His Trouble Maker

Chapter 139

JESSICA

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“I’m fucking sure…we’re in some dungeon,” Riot spits, or maybe swallows–it’s hard to tell with how wet his throat sounds, how it catches around every word like he’s choking on the ghost of his own packmates, on blood he hasn’t tasted yet but is already dreaming of.

I crawl closer, jaw aching from grinding boiled tendon between my teeth, the last scrap of cooked meat I’d hoarded from the tray Theo’s thing shoved under the bars.

I don’t bother chewing anymore, I just press the half–soft lump between his lips with two fingers and say, “Eat,” like a command but quieter, guiltier, because I know I’m feeding him to keep him alive.

His lips tear the meat, but they graze my knuckles first, and it’s not reverent—it’s desperate, wolf–starved.

We’ve been kept locked in here for many days now.

“Don’t you fucking waste that,” I mutter, and his eyes slit open, as if he’s still not over himself from being the one in command.

“You got a plan, omega?” he croaks, sarcastic, the O like a leash tightening around my throat.

“Yeah.” I lie.

“Liar.”

“Still better than dying in a cell like an unfucked bitch.”

“Who says I haven’t been?” he grins, blood between his teeth.

I grin back. It feels wrong talking to him with these things when weeks later I would’ve slashed his throat with my own claws.

We sit like that for a second–me kneeling, him crumpled, the meat gone, the air thick with mold and skin, and even the torches flicker like they’re too tired to burn properly. His chains drag when he shifts. I catch the sound and store it, memorize it.

“He watches us,” I say, Riot doesn’t respond. Just chews the meat again in his cheek, long since cold. “He wants me obedient. Wants me small.”

“You are.”

“I could be smaller.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

The tray’s still there. Scraps of gristle. I look at my reflection

9:35 Thu, Sep 4

Chapter 139

bitch staring back. Hollow eyes.

him what he wants,” I whisper, so quiet

brow twitching

show. Omega and her

chokes–not a cough, a laugh, or

“He’ll never buy that.”

“He already has.”

the meat–grease and my own spit down my

doing and stares at me. “What

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then. To him. Over to where the rot is strongest, where the stone reeks of old piss and blood and

hot. Boiling. Wrong.

“What?” he croaks.

scenting something worth the kill. Let my thumb drag down his sternum, through sweat and blood and the sick–sweet shine of healing too slow to matter. I find the ruined

to break

I feel his cock twitch against the inside of his thigh, feel the rot–coiled tension in his gut. I slide my knee between his legs and lean in, chest to

I grind against him—once, hard, slow–my breath stuttering with real need. “You want him to smell your knot on me when he comes to

“Jessica-”

Deep. Filthy, I kiss him like it’s a vow. Like it’s betrayal.

before I feel the cell cracking open and then hands, fists, steel–wrapped grip around my hair, my throat, my spine. I’m yanked backward so

broken to stand, his chain screaming against stone as

filthy little tongue off

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Chapter 139

Theo.

Got you.