Claimed For Their Pleasure (Omega Prey #6) - L.V. Lane Page 0,3

lane, face heating the closer I draw.

Brandon stops his wood splitting, eyes tracking my progress in a way that reminds me that he is not only a man, but a wolf and a predator at heart.

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, letting the ax blade rest against the cutting block. Goddess, he is sinful in his beauty with his dark hair reaching his shoulders and bright blue eyes. His hair has a tendency toward messy curls that his mother is always threatening to cut. He keeps his beard short, but if he has been away scouting with Fen, it looks a cute kind of furry when he returns.

I get a little squirmy as I approach. I can smell his clean musky sweat, and it makes me tingly inside my belly. Lower, I feel the dampness that has been happening more often of late and has become a source of acute embarrassment.

“Something smells good,” Brandon says as I draw level.

Realizing that he is looking at me and not the pie, my cheeks go up in flames. I trip on an invisible obstacle. “Uff!”

I fear the cherry pie my mother baked especially for his will go flying. But within the space of a heartbeat, Brandon stows the ax, closes the distance on me, and snatches the flying pie from my hands.

My momentum is such that I’m flattened against his sweat-dampened chest.

Behind, I hear the tinkling laughter of the girls who were ogling Brandon. I will never live this down!

Brandon smirks. “That was close,” he says, voice a husky drawl that sets the fluttering off again.

I always thought sweat was a disgusting thing, but Brandon smells divine. Staring into his pretty eyes, I get a little lost. He stares back before his focus lowers to my lips. Does he want to kiss me? I’m hoping that he’ll kiss me. My life would be complete if Brandon would kiss me even once.

Also, it will show the shameless hussies who are always batting their lashes at him.

His gaze suddenly shifts to something over my shoulder, and I’m set aside so swiftly I nearly topple over again.

When I glance back, I see Papa standing in the open doorway of his workshop, hands on hips, glaring at Brandon.

Brandon’s lips twitch. “Your papa looks fit to cave my head in with my own ax. Best you run back home, lass, afore we get blood over this delicious pie.” Smirking, he about faces before stomping toward his cottage.

“Ma! Betty sent you a pie,” he calls as he takes the steps two at a time.

“Jessa!” My father’s gruff call startles me from my perusing of Brandon’s ass. “Help your mother with the brats!”

My father, still scowling, returns to his workshop. The noisy sounds of hammering ensue. Feeling disgruntled on a thousand different levels, I slink back home.

“She can’t get a lad without throwing herself at one,” Nola says loudly enough to ensure that I hear.

I do not like Nola. Given she is full of airs and graces, few lasses of the clan do. Except for her posse, who hang on her every word and laugh now at my expense.

Nola thinks she is better than everyone else because her father died defending the clan.

Her father was much respected, and Nola has presumed that respect to be her dues. When the clan king’s wife died last fall, Nola all but announced herself as the future mate.

I cannot see that happening. Jack cared deeply for his late mate, who was a kind-hearted Beta and loved by all.

Jack is a good king, and I pray he does not mate the witchy Nola. She is nasty enough now and sure to be a thousand times worse should she claim the lofty title of mate to the king.

Their laughter follows me as I stomp up the steps into my home. My siblings are all seated at the table, eating bread and jam, and supping on milk.

“What was that about?” my mother asks, nudging her head toward the door.

“I tripped,” I say, face flushing. “I nearly dropped the pie! They were making fun of me.”

My mother shakes her head, wiping Greta’s fingers, which are covered in jam.

“The lass is a test,” my mother agrees.

“Who is a test?” Greta demands.

“Never you mind,” my mother says, lips tugging up as she sees what William is doing. William is a year older than Greta, and he is licking all the jam from the bread, which has set Greta to doing the same. “Doesn’t