Perfect. Fifteen minutes trapped in omega heaven with a packmate who's been making increasingly inappropriate comments since we left the house. The universe truly despises me today.
"We'll wait by the pickup counter," I say, turning toward the back of the store.
Whiskey snags my arm, his hand warm even through the fabric of my sleeve. I shirk away from him. "Come on, we have time to browse," he says. "Let's make sure we're getting everything Ivy needs."
"Ivy placed a specific order through the app. She doesn't need us interfering with her selections."
"What if she forgot something?"
"She's a grown woman who has managed her heats for years, Whiskey. I think she knows what she needs."
He's already wandering down an aisle, completely ignoring me. "Dude, they haveeverykind of nesting material here." He picks up a bundle of silk scarves in various shades of blue and green. "Hey, these would match her eyes!"
"Put those down," I hiss, glancing around to make sure we're not drawing attention. An employee in a lavender polo shirt is already eyeing us from behind a nearby display. "We're here to pick up the order. Nothing more."
Whiskey ignores me again, moving to the next display. "Oh man, check these out." He holds up a set of heat-relief patches. "Extra strength, ultra-cooling."
I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. "Whiskey?—"
"And these!" He grabs a bottle of scent neutralizer. "For after heat so you don't smell like—" he checks the label, "—'a walking pheromone factory.' That might be good for the pack house with Valek around."
The employee is definitely watching us now, her head tilted in a sympathetic omega way that makes me want to disappear into the floor.
"What do you think of these nest liners?" He holds up a package of what appears to be absorbent pads with an obscenely detailed diagram of their placement beneath naked cartoon people that look like they're playing a drunken game of Twister. "Ultra absorbent for when things getintense."
The employee approaches, her scent gentle and calming, clearly meant to soothe an omega in distress.
Me.
She thinksI'mthe omega.
"Can I help you find anything?" she asks, directing the question to me while giving Whiskey a slightly wary glance. "We have a private consultation room if you'd like to discuss your specific needs."
Whiskey coughs to cover a laugh.
"We're fine," I say, my voice coming out more strained than I intended. "Just waiting for an order."
"Of course," she says kindly. Too kindly. "First heat with your alpha?"
Whiskey makes a choking sound.
"He's not my alpha," I say, feeling heat crawl up my neck despite my best efforts. "We're just?—"
"Friends," Whiskey cuts in, slinging an arm around my shoulders. "Reallyclose friends picking up supplies for an... upcoming cycle."
"Well, your 'friend' is very thoughtful," she says, smiling sweetly at Whiskey. "And I know you'rejust friends, but we actually have an inclusive support group for male alphas with male omegas that meets here every other Tuesday, if you know anyone who's interested."
Oh, how wonderful. She doesn't believe him. Not only that, she thinks he's fucking me.
"How fascinating," Whiskey says, looking like Christmas has come early. "Isn't that fascinating, honey?"
I'm going to murder him. Slowly. With something dull and rusty, and I'm going to make sure it hurts.
I remove his arm from my shoulders and step away. "I need to check on our order."
"He gets emotional," Whiskey stage-whispers to the employee. "The mood swings are?—"
"We're here to pick up an order," I cut in, loud enough that several customers turn to look. "Order number thirteen."
