Faith & the Dead End Devils (Sweet Omegaverse, #8)(43)

The old clerk's office was musty and smelled like a mix of alpha pheromones. There was a couch pressed to the wall beneath the two-way mirror, and I withheld my whine as I realized that most of the scents came from that spot. People had been fucking on it, probably for many years. It stank of old scents and made my roiling stomach even worse.

I squinted through the mirror, kneeling gingerly on the cushions. Chance's broad shoulders stood squarely in front of the main doors, his arms hanging at his side. I focused on my view rather than the scents, rubbing a thumb absently over my shoulder and wiping away the frost of scent-canceling spray Chance had used on me.

Suddenly, a shadow passed in front of the door and Chance leapt into action, banging the door open. The other man was taller and thinner than Chance, lanky and missing the corded muscle of my beta. He was equally tattooed but stood in shadow, too far for me to make out clearly.

Their voices were dull and muffled, but with Chance standing in the open doorway, I caught most of the words.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?" Chance asked.

The other biker laughed. He wore a leather vest like the ones I'd seen on Bear and Chance, but his was painted with white bones like a ribcage. "Just came round to grab your prez."

"You know full well he's meeting yours at Hank's."

Chance filled the open space, solid and straight, but the other man wove back and forth so much, I almost felt seasick at the sight of him. Another figure, in the same kind of painted leather cut, appeared from the opposite direction, strolling lazily closer, the two of them crowding around Chance. The new figure was big. Not quite as much as Bear, but much larger than Chance, and he seemed even more unsteady on his feet than the first.

"Hank's, huh? Funny. Must've been some wires crossed," the first Wasted said.

The second Wasted’s voice was lower and hard to catch, words drifting in and out. "… smell fuckin' sweet…"

"Rook's right, you do smell awfully sweet," the first creep said, leaning forward enough for me to see the broad and uneven grin on his face, teeth stained and marred and chipped.

Chance replied, quiet and flat, and the pair roared with laughter, the larger one—Rook—stumbling back and nearly falling on his back as he tripped off the sidewalk.

The Wasted was a perfect name for these assholes, and bile crawled up my throat at the thought of either of them touching me, grabbing me out of Chance's reach.

"Now that we've cleared that up, why don't you fucking losers get off Devil's territory before I help myself to the right of kicking your worthless asses?" Chance snarled, clearer now.

"Never met a fucking beta who smelled so sweet," the skinny man said, still grinning. "You got a sweet little beta pussy in there with you? Wanna share?"

"No, friend, I just make sure your mom coats herself in knock-off omega perfume before I fuck her six ways to Sunday," Chance answered. His voice lowered again, face leaning into the other man's, words snarled too softly to catch.

Rook broke out into even rowdier laughter, bent completely over and howling into the gravel, but the skinny one sneered back at Chance.

"Fuck off," Chance said, straightening. "I won't say it again."

Rook straightened, snorting, and reached out an arm, swatting at the other guy. "Hear that, Skinny? Your boyfriend won't give you another warning."

Skinny grinned, and all three men seemed to grow still. I held my breath, clutching at the back of the filthy couch, wanting to yank Chance back to me, and also…craving something much darker. I wanted to see those men ripped apart. I secretly wished I was powerful enough to do it myself, to tear them down for threatening what was mine.

Skinny's voice was quiet as he spoke, and I understood his words more by watching that foul mouth than hearing him clearly. "Just can't help myself. Gotta chase that scent."

He stepped forward, an arm reaching past Chance's shoulder to grab the edge of the doorway. Suddenly, the animal rage in me gave to panicked terror. I'd forgotten to find the trapdoor, and if the man pushed past Chance, he could reach me before I'd made my way under the floor.

Except before I could finish that thought, Skinny was on the ground. I gasped, but there was no way any of them could hear me over their sudden shouting. Rook reached for Chance, but my beta's elbow was back, knocking roughly into his nose before he could do more than grab those beautifully broad shoulders. I watched, mouth open as Chance dragged Skinny away from the door, tossing him into the broken parking lot, and then spun, swinging a determined fist into Rook's face.

He swung again. And again. My fingernails dug into the back of the couch, the ragged leather scuffing under my grip as I watched Chance beat at the larger man, the sight doubled in my messy vision. Two fists for every strike, one crack of impact. It didn't matter. One or two, Chance was fierce and feral and terrifying. He kicked Rook in the gut and then spun again, going after Skinny before he had a moment to get up.

Rook rolled to his belly, and I wanted to scream a warning to Chance as the larger Wasted man rose to his knees, but my beta moved like a whip crack. Chance snapped around, the toe of his boot flicking up into the underside of his enemy's chin. Rook let out a bellow, and I squinted through the blur of movement as Chance reached for his own foot.

Skinny was up, Rook was on his ass, and suddenly the whole scene went still. Sunlight reflected in duet off the sharp edges of two knives, extended from Chance's hands in either direction. Blood dripped from his knuckles, and I didn't know if it was Chance's or the other mens', but it made me feel wild and urgent, fighting against my own tense muscles to keep from running out of hiding to grab at my beta.