Bound By Blood & Desire

(Mani’s POV)

Being an Omega is bad luck. Being a male Omega is worse.

I am a male Omega, which means life has never exactly been generous with me.

I stared at myself in the mirror— or, more accurately, glared.

The person staring back looked like a stranger I was supposed to convince everyone else was me. Glitter clung stubbornly to my cheekbones. My lipstick was a little crooked. The dress was too short, the padded bra too tight, and my feet were already protesting inside the heels.

Playing the part wasn't difficult. I'd been playing parts for as long as I could remember.

“Hey, girl.”

I looked over my shoulder.

My coworker leaned against the doorway, smiling at me. She didn't know, none of them did. To everyone here, I was another female Omega working the floor.

They didn't know there was a boy underneath the makeup, the dress, the padded curves and the cheap scent suppressants sprayed over my skin until they burned.

Better to be a “girl” than a boy in a place where male Omegas fetched higher prices, and worse treatment.

She looked me over. “Cheer up, babe. The manager wants you. Big VIP tonight. He says you'll make fat stacks.”

“Wonderful.”

She grinned. “Only catch? Might have to say goodbye to that precious little V-card.”

She winked and disappeared.

I sighed.

My V-card had somehow survived poverty, debt, questionable jobs and men who thought an Omega's body came with a free trial.

Apparently tonight wanted to change that.

I knocked on the manager's door.

“Evening, sir.” I softened my voice automatically.

The manager looked up and smiled. “Mani, darling. VIP suite tonight. I want you to entertain him. Make him happy. Don't screw this up, yeah? He's loaded.”

My stomach tightened. “Okay, sir.”

There wasn't really a choice.

So I went.

The hallway to the VIP suites was quieter than the main floor. Music thumped faintly through the walls, the bass vibrating beneath my heels. My scent suppressants prickled against my skin with every step.

I stopped outside the door, took a breath, and knocked once.

I got no answer, so I pushed it open…

…And stopped.

The first thing I noticed was the smell; metallic and sharp.

Blood.

It hung in the air beneath the expensive cologne and stale liquor, thick enough to taste.

The man who was supposed to be my client was slumped across the sofa. His head had fallen at an unnatural angle. His white shirt was soaked dark around the collar, and blood had spilled over the cushions and dripped onto the polished floor.

His throat had been cut. Not an accident, not something anyone could misunderstand.

Someone had murdered him.

I couldn't breathe.

Across the room stood a woman dressed like one of the dancers. She wasn't looking at me, she was standing away from the dead man, calmly searching through his open briefcase.

A bloody knife rested loosely in her hand.

My fingers tightened around the doorframe.

‘Don't move. Don't make a sound.’ I said in my mind.

She pulled out a metallic box from the briefcase.

She slipped it under her arm, closed the briefcase and looked toward the door.

I ducked behind the curtains.

My heart hammered so violently I was certain she'd hear it.

The woman's heels clicked across the floor, then stopped…

I held my breath.

A second later came the soft scrape of the window opening.

I peeked through the curtain.

She was gone.

The window swayed gently behind her.

I stayed where I was.

Five seconds. Ten.

Then, I heard footsteps. Heavy ones. Several pairs.

Voices approached from the hallway.

My stomach dropped. If they found me here, what would they see? A dancer, a dead man, a room covered in blood, a perfect suspect.

“Oh, hell no.”

I ran.

The hallway blurred around me. I heard someone shout behind me, followed by hurried footsteps.

I didn't look back.

I hit the elevator button repeatedly until the doors opened, threw myself inside and slammed the button for the third floor.

The elevator seemed to take a lifetime.

When the doors opened, I sprinted.

First door. Locked.

Second. Locked.

Third—

Unlocked.

I slipped inside and slammed it shut, then realized… I wasn't alone.

A man sat inside the room as if people bursting into his private space was an everyday occurrence.

He barely looked surprised.

Before I could speak, he caught my wrist, pulled me toward him and settled me onto his lap.

I nearly screamed.

“What—?”

He didn't say anything.

Instead, he picked up a tattoo pen and began tracing a design against my thigh.

I stared at him.

Was this man insane?

A knock suddenly sounded at the door.

My whole body went rigid.

The man didn't even blink. He just calmly pulled a jacket over my shoulders, hiding most of me from view.

The door opened.

I couldn't see who stood outside.

The man beside me simply said, “Tattoo artist. Just me and my client.”

His voice was smooth, and unbothered.

The door closed.

Silence returned.

He looked down at me.

I swallowed. “Why'd you help me?”

He continued working on my thigh. “Baby girl, maybe thank you comes first before you grill me.”

“Thank you.”

I didn't mean it. Or maybe I did.

At this point, I wasn't sure of anything.

He kept working. The needle buzzed against my skin, sharp enough to keep me aware of every second I spent sitting on a stranger's lap.

Then he asked, “You know those guys?”

“No.”

“So why'd you run?”

I hesitated.

Men don't help people for free. I'd learned that lesson young. Still, something about his calmness made me answer.

I told him about the dead VIP client, the female assassin, the thing she'd taken…

He listened without interrupting.

When I finished, he wiped the tattoo clean.

“The man who got killed was a big shot in the Mafia,” he said. “Those men were probably his consiglieres.”

Mafia.

Wow. My unfortunacy has a thing for pushing me dangerously close to death.

He changed the subject after that. Favorite color, street food, random nonsense…

I answered despite myself.

Maybe because talking was easier than thinking about the blood downstairs.

Finally, the buzzing stopped.

“Done.”

I looked down.

A name had been inked across my thigh.

Carl.

I stared at it. “That's your name?”

He smiled. “That's me.”

“You tattooed your name on my thigh?”

“Your thighs looked like art.” He shrugged. “They needed my signature.”

I should've been offended. Instead, I laughed under my breath.

He was annoyingly attractive. Sharp jaw, messy hair, dark eyes, shirt hanging open like he'd deliberately forgotten how buttons worked.

I caught myself staring.

Focus, Mani.

I stood up. “Thanks again.”

I handed him his jacket.

His fingers closed around my wrist, pulling me back.

“You can't just leave.”

I stared at him. “I have to.”

“I helped you.” His voice changed, lower as he leaned closer. “I want something in return.”

There it was. I knew it.

“What do you want? I don't have money.”

“I didn't ask for money.” His fingers brushed over the fresh ink on my thigh.

“I want you.”

The attraction I'd felt moments ago vanished beneath something colder.

I'd known better. Men didn't offer help, they offer bargains, and there's always a price.

I tried to pull away. “I thought you were different.”

He smiled. “I never said I was.”

A sudden noise sounded outside. Footsteps and voices echoed past the hallway.

They were still here.

My pulse jumped.

I looked at the door, then back at Carl.

I could leave.

I could gamble on getting past the men outside.

Or—

Carl's arm tightened around my waist.

I made my choice.

I grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward me.

“Take me.”

His expression flickered with surprise. Only for a second, before his lips curved into a smirk.

“Good choice, baby girl.”

I swallowed hard. “I'm not a girl.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I'm a boy.”

For some reason, I wanted that to make him stop.

Instead, his smile widened. “Even better.”

I closed my eyes.

A lap dance could have been enough. But I knew better than to expect fairness from men like him.

This was supposed to mean something.

My first time.

I'd wanted it to be with someone who cared about me. Someone who loved me.

Maybe that was another thing I wasn't meant to have.

So I let my eyes fall shut. I told myself not to think, not to flinch, not to give him a reason to get angry.