“Like I said before, omega. Not two steps behind.” Orion stepped in front of me, that low, silky voice sounding like it should be used for things other than bloody warnings. “If you need to go to the toilets, you’ll be taking several of our waitresses with you. No missteps. There are sharks here, they just wear Brooks Brothers rather than fins.”
“I’ve got her.”
Rhys shouldered in closer, wrapping his arm around me and tugging me close. Jesus, the massive size of him turned my bones to jelly. I always felt small next to an alpha, but he was so damn big, his boys would get a sense of how I felt when he was with them.
When he was with them.
My all too active imagination threw up a variety of scenarios in response to that, each fucking hotter than the next.
“Jesus, the Scotch is making her flush,” Marcus ground out. “This is gonna be pure fucking torture. You better be right, with this plan of yours.”
“Of course it is,” Orion replied. “My last one got us t
his. We’re close, Marcus, so fucking close to end game. Just keep the faith.”
My flustered complexion wasn’t going to clear any time soon, not when he reached out to Marcus, the distance between them an aching chasm over which he stroked his lover’s cheek.
“Always.” With one word, Marcus threw off the mask of mocking indifference and they were just two boys, standing in a spotlight, each looking at the other with love. “Well, I guess it’ll only help us if she’s flooding the room with her perfume. It’ll keep all those fucking bastards off balance and advertise her wares to everyone there.”
“But not Len and his crew,” Rhys grumbled. “You need to make fucking clear what the consequences of him trying to poach her would entail.”
“I’m not an idiot. She might not be our omega, but she has to be protected,” Marcus snapped. “C’mon, let’s make our entrance.”
That sounded all too dramatic, but damn, once we skirted the main gaming room, walking up a short set of richly carpeted stairs towards a cordoned off area that was policed only by a couple of beta waitstaff and social convention, it felt like the room went still. With deeply polished wood panelling, thick carpets, small tables covered with cards and chips, it looked more like an old aristocratic men’s club than a gambling room, but there were more than just men here. There were betas for sure, who in some ways had an advantage, looking more circumspect and not giving away what they thought and felt with their scents. But alphas, so many fucking alphas, I struggled to take a full breath.
Wood—sandalwood, oud, cedar, patchouli and vetiver. Musk—ambergris, civet. Leather, smoke, peat, pepper, basil, cardamon, bergamot, neroli. All the different scents slammed into me as I forced my legs to keep moving, eyes following my wobbly kneed prey walk. Cards were set aside, let to dip down, risking someone to take a look, chips falling from limp fingers that quickly tightened.
“This was a mistake,” Rhys said, tightening his grip around my shoulders. “It’s too much for her, and they look half fucking feral. They think she’s—”
“Ours.” Orion’s voice was definite as he swept in, taking his cues from what I’d said earlier and dragging his nose down my neck, then biting the skin there lightly. I gasped, my legs definitely giving up the ghost, but Orion pulled back, a completely alpha look of satisfaction on his face as he licked his lips theatrically. “Carry her if you have to.” His instructions now were terse and delivered softly. “Get her into our room and then close the door. Marcus will circulate and handpick who comes to the table.”
“I’ve got my laundry list for the perfect alpha,” Marcus replied, his calm cracking somewhat. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Just a few more steps. You can do that, can’t you?”
Orion used that alpha tone, one of deep belief and gentle encouragement, with devastating effectiveness. My feet followed his, lured deeper and deeper into the area until we reached a part that had been screened off by sliding doors. Once inside, I was swept up and deposited on Rhys’ lap as he sank into one of the richly upholstered chairs.
“Good girl,” he soothed. “You’re doing very well. Get the waitress to bring her a big carafe of water. Slamming down Scotch and this place? It’s too much for her.”
“Not too much,” I protested as my eyelids fluttered. I squirmed, trying to get up, but hands locked down around me, holding me exactly where I was. “I’m fine.”
“Of course you are. You’re the perfect little omega, but you’re going to lean back. That’s right, just like that. Lean back and stay here, because I will feel a helluva lot better when you do.”
“I’ve fucking heard you talk more tonight than I think I have any night, except that one time at graduation when we sat around smoking pot.” Orion looked down at us with a surprise that bordered on suspicion.
“Never really needed to,” Rhys replied, and I felt the deep rumble of his voice all the way down into my toes. “You guys always fill the fucking air with endless drivel.”
But Orion wasn’t listening, just looking down at the two of us, his brows twitching, but before he could say anything else, in they came. Men and women in knife sharp tailored suits, the waitress with our drinks, and then three men who did not look like they fit in here at all, almost the entire room tensing in response. Tall men in jeans and plaid shirts rolled up over strong forearms, they faced down the high rollers with gazes that bordered on belligerent.
“Len and his boys are associates of mine. The twenty-four-year-old Scotch you’re about to drink on the house came from him,” Marcus said, strolling in and flopping down next to Rhys, Orion sitting on our other side. “He’s got the magic touch with the cards, and I figured he could do with some real competition. Knock him down a peg or two.”
For a boy that grew up out in the ’burbs like I did, he had the lord of the manor schtick down pat. At those words, the challenge, the mood settled and everyone sat down.
“So…Len,” one of the high rollers said, “do you know how to play Texas Hold ’Em where you’re from?”
Nice. Sneery arsehole.
“Me and my boys can play any bloody game you want,” Len shot back with a growl, looking up when the waitress arrived and taking the Scotch offered. He downed it in one swig, the glass slamming on the circular table, and Rhys’ hand stroked through my hair in response. “Deal the fucking cards.”