"Thank you. Really. I appreciate you trying to cheer me up."
I glance back at Jasper's table, watching them drain their pints with aggressive enthusiasm.
"I should probably get back. Those type of men get rowdy when they're kept waiting."
As if on cue, one of them shouts across the bar, "Oi! Silver-haired beauty! More pints! Now!"
I sigh, preparing to head back to face them again?—
But before I can move, the Alpha's arm hooks around my waist.
Strong. Confident. Pulling me back effortlessly and guiding me to sit on his left knee.
What—
My face floods with heat immediately. I'm sitting on his lap. On this gorgeous veteran Alpha's lap.
In the middle of the bar.
Where everyone can see.
And his scent?—
Oh god, his scent.
It hits me all at once, overwhelming and intoxicating. Cedar and smoke—not the acrid smoke of cigarettes but the clean, woodsy smoke of a campfire under the stars. There's something else too, something spicy like cardamom mixed with dark chocolate, rich and warm. Underneath it all is gunpowder and metal, the scent of someone who knows weapons intimately, mixed with fresh bread that somehow makes the whole combination domestic instead of dangerous.
My whole body reacts. My hindbrain sits up and pays attention in a way it rarely does. My thighs clench involuntarily. Heat pools low in my belly.
This is rare. This level of instant attraction, this visceral response to an Alpha's scent. What is it about him that makes my body want to melt into his?
"Why don't you stay right here?" he says, his voice a low rumble against my back. "This Santa Claus would rather pay for one-on-one service."
He uses his free hand to pull out a hefty bill from his wallet—I catch a glimpse, and it's definitely a hundred—and slides it across the bar to Walter, who's watching this interaction with barely concealed amusement.
"That okay?" the Alpha asks Walter, his tone casual but with an underlying edge that suggests this isn't really a question.
Walter smirks, his eyes knowing. He's seen enough bar drama to recognize when an Alpha is staking a claim.
"Yeah, that works. I'll let them know she's busy attending to the elite drinkers of the night."
Elite drinkers. Walter is such a troublemaker. He's going to give me so much shit about this later.
I'm blushing so hard I can feel it in my ears.
"Aren't you scared he's gonna retaliate? That table is…they're not nice people."
His smile grows then—dangerous and predatory and absolutely devastating. His eyes darken to a deep forest green, the gold flecks catching the light. "I'm hoping he tries."
There's a pause, and then he adds, almost conversationally, "I've always wanted to be an evil Santa for Halloween, but I was called for training at the base. Missed the whole holiday. Shame, really."
He wants them to try something.
He's actively hoping for a fight.
And somehow that knowledge makes me feel safer than I have in months.
“But for reassurance,” he pauses and whispers in my ear. “I can fight.”
