Page 122 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
His answering smile was pure predator—all teeth and no mercy. “The kind that’s going to end with you screaming our names for real instead of into pillows.”
Before I could form a suitably cutting response, Mr. Iceflare’s mouth crashed down on mine. Not the hesitant, careful kisses from our captive days, but something possessive and demanding that screamed “mine.” His lips were firm and insistent, his tongue invading my mouth without waiting for an invitation.
I pushed against his chest, but it was like trying to move a brick wall with a feather duster. He simply tightened his grip on my chin, angling my head exactly how he wanted it, his other arm locked around my waist like a steel band.
The worst part wasn’t his overwhelming strength or his take-no-prisoners approach—it was my body’s immediate, traitorous response. After months of trying to forget how these alphas made me feel, my omega biology was sending out welcome banners and rolling out the red carpet.
My nipples hardened to painful points; heat pooled between my thighs, and a whimper escaped my throat that I’d definitely deny making later. Three months of carefully constructedindependence, and my body was surrendering faster than my dignity at an open bar.
Mr. Iceflare broke the kiss, leaving me gasping for air. His eyes had darkened to midnight blue, his pupils expanded with hunger. “Your body remembers,” he said, his voice dropping to that register that always made my insides turn to jelly. “It knows who you belong to, even if you’ve been pretending otherwise.”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I gasped, though the breathless quality of my voice wasn’t exactly selling my independence. I might as well have been wearing a sign that said LYING in neon letters.
“Your body disagrees,” he replied, his hand sliding between my legs to cup me through my pants. The heat of his palm burned through the fabric, making me bite my lip to keep from moaning. “Already eager for us. Already aching for what only we can give you.”
The directness should have offended me. Instead, my body responded with embarrassing enthusiasm. Three months of denial, of pretending I didn’t wake up reaching for them, of telling myself I was better off alone, and all it took was one kiss to reduce me to a hormonal mess.
The limo turned onto a busier street, and I caught glimpses of normal people living normal lives. The contrast between their mundane Monday and my “being kidnapped by three alpha mafia lords who just shot up a compound” made everything feel surreal, like I’d slipped into some alternate dimension where this was somehow my life.
“His scent is incredible,” Mr. Enigma said, leaning forward to sniff at my neck like I was some fancy bottle of alpha wine. “Sweeter than before. Like jasmine and honey with something new underneath.”
“Pregnancy enhances omega scent,” Mr. Iceflare agreed, abandoning his exploration between my legs to startunbuttoning my shirt with the precision of a bomb technician. “His body preparing to nurture our child.”
His knuckles brushed against my skin as he worked, each touch sending jolts through my system. Apparently, pregnancy had cranked my sensitivity dial to maximum, which was just fantastic news for my already failing attempt to maintain dignity.
“Our child,” I repeated, trying for scathing but landing somewhere closer to breathless. “You don’t even know which one of you is the father. What are you planning, a DNA test party where the winner gets extra diaper duty?”
Mr. Storm just shook his head once, his expression about as revealing as a brick wall. “Trinity shares.”
“How progressive of you,” I said, trying to swat Mr. Iceflare’s hands away from my buttons with the effectiveness of a kitten fighting off a tiger. “What’s next, a commune? Matching tattoos? A group wedding where you all promise to be equally terrifying forever?”
Mr. Storm moved faster than should be legal for someone his size, capturing my wrists and holding them firmly in my lap. His fingers wrapped completely around my wrists with room to spare—like wearing handcuffs made of warm flesh and bad intentions.
“Let go,” I demanded, tugging against his grip with zero effect. I might as well have been trying to move a mountain with harsh language. “You can’t just?—”
“Can’t what?” Mr. Iceflare interrupted, popping another button on my shirt like it had personally offended him. “Can’t claim what’s ours? Can’t take back what was stolen? Can’t remind your body what it’s been craving for months?”
His fingers brushed against my bare chest, and it was like being touched with a live wire connected directly to my crotch. The pregnancy had apparently rewired my nervous system,turning every alpha touch into a direct line to my most embarrassing responses.
“Don’t,” I whispered, not even sure what I was asking him not to do. Don’t touch me? Don’t make me feel this? Don’t prove how pathetically easy I am?
“Don’t what, little mouse?” Mr. Enigma prompted, his voice practically dripping sex. “Don’t touch you? Don’t make you admit how much you’ve missed us? Don’t remind you of what your body knows even if your mind denies it?”
His words sent another wave of heat straight to my groin. Three months of running, of hiding, of denying what I needed, and here I was, melting faster than ice cream in July.
“I hate you,” I said, the words about as convincing as a toddler claiming they didn’t eat the cookies while covered in chocolate.
“No,” Mr. Iceflare contradicted, finishing with my buttons and pushing my shirt open like he was unwrapping a Christmas present he already knew was exactly what he wanted. “You hate how much you want us. How much your body craves what only we can give you.”
His hands explored my chest, calloused fingers retracing paths they’d mapped thoroughly during our captivity. When he reached my nipples, already painfully sensitive thanks to pregnancy hormones, he brushed his thumbs over them, drawing a gasp from me that I couldn’t suppress.
“Look at that,” Mr. Enigma said, sounding like a kid who just found the prize in a cereal box. “Already so responsive. So perfect for us.”
“I’m not perfect for anyone,” I managed, my voice cracking embarrassingly. “Especially not for kidnappers who use my father as leverage. That’s some real Prince Charming behavior right there.”
Mr. Enigma just grinned and leaned in, capturing my mouth in a kiss that was pure memory-lane seduction. Unlike Mr. Iceflare’s dominant approach, Mr. Enigma kissed like he had all the time in the world to coax responses from me—and knew exactly how to get them. His tongue played with mine in that teasing way that always made my toes curl involuntarily.
When he pulled back, I was breathing like I’d just run a marathon, my lips tingling from his attention. “Even better than I remembered,” he murmured, his green eyes now dark enough to get lost in.
