23. Brotherhood Night

Brotherhood Night

Titus

Sinclair's still locked in her room. I can hear the shower running. Ecker's snoring woke me up through the wall, and Bishop is nowhere to be seen. He got back from the infirmary yesterday and disappeared.

It's starting to worry me. He just went to hell and back, but I don't put anything past the Echelon or our sugar plum of an omega.

I'm sitting on the leather couch in our common room, hoping he's going to walk through the door any second with a perfectly reasonable reason for going MIA after almost dying. I know I sound like a worried mother hen, but fuck it. These guys are the reason I get up in the morning, and it's my job to keep them safe.

I've already failed once. I won't fail again.

My heightened awareness clocks the sound of the door unlocking. I spring to my feet, turning to the sound. Sinclair's door opens and she walks through it in—fuck—nothing but a large tee, drying her wet hair with a towel.

"Have you seen Bishop?" I ask gruffly, my throat dry at seeing my fingerprints still bruised into her thighs in beautiful varying shades of purple and blue. I'm taken back to the day of the ceremony as my gaze slowly rolls up her body. The flare of her hips is still visible under the boxy shirt, her nipples tight and hard against the fabric.

Only this time, I know to expect the knotted scar—

"What the fuck is that?" I snarl, incensed at the sight of a fresh bite mark right above her scar.

I lunge for her, grabbing her arm. Instantly, fire consumes me.

I howl in agony, releasing her and crumpling pitifully to my knees. I gulp down air in shock and surprise as the pain begins to dissipate. It felt like being skinned alive.

Curled over, I look up at her. The first thing I notice is her victorious smirk, so pleased with my pain. The second is the way the gold in her eyes is fractured and floating like flakes of foil in a vial of water. They're glassy, not glowing.

She's lust drunk.

"No," I huff. "No fucking way . . ." I jump up, my muscles screaming in protest, my body still recovering. I don't believe it. I have to see for myself.

I rush into her room, and for the second time in as many minutes, it feels like my knees are going to give out.

There, in her bed, passed the fuck out, face down in a pillow and covered by nothing but the sheet draped over his lower back, is Bishop.

I whip my head toward Sinclair, leaning against the doorjamb. "What did you do to him?"

"You really wanna know?" She snickers and traces her teeth with her tongue. Goddamn it.

"I don't believe it. Wake up, asshole." I grunt and smack Bishop's foot dangling off the edge of the mattress. He stirs with a sleepy groan.

Maybe she drugged him. Maybe that's not actually a claiming bite . . . Did Ecker leave it after the victor's prize?

She saunters over to where I stand at the foot of her bed. "Don't believe it? Maybe you should watch next time. See what it's like when an omega actually wants to fuck you—since that's never happened." Her voice is somehow different, huskier, more of a drawl and—I clench my jaw—sexy as hell.

I look down at her, so smug and cocky. So much for learning her place. That lasted all of two days. I was even starting to feel a little sorry for her.

She played us like she always does.

Her neck stretches as she tilts her chin up to meet my glare with a bratty sparkle in her eyes. "You were plenty fucking eager," I growl and reach for her throat—

"Uh-uh." She tsks right before my fingers wrap around her neck.

I drop my hand with a scoff and curse under my breath, "Goddamn brat."

"What did you call her?" Bishop's suddenly on his feet, glowering and butt-ass naked.

"Dude, what the fuck were you thinking? Claiming her?" I yell, unfazed by his dick, which begins hardening with a single glance at our—his—omega.

"No, what were you thinking? I saw what you did to her." I've seen Bishop experience every possible emotion, in every possible mood. But I've never heard this kind of protectiveness in his voice.

I throw my hands in the air. "She tried to kill us—"

"She didn't know—"

"Fine, so she only tried to ruin everything we've fought for fucking generations. I can't believe we're even having this conversation!" My chest rumbles as the frustration builds, pressure building in my head. I want to strangle someone. Unfortunately for me, I can't strangle the target of my desire without crippling, searing agony.

Bishop and I both turn our heads at the sound of her whimper.

She's zeroed in on Bishop. Even though she's still standing a few feet away from me, it's like I'm not even in the room. She bites her lip and squeezes her legs together. Inhaling, I can smell her slick pooling between her thighs. I bet she's not wearing anything under that . . .

"Alpha," she whines, and my stomach twists from knowing it's not me she's pleading for. Her cheeks bloom pink and her eyes are hooded and lusty.

