Page 80 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings (Alpha Mafia Kings #1)

The limo turned onto a busier street, and I caught glimpses of normal people living normal lives.

The contrast between their mundane Monday and my “being kidnapped by three alpha mafia lords who just shot up a compound” made everything feel surreal, like I’d slipped into some alternate dimension where this was somehow my life.

“His scent is incredible,” Mr. Enigma said, leaning forward to sniff at my neck like I was some fancy bottle of alpha wine. “Sweeter than before. Like jasmine and honey with something new underneath.”

“Pregnancy enhances omega scent,” Mr. Iceflare agreed, abandoning his exploration between my legs to start unbuttoning my shirt with the precision of a bomb technician. “His body preparing to nurture our child.”

His knuckles brushed against my skin as he worked, each touch sending jolts through my system. Apparently, pregnancy had cranked my sensitivity dial to maximum, which was just fantastic news for my already failing attempt to maintain dignity.

“Our child,” I repeated, trying for scathing but landing somewhere closer to breathless. “You don’t even know which one of you is the father. What are you planning, a DNA test party where the winner gets extra diaper duty?”

Mr. Storm just shook his head once, his expression about as revealing as a brick wall. “Trinity shares.”

“How progressive of you,” I said, trying to swat Mr. Iceflare’s hands away from my buttons with the effectiveness of a kitten fighting off a tiger. “What’s next, a commune? Matching tattoos? A group wedding where you all promise to be equally terrifying forever?”

Mr. Storm moved faster than should be legal for someone his size, capturing my wrists and holding them firmly in my lap. His fingers wrapped completely around my wrists with room to spare—like wearing handcuffs made of warm flesh and bad intentions.

“Let go,” I demanded, tugging against his grip with zero effect. I might as well have been trying to move a mountain with harsh language. “You can’t just?—”

“Can’t what?” Mr. Iceflare interrupted, popping another button on my shirt like it had personally offended him. “Can’t claim what’s ours? Can’t take back what was stolen? Can’t remind your body what it’s been craving for months?”

His fingers brushed against my bare chest, and it was like being touched with a live wire connected directly to my crotch. The pregnancy had apparently rewired my nervous system, turning every alpha touch into a direct line to my most embarrassing responses.

“Don’t,” I whispered, not even sure what I was asking him not to do. Don’t touch me? Don’t make me feel this? Don’t prove how pathetically easy I am?

“Don’t what, little mouse?” Mr. Enigma prompted, his voice practically dripping sex. “Don’t touch you? Don’t make you admit how much you’ve missed us? Don’t remind you of what your body knows even if your mind denies it?”

His words sent another wave of heat straight to my groin. Three months of running, of hiding, of denying what I needed, and here I was, melting faster than ice cream in July.

“I hate you,” I said, the words about as convincing as a toddler claiming they didn’t eat the cookies while covered in chocolate.

“No,” Mr. Iceflare contradicted, finishing with my buttons and pushing my shirt open like he was unwrapping a Christmas present he already knew was exactly what he wanted. “You hate how much you want us. How much your body craves what only we can give you.”

His hands explored my chest, calloused fingers retracing paths they’d mapped thoroughly during our captivity. When he reached my nipples, already painfully sensitive thanks to pregnancy hormones, he brushed his thumbs over them, drawing a gasp from me that I couldn’t suppress.

“Look at that,” Mr. Enigma said, sounding like a kid who just found the prize in a cereal box. “Already so responsive. So perfect for us.”

“I’m not perfect for anyone,” I managed, my voice cracking embarrassingly. “Especially not for kidnappers who use my father as leverage. That’s some real Prince Charming behavior right there.”

Mr. Enigma just grinned and leaned in, capturing my mouth in a kiss that was pure memory-lane seduction.

Unlike Mr. Iceflare’s dominant approach, Mr. Enigma kissed like he had all the time in the world to coax responses from me—and knew exactly how to get them.

His tongue played with mine in that teasing way that always made my toes curl involuntarily.

When he pulled back, I was breathing like I’d just run a marathon, my lips tingling from his attention. “Even better than I remembered,” he murmured, his green eyes now dark enough to get lost in.

Mr. Storm released my wrists then, but before I could take advantage of my newfound freedom (not that there was anywhere to go in a moving limo), he dropped to his knees between my legs. His large hands gripped my thighs, pushing them apart with zero regard for my personal space or dignity.

