She's not pulling away. Not trying to escape.
If anything, she's leaning into the touch, her body unconsciously seeking more contact even while her mind is probably screaming about propriety and professionalism and all the reasons this is a bad idea.
And her scent?—
Fuck, her scent.
I've analyzed it for what has to be the tenth time since she sat down, breaking it down by each distinguished note like I'm some kind of scent sommelier. Can't help it. My military training taught me to pay attention to details, to catalog everything, to notice patterns and anomalies. You learn to read environments through smell—gunpowder means recent fire, copper means blood, fear has a specific acrid quality that warns you before trouble starts.
Old habits die hard. So I catalog her scent with the same precision I used to catalog threats.
Vanilla buttercream. That's the base—sweet and rich, the kind that makes your mouth water and your stomach growl even when you're not hungry. But it's not simple vanilla extract from a bottle. It's complex, layered with nuances that reveal themselves slowly. There's real vanilla bean in there, the kind with actual seeds, mixed with butter that's been creamed to perfection.
Caramel weaves through the vanilla—not the fake stuff, but real caramel that's been cooked to the perfect golden brown, that specific stage right before it burns where the sugar has broken down into something magical. There's a depth to it, a richness that speaks of patience and care.
Spun sugar adds lightness to the heavier notes. It's delicate and airy, like cotton candy dissolving on your tongue, adding sweetness without weight. Makes the whole scent profile feel less cloying, more ethereal.
There's citrus too—bright lemon zest cut with something cooler, like winter snow has been crystalized into scent form. It adds a crisp edge to all that sweetness, prevents it from being too much. Like biting into a lemon bar where the tartness balances the sugar.
But underneath all that sweetness—underneath the surface notes that would make anyone's mouth water—is something deeper. Brown sugar that's been packed tight, cinnamon bark that's been freshly ground, nutmeg that adds warmth without overpowering. A hint of something that reminds me of Christmas morning when I was a kid, before everything went to shit—that specific scent of anticipation and joy and warmth that you can't quite name but recognize instantly in your bones.
Sugarplum. The word fits her perfectly. Sweet and festive and utterly irresistible. Like something from a fairy tale or a Christmas carol.
And right now, with her sitting on my knee in that Mrs. Santa Claus costume that looks far too forbidden for innocence, that scent is spiked with arousal. It's subtle—she's trying to hide it, trying to keep control—but I can smell it. The way the vanilla turns sharper, the sugar caramelizing hotter, the whole composition shifting into something that makes my mouth go dry and my cock hard as fuck.
To say I'm a tad tipsy is an understatement. Which is never a good thing, really. Because apparently when I'm drunk, I become a smooth motherfucker who doesn't like to lose whatever is in my sight.
And what's currently in my sight is this Omega. This gorgeous, sweet-smelling, soft-bodied Omega who's making Santa hard as fuck and doesn't even realize the effect she's having on me.
Or maybe she does realize. Maybe that's why she's blushing.
That’s why I can smell her slick even through the costume and the bar smells and everything else.
The asshole Alpha from before—the one who was talking shit about his ex-Omega—is still standing there. Jasper, I think someone called him. City Alpha energy radiating off him in waves, all expensive cologne and entitlement.
He's looking at her with something that might be confusion, his nose wrinkling slightly.Can he smell her? Does he recognize the scent even if he can't place the face?
Good. Let him wonder. Let him realize what he lost. Because whoever their ex-Omega is—the one they were mocking so cruelly—she's probably a hell of a lot better off without them.
The Omega shifts slightly on my knee, and I have to bite back a groan.She's going to kill me. This is how I die. Not in combat, not from PTSD, but from a beautiful Omega with a sugar plum scent sitting on my lap in a bar.
"You shouldn't let them talk to you like that," I murmur, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear. My thumb brushes against her ribs through the velvet, a small gesture of comfort. "You deserve better than that shit."
She turns slightly to look at me, those blue eyes—contacts, I think, because I can see the slight edge of the lens—wide with surprise and something that looks like gratitude.
"It's complicated," she says softly.
"Life usually is."
God, I want to know her story. Want to know why she flinches at raised voices. Want to know why she works multiple jobs and disguises herself at the bar. Want to know everything about her.
That's when I hear Nash's voice cutting through the bar noise.
"Now, now, now. No other man touches our Omega."
Our Omega?
My eyebrow arches as I process those words. I look up to find Nash standing there, his hand wrapped around the asshole's wrist in a grip that looks casual but I can see the strain in the guy's face. And next to him is Grayson, our third packmate, looking uncharacteristically serious.
