “Eau de Omega in Distress. Not available in stores, thank God.”

I opened my mouth to deliver another scathing retort, but another cramp seized me, this one so intense I had to grab the edge of Mr. Storm’s bed to keep from doubling over.

A whimper escaped before I could stop it, and I felt my body respond embarrassingly, the scent of my need immediately flooding the room.

Great. Nothing says “I’m in control of this situation” like literally broadcasting my desperation.

The reaction from the alphas was immediate and visceral.

All three inhaled sharply, their pupils dilating until only thin rings of color remained.

Mr. Iceflare’s hands fisted in his sheets, his knuckles white with strain.

Mr. Enigma’s jaw clenched so hard I could see a muscle jump in his cheek.

Mr. Storm went completely still, like a predator seconds before the pounce, only the rapid rise and fall of his chest betraying his reaction.

“Your heat’s getting worse,” Mr. Iceflare said, his voice rougher than before, like gravel wrapped in velvet. He shifted again, and I couldn’t help but notice the obvious tent in the sheet covering his lower half. “How long has it been since it started?”

“What’s it to you?” I managed, straightening with effort. “Planning to send a get-well card? ‘Sorry your biology is torturing you while we watch. Best wishes, The Alphas Who Could Help But Won’t.’”

“Planning to avoid a corpse in our room,” he countered bluntly, though his eyes never left mine, the intensity in them belying his casual tone. “Heat toxicity is no joke, omega. Even we know that.”

I blinked, surprised by what almost sounded like concern. “I’ll be fine. I’ve survived worse. This one time, I had to sit through an entire movie marathon. Now that was torture.”

“Will you?” Mr. Enigma asked, his tone softer than I’d heard before.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the position making the muscles in his arms stand out in sharp relief.

“Your scent says otherwise. It’s intense.

More so than any omega I’ve encountered.

” His nostrils flared again as he breathed me in.

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant despite the fire raging through my veins and the weight of their gazes on my skin.

“Lucky me. I get all the fun omega traits. Extra strong heats, extra strong scent, extra strong cramps. The omega trifecta of misery. If they gave out prizes for biological suffering, I’d be taking home the gold medal. ”

Mr. Storm was watching me with unsettling intensity, his eyes tracking every minute shift in my expression. The silence he maintained somehow made his attention more potent, more focused. His eyes narrowed fractionally. “Different,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Did I grow a second head? Because that would explain the double migraines I’ve been having.”

Before he could answer, Mr. Iceflare cut in, the bed creaking slightly as he shifted position to face me more fully. “It means we might be able to come to an arrangement, little mouse.”

I eyed him suspiciously, trying not to be distracted by the way the movement had caused the sheet to slip even lower, revealing the sharp V of muscle disappearing beneath the fabric. Focus, Ty. Eyes up. This isn’t the time to be admiring the scenery, no matter how scenic it might be.

“What kind of arrangement?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest in what I hoped was a defensive rather than desperate posture. “Because if it involves me, you, and a turkey baster, I’m going to have to pass.”

“A mutually beneficial one,” he said, his voice dropping to a register that seemed to vibrate through my bones. He patted the edge of his bed, the invitation clear. “You keep our little secret, that we’re not as incapacitated as we appear, and in return…”

“In return?” I prompted when he trailed off meaningfully, my pulse quickening despite my better judgment.

His smile was slow and predatory, revealing white teeth that I couldn’t help but imagine against my skin. “In return, we might help ease your discomfort. To a degree.”

My heart skipped a beat, and I was mortified to feel another rush of wetness between my thighs.

From the way all three alphas inhaled sharply, I knew they could smell it.

Subtle as a foghorn, that’s me. “What exactly does that mean? Because there are degrees of ‘easing discomfort,’ and they range from ‘aspirin for a headache’ to ‘full-on knot party,’ and I’m guessing you’re not offering the latter. ”

“It means,” Mr. Enigma interjected, his green eyes gleaming as he watched the exchange with barely concealed hunger, “that while we won’t give De Luca what he wants, won’t give you what you ultimately need, we might be persuaded to take the edge off.”

Another cramp hit me, and this time I couldn’t hide my reaction. I gasped, my knees nearly buckling as heat flooded my core. The thin silk robe suddenly felt suffocating against my hypersensitive skin, every brush of fabric a torturous caress. My body was officially staging a coup against my brain.

