That's the problem when an unbonded omega walks around alphas and she's not taking her suppressants. She makes them all hungry. There's something about Sharon's natural scent that calls to every alpha in a five-mile radius. Strawberry and honey and something deeper, something that smells like home and belonging and all the things an alpha is hardwired to crave.
But me, I'm not hungry for any omega. I'm not even hungry for most omegas. I'm just fucking starving for Sharon.
"We've shut up shop!" I announce, shooing the other alphas away like they're stray dogs looking for scraps. Vale catches myeye as he heads toward the back door, and I give him a look that says "don't you dare come back out here." He grins, flashing teeth, and disappears into the back room where I keep the private appointments. The other alphas follow like they're on a leash.
The moment they're gone, the air in the studio shifts. It becomes clearer somehow, less crowded. More like just me and her in a room full of memories and ink and possibilities.
"You said you had something important to tell me," Sharon says as she draws closer to me, trying to put distance between herself and the alphas who definitely want to bite her. "And based on your expression, it's not good news."
"Help me close up first," I say, gesturing toward the front window where the fading afternoon light is casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. "And then we talk."
We work through the closing routine together. I show her how to cover the tattoo chairs with fresh sheets, how to organize the ink bottles by color, how to wipe down the workstations. She moves with purpose, asking questions when she doesn't understand something, listening when I explain. There's something intimate about working alongside someone in silence.
Her scent wraps around me like smoke. Strawberry and honey and something deeper that's just her, just Sharon. My body responds immediately. My hands get warmer. My breathing gets heavier.
"You're good at this," she says softly as I show her how to sterilize the needles. "At organizing. At making things orderly."
"It's a requirement in this business," I explain, setting the sterilized needles into the proper containers. "If you don't keep things clean and organized, people get infected. They lose trust. In tattooing, like in life, you have to earn the right to mark someone permanently."
She looks up at me, and there's something in her expression that suggests she understands exactly what I meant by that.
"Do you do that often?" she asks. "Mark people permanently?"
"Only when they ask," I say. "Only when they're absolutely sure they want it. A tattoo is a promise made to yourself. I take that seriously."
We finish the closing routine, and I show her the portfolio wall where I've displayed some of my best work. Intricate designs. Meaningful symbols. Pieces that represent significant moments in people's lives. She studies each one carefully, running her fingers along the frames like she's trying to absorb the stories behind them.
"These are beautiful," she says, her voice soft with genuine appreciation. "You have real talent."
"Thank you," I say. I'm standing close to her now, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off her body. "You know, I've been thinking about designing something for you."
She turns to look at me, her eyes wide. "For me? A tattoo?"
"If you wanted one," I say carefully. "I know exactly what would suit you."
"Really?" she asks, and there's something playful in her voice now. "What would it be?"
I lead her over to one of the design stations and pull up a blank canvas on the tablet. I spend the next twenty minutes sketching while she watches, her chin resting on my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck.
"Okay," I say finally, turning the monitor toward her. "This is what I see when I think about you."
On the screen is a design of a phoenix, rendered in intricate detail. This isn't a traditional phoenix. This one has roses woven into its wings, and its tail feathers are shaped like questionmarks. There's movement to it, like it's caught mid-flight, mid-transformation.
"It represents rebirth," I explain. "The phoenix rises from the ashes. It transforms itself. But it also carries the roses with it, which represent the beauty that comes from surviving something difficult. And the question marks because you're still figuring out who you are. You're still learning. You're still growing."
She stares at the design in silence for a long moment. "That's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever designed for me," she says softly.
"I know you better than you think," I say quietly, and I move closer. I lower myself to one knee in front of her so we're at eye level.
"But here's the thing," I continue, reaching out slowly and giving her time to pull away. She doesn't. My hand finds her face, my thumb brushing across her cheekbone. “When you thought that something dodgy was happening with Ben and Penelope, you told us about it.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and then her eyes fill with tears. Not sad tears. Angry tears. Betrayed tears.
"I believed her when she said about her grandma,” she whispers.
I'm kneeling in front of her, my hands on her thighs, my scent mixing with hers. “She was using the situation. Those are different things. That's not the same as using you personally."
"Okay," she says.
