Elias bursts out laughing. "Girl, they're literally hanging from the drawstring because they'regigantic. You look like you're playing dress-up in your dad's closet."
"These were the smallest ones!" I protest, even though I'm laughing too. "Tank's other pants were even bigger. I tried like three pairs before giving up."
"Yeah, these are actually his smaller pair," Elias confirms, still chuckling. "From before he started to bulk up. Now he prioritizes leg day, so he's well proportioned in the..." He pauses, gesturing vaguely at his own lower body. "Measurement department. Versus bulk chest and chicken stick legs."
I giggle—actually giggle, like a teenager—at the mental image. "Chicken stick legs?"
"It's a real epidemic among gym bros. All those dudes who skip leg day and end up looking like a bowling pin with toothpicks for support. Tank was very concerned about avoiding it." He grins. "He's got a whole speech about balanced muscle development. Julian times how long he can go before mentioning it. Current record is forty-five minutes."
These men are ridiculous. Absolutely, wonderfully ridiculous.
Elias stands, gathering the completed paperwork into a neat stack. "Come on. Let's get these submitted so you're officially under our pack's protection."
Officially under their protection. Temporarily their Omega. It still doesn't feel real.
I follow him to the main desk at the front of the office, where a middle-aged Beta woman sits behind a computer that looks like it might have been cutting-edge in 2005. She has reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and a cup of tea steaming beside her keyboard—chamomile, from the smell of it.
"Oh, perfect," she says as Elias hands over the envelope containing our paperwork. Her voice is warm and efficient—the kind of person who's been doing this job for decades and has seen every type of pack registration there is. "I'll get thesesubmitted and sent into the system. Should be processed within forty-eight hours."
"Thank you," Elias says politely.
The secretary glances at me, then at the clothes I'm swimming in, then back at Elias. A knowing smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, but she says nothing. Just stamps the envelope and slides it into a filing tray.
She probably sees this kind of thing all the time. New Omegas showing up in borrowed clothes with hastily signed paperwork. Not exactly the picture of a traditional pack bonding.
Then again, nothing about this situation is traditional. And maybe that's okay.
I'm about to ask how long it will take for the protection status to become active when the door behind us chimes open.
The click of heels against linoleum. A wave of perfume so strong it makes my eyes water—something floral and cloying, layered over an Omega scent that's almost buried beneath the artificial fragrance. The rustle of expensive fabric. The unmistakable energy of someone who expects to be noticed.
And then a voice, high and breathy:
"Ohwow, if it isn't Elias James Hartley!"
I turn to see a woman sauntering toward us like she owns the place. She's beautiful in an obvious way—platinum blonde hair that's been styled into perfect waves, makeup applied with the precision of a professional artist, a dress that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Her nails are long and perfectly manicured, painted a shade of red that matches her lipstick exactly. Everything about her screamshigh maintenance.
Her scent, beneath all that perfume, carries the telltale sweetness of an Omega, though it's almost impossible to distinguish her natural notes from the chemical cocktail she'sdoused herself in. I catch hints of something floral—maybe jasmine?—but it's drowned out by the artificial fragrance.
Why would anyone cover their natural scent like that? It's like wearing a mask over your entire identity. Like being ashamed of what you actually smell like.
Beside me, Elias's entire demeanor changes. His shoulders stiffen. His jaw tightens. The easy warmth that's been radiating from him since we left Tank's house vanishes, replaced by something guarded and uncomfortable.
"Afternoon, Destiny," he says, his voice polite but distant. Cold in a way I haven't heard from him before.
Destiny. That's... certainly a name. The kind of name that parents give their child when they want them to grow up thinking they're special.
The woman—Destiny—doesn't seem to notice his discomfort. Or maybe she notices and doesn't care. She closes the distance between them in three confident strides, her heels clicking with each step, and suddenly she's far too close to him. Close enough that her perfume must be overwhelming his senses. Close enough that any passerby would assume they're intimate.
"I heard you got promoted!" she gushes, batting eyelashes that are definitely extensions. "Chief of the fire department! That'ssoimpressive, Elias. I always knew you'd do big things."
"Thanks." The word is clipped. Forced.
"You must besobusy now. Saving lives. Being heroic." She puts her hand on his arm—actually puts her perfectly manicured hand on his bicep like she has every right to touch him—and squeezes. "We should catch up sometime. I'd love to hear all about it."
Oh, hell no.
I watch Elias's body language carefully. He's leaning away from her even though she's pressed against his side. His smile is frozen, the kind of expression people wear when they're tryingto be polite but are screaming internally. His scent has shifted too—that warm campfire smell now carries an undertone of something sharper. Discomfort. Anxiety.