“Why would you do that?” I asked, genuinely confused. “Yesterday you were threatening to hunt me down and make me regret being born. That’s quite the mood swing, even for alphas.”

“Oh, we still plan to do that,” Mr. Iceflare assured me, though the menace in his voice was tempered with something darker, more sensual. His eyes tracked my every movement, lingering on the places where my robe clung to my sweat-dampened skin. “But in the meantime, we find ourselves curious.”

“Curious,” I repeated flatly, though my voice betrayed me with a slight quaver. “Like scientists observing a lab rat? Or more like cats playing with their food before they eat it?”

Unlike the others, who made no attempt to hide their reactions, Mr. Storm’s control was unnerving, only the rapid pulse visible at his throat and the darkness of his eyes betraying his response to my scent.

His gaze locked with mine. “Someone breaks,” he said, the quiet statement more ominous than any elaborate explanation.

“This isn’t a game to me,” I said, anger flaring through the haze of heat. “This is my father’s life. This is my life. Some of us don’t have the luxury of treating torture and forced breeding as an amusing diversion.”

“Everything’s a game, little mouse,” Mr. Enigma said with a casual shrug that did nothing to disguise the predatory gleam in his eyes. “Some just have higher stakes than others.”

I stared at them, trying to understand their angle. They were offering to help me, sort of, while still maintaining their resistance to De Luca’s ultimate goal. It made no sense unless…

“You’re bored,” I realized suddenly. “This is entertainment for you while you gather your intelligence or whatever. I’m just a diversion. The omega equivalent of a sudoku puzzle to pass the time while you’re being held captive.”

Mr. Iceflare’s smile was neither confirmation nor denial, but the heat in his gaze as it trailed over my body was unmistakable. “Does it matter why, if you get what you need?”

Another wave of heat washed over me, this one strong enough to make me sway on my feet.

The emptiness inside me was becoming unbearable, a physical ache that clawed at my sanity.

The alphas’ combined scents filled the air, permeating every breath I took, calling to something primal inside me that recognized them as the solution to my suffering.

“What exactly are you offering?” I asked, hating the desperation in my voice but unable to hide it. “A handshake? A pat on the back? A strongly worded letter of support?”

Mr. Iceflare’s eyes darkened further, midnight blue swallowing the ice. He shifted, making room on the bed beside him. “Come here and find out.”

It was a terrible idea. These men had threatened me. Had promised retribution once they were free. Had made it clear they viewed me as complicit in their captivity. Walking over there would be like sticking my head in a lion’s mouth and tickling its tonsils.

But my body didn’t care about any of that. It recognized alpha—three powerful, virile alphas—and it wanted relief like a drowning man wants air.

“This is such a bad idea,” I said, even as I took a hesitant step toward Mr. Iceflare’s bed. “Right up there with skinny-dipping with piranhas.”

His scent grew stronger as I approached, crisp winter pine and bergamot with rich notes of aged whiskey and sandalwood that made my inner omega whimper with need.

The combination was intoxicating, somehow both cooling and warming at once, making my skin tingle with awareness.

I was acutely aware of the other two alphas watching, their gazes heavy and tangible, their own distinctive scents creating an aromatic backdrop that only heightened my sensitivity.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a silken purr that seemed to caress my skin. “Closer, little mouse.”

When I reached the edge of his bed, he patted the space beside him. “Sit.”

I hesitated, eyeing him warily, all too conscious of how the thin silk robe clung to my sweat-dampened skin, how it gaped slightly at the chest, how it barely covered the essentials. “If this is a trick?—”

“No trick,” he assured me, though the predatory gleam in his eyes did little to calm my nerves. His gaze traveled over me slowly, deliberately, taking in every detail from my flushed face to my trembling hands. “Just a temporary truce. For mutual benefit.”

“Right,” I said skeptically. “And I’m sure you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart. Regular humanitarians, you three. Probably volunteer at omega shelters in your spare time when you’re not, you know, mafia-ing.”

Cautiously, I perched on the edge of his bed, acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, of the alpha scent that enveloped me completely.

This close, I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tiny flecks of darker blue in his irises, the way his pulse jumped at his throat when I shifted and my scent wafted toward him.

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “tell me what you want, omega.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “I want relief.” Before my brain could stop it, my mouth added, “And world peace. And maybe a pony. But I’ll settle for the relief right now.”

His smile was all teeth, the predator showing itself fully. “Be more specific.”