It feels like I've touched a live wire, watching her, scenting her, hearing her and knowing I can't do a damn thing. I push down the rut wanting to flood my system and turn back to Bishop.

Before I can say anything more, he growls. "My omega needs to be fucked and knotted. Stay or get out, but it won't stop me from giving her what she needs."

Sinclair's breath hitches at his words and her heat perfumes the room, making my jaw tighten and my head split.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

"Where's Ecker? Maybe he can talk some goddamn sense into you," I mumble more to myself as I storm out.

The headboard starts banging before I'm halfway across the common room.

"This certainly wasn't on my Trials bingo card, but I guess it was bound to happen at some point." Ecker sips his old-fashioned, looking out at Bishop and Sinclair dancing together—more like dry humping. I roll my eyes.

"It's just another one of her games," I grumble and pick up my drink, becoming even more annoyed when I realize it's empty. I scan the glitzy parlor room for a waiter. It's our first brotherhood night. A chance for Trial packs and established Echelon members to mingle.1

I'm not the kind of person who mingles. Tonight was already going to be like getting lobotomized and kicked in the balls simultaneously, but now I have to watch a lust drunk Sinclair in a slinky dress all but fuck my brother on the dance floor.

Dousing myself in gasoline and lighting a match sounds more enjoyable than staying here for the rest of the night.

"If Bishop of all people can forgive her—"

I slam my fist on the table. "He didn't forgive her. He was played."

"I mean, we did fuck her up pretty bad, Ti." He chuckles, but there's a hint of something in his voice. Something I hate to admit that I recognize.

It's the same something that made me flip when Bishop asked about her in the infirmary.

Guilt.

And it hurts like a fucking bitch.

"She deserved—you know what, never mind," I scoff. "Where the fuck did all those damn waiters go?" I look around the crowded room, searching for one of the servers I saw earlier dressed in over-the-top tailcoat tuxedos.

I survey the room, but the decor is going to give me fucking vertigo. The crimson carpet is swirled with gold designs that blend right into the matching wallpaper like some posh padded room.

All around the room is ornate parlor furniture, chaises with mohair upholstery and intricately carved wooden frames. Drunk Elders lounge around with high-class omega house girls fawning over them. The only other omegas belong to the Trial packs. Which makes me wonder if what Ecker said is true. Was bonding bound to happen?

So far, I haven't gotten any glimpse into what becomes of pack omegas after the Trials. Based on the lecherous old men in this room drooling over young, pretty whores, I doubt it's a happily-ever-after ending.

The thought sits sour on the back of my tongue. After all this, are we expected to just give her up?

You don't want to keep her, idiot, I remind myself.

So why does the thought of losing her sting so fucking much?

The bitterness only grows as I watch her dance with Bishop. She moves like water and silk. His hands glide over her, and my palms burn as I imagine his hands are mine. She sways her hips, and he pulls her back tight to his front. They grind together and he trails his nose and mouth over his bite on her neck.

My cock leaks in my suit pants, thickening as my eyes catch on the way the candles in the room illuminate the gold in her eyes when she twirls. My poor dick doesn't know any better.

My lungs clinch when she suddenly turns our way. I feel like I've been caught watching porn. But then I realize it isn't me her hooded and sultry eyes are staring at. Irrational indignation replaces the deer-in-the-headlights feeling as I track her gaze to Ecker.

He slides down in his seat, dragging his thumb across his lip, and drums on the table between us with his other hand. He exhales a husky chuckle, keeping his eyes on hers, but utters under his breath to me, "Is it just me, or is she looking at me like she wants to jump my goddamn bones?"

"It's just you," I grumble.

"Our boy must be giving it to her real good if she's looking at me like she's ready to let bygones be bygones." His usual teasing tone is half serious and his voice drops a pitch, rut beginning to call to him.

She worries her lip between her teeth like she's fighting a coy smile, then starts gliding toward us. Her dark maroon dress's neckline drops in a V but doesn't reveal much of her carving. My chest pangs as I wonder how it's healing, but I know I don't deserve to know.

Suddenly staring at her hurts too much. So, I look anywhere else. Spotting a server, I flag them down with a huff. "Fucking finally."

"How can I be of service, Alpha, sir?" the server asks, one hand tucked behind his back and the other holding a sterling silver tray.

"Double vodka," I order gruffly right as Sinclair reaches us.

"Careful there, Tight-ass, or you might actually start having fun." She rolls her head to the side, her hair falling off her neck and showing off her bonding bite.

