They were lined up before me like spoiled produce — the kind you don't dare to touch for fear the rot might cling.
Men.
Worse: omegas.
Shivering, wide-eyed, stomachs clenched with either terror or shame. Maybe both. Their trembling hands reeked of sweat and pheromones that made the air smell like regret.
I didn't wrinkle my nose.
I didn't need to. That would mean acknowledging they had an effect on me.
They didn't. They never did.
The room was silent, heavy with expectation.
There were six of them.
Six wastes of biology — all innocent, uninvolved in what should have been my moment of triumph.
They should blame Emiliano Sanchez for what was about to happen.
He had torn a hole in my carefully stitched plans, and the blood was now pooling at my feet.
Where did he even get the files? The omega? When did he plan the story?
I had him locked up.
He only had freedom for four hours.
So how? How did the brat manage to ruin everything?
I reached for my wine.
