CHA 5

He can have whoever he wants, and there are enough pretty Omegas to go around.

And then some obnoxious drunk client grabbed her arm and she flinched at the contact.

It was vile, the way his gaze loomed over her, his Alpha scent too overpowering and rank.

She's glad the evening's over.

She has always loved the fog so much.

The way it envelops her, a chill, heavy blanket of air, keeping her safe from the world.

No one can find her when she hides in the thick cloud of white air.

When she was a child, she would go hide in the backyard for as long as she could, attempting to shut out the voice of her father, Crayons Arthur.

She vanishes into the cold.

It comforts her.

But, damn it, she left it too far away this time.

She used Alex Henry's car for the shift, as her roommate informed her she would be working late and could ride home.

It takes her ten minutes to find the car after taking a stroll along the streets, getting lost in the fog.

Her boots crunch on gravel as the black car appears finally, against a chain-link fence in front of one of the industrial buildings.

"Hey!"

She swings around to see the Alpha from earlier come into view, his body invading her space. He stumbles a little, and she can smell the booze mixed with his musk.

Fear nibbles at her insides, but she grasps herself quickly, offering him a gentle smile.

"Hey, yourself."

She steps back towards the car slowly, her finger pressing the key fob with a BEEP.

"You come walking out here alone? You need a ride?"

Obviously not, she thinks, as she goes to pull on the handle.

"No thanks, I'm fine," she tries. "But I'll see you around, okay?"

She grips the key tighter as his hand comes over hers. She tries her best not to gag as he looms over her, his breath tickling at her neck.

“You’re really pretty.”

Don’t panic, don’t panic!

“Thank you,” she chirps, pressing her back against the driver’s door. She looks up at him and his red, bloodshot eyes, and her breath shakes. “I have to leave—”

He's on her in an instant, tugging at her peacoat, exposing the flesh beneath. His weight pinning hers, his chest stealing the air from her lungs, and she struggles to breathe as his lips dance perilously close to her mating gland.

No.

He holds her legs apart with his knee, still pounding hard against her, and she yelps as his erection presses against her belly.

Fog is her haven. She will not let this happen.

How dare this man, this vile Alpha, intrude upon her privacy and steal the feeling of safety from her?

"Get away from me!" She spits, pushing with hands, ready to scream, but his dry lips try to kiss her, sloppy and rough.

She bites down hard until there's warm coppery fluid in her mouth. He jerks away, startled.

"Augh! What the fuck is your—"

The punch only jolts him, but it kills her hand. She can swear she hears the crack of her knuckles breaking, and she hisses as she flails out into the door handle, opening it—

She crashes against the side of the car with a thud, and giant, sweaty hands grasp at her shoulders—

Then nothing.

No more weight against her.

Nothing but air in her ear, her vision misted over by tears.

As if he disappeared.

She turns around, struggling with her breathing, and catches the sound of skin hitting pavement.

Her heart is thudding in her ears, a wild pounding, as the crunch rings through the air.

She needs to leave this place, because there's something else out here, something a lot more malevolent than the tipsy man who assaulted her.

But she's paralyzed, tantalized by a scent that casts her into a trance and freezes her feet to the ground.

She senses him before she sees him.

Dean Wason.

He's furious.

He yanks her by the shoulders, and she lurches as he shakes her.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He growls. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Hair mussed, eyes wild, he looks haunted.

Even through the thick wool of her fur, his touch is a sear against her chilled skin. "What did you do to him?" She breathes.

His eyes narrow and he steps in closer, his scent enveloping her. Instead of answering, his hand extends, his cold thumb stroking the rim of her lip.

She's not breathing.

“You’ve got blood in your mouth,” he murmurs, wiping his thumb gently over her mouth. Entranced, her mouth falls open, and she lets him run his finger over the inside of her lip.

Alarm bells shriek in her mind.

But as quickly as he touched her, his hand falls away, as if burnt. His jaw tics, and his expression turns menacing.

“Did he hurt you?”

She shakes her head in astonishment, the fiery scent of his anger filling her nostrils. His presence provokes her, even when enraged.

"No."

But when she answers, she holds out her hand, and his eyes see the movement.

Gently, he takes her hand, and she lets him.

He brushes against her knuckles, his fingers soft.

Her cunt weeps with anticipation, and she bites back a groan.

She has to get out of here.

Because even if he did save her from attack, her attacker is not the only danger out here.

He doesn't let go of her hand.

"What did you do to him?" She whispers again, trembling fingers in his grasp. She tries to free herself from his grasp, but she is wasting her breath.

Miraculously, his eyes still fixed on hers, he brings her hurt fingers to his lips, his soft mouth kissing her knuckles.

"Know what I did." He whispers.

She does.

A small part of her had hoped he would lie to her, at least. That Dean Wason hadn't taken someone's life so easily and silently.

"And how many times…have you done that?" She gasps out.

Lie to me, she begs with her eyes.

But he does nothing of the kind.

"Enough that it's as easy as breathing."