Her cheeks are flush from dancing. The same shade of pink her pussy was after a few of my slaps.

I swallow a groan and sneer. "Seems like you're having enough fun for all of us."

She glances over her shoulder at Bishop, who's standing like her bodyguard a few feet behind her. Then she flashes me a devious smirk. "More than you will ever know."

She turns to Ecker and he's already halfway out of his seat when she grabs his tie and pulls him toward the dance floor.

"Just remember," I hear her say, "no touching."

He looks like a dog being offered a fat, juicy bone. "Yes, ma'am."

And that's when the real torture begins.

Everything devolves into debauchery as the night progresses.2 Some old geezer in a wolf mask is railing an omega over the back of a couch, his wrinkly ass flapping with every thrust. Across the room, a topless dancer with tassels on her nipples twirls fire batons.

None of it matters because Sinclair keeps throwing me these glances every time she switches between dancing with Ecker and Bishop. The first couple of times it happens, I think I'm imagining it. But by the fourth or fifth time, I know I'm not.

She spins again, draping her arms over Bishop's shoulders while he pulls her closer, wedging his thigh between her legs. His hands splay wide on her ass, and my stomach groans like it's physically starving. Behind her, Ecker tucks up against her but never quite touches her. Somehow, watching him not touch her is worse than watching her with Bishop.

The tension is so palpable that I can feel it pulse in those spare inches between them from where I'm sitting. Involuntarily, I imagine how my skin would be humming if I were Ecker. How every nerve in my body would be aching to close that gap while also savoring it, dragging it out, building and building until the delayed gratification finally hits.

Sweat drips down my back, and no matter how many shots of chilled vodka I throw back, I can't beat this burning sensation under my skin. My jaw is beginning to cramp from how tightly I've been clenching it, and I can feel every seam in my clothes like razor blades.

I've never been so uncomfortable yet so unwilling to do anything about it. She looks at me with those drunken, golden eyes and I become cemented to my seat.

I know the want I see in her isn't for me. I know that. And I know she's aware of exactly what she's doing. I know, I know, I know . . .

And still, I can't tear myself away. I stay for that blissful half second when our eyes meet and my heart beats before my mind catches up and I believe it's me she wants.

She whispers something in Bishop's ear that makes him stiffen. She pulls on his hands like she's trying to come across sweet and pleading. Whatever it is, he must agree because she jumps up and grasps his face, kissing him earnestly on the cheek. She spins to give Ecker a coquettish smile and the three of them head for the exit.

Without a single glance my way.

Slicing pain bites my palm.

"Fuck," I curse, realizing I crushed a shot glass in my fist. I shake my hand out over the floor and ball a cocktail napkin in my hand.

"I guess the Ceruleans will be winning the Intelligence Trial." A man in an elephant mask flops down in Ecker's old seat.

"Excuse me?" I ask, trying not to keep my tone neutral until I figure out who he is and what he wants.

"You know, with your whore and all—"

"She's not a whore," I grind out with a poorly restrained growl, physically struggling not to launch out of this chair and strangle the man.

"Right, right, of course, she's your omega now." He holds his hands up in concession, and I just now realize how drunk he sounds. "Listen, I meant no offense—it's a compliment really."

I bite my tongue and wait to see what he says next, offended but interest piqued. When he doesn't continue, just sways mildly in the chair, I ask, "How do you figure?"

"Pillow talk, son," he chortles, which turns into a coughing fit. His face grows red as he hacks. I look at him in disgust, still no clearer on the meaning of his offensive "compliment."

"Okay, Uncle Ferdinand." Paisley, the Beryll omega, comes bustling over. She clutches his hand and hands him a glass of water.

He messily gulps it down. "Thank you, my dear," he rasps and clears his throat.

"Of course. Now, up you go." She waves her mate over. "Griffin is going to help you back to the guest suites, alright?"

"Yep, yep, very good, my dear." He gives her a fatherly pat on the cheek before Griffin escorts him out.

"Sorry." She groans once they're out of earshot. "I hope he wasn't regaling you with obscene stories of when he was a young buck." She mimics his raspy, older voice.

"Nothing too salacious," I assure her. Though I'm slightly irritated she sent him to bed.

I couldn't care less about his glory days. What I want to know is what the Intelligence Trials contain and why he thinks we will be winning them . . .

1. Play "SOLD" by Lana Lubany through ornamental break

2. Continue playing "SOLD" by Lana Lubany