Mr. Storm looked up at me, then at my stomach, then back at me. He didn’t say anything—shocker—just inhaled deeply again, his expression softening just enough that I might have imagined it.

“Our child,” Mr. Iceflare confirmed, his hand sliding over my still-flat stomach like he was staking a claim. “Growing stronger every day, even as he tried to hide from us.”

His hand lingered there, warm and possessive, and something in my chest tightened unexpectedly. The look in his eyes as he stared at where his hand covered my abdomen wasn’t just alpha territorialism—it was something deeper, something that looked disturbingly like wonder.

“This child will want for nothing,” he said. “Neither will you.”

Mr. Storm nodded once, his hand joining Mr. Iceflare’s on my stomach like we were in some bizarre pregnancy blessing ceremony.

“A Trinity child,” Mr. Enigma said, completing the circle as his hand joined the others. “Born of all of us.”

I should have been fighting harder, should have been kicking and screaming and doing anything but sitting there while three mafia alphas held an impromptu baby shower on my abdomen. But months of dreams and fantasies, of waking up aching and empty, had worn down my defenses to tissue-paper thin.

My body knew what it wanted, even if my brain was screaming objections like a neglected toddler.

“You can’t just—” I started, but my words dissolved into a surprised yelp as Mr. Storm hooked his fingers into my pants and underwear and yanked them down in one smooth motion, exposing me completely to the air-conditioned limo interior.

The cool air hit my overheated skin, but that was nothing compared to the embarrassment of Mr. Storm staring at my cock, which was already hard and leaking against my stomach like it was auditioning for “Most Eager Omega of the Year.” Great.

Three months of pretending I didn’t want these alphas, and my body was betraying me faster than a politician after taking a bribe.

“Already hard for us,” Mr. Enigma said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “So perfect.”

“It’s just biology,” I protested weakly, my face burning as three pairs of alpha eyes examined me like I was the main course at an alpha buffet. “Omega response to—FUCK!”

My explanation cut off abruptly as Mr. Storm leaned forward and swallowed my cock without so much as a “may I?” The sudden wet heat of his mouth short-circuited my brain completely.

My hips bucked up involuntarily, seeking more of that incredible sensation with zero input from my higher brain functions.

“That’s it,” Mr. Iceflare growled against my ear, his lips finding my neck with unerring accuracy. “Let us hear you. Let us know how much you’ve missed this.”

The dual sensation—Mr. Storm’s mouth on my cock and Mr. Iceflare’s teeth grazing my neck—was overwhelming.

My brain went completely offline, rational thought replaced by pure animal need.

I gasped for air, my head falling back against Mr. Iceflare’s shoulder as my body surrendered completely to sensations I’d been denying myself for months.

Mr. Enigma moved then, sliding off the seat to kneel beside Mr. Storm, his mouth finding my nipple while his fingers traced teasing patterns on my inner thigh.

The feeling of three alphas touching me simultaneously after months of nothing but my own hand and increasingly pathetic fantasies was mind-blowing.

“Look at him,” Mr. Enigma murmured, his breath warm against my skin. “Coming apart for us. So beautiful.”

Mr. Storm worked my cock with the same focused intensity he brought to everything—methodical, thorough, and devastating. He took me deep, his tongue swirling around the head before sliding down the shaft in a way that made my eyes roll back.

At the same time, Mr. Iceflare’s teeth grazed my neck, sending shivers racing down my spine, while his free hand slid between my legs, fingers circling my hole without penetrating, the teasing bastard.

“Please,” I gasped, not even sure what I was begging for. More? Less? Everything? Nothing?

“Please what?” Mr. Iceflare asked against my skin, his teeth leaving marks that would linger for days. “Please stop? Please more? Please make you forget there was ever a time when you weren’t ours?”

“Just—please—” I couldn’t form coherent thoughts, not with Mr. Storm’s mouth on my cock, not with Mr. Enigma’s lips on my nipple, not with Mr. Iceflare’s fingers teasing my hole with maddening restraint. My brain had reduced to the complexity of a goldfish—want, need, now.

“I think our little mouse needs more,” Mr. Enigma suggested, pulling back to look up at Mr. Iceflare with a grin that promised trouble. “He’s been empty for months. Aching for us.”

Mr. Iceflare’s smile was pure predator. “Then let’s fill him.”

Without warning, he pushed a finger inside me, the intrusion both shocking and desperately needed. My back arched, a cry tearing from my throat as he found my prostate with the precision of someone who’d mapped it thoroughly.