Page 11 of Bubblegum Pop

I sighed into Apollo, craning my neck to be closer to him. My passion fruit, mixed with his mango, created a fruity blend that was enhanced by my brother’s lemon-vodka scent.

“It’ll just take time,” Apollo said softly. “Once we’re settled, they’ll go away again. Trust me.”

I clenched my jaw, meeting his wave of love with shame. I nodded, knowing he was right, but it didn’t make the pain of the nightmares any less harsh. Every dream was so vivid and real, so it was harder to see that future when I was still reeling.

We only moved last week.

Michael shifted us to a new country every few months with some bullshit mission. We’d never get all the details beforehand, just that we were guarding someone or something that was important to him. It could be a politician or a bank vault, or literally driving someone from point A to B, all while keeping on top of our training. We were in even better shape than we were when we were competing, and we rarely had to deal with anything dangerous. It was the constant fucking moving that got me.

We’d been guarding some omegas up north, forced to stay out on the islands and the oil rigs, to check up on the hosts Michael had sent there. I was so fucking grateful Michael sent us up there two weeks after them, or the omegas would have been dead within a month.

He’d finally approved our request to come to London, though we didn’t expect him to assign us to Club Heat.

“Just hold me,” I said, reaching for Apollo. I was twice his weight, but he made me feel lighter than a fucking feather as he traced the river of scars that flowered on my chest with his lips.

They started at the back of my neck, streams of lightning that ran over my body, striking through my skin until they burst around my ankles. I was hit three years ago, out running during a storm in Greece. I lay passed out at the side of the road until a farmer found me.

Apollo loved the scars. And thank fuck, because it meant every day his fingers danced across my skin, bringing me back to a place where I knew my brother and my mate were alive.

“It’s nearly time,” Odin said from his side of the bed. His voice was deep, rumbling through the room as he pushed himself up to sit. New light flooded his side of the bed as he hit the lamp.

He shot me a look. Apollo stilled for a second at the slightest ounce of pain from Odin, followed by Apollo’s guilt—it had been that way for years. I’d tried to force them out of it, but they wouldn’t let it go. Even after they both nearly fucking died, they were still like this.

Odin was convinced he had no right to love Apollo as I did because they weren’t scent matches, and it burned every single day.

Apollo didn’t love Odin any less, but the bond between scent matches was fiercer, and Apollo was the only person who could soothe me.

My brother’s jealousy was enough of a distraction from the ache of my nightmares.

Odin swung his giant body off the bed and padded towards the bathroom, leaving us together.

I quickly fed my arm to the back of Apollo’s neck and pulled him down, kissing away the hurt like he had done for me.

We sighed into each other, softening, bringing ourselves into the moment.

Like he said, it was only our first week here, and it was too new for me to be completely calm. The last time we moved, it took more than a month for the nightmares to really leave me, and even then, I still had the memories that sprung up every time I saw Odin’s face. He’d tried a glass eye for three months, but it was such a contrast to his scar that it was obvious it was fake, and he left it behind.

Apollo pulled back, giving me another one of his gorgeous smiles. “Come on, baby, let’s get ready for work.”

Candy

These alphas really knew how to live it up.

I’d been here six months and I’d never loved life more.

Michael Farringdon stuck to his word, which I totally didn’t believe he would until about a month in.

After we left Stevie’s, his driver dropped us off outside some grungy warehouses, and I was ready to bolt.

How was I meant to know it was the location of some high-class sex dungeon?

He called them ‘The Studios’, where all his whores went to train. It was some secret underground club that had rooms for people to act out all kinds of fantasies.

I spent a month there, going through basic training, until they moved me on to ‘The Spa’ way out in the county. Everything had a name like that, to make it more elegant. It’s better saying ‘The Spa’ than ‘the fancy resort where rich packs buy you and fuck you for a week straight’. But, whatever. They put me in a gorgeous room, gave me fantastic food, and I actually looked healthy for the first time in my life.

Now I was at ‘The Club’. I thought the whores that worked the nightclubs in Central London were fine, but the girls of Club Heat were a whole different level. We were tucked in the heart of Knottinghill, surrounded by flats and houses I couldn’t even dream of affording. I caught glimpses of the people who came there to party, and it was full on.

At least forty floors, catering to every customer’s desire. Except we didn’t call them customers or clients or marks. They were ‘Guests’ and we were ‘Hosts’. It was dead posh like that.