Cause Ωf Death (Femme Fatale Freakshow)

Chapter 4

I ’m fucking furious right now. If it didn’t put Kieran at risk of exposure, I’d have already hauled him out of that penthouse prison they call an apartment and set him up in my own, modest condo. His apartment might be luxurious and decorated to Kieran’s taste, but his comings and goings are heavily monitored and curtailed by his mother. The man has every right to do as he wishes, but unless his actions and desires pertain to a very few exceptions, we both dance to the merry tune of “She-who-holds-her-husband’s-balls-in-her-ugly-designer-handbag.” Honestly, money does not equal taste, especially when it comes to Darla Prince. The woman had to fucking buy her degree in fashion design, and nobody in their right mind in the Royal empire lets her even breathe near their design teams. She’s the very antithesis of good taste.

Either her pussy is gold-plated, or she’s buying off the silence of her side-pieces, because she sure as shit isn’t the devoted wife and mother she professes to be. My guess is the latter, as Edgar is oblivious to her numerous “indiscretions.” Instead, he chooses to devote his time to the golf course with its quiet, open spaces… or the tennis court with its quiet, open spaces… or the pool with… well, you get the picture. I have no doubt that Edgar loves his wife, but he also cherishes his peace and quiet.

Viciously cursing at the idiots in charge of the Barrow clinic—who have yet again fucked up Kieran’s medications—I storm out of the private elevator and into the flow of foot traffic on the ground floor of Royal Tower. I’m in a rush, and in no mood to deal with dawdlers. I have to get to the clinic as soon as possible to deal with the epic clusterfuck awaiting me. I have no proof of it, but I wouldn’t put it past Darla to have somehow “influenced” the staff there to “lose” Kieran’s files. If I don’t get this sorted out, and pronto, then my boy is going to be in a whole world of pain come next month.

I growl softly and swear under my breath as the female half of a young couple suddenly stops two steps in front of me, causing me to jostle her as I brush past. My nose—and my dick—twitches as the beguiling scent of smoked vanilla and ozone beneath an artificial layer of honey reaches me, mingling with the rather pleasant smell of fresh linen, hops, and cut grass. Despite the sudden urge to stop and follow the scents to their owners, I forge forward. I can’t risk Kieran’s health to chase a smell, no matter how pretty or tempting it is. His health, his welfare, always come first with me. It’s what his father hired me for in the first place. In fact, having Edgar as my contracted employer instead of the corporation or even Darla is probably what has kept me working all these years. While the man might have disconnected from a lot of his business dealings over the last few years, one thing is for sure.

While Edgar Prince may love his wife, he fucking adores his son.

It’s been a day. By the time I made it to the Barrow clinic, my team back at home base had already sent back-up copies of Kieran’s files to the staff. All that was left for me to do was to read them all the riot act, threaten to report them to the State Medical Board, and to emphasize that it was Edgar Prince, and not Darla Prince, who was in charge of their funding. While Darla might lead Edgar around like a castrated steer most of the time, there are certain lines even she is hesitant to cross. Having evidence of her messing with Kieran’s health, putting him and his life at risk, well… that would either see her go on an extended world cruise only for the ship to sink, or divorce. And if it’s the latter, then she’ll wish she had died instead, because I’ve seen the prenuptial agreement. She would end up owing Edgar for every year they’ve been married, plus alimony. I don’t think she’d be able to afford that, not even if she was allowed to sell all her ugly, expensive shit. Hell, I doubt she’d get much from selling her organs and used implants on the black-market, either.

I head back through the main doors to the Royal Tower complex at a more sedate pace than when I’d exited this morning. The afternoon surge of shoppers has inundated the area, crowding the space, and my stomach growls at me in protest.

Fuck. I forgot to have lunch.

I change directions, feeling the urge to pay a visit to one of the bakeries on the fourth floor. They specialize in sweet treats that resemble jewels or other precious items, with most of their offerings sparkling with edible crystals and glitter. Their cupcake toppers are works of edible art, and I swear that they’re realistic enough to fool a thief in the middle of a heist.

As I make my way to the storefront, the alluring smoked vanilla scent from this morning slaps me in the face once more. Unlike this morning, though, the scent is clearer, less muddied by the artificial honey that hid the more subtle notes of petrichor and ozone. I pause, lifting my head to try and inhale more of the heady fragrance, but there are too many people around me. I can’t triangulate where it’s coming from or identify the woman responsible. I attempt to recall what she looked like, but I never saw her face. Only the back of her, and the hulking brute who had her tucked under his arm.

Him I can picture. A walking mountain with auburn hair pulled back in a man-bun and a matching beard, the guy is either a fellow alpha like me, or a rather impressive sigma. No way is he a delta or gamma, let alone an omega. He could be a normie, but unless he’s wearing some über expensive cologne that mimics natural scents, he’s one of us. He was dressed casually, but not shabbily. No, his chinos and shirt were quality, and probably tailor-made to fit a man of his size. If they were off the rack, then it would likely be from a store dedicated to dressing alphas and sigmas. He had a clean, soothing scent, one that smelled of the outdoors and nature. While it didn’t affect me in the same way the girl’s had, his scent had been dangerous, nonetheless.

