I giggle, the sound bright and genuine. "Lead the way."
He begins to guide me away from the stunned group, his hand warm on the small of my back. I catch one last glimpse of their faces—the blonde's mouth hanging open, the men exchanging disbelieving glances, all of them looking like they've just witnessed something impossible.
That's right. The invisible Omega exists. The Late Alpha is very much claimed. Choke on it.
As we walk through the crowd—heads turning to watch us pass, whispers trailing in our wake—Julian leans down to speak quietly in my ear. "I have a modeling shoot coming up. The Valentine's campaign for D&G that nearly fell through." His voice is careful, testing. "The manager was asking if you could attend. They want photos of the pack dynamic. But I told him you were busy with your business opportunities."
I shake my head immediately, without hesitation. "I'll clear my schedule. Just tell me when, Alpha."
He nods, and something warm flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or gratitude, or something deeper that he's not ready to name yet. We continue through the crowd toward where his managers are apparently stationed near the far end of the ballroom, past the refreshment tables and the string quartet and the couples still attempting to waltz despite the growing chaos of gossip spreading through the room.
The next twenty minutes are a blur of introductions and polite conversation. Julian's modeling agency contacts are surprisingly pleasant—or maybe they're just relieved to finally meet the Omega they've been hearing about, the mysterious woman who apparently saved the D&G contract from falling through. His manager, a sharp-eyed Beta woman named Margaret, looks me up and down with professional assessment and seems to approve of what she sees. She compliments my gown, my mask, my "excellent timing," and makes pointedcomments about how the photos from tonight's entrance are already circulating on social media.
Apparently I've gone viral. Again. For entirely different reasons than the last time.
I play my part perfectly, charming and attentive and appropriately impressed by all the right things. I ask intelligent questions about the upcoming shoot. I laugh at the appropriate jokes. I make eye contact and smile and do everything my society upbringing trained me to do in situations exactly like this one. Julian stays close the entire time, his hand never leaving the small of my back, his scent wrapping around me like a protective cocoon.
Finally, blessedly, we make our excuses—something about Julian needing his rest before the shoot, something about the long drive back to Oakridge Hollow—and slip away from the crowded ballroom.
The gardens are a revelation after the stifling heat of the ball.
Cold January air hits my flushed skin like a blessing, carrying the scent of snow and dormant roses and the distant hint of the city beyond the estate's walls. Fairy lights have been strung through the bare branches of ancient trees, casting everything in a soft, romantic glow that transforms the winter garden into something out of a dream. The path beneath our feet is cleared of snow but still glitters with frost, each step crunching softly in the quiet night. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the muffled sounds of the ball—music and laughter and the clink of champagne glasses—but out here, it feels like we're the only two people in the world.
"God, it was stuffy in there." I exhale heavily, letting some of my careful composure slip away now that we're alone. My shoulders drop. My smile becomes genuine instead of practiced. "I forgot how suffocating these things are. All that perfume andchampagne and desperation, packed into one room like sardines in designer clothing."
Julian doesn't respond with words.
Instead, he stops walking so abruptly that I nearly collide with him. He catches my wrist, his grip firm but gentle, and pulls me around to face him. His free hand comes up to cup my jaw, tilting my face up toward his, and then he's kissing me.
Not the chaste press of lips I'd given him inside. Not the polite, performative contact meant for an audience of gossiping socialites. This is something else entirely—deep and demanding and desperately thorough, like he's been holding himself back all evening and has finally run out of restraint. His mouth moves over mine like he's been starving for this, like I'm oxygen and he's been holding his breath for hours, like he's trying to communicate everything he can't say through the slide of his lips and the sweep of his tongue.
I make a sound against his mouth—something between a gasp and a moan—and my hands come up to grip his shoulders, partly for balance and partly because I need to hold onto something before I dissolve entirely.
When he finally breaks the kiss, I'm breathless. Genuinely, embarrassingly breathless, my chest heaving and my heart racing and my knees threatening to give out entirely.
"Wow." The word comes out dazed and stupid. "I didn't think you could kiss like that."
Julian's eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, his breathing just as ragged as mine. "I've never been so fucking horny in my entire existence," he mutters, and the raw honesty in his voice makes my stomach flip.
I smirk, trying to regain some of my composure. "What, you've never seen an Omega in a decent gown before?"
He chuckles—low and rough, a sound that vibrates through me where our bodies are pressed together. "I've never seen anOmega I deem asminelook so absolutely fuckable in my entire existence."
I laugh, delighted and scandalized in equal measure. "Romantic, Julian. Really sweeping me off my feet with the poetry."
His answer is to walk me backward until my spine meets the trunk of the nearest tree—an ancient oak draped in fairy lights, its bark rough even through the layers of my gown. He cages me there with his body, one hand braced against the trunk beside my head, the other still holding my face like I'm something precious.
"Now," he murmurs, and his voice has dropped into something dangerous, something that makes my thighs clench together involuntarily. "What do I need to do to actually get a taste of that addictive scent of yours?"
My face flames. Because he's not talking about the cinnamon and coffee and vanilla that makes up my natural Omega scent. He's talking about the wetness I can feel pooling between my legs, the arousal that's been building since the moment I started down those stairs and saw him looking at me like I was something divine.
"Well." I somehow manage to keep my voice steady, even though my heart is hammering against my ribs. I glance around the garden—empty, quiet, the sounds of the ball muffled by distance and stone walls. "You could get a taste of what you want right here. But it would have to be quick. And silent."
Julian's eyes flash with something predatory. He steps back just far enough to lift his hand—the one that had been braced against the tree, still covered in an elegant black glove—and brings it to his lips.
"Quick," he repeats, his voice a low purr. "And silent."
Then he begins to slide the glove off.
