Any doctor worth their salt would be giddy at the idea of getting their hands on a mixed-breed like Fen. Since the Leviathan also knew about his connection to Michelle and that he was the Wolf, he’d probably okay Fenrir’s transfer into Fiora’s “care”.
Oberon was his alpha, but that didn’t change the fact Fenrir didn’t know him very well. What if his loyalties were forever to the White Frost first and his omega second? What if this was all a trap to get Fen back on another medical table so they could—
Teeth broke through the sensitive flesh at the base of his neck, right over a place that had only just healed. The suddenness of it, mixed with the pain, shocked Fenrir out of his imprisoning thoughts. He went to pull away, but a wave of alpha pheromones settled over him like an inviting blanket, causing his muscles to relax and a sigh to slip past his lips.
“There.” Oberon unclenched his jaw, tongue sliding across the new marks. “Better?”
They were sitting in a corner booth at the back of the pub. The alpha must have moved them while Fenrir was cracking. When his eyes dropped to the floor, he saw a set of frozen footprints leading their way, and he gasped when he realized his hand was currently spreading frost down the alpha’s right leg.
Releasing his knee, he leaned away, but Oberon tsked at him and pulled him back, settling his front against Fenrir’s side.
“Let me soothe you a little longer,” the alpha suggested. “I happen to really enjoy this place. Steve spent years saving up the funds to open it. My reputation would take a massive hit if my omega turned it into an ice box and fried the electricity.”
“I…” His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “I didn’t…”
“Relax.” Oberon lifted a hand and began stroking the back of Fenrir’s head. “Your PTSD is understandable. You’ve got nothing to fear. I’m not mad about your reaction. It was my fault anyway. I’m sorry, it was a slip of the tongue. I’m used to going to her with things like this.”
“King.” He didn’t know what he wanted to say. His mind was still playing tricks on him, still conjuring images from a past he really wished could stay buried. “I want you to get medical attention, but…can it not be the Butcher?”
“Sure,” Oberon surprised him by saying. “You don’t have to see her ever if you don’t want to. But I really hope you change your mind one day. I think you’d like her.”
He frowned and turned his head slightly, meeting the alpha’s gaze.
“The Butcher of the White Frost is a member of my family,” Oberon said, speaking gently as though to avoid triggering him again. “The mafia is my family. You,” his hand drifted lower, the pad of his thumb momentarily pressing against the fresh mark on Fen’s neck, “are my family.”
The touch stung, but Fenrir held his breath through it, desperate to hear where the alpha was going with all of this.
“Even if Fiora and Levi wanted to experiment on you, they never would. They’d never touch my mate. No one with a title in the White Frost would, and if someone of lower ranking ever tries, you have full permission to kill them where they stand.”
Fen felt embarrassed. Until his reaction at the cottage, he hadn’t been aware he’d developed such a strong aversion to doctors.
Not that a Butcher could be considered anything as wholesome as a regular doctor. Their job wasn’t to heal. It was to find ways to protect their mafia.
“You asked me why?” Oberon shrugged. “I wish I could tell you something romantic or clever, but the truth is not everything has to have a reason. Reason isn’t important in this. Feelings are.”
“Meaning you felt like you deserved to have something, so you took it,” Fenrir drawled, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. “What if we get through this and you realize I have a shitty personality?”
“I think you’re funny. I like your dry humor.”
“That’s hardly something to build a life on.”
“Beats tying myself to a bore.” Oberon slid a tall glass closer to Fenrir’s side of the table.
“You can’t seriously be saying you claimed me because—”
“I like talking to you?” He tapped the rim of the glass. “Drink, omega. You’re still nervous.”
“Beer isn’t going to help calm me down.” Still, Fenrir reached for it and gulped a third of the brew, hissing after swallowing and the bitter taste lingered on his tongue. “Gross.”
“I’ll buy you something expensive and fruity next time,” Oberon teased.
“Don’t bother. I’m not a big drinker.”
“Where did that question come from anyway? We just spent a week together. Things seemed to be going well.”
“They were. Are,” he corrected.
“Fenrir.” He linked their fingers. “Talk to me.”