I sat nestled on Ivory's lap in the dim living room, the movie's glow flickering across us as the alpha protagonist carved her bloody path—family slaughtered, omega brother stolen, no mercy for the hunters.
She hacked hands clean off one thug, stuffing them down his gurgling throat; later, hammer pulped a skull to red mush before cracking another's temple wide. Gripping her gun, she jammed the muzzle into a stuttering goon's eye.
"Where's my brother?" His denial ended in a point-blank burst, brains painting the wall.
"Emily, you like violent movies?" Ivory asked, her powerful thighs tensing under my slight weight, chili pheromones spiking sharp and uneasy like smoke off hot coals.
