"Life usually is."His Omega. He just called me his Omega. In front of Jasper. In front of everyone. My face is still angled away from Jasper's direct line of sight, hidden partially by the Alpha's body and the angle we're sitting, but?—
"You're bullshitting," Jasper snarls. "She's just a bar worker. Not your anything."
He reaches forward, his hand extended to grab me?—
Another hand shoots out, fast as lightning, stopping Jasper's wrist mid-reach.
I turn, surprised, and?—
Nash?
The mechanic-lawyer from the elevator is standing right there, his hand wrapped around Jasper's wrist in a grip that looks casual, but I can see the whiteness of Jasper's knuckles, the strain in his expression.
And next to Nash is?—
The maple-honey Alpha from the bookstore. The one who bought me the books.
The one with the soft smile and kind eyes who made my heart do fluttery things.
He's here.
They're both here.
All three of them. The veteran Alpha I'm currently sitting on, Nash with his motor oil and leather scent, and the bookstore Alpha with his maple-wood sweetness.
What is happening right now?
Nash tsks, his expression darkening into something dangerous. His voice drops into a tone that brooks absolutely no argument—the lawyer voice, probably, the one he uses when he's done being nice.
"Now, now, now. No other man touches our Omega. If you didn't know that, you're about to find out. But I'll give you saving grace if you're from out of town."
He pauses, his smirk widening into something predatory.
"Y'all folks always like to play stupid games to win even stupider prizes."
CHAPTER 8
Sugarplum & Sinful Kisses
~THEODORE~
My arm tightens around her waist.
Mine.
The thought is instant, primal, completely irrational.
I don't even know this Omega's name. Hell, I can barely see her real face under that silver wig and those blue contacts that make her eyes look like ice crystals.
But my hindbrain doesn't care about logic right now. It just knows: soft curves pressed against me, sweet scent filling my lungs, warmth seeping through my clothes where her body meets mine.
Mine, mine, mine.
The Alpha part of my brain is chanting it like a mantra, drowning out the rational part that's trying to remind me I'm drunk and this is probably a terrible idea.
The softness of her alone is driving me mad.
She's all curves and warmth, sitting perfectly on my knee like she was made to fit there. Every point where her body touchesmine feels like it's burning—in the best possible way. The velvet of her costume is smooth and luxurious under my palm where my hand rests just above her hip, and I can feel the heat of her skin radiating through the fabric. Can feel the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Can feel how her body responds to me—the slight tremor that runs through her when I adjust my grip, the way her breathing has gone shallow and quick, the tension in her muscles that's part nervousness and part something else entirely.