I don’t know why the young couple are tweaking my protective instincts so hard, but if I’ve learned one thing in my almost forty years on this planet, it’s to never, ever ignore my instincts. With that thought, I decide that after I purchase my coffee and cupcake, I’ll head up to the security hub on the seventh floor and see if they can’t get me the footage from this morning. Perhaps seeing their faces will ease my tension.

I slam the door of my condo shut behind me, enraged and frustrated after what ended up being an overly long day. It didn’t matter that it was technically my day off, nor did most of the personnel give a flying fuck that their shoddy work practices make it harder for me to protect my charge. No, all they care about is receiving that nice, fat paycheck at the end of each week, and keeping off Darla Prince’s radar.

Well, the joke’s on them. I’m the one who writes up the reports that get sent to Edgar Prince, and that means that if I feel they’re slacking, they won’t be getting their juicy bonus at the end of the quarter. Is it petty of me? Yes. Do I give a fuck? Hell no.

My cock is rock hard and throbbing, and it’s not due to the usual distraction of my charge. No, this is driven by the scent of smoked vanilla laced with petrichor and ozone, and the fact that while I was able to spot the young couple multiple times on the cameras, I was never able to make out the girl’s face. Somehow, some way, her face was always obscured, no matter how close the camera zoomed in or the image was enhanced. The guy, on the other hand? His visage is firmly etched into my brain, every freckle and beard hair. His scent has also lodged itself in my nose, both riling me up because it mingles so beautifully with that of the woman, but also soothing and calming me somehow. This dichotomy of emotions is dangerous to an alpha like me, because the uncertainty can either send me into a feral rage, spiral me into a rut, or worst of all, soothe all my alpha aggression when I actually need it to do my job properly. It’s this last possible outcome that has me thinking the guy is a sigma—perfect for supporting an alpha and their pack, being the prevailing cooler head, but also having enough of an edge to corral their alpha into action if so required.

He’d actually be perfect, if I ever imagined building a pack of my own. Alas, I have neither a pack nor an omega that would necessitate any type of beta, so it’s a moot point.

I growl in disgust at the state of my body, tearing my clothes off in a manner that resembles a toddler tantrum—or it would, if I was a toddler. Which I’m not.

The moment my skin is free of fabric, my tension eases slightly, and I bundle up my clothing and carry it through to my bedroom, dumping it on top of the hamper to deal with after my shower. I need to wash the stink of the masses from my skin and soak away my troubles. I twist the shower on and step under the punishing spray, the cold water blasting a shock through me and jolting me to my senses. By the time the water has warmed sufficiently, I’ve already lathered up my washcloth with the mulled wine body wash I prefer. The heady smells of cinnamon, cardamon, nutmeg, star anise, and cloves cling to my skin and rise into the air along with the steam, and the rest of my tension dissipates. There’s a reason why Christmas is my favorite time of the year despite all the stress and extra workload, and a lot of it is wrapped up in the scents of the season.

I scrub my body clean and then rinse, ignoring my straining cock until I’m satisfied I’ve expunged all of the unfamiliar, unwanted scents from dealing with the public. It’s only then that I take myself in hand, rather literally.

I close my eyes and lean against the shower wall, feeling the flow of water wash over my skin like liquid silk, the skin of my palms and fingers rough and calloused from the physical training I undertake to keep myself in shape. The rougher texture further inflames my already sensitive flesh, and a single stroke from the root, over my swelling knot and to the tip of my shaft sends me perilously close to the edge.

Fuck. Has it really been that long since I’ve felt another’s touch? Surely not…

Ignoring the sudden desire to calculate just how much time has passed since my last sexual encounter, I instead try to focus on my ultimate fantasy. Soft, full lips often pursed in a pout or spouting bratty responses guaranteed to rile me up. Smooth skin as pale as porcelain, and almost as delicate. Thick, sooty lashes sweeping along high cheekbones as they cover the vibrant gold irises hiding underneath, and long, delicate fingers that belong on an artist or pianist. But instead of my fantasy lover, another appears in their place.

Rich copper hair tumbling past narrow shoulders and spilling over a pair of luscious, full breasts. Hips that flare out enticingly into an ass that could make a man cry, each cheek rounded into the shape of a juicy peach. Slender, supple legs that wrap around my waist with a strength that belies their otherwise petite stature. And the heady, mouthwatering scent of smoked vanilla wafting from the apex of their thighs.

My stomach trembles as my knot hardens, my balls drawing up high and lightning zinging and sparking along my spine as my cum shoots out of my cock in violent spurts, painting the tiles before being washed down the drain. I firm my grip over my knot, the pressure and constriction nowhere near as satisfying as an omega’s ass or pussy, but it gets the job done all the same. Groaning softly in a combination of relief and resignation, I mentally berate myself for allowing a pretty fragrance to have my thoughts so scattered, and for losing focus when I never have before. However, there’s not much I can do about it now except clean up after myself, dry myself off, and then get into something a little more comfortable. There are still almost five hours left of the day, and I’d really like to salvage what I can and relax before I head back to the grind tomorrow.