Page 16 of Ruffled Feathers

I contemplated messaging her, but instead, I texted Sonny. If I tried to talk to OJ again today, she’d probably find a way to castrate me.

Me: How’s Juice?

Sonny: Annoyed. Maybe a little guilty. She’s playing barbershop with her white knight.

Me: My contact at the VA says he’s a former Marine. PTSD. He needs to get out in case he snaps and hurts her.

I felt like an asshole, but I would fucking piss off every person between here and D.C. to protect the people I considered mine.

And Otillie-James Baler was definitely mine.

Sonny: He seems all right. I’ll watch him, though. Maybe we should make sure one of us is here whenever he’s around. I have some leave saved up anyway.

Yeah, OJ was probably going to be the one to snap if we were around all the time, but I didn’t care. Her safety came first.

I grinned at the idea of riling her. Fuck, she was something to behold when she was angry. You could almostfeelelectricity crackling off her skin and you didn’t know whether she wanted to kiss you or punch you in the face. She was passionate, and in our world, that was something rare. In high society, they bred women the same way they bred frou-frou dogs—even-tempered and with a good pedigree.

Grabbing my laptop, I took it into the living room and tossed it on the couch, before pouring myself a couple of fingers of whiskey. I loved my apartment, but tonight, it felt empty. I mean, itwaskind of empty; the interior designer had called it minimalist.

Sonny and I had been talking about buying a Packhouse for a while now, but while it was just the two of us, it hardly seemed necessary. We could wait until we found an Omega, and she could choose where we lived when we started our Pack life together. Still, tonight I wished that we’d taken the plunge already.

Slumping down on the couch, I turned the TV onto the news channel and opened my laptop to view the files sent to me by Frankie. I’d put in the formal request, but Frankie had helped me out by getting it to me earlier.

It seemed pretty basic, as far as an investigation went. Kind of run-of-the-mill police work. After three complaints by a member of the public—no awards for guessing which member of the public that was—an investigation had been opened in coordination with the ASPCA. There were notes about conversations with informants, followed by a little lapse in any groundwork before the animal welfare officer contacted the police with information about a possible event being held last night.

The reports from last night’s raids were all pretty succinct. At least twelve people had been picked up, but they’d clammed upalmost immediately. Some had previous charges, ranging from assault to animal cruelty, which wasn’t a surprise. There was also a note about a suspect being arrested in possession of a bird, and I rolled my eyes.

Damn Otillie-James Baler.

There were just lists of names. Eventually, more accounts would come through once I got the official reports, but in the meantime, I stared down at the list of names and mugshots. None of them meant anything to me, but it wouldn’t hurt to do a little research. I sent off a request to the district attorney’s office to get a meeting with Strat Wilmington, then shut my computer.

Strat and I had been in the same year at Berkeley, competitors in every way, despite being in the same frat, the same classes, the same everything, except I was an Alpha and he was an Omega. Not that his designation hindered him in any way. We competed for grades, girls, and extra-curriculars.

No one had been more surprised than I was when he became an assistant DA, but I had no doubts he had something bigger planned. This was just a rung on whatever ladder he wanted to run up, probably to become a judge. Or maybe President. Strat always had some lofty goals, along with the cunning to achieve them.

Fucking dick.

Exhaustion raced through my body, and I laid my head back on the overstuffed cushions of the couch. It had been my only demand of the interior designer. I didn’t want to sit on some skinny, hard couch at the end of a long day. I wanted something soft that molded to my body.

I snorted. What Ireallyneeded was to get laid. Opening a designation-only dating app on my phone, I spent thirty minutes flicking through profiles. They all looked the same—a reflection of what society thought men wanted. They were mostly Betas,but there were a few Omegas on there, even a couple of ballsy Unshowns.

But no one was right.

Who was I kidding? They weren’t right, because they weren’t my best friend’s stepsister. I was so fucking screwed.

So for the millionth time since she’d landed in my arms as a teen, I found myself opening my pants and pulling out my cock. Spitting on my hand, I stroked myself to the thought of Otillie-James Baler.

Her plush mouth. Her curvy little body. Her lush tits.

I imagined her on her knees in front of the couch, licking her lips as she eyed my cock in my hand. I’d tell her to suck me, and her eyes would flash with defiance, warring between wanting to taste me and telling me to fuck off. And then, when she was good and ready, she’d take my cock in her mouth and swirl that pretty tongue around my head. She’d suck me down until I hit the back of her throat.

Gripping my dick harder, I pulled it almost violently. Spreading around the precum, I imagined pulling her onto my lap, pushing myself inside her, my face right between her tits.

Fuck. Fuck...

I stroked harder and faster, my imagination getting more and more depraved as I imagined all the ways I wanted to fuck her. Imagined placing my teeth on the curve of her shoulder and biting down, claiming her as mine.

My release shot up my spine, and too soon, I was blowing my load all over my abs. I let my head flop back onto the couch again, sighing as the pleasure gave way to the guilt chaser that inevitably followed.

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