"This is the women's washroom," she says, and her voice is steady despite the flush still staining her cheeks. Bold. Pointed. Not a hint of the vulnerability I glimpsed during our kiss.
There she is. The ice queen is back.
I don't turn to look at the intruders. I can hear them just fine—the shuffling of feet, the stuttered attempts at explanation, the dawning realization that they've walked into something they didn't expect.
"We—uh—she—" one of them manages. "Why is this big fucker in here?"
Big fucker. Nice.
I'm about to tell them exactly where they can shove their questions when the omega in my arms does something unexpected.
Her arms wrap around my neck, and before I can process the movement, she's climbing me like I'm a goddamn tree. Her legs hook around my waist, forcing me to cup her thighs to keep her from falling—not that she seems in any danger of falling. She moves like she's done this before, with the kind of athletic grace that comes from training rather than instinct.
Her chin comes to rest on my shoulder, and I can feel her breath against my ear. Can feel the amusement radiating from her in waves.
What are you doing?I want to ask.What game are we playing now?
But then she speaks, and I understand.
"Well,obviously, he's my bodyguard." Her voice is pure seductive amusement, dripping with the kind of confidence that makes my heart skip an actual beat. "Did you really think someone of such high class would come to a mixer without security?"
She giggles—the sound both innocent and devastating—and adds, "With a few benefits, obviously. Whodoesn'twant a sexy bodyguard who can break bones but also kisses ravishingly?"
Sexy. She called me sexy. And ravishing. My ego is doing cartwheels.
She sighs—almost dreamily, like she's playing a role but also maybe meaning it—and continues, "If you're here to try to make some sort of claim, you're out of luck, boys. Real men...Alphasat that... don't wait for the afterparty to claim."
One of them stutters—I can hear the confusion and panic in his voice. "B-but what about him? If he's a bodyguard, he shouldn't be—shouldn't befuckingyou!"
"Why not?"
The question is so simple, so matter-of-fact, that it leaves them completely flabbergasted. I can practically hear their brains short-circuiting, trying to come up with an argument against her logic and finding nothing.
She doesn't wait for them to recover. "Women of my standards want men who know what they want but override lust for protection when needed. He's clearly been here way before I even arrived, which means he knew I'd be at this mixer." She pauses for effect. "Why? Because Itoldhim. Because it would only make sense for me to tell my Alpha that I'm attending a mixer on behalf of my friend."
Her Alpha. She called me her Alpha. This is a performance. This is just a cover story. This doesn't mean anything.
Then why does it feel like it means everything?
"F-f-friend?!" one of them manages, like the concept of friendship is somehow the most shocking part of this whole scenario.
"Mhmm." She sounds almost bored now. "And if you two had done your research instead of coming down here as if I'm someone you can try to swoon—or dare I say,kidnap—you're lucky I didn't have to use my lovely friend over here."
She shifts against me, her legs tightening around my waist, and I can't help but look down. Can't help but follow the line of her thigh where the dress has ridden up and?—
Holy shit.
There's a knife strapped to her thigh.
Not a cute little decorative blade. A real knife. The handle is wrapped in leather dyed the color of dried blood, and the blade itself—visible in its sheath—catches the light like captured lightning. The engraving on the hilt is intricate, purposeful. Custom work. Expensive.
This isn't a fashion accessory. This is a weapon carried by someone who knows exactly how to use it.
I've seen a lot of weapons in my time. Fifteen years military, five years private security—you learn to recognize the difference between someone who carries a blade for show and someone who carries one with intent. The way she has it positioned speaks to training. The angle of the holster suggests she's practiced drawing it quickly. The custom engraving means she invested serious money in something she fully expects to use.
This omega isn't just beautiful and intimidating. She's actively dangerous. And I am absolutely here for it.
She probably left a gun at home. The thought surfaces unbidden, and I find myself absolutely certain it's true. An omega who straps a custom blade to her thigh definitely knows how to shoot. Probably has a concealed carry license. Probably has training beyond the self-defense class I helped with. The kind of training that wealthy families provide for their daughters when they know the world isn't safe, but don't realize they're creating someone who can handle that unsafe world on her own terms.
