One turns its head, beady eyes staring right at me, and honks.
I laugh.
The sound is rusty, but real.
"You look like you're losing the competition," a male voice rumbles beside me.
Instinct flares.
Alpha.
Big.
I feel him before I turn—scent like smoke and dark spice, body heat a warm presence.
I turn slowly.
He's massive.
Taller than Ragon, broader than Drake. Tanned skin, dark eyes, hair cropped close. A beard that's more jawline shadow than full. His clothes are casual—Henley, jeans, boots—but everything about the way he occupies space screams alpha who knows exactly what he is.
He's handsome in a way that would have terrified me when I was younger.
He terrifies me a little now.
He's also standing just slightly too close.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to hog the glass."
"You're not," he says, amused. His gaze sweeps the area. The families. The couples. Then returns to me. "Just noticed you're alone. An omega. That's not really safe."
I shrug. "You don't need a chaperone to watch penguins."
His mouth quirks. "Most omegas out with a pack don't wander off without an escort."
My jaw tightens.
Of course he scented that.
I glance back toward the food court.
From here, my pack is a blur of familiar shapes. I can pick them out by posture alone—Ragon's tall stillness, Drake's animation, Marie's small form tucked between them.
They are laughing at something.
It looks like a scene from another life.
"Guess I'm not most omegas."
His attention flicks between them and me, calculation sharp. "Guess not. Still seems like a waste."
"Of what?"
He leans his forearms on the railing, deliberately mirroring my posture. "Of you."
My chest does a painful little lurch.
He searches my neck with his eyes, his gaze zeroing in on the bare skin there, eyes darkening with interest.