He releases her hand, and it hangs down to her side, limp.

The sting is bartered for a dull throb, as though his touch soothes her.

She can still sense the taste of copper on the tip of her tongue, and she hates it.

She'd like to know what his mouth would feel like, instead.

How his tongue would clash with hers.

Her cunt is dangerously damp now, slick sliding down her fishnets.

This Alpha is killiness made flesh, and she's dripping for him.

A question lingers in her mind, one she wants answered before she leaves, though silly it is to ask.

"Why are you here, Dean Wason?"

She likes to say his name; she knows that.

Her inner Omega nods in agreement.

"I told you." He says bluntly. "Business."

He doesn't take a step back from her, but she no longer cares. They both stand in the fog, and his proximity warms her.

Despite the fact that she could just as easily burn in front of him.

"You never said what kind of business," she gasps.

The corner of his lip curls.

"Because it's personal."

There's that glance. The glance that says I know something you don't.

If she tries to get into the car, she'll have to turn around and show him her back.

And that is not something she doesn't want to do.

So instead, she asks the question that has been festering in her mind.

"Do you work for my father, Crayons Arthur?"

There. She did it at last.

And if only he were to answer no, her hysteria would be over.

Even if you do, she repeats in her mind. Lie to me. Please.

He regards her with too long an eye, and his silence is crushingly heavy.

This is it.

He's going to drag her back over the country and claim the monetary reward.

He didn't murder in order to protect her—he did it merely so that Crayons Arthur would fulfill his offer.

Her freedom, her new life—it means nothing.

His scent changes as he inclines his head, balancing what she has said. It's less pungent now, there's a foundation note of something sweeter.

"Who is your father?"

The words are a bit of a relief, but she’s still not convinced.

And she’s done playing these games.

“If you’re going to do something, do it now,” she snaps. “Because this is the last time you’ll be this close to me.”

That stills him, and the smirk falls from his face.

"Seriously," he drawls, leaning over her and pressing his hand against the side of the car window, enfolding her. "After I just saved your virtue."

His lips are danger-close to hers, and her head spins. The wind howls in her ear, as if enraged at her too.

“I’m not afraid of men like you,” she insists, her traitorous voice losing its filter. “I’ve grown up with your type my whole life.”

What a stupid, ridiculous thing to say. She regrets the words immediately.

Dean Wason smiles, his brilliant white teeth appearing more like fangs. “Really. And what is my type?”

But she’s already put her foot in her mouth.

She may as well burn her bridges.

Hired guns, she gasps. "????Men who kill with impunity. Nothing in their eyes. No fucking soul."

Her voice crumbles on the last word and humiliating tears threaten to fall.

She hasn't cried since months. Since.

No.

She's not going there. Not in front of Dean Wason. Not in front of anyone.

He searches her eyes, his scent growing hot with anger. Then his hand shoots to her throat.

Her spine slams into the side of the vehicle with a boom, and she grabs at him, her broken nails scrabbling into his flesh, her bruised knuckles howling in agony.

He's going to kill her on the side of the road here.

Too bad. She had only a couple of months left before she could cross the border into Canada.

At least she'll die in the dark, surrounded by the fog.

Hidden.

You. Know. Nothing. About. Me."

He growls, as black spots obscure her vision.

She leaves her eyes closed, refusing to meet his eyes. Instead, she inhales him, imagining another life where it didn't cut short for her nineteenth birthday.

But something degrading, something absolutely crazy happens.

The dizziness is direct in addressing her cunt, and a floating sensation rushes through her whole body.

She moans.

He's choking her, and she's becoming aroused by it.

The sound is stifled, barely a whimper, but a glide of slippery slides down her thighs, filling the air with sweetness.

Her nails stop gripping his hand, and her back bows instead.

"Wha—oh, fuck," he growls, thrusting his body into hers until his length is pressed against her belly.

The air clings to desire, his scent stronger.

"Harder," she cries out, her internal Omega taking charge. In the back of her mind, she's asphyxiating in mortification, the red lights flashing in her head shrieking at ear-splitting decibels.

What is wrong with me?!

"What the hell are you doing—" He is able to gasp out, grinding against her stomach. "Fuck. You enjoy getting choked, Sama Arthur? Holy fuck."

She rubs her hips against him, the front of her skirt against his pants, and the unthinkable happens.

She comes.

Her other hand is around his shoulder, pulling him closer to her, as her hips twist. Her cunt twists, her pussy contracting on air, till she sees stars.

He releases her as she gasps, requiring air, her voice a strangled cry.

Pleasure surges above her, so keenly and intensely that she leans against him, whimpering and shivering in his hold.

He snarls into her ear as he keeps his arms wrapped about her, supporting her, holding her fast to the car. Her heart drums and her head aches as the spasm dies away and she realizes what she has done.

"Next time I won't be so close to you," he snarls into her ear. "I'll have you whenever I please."

And then he's gone, the warmth of his body lost as he melts away into the night, the mist sweeping over him.

She stands by the car a long time before she doubles over and cries.