Page 80 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
I heard their chains shift as they moved away, giving me the space I’d requested even as my treacherous body cried out for their return.
For the next hour, I paced my quarters restlessly. My brain kept making lists while my body staged its own rebellion. Pro: staying away protects my heart. Con: my skin feels unbearably painful. Pro: emotional distance means eventual survival. Con: I might not survive the next ten minutes if this fever gets any worse.
My body temperature had risen to concerning levels, my skin so sensitive that even the softest t-shirt felt painful. My omega biology was staging a protest against my better judgment. “Give us alphas or give us death!” my cells seemed to be chanting.
“This is ridiculous,” I said, pressing my forehead against the cool wall. “I’m literally having withdrawal symptoms from alpha exposure. Someone should write a medical journal article about this. ‘The Pathetic Omega and the Three Bears: A Case Study in Terrible Decision-Making.’”
The absurdity of my situation wasn’t lost on me. I’d spent days trying to maintain emotional distance while physically intimate with them. Now I was maintaining physical distance while emotionally yearning for them. The irony would have been amusing if it wasn’t so painful.
Peters’ words about my father echoed in my mind persistently. The bruises on Dad’s arms, the implied threat that his care would worsen if I didn’t cooperate. De Luca was running out of patience, and my father would pay the price for my resistance.
I pressed my palm against the connecting door, feeling the solid barrier between me and the alphas. It wasn’t just wood; it was the last defense against the emotional tsunami waiting to drown me on the other side.
“Congratulations, Ty,” I whispered to myself. “You’ve reached a new level of pathetic. You’re literally petting a door because there are alphas on the other side of it. What’s next? Writing their names in your diary with little hearts?”
But as I stood there, I knew it wasn’t just my father’s safety driving me anymore. Something fundamental had shifted inside me, something I couldn’t explain away with sarcasm or defensive humor.
I was going back to them not just because I had to, but because I wanted to. Because the thought of another minute without them felt unbearable.
“This is going to end badly,” I told my reflection in the small mirror on the wall. My face looked feverish, eyes too bright, cheeks flushed. “Just so we’re clear on that point. This is emotional skydiving without a parachute.”
My reflection offered no counterarguments. Traitor.
With fingers that trembled nervously, I turned the handle and pulled.
The sight before me hit me with emotional force, knocking the air from my lungs and the snark from my brain. All three alphas were positioned at the furthest extent of their chains, the metal links pulled so taut they vibrated with tension. They looked like they’d been there the entire time, straining against their restraints to get as close to me as physically possible.
Mr. Iceflare stood in the center, his ice-blue eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my knees weak. The chain at his wrist looked ready to snap from the pressure. To his right, Mr. Enigma knelt with vulnerability, his usually playful expression replaced by something so naked and yearning that my heart constricted in my chest. On the left, Mr. Storm stood with the stillness of a predator about to pounce, his stormy eyes tracking every twitch and micro-expression on my face with intense focus.
They weren’t just waiting. They were hungering. For me. The realization was both terrifying and intoxicating.
“You came back,” Mr. Enigma breathed, relief coloring his voice.
“Not like I had much choice,” I replied, aiming for casual and missing completely. “De Luca’s threatening my father again. Plus, my skin feels unbearable, so really I’m just saving it the trouble.”
“That’s not why you’re here,” Mr. Iceflare said, his gaze never leaving mine, seeing through my bullshit with precision. “Not the only reason.”
He was right, damn him. De Luca’s threat had been the final push, but I’d been teetering on the edge of return long before Peters’ visit. My body, my heart, my very soul had been crying out for these alphas with an intensity that frightened me more than their threats ever could.
“Does it matter why?” I asked, my voice smaller than I’d intended, like my snark had abandoned me completely. “I’mhere. Isn’t that enough? Can we skip the emotional excavation and go straight to the part where everyone pretends this is just physical?”
“No,” Mr. Storm said, the single syllable carrying immense weight.
Mr. Iceflare reached his hand out to me, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand. The gesture was clear: he wanted me to come to them on my own terms, to cross the invisible line their chains couldn’t breach.
I stood frozen in the doorway, poised on the threshold between safety and surrender. One step forward would put me within their reach. It was a symbolic boundary as much as a physical one, and we all knew it. This wasn’t just about proximity; it was about choice.
“This is the last time,” I said, the words torn from somewhere deep inside me that apparently hadn’t gotten the memo about maintaining emotional distance. “After tonight, whatever this is between us… it ends.”
Something flashed in Mr. Iceflare’s eyes—determination, challenge, a refusal to accept my terms that should have terrified me but instead sent a thrill down my spine. But he nodded anyway, the liar.
I took a deep breath, gathering what remained of my courage. Then I stepped forward, crossing the invisible line that had kept me safe. I was now within their reach—had put myself there voluntarily, knowing exactly what it meant.
Mr. Iceflare moved first, his hand coming up to cup my face with a gentleness that belonged in a different story altogether, not in this nightmare of captivity and coercion. “Brave little mouse,” he murmured, thumb stroking my cheekbone in that way that melted my insides. “So brave to come back to us.”
“Or stupid,” I countered, though I couldn’t stop myself from leaning into his touch with eager response. “The jury’s still outon that one. My money’s on ‘catastrophically self-destructive with a side of masochism.’”
Mr. Enigma laughed, the sound warm with genuine amusement and something deeper that made my chest ache. “Our smart-mouthed little mouse,” he said fondly, moving closer, his chain clinking softly with each step. “Always with the perfect comeback.”
