Holly Jolly Heat (Omega Stream)

Chapter 1

ONE

Michelle

I was going to be late.

I hurtled through the Pike Place Market crowd, dodging tourists with their cameras and early-morning shoppers with their tote bags, mentally cataloging everything that had gone wrong with my morning.

Alarm didn't go off. Coffee maker broke.

Spilled said coffee on my favorite blouse.

Had to change. Couldn't find my car keys. Traffic was a nightmare.

And, the cherry on top of my disaster sundae, I'd grabbed the wrong pill case on my way out the door.

My backup suppressants were in my gym bag. In my apartment. Forty-five minutes away in morning traffic.

"It's fine," I muttered, weaving around a family blocking the entire walkway to photograph the famous pig statue. "It's totally fine. One day without suppressants won't kill you."

Except I had a video call with a new client at ten. And a lunch meeting with a potential sponsor at noon. And I needed to pick up Mom's Christmas gift from the glassblower before they sold out of the hand-blown ornaments she'd been eyeing since October.

Professional. I needed to stay professional.

I'd been on suppressants for years, since I'd started my business and decided that being perceived as beta was significantly easier than dealing with the omega stigma in the influencer management industry.

One morning wouldn't undo years of carefully maintained control.

Admittedly, the suppressants I was on were the mildest I could get away with, but still. At least I wasn’t killing myself like Kara Quinn had almost done. The memory of her going into a full blown, unplanned heat on a live stream made me shudder.

The market was extra crowded this close to Christmas.

Every stall overflowed with holiday offerings from fresh wreaths, handmade ornaments, local honey in festive jars, all the way to artisan chocolates wrapped in gold foil.

Street musicians played carols on the corner.

The air smelled of pine and cinnamon and the salt-sea wind from Elliott Bay.

I loved Pike Place Market. It was touristy and crowded and occasionally smelled like fish, but it was also quintessentially Seattle, a little bit historic, a little bit hipster, entirely itself.

I slowed as I passed the flower vendors, their buckets overflowing with winter blooms. The glassblower's shop was just ahead, nestled between a spice merchant and a vintage bookseller. I could see the ornaments in the window, each one unique, perfect for Mom's collection.

But first, I needed to get past the holiday display taking up half the walkway.

Someone had set up an elaborate mistletoe installation, real mistletoe hanging from a wooden arch, intertwined with fairy lights and silk ribbons. A sign proclaimed, "Kiss Under the Mistletoe - $1 for Holiday Fund!"

A vendor was calling out to passersby, "Come on, folks! It's tradition! Find your Christmas kiss! All proceeds go to the Seattle Children's Hospital!"

I smiled despite my rushed morning. That was Pike Place for you, commercializing romance for charity.

I stepped around the display, reaching for my wallet to grab Mom's gift, when someone behind me laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made something in my chest tighten unexpectedly.

"Ro, come on, we should do it. It's for charity!"

The voice was male, young, enthusiastic. I glanced back out of pure reflex.

And my world tilted.

He stood under the mistletoe arch, sandy blond hair falling across his forehead, bright blue eyes crinkled with laughter. He wore a chunky cream sweater and jeans, a camera bag slung over his shoulder, and when he smiled at his companion, dimples appeared in both cheeks.

He was beautiful in that approachable, boy-next-door way that probably made people trust him instantly.

But that wasn't what made me freeze.

It was his scent.

Cedar and vanilla, warm and comforting and utterly, devastatingly perfect, and it hit me like a tidal wave. My suppressants should have blocked it. Should have kept my omega firmly locked away behind chemical walls.

Instead, my omega woke up.

And screamed.

Mate.

No. No, no, no. I didn't have time for mates. I had a business to run, a reputation to maintain, a carefully constructed life that didn't include—

His head turned. His eyes met mine across fifteen feet of crowded market.

And I watched recognition slam into him like a tidal wave.

His pupils dilated. His nostrils flared. His entire body went rigid, camera bag sliding forgotten from his shoulder.

"Oh," he breathed, and even from this distance, I could hear the wonder in his voice. "Oh."

He took a step toward me.

I stumbled backward, directly into someone solid.

"Whoa—" Strong hands caught my shoulders, steadying me. "Sorry, I didn't see—"

The second scent hit me even harder than the first.

Spruce and woodsmoke. Grounding. Protective. Safe.

The hands on my shoulders tightened fractionally, and I looked up into dark brown eyes that had gone very, very wide.

"You," the man said, his voice rough with shock.

He was Korean-American, lean and wiry, wearing a black baseball cap and cargo pants with too many pockets. A professional camera hung around his neck. His grip on my shoulders was gentle but firm, like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go.

His scent wrapped around me like a blanket, and my omega—traitorous, ridiculous, inconvenient omega—leaned into it.

Mate. Pack.

"I—" I tried to form words. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Are you okay?" His voice had dropped to something softer, more intimate. His thumb brushed my shoulder, and even through my coat, the touch burned. "You look—"

A third scent crashed over me.

Leather and bergamot. Solid. Steady. Unmovable.

My knees actually