OmegaMine (5 page)

“By the time that pillow was passed around there wasn’t much
scent left.” Trey fisted his cold mug of beer and took a hearty swig, listening
intently to the announcement of “Ava’s” twenty-seventh birthday, followed by
the terms of the auction to win a lap dance from the birthday girl herself.

The ramifications of such a thing computed—two plus two
equals motherfucking disaster.

D would rip out any male’s throat just for looking at that
female. If she were sitting on some poor human’s lap when Diskant arrived,
writhing and gyrating…

It’ll be a goddamn bloodbath
.

After wiping the back of his hand across his lips, Trey
muttered, “Guess I’ll have to win that dance.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Nathan’s hazel-green eyes
came up slowly, meeting Trey’s stare before he averted his gaze.

“No, not really.” He slapped the mug on the counter. “But I
can handle D. He’ll kill anyone else.”

“I don’t know—” Nathan was cut short when the bidding began.

“Five dollars!” a loud drunk hollered.

“Ten!” another shouted.

Trey removed his leather coat and handed it to Nathan. Thank
god it was a casual night and he hadn’t had to bother with holsters, guns or
daggers. He combed a hand through his unruly hair and reached for the mug.
Three hefty swallows saw the contents gone. He exhaled softly, put the empty
glass down and turned to his Beta.

“Gather up the crew and have them waiting by the doors. When
D gets here you’ll have a few seconds before he picks up her scent. I suggest
you use that time to explain why his female is sitting in my lap.”

He didn’t wait to hear what Nathan wanted to say. He was
about to dance with fire and gasoline while carrying a handful of fucking
explosives. But at this point did he have any other choice?

Shouldering past the bodies in his path, he stopped just
outside the stage with a soft yellow spotlight shining down. A plain metal
chair was placed in the center, the shiny surface waiting for the lucky ass
that would take a seat. The female was obviously uncomfortable with the
situation. She was fidgeting and staring at the announcer like a terrified
rabbit.

Not one to be obvious, he waited his turn, calling out,
“Fifty dollars,” after some dumb schmuck yelled out forty-five. Ava’s dark blue
gaze came up, and when she placed him as the bidder her eyes narrowed as her
plush red lips thinned. He knew the look, had received it here and there upon
occasion, and received the message loud and clear.

Don’t even think about it
.

Damn, he had this one all wrong. She wasn’t meek, docile or
frightened. She was annoyed, insulted and pissed.

Knowing it was the wrong thing to do, Trey smiled at her
livid expression. That only made her angrier. Her pretty alabaster cheeks
flushed pink and her midnight blue eyes flashed in warning. When another man
jumped into the ring he took perverse pleasure in upping the ante, if only to
watch her seethe.

Oh, D
, he thought, laughing to himself.
You
are
fucked
.

Chapter Four

Diskant didn’t bother parking his bike in one of the
allotted positions along the road and drove around the back of Club Liminality
instead. Clouds of steam were dancing against the darkened brick walls when he
arrived at his destination, oozing from a crooked metal exhaust connected to
the kitchen.

The smells of peanut oil, chicken wings, jalapeños, barbeque
sauce and mozzarella sticks hung heavy in the winter air. His stomach gnarled
and grumbled in agony, a miserable reminder that he’d forgotten to eat
something substantial prior to meeting with the Alpha of the jaguar pride—a
close personal friend—in Queens just an hour before.

Making the immediate decision to order out while he was in
the vicinity, he parked the bike next to the kitchen entrance. Removing the
key, he climbed off the leather seat, shifted his legs and soothed the cramped
muscles while he cracked his neck. Voices merged with the deafening clamor of
clanging pots and pans on the other side of the metal door. Yet another busy
night at one of the more popular shifter clubs in New York.

Fucking Trey.

Anything could be going on inside. Diskant could be walking
into a pissing contest, a lover’s quarrel or a territorial dispute. Sometimes
he enjoyed his sex short and sweet, but never cryptic phone conversations.
Besides, walking in blind was never a good thing when it involved a public
place, his best friend and a bar owned by a damn warlocke.

