“Definitely chiding me.”
Oberon momentarily considered fiddling with his chopsticks, but realized his injury was too low on the side, and he would never get away with pretending he couldn’t operate his hand. It didn’t make sense anyway, just like it hadn’t made any sense back in the forest. He’d been fine, had dug the bullet out and was merely taking a breather. The plan had been to go locate Fenrir, but then he’d heard the omega approaching and…
For reasons still unknown to him, he’d instinctively acted the part of the wounded animal. The pathetic, helpless, wounded animal.
It’d worked though. Like a charm, in fact. He’d gotten to see his omega worry and dote on him, and in turn, had quelled some of those anxieties within him. Fenrir wouldn’t have gone so far out of his way if at least a part of him wasn’t into Oberon too.
He wouldn’t get ahead of himself and ask for the other guy to like him, not yet anyway, but knowing he cared enough not to want him dead?
That was something.
But now they were sitting here, alone, and even though Oberon was the only thing there that should warrant Fenrir’s attention, suddenly the omega was acting like that bowl of noodles in his hands was the greatest thing on the planet.
Hell. Oberon could buy a million noodles.
A million noodle shops even.
“Look at me,” he hadn’t meant for it to come out so childish sounding, and inwardly cursed himself when it did, but it did the trick.
Fenrir sighed and then glanced up at him with his orange eyes, impatience clear. “What is it now?”
“I’m not sure.” The omega wanted equality? Wanted honesty? Oberon could do that, even if it made them both uncomfortable. “I just don’t like not being your center of attention.”
He scrunched his nose and straightened some. “Did you really just say something that cheesy?”
“It’s romantic.”
“It’s lame. I made a much better alpha.”
“Being an alpha isn’t a personality trait,” O pointed out. “Fine.” For all his talk about honesty, Fenrir clearly wasn’t ready. “An ice breaker, then. Let’s play a game…I know. K.B.F?”
“What?”
“Kill, Butcher, Frame.”
Fenrir set his chopsticks in his bowl and repeated, “What?”
“It’s a game. I learned it from a rival mafia member. Well, I overheard him playing with his sister and I liked it, so I stole it. It’s simple. Who would you murder, who would you make suffer,and who would you frame for both? You had to have played games like this to pass the time when you were younger.”
“When I was a grunt, we were usually too tired by the time we returned to the warehouse. Then later, when I was locked up, the pain was distracting for all of us.”
Oberon’s fury was swift, but he banked it down, careful not to let any of it show on his face. He didn’t want to freak the omega out, and it wasn’t like his anger could be useful here. “Later, I’ll ensure you get proper revenge for all that was done to you, precious, but for now, we’re just going to have to settle for pretend.”
He considered it and then nodded. “All right. How is it played again?”
“You just think of three people you hate. It can be anyone.”
“Trick, Michelle, and Jose.”
“I’m not familiar with that last one,” Oberon admitted.
“He’s their driver. Sometimes assistant. Depends on the day and their moods.”
“Weird. Why does he stick around?” The Wardrobe had many regular job opportunities and that sounded like one of them. If he hadn’t been brought into Michelle’s inner circle yet, Oberon doubted this Jose person ever would be.
“Because he’s in love with Trick.”
That sounded like more of a reason for him to quit.