Michelle had clearly trusted the wrong person, someone who thought money could buy talent. Even O knew better. All the fanciest tech and newest weapon models in the world wouldn’t make a difference if whoever was holding them didn’t know how to use them.
The Wardrobe wasn’t a mafia or even a gang, though. They had bodyguards and thugs to help protect their establishments and the product, but the majority of the group were glorified pimps. Michelle had been the one to put them on the map when she’d taken over. Creating the team responsible for the earlier stages and eventual success of Rebirth. Unlike theother trash in the organization, she’d had vision—a disgusting, immoral vision, sure, but vision nonetheless.
Of course, with power came attention. She wasn’t the only sicko on the planet, and other companies who’d been developing the same type of drug had taken notice. The Wardrobe had been forced to bulk up security.
But this…
They would have been better off outsourcing a black ops team to do this sort of work for them.
Realizing that he hadn’t received a response from his omega, during a lull in bodies, Oberon checked on Fenrir.
The omega was standing between the two marked trees, but it didn’t appear as though he was eager to leave.
Oberon growled, sending a wave of pheromones toward the impossible man in the hopes of sparking urgency. “Damn it, Fenrir! Pretend you trust me for one second and just do as you’re told before you get us both killed by losers!”
Dying was one thing.
But dying at the hand of one of these halfwits?
Unacceptable.
Fenrir clearly didn’t want to listen, but movement from the house seemed to finally knock some sense into him.
O didn’t wait to watch him go, firing only when necessary at the Wardrobe members who were moving with more caution now that the backyard was littered with bodies. He needed to draw them in and take them all out at once. Picking them off one by one wasn’t working.
How many damn people had Michelle sent? All of this for the Wolf?
Perhaps she’d sent morons on purpose to put his life in the least amount of danger. Which would mean she cared far more for him than Fenrir had let on earlier.
The thought of her thinking she had any sort of claim on what belonged to him set Oberon off, and he finally made it to the tree line, darting between the trunks like he’d instructed Fenrir to do. As soon as his back was turned, the soldiers after them grew emboldened, their footsteps pounding on the ground as they gave proper chase.
It was tempting to confront them now and show them what he was really made of, but O wasn’t alone. So he ground his teeth and bore with the possessiveness threatening to consume him, until he spotted the omega standing up ahead.
Fenrir had paused at the next marker, just like he’d been told. He watched as Oberon dropped and slid across the ground, saving time and energy, then frowned when O immediately reached for a hidden latch at the base of the tree. “What are you doing?”
The panel opened, exposing a yellow button, and Oberon motioned to it. “Count to one hundred and twenty, then press it.”
“What? Hold on!” Fenrir grabbed his arm when he stood and made to leave. “Where are you going?”
“To take as many of those fuckers out as I can before you activate the lasers.” Obviously.
The omega blinked at him. “The what now?”
Oberon shook his hold off and tsked. “Focus, precious. And start counting.”
“No way.” He stopped him again.
“Someone needs to keep them distracted so they can’t reach this spot before the button is pushed.”
“Then push it now.”
“Not enough of them have entered the forest.”
“Then,” Fenrir glanced back the way they’d come, “I’ll go.”
“No.”
“I can manipulate ice. I’m arguably more powerful than you, King.”