Aline Hunter - Omega Mine

Diskant answered on the second ring. “You’d better make it good.”

“Club Liminality. Get here. Now.” He closed the cell and ended the call before D could ask questions. The man was already operating on a hair trigger, and telling Diskant he’d found his female would only rile his beasts and make him cranky as shit. Not that Trey blamed his pack mate. Twice he’d gotten his hopes up only to have them crushed. At least now the poor bastard wouldn’t suffer disappointment.

The hair on Trey’s nape rose and he turned his head to gaze into the crowd. It was there again, that sensation of being watched. Over the last few weeks the weighty feeling of someone’s eyes on him had been a constant. He inhaled deeply, attempting to scent the air, but came up with mostly cigarette smoke, tobacco and various other repugnant smells, including body odor, perfume and cheap alcohol. He waited, anticipating the fleeting sensation that sometimes followed, of a ghostly hand combing through his hair…

“Is that her?” his second, Nathan, asked and swatted absently at one of the females when she tried to caress his face. At Trey’s confirming nod, he said, “I thought I recognized the scent but I couldn’t be sure.”

“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 .

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.