Page 57 of Desperate Omega

“You don’t know the way,” Brik says with a cocky smirk. “Besides, somebody needs to stay here and keep an eye on the fire.”

Markus’s face darkens with rage, and for a moment I think there’s going to be another fight, but instead he brushes past us and goes to a crate by the wall. Brik and I both watch him, curious to see what he is going to do.

After a bit of rummaging, Markus comes up with a wooden stave that has one end wrapped in cloth—a torch.

“Hey, what are you doing with that?” Brik asks in a tone of mild annoyance.

Markus doesn’t answer. He goes to the fire and plunges the torch into the flames. The cloth wrapped around the end must have been soaked in something flammable, because it catches immediately, and it burns evenly and brightly.

“What are you doing?” Brik asks again.

Again, he receives no answer.

With the burning torch clutched tightly in his fist, Markus uses his foot to shove away the stones ringing the fire. Then he kicks dirt over the fire, smothering the flames.

“Hey!” Brik shouts. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“Now nobody needs to keep an eye on the campfire,” Markus says calmly as he strides past us, torch in hand. “Let’s go. We’re both going to bathe the omega.”

CHAPTER 24: SYRA

I am learning an important lesson about bathing with alphas—the more alphas you add to the bath, the less efficient the entire process becomes.

The idea that I could take care of my own personal hygiene is never even entertained as a possibility.

I am once more standing in the warm, shallow water of the underground spring. The difference is that this time I can actually see what is going on around me. The torch that Markus brought from the main chamber has been fitted into a natural notch in the stone wall, and the flames are filling the space with a soft, golden light that dances across the ripples in the water and sets the steam rising off the surface aglow. I can see where the water is coming through a gap in the stone, high up on one of the walls, falling in shimmering sheets that break up into showers of raindrops. And when I look the other way, I can see how the water flows off in a series of terraced pools stepping down into an inky blackness the torchlight does not reach, the water pouring back into the depths of the earth from which it came.

This has to be one of the most amazing and beautiful places in all the Zone. I would love to have the chance to fully appreciate its beauty.

If I weren’t so distracted by other matters.

Two huge, naked alphas are on either side of me, laving my body with water and scrubbing my skin with cleansing suds. Following some initial bickering, and a rather slippery tug of war, the chunk of tallow soap which Brik used on me earlier has since been broken into two smaller pieces, one for each alpha.

I just hope I do not share the same fate as the soap.

At the moment, the two alphas are having a disagreement over the proper technique for washing an omega’s breasts. This comes on the heels of similar arguments regarding the correct way to wash my back, my buttocks, underneath my arms, and pretty much every other part of me.

“You’re doing it all wrong!” Brik growls. “Look, you need to work the soap in more deeply, like this…”

He works up a nice handful of lather with his piece of soap, then he spreads the silky foam over one of my breasts, kneading my soft flesh with a firm grip that makes me moan with pleasure.

“See how much she likes that?” Brik says proudly. “I bet you I could make her come just by massaging her breasts like that.”

I bet he’s right. I’m tempted to ask him to test his theory.

“Okay, first of all,” Markus retorts. “The point isn’t to make Syra come. The point is to get her clean. And second of all, you’re being too rough with her. You need to use a gentler touch, like this…”

Now Markus takes a turn spreading lather over my other breast. His touch is softer, but the way his large palm smooths over my bare skin is no less pleasurable than Brik’s firmer grip. When his fingertips close around my erect nipple and roll it between them like a glass bead, even more desperate sounds come spilling out of me.

“See?” Markus says. “She likes my way better.”

“No,” Brik snarls as he clutches me again. “She prefers my way.”

The combination of those two styles of massage, rough on one side, gentle on the other, is almost more than my poor little brain can process. My cries get louder and higher pitched as pleasure flows through my body, building toward an inevitable release.

But at the last moment, just as I’m about to come, Markus reaches over and shoves Brik’s hand away from my chest.

“You’re hurting her!”