Brett McGovern had already warned that he wouldn’t tolerate
any more bullshit from the shifters in the area. The damage from the last brawl
had forced him to close shop for over a week for repairs, and he was still
taking shit from the police after they’d received bizarre complaints from
people about men and women who sprouted fur and fangs. Thankfully the NYPD
believed that drugs were a contributing factor for the delusional sightings.
Still, it required more face time with the unwitting world around them than
either Diskant or Brett was comfortable with.

Just get in, take care of business and get the fuck out.
No fuss, no muss
.

As he neared the grimy metal door, his thoughts drifted once
again to a heavenly blonde imp with flushed cheeks, parted lips and cloudy,
passion-filled eyes. She smelled so fucking good, female and musky, frightened
yet aroused…

While his leather pants restrained the burgeoning erection
that arose at the memory, they didn’t do shit to calm the beasts inside that
were running out of patience. Twice now he’d nearly gone ape-bitch, unhinged by
the need to locate and claim who he recognized instinctually as his.

Desperate for satiation, he’d tried fucking a very willing
leopardess to take the edge off. The effort was foiled when the wolf, grizzly
and jaguar threatened to rip out her throat in the process. His fucktastic
reputation took a nosedive as a consequence, and now the only relief he
experienced came courtesy of his shower, some decent wrist action and Rosy Palm
and her five sisters.

No woman—shifter or no—would risk her life for a rip-roaring
good lay.

There was only one female who could sate the need to mate,
and if he didn’t find her soon he would bloody well kill someone. He was a
ticking time bomb, dangerous to everyone around him, including those who turned
to him for protection and guidance.

Adjusting his cock and sac, Diskant shook his head and took
a deep breath, attempting to cool the fire raging in his blood. The last few
weeks had been hell. The wet dreams started the first night following his introduction
to his mate—images of Pinkie on her knees, taking his cock between her lips
while he pumped into the back of her throat until he came like a geyser—and
damn if waking each morning covered in sticky spunk with a newly formed hard-on
wasn’t beginning to piss him off. He was in a constant state of arousal, and
even worse, he was unable to do jack-fuck about it.

He frowned at the grease smears along the knob of the door
and announced his presence by kicking on the repulsive entrance instead of knocking.
Individual fingerprints were spread all over the place, and a few of them
looked like they were enhanced by a sprinkling of brown flakes.

Christ.
Is that breading
?

“What the hell do you want?” someone bellowed through the
thick metal barrier.

“Chavez!” he snarled and waited, annoyed by the growling of
his stomach brought on by the heady aroma of food.

“Hold on!” Diskant heard the head chef order before he
thundered, “Damn it, Torino! Get the fuck out of my way before I put you on
dish duty!”

The door opened outward and Diskant used the heel of his
boot to heft it wide before he stepped inside. The succulence of the
artery-clogging oil was laced with the mouthwatering scent of Chavez’s freshly
made fare, or more specifically, the metallic scent of a freshly cut steak. The
VIP section served only the choicest
hors d’oeuvres
and dishes
consisting of meats, seafood and pasta.

“What the hell are you doing here? I didn’t get the receipt
for an order.”

Chavez was scowling but Diskant was sure the honor wasn’t entirely
because of him and his presence in the club. The aging chef was getting wily
and didn’t tolerate any bullshit. The only reason he allowed Diskant so much
leeway was the obscene amount of cash he plunked down when forced to order out
for pack meetings. Not to mention Chavez’s very human daughter was bloodbonded
to a wereleopard in Brooklyn, meaning Short-and-Pudgy was in the know.

“I’m meeting someone,” Diskant answered evasively. “Do you
think you can fire me up a steak or two to take home? I’m not staying long.”

A nod was the only answer he received but Diskant took the
response at face value. Chavez didn’t like to be bothered when he was on the
clock but he always delivered.

Weaving through the would-be line cooks in his path, Diskant
made his way through the kitchen and into the hallway where the restrooms were
located. The scents of freshly prepared foods were too strong to allow a good
sniff of the club just around the corner, but he knew the moment he cleared the
small walkway his nose would guide the way.

Oddly enough, his ears were able to distinguish the catcalls
from beyond. The music wasn’t the usual techno punk garbage most of the patrons
preferred.

It sounded almost like…

Well, tickle his hairy ass silly. The DJ was playing the
fucking blues. The song was familiar, slow and soulful, the voice radiating
pain and longing along with the distinctive whine of an electric guitar.

Trey’s Beta, Nathan, appeared in front of Diskant before
he’d cleared the corner, the werewolf’s hazel irises glowing peridot. Nathan
lifted a hand and intentionally placed his body in front of Diskant, a very
dip-fuck thing to do.

“Wait, D.”

“Careful, pup,” he snarled, meeting Nathan’s flashing eyes
with his own. It was impossible not to. The Alpha in him wouldn’t back down
from another male—couldn’t—and everyone knew how short his fuse was lately.

Nathan lowered his gaze in a display of respect and
submission but didn’t move. “I need to tell you something before you go into
the club. It’s about Trey—”

Diskant’s ears stopped functioning at that point.

It was all about the fucking
nose
.

The scent he caught was one he’d dreamed about, luscious and
sweet, honey and musk, cinnamon and sugar. This time she was sweating, and the
heady scent caused his entire body to erupt into tremors. He could almost taste
those tiny beads of perspiration on his tongue—salty, wet and oh so fucking
female.

He was dimly aware of shoving Nathan roughly aside and
forcing random bystanders out of the way. His heart was beating a tattoo in his
chest, the tempo steady but increasing. The room shifted as his vision changed
and morphed. All sides of him wanted to make sure they weren’t being deceived.
He allowed them to rise to the surface, contained only by the barrier of his
skin. A steady purr radiated from his chest, followed immediately by a throaty
growl.

The large spotlight above the stage shone down on her hair,
highlighting the random strands of bright pink. She was straddling a chair,
swaying those luscious hips from side to side. She ground and rotated, left
then right, front then back. Her ass was a thing of beauty, round and ripe,
full and soft. The thought of pumping into the tight heat sent a spasm down his
spine. The animal in him wanted to separate those lush cheeks, find the tiny
rosette within and dominate her in the most primal way imaginable.

Bowing her head, she arched her shoulders as if she were
offering her breasts to a lover, and his attention shifted. He groaned,
picturing those pert pink nipples that teased him beneath black lace. He
wouldn’t neglect them a second time and couldn’t wait to nip at the small
pearls with his teeth before soothing the sting with his tongue.

The men surrounding the stage expressed their approval,
growling and hammering for more. He didn’t mind, in fact, he got off on it.
Shifters were very sexual creatures, and had no problem with nudity, voyeurism
or any other kind of kink. The crowd had every right to admire his mate, and he
wanted them to look their fill. Because with or without an audience she belonged
to one male, and he would be the only one who would ever touch her, taste her
or fuck her into oblivion.

When the music ended with one last soulful guitar note, she
lifted her left leg and swung away from the chair. Diskant’s eyes settled on
the body that had been hidden until now and he nearly roared in fury. Trey was
in the seat, hands clasped to the back legs. His eyes were clouded by desire
and his cock was obviously eager to reciprocate the attention as it was tenting
the front of his fucking leathers in an approving salute.

As if he got jive to Diskant’s presence, Trey turned those
passion-laced eyes and looked directly at him. The room was suddenly covered in
a dark red haze as the fury of a mated male rose within. Never had he
experienced such a murderous rage. He didn’t want to hurt, disarm and disable.
He
needed
to attack, demolish and destroy.

“Son of a bitch!” Diskant leapt onto the stage and tackled
both Trey and the chair in a single swoop. The thin, insubstantial metal folded
beneath the combined weight of their bodies and went scattering to the left
before falling off the stage with an ear-splitting crack. “I’ll rip out your
goddamn spine!”

“D, listen—” Trey’s explanation was interrupted when
Diskant’s knuckles met his teeth. Trey’s lower lip split and the rusty
bitterness of blood suffused the air.

Livid, Diskant punched Trey again and wrapped his free hand
around his throat. If Trey had been a human and not a shifter, the pressure of
Diskant’s fingers would have snapped his best friend’s neck. Instead it cut off
Trey’s oxygen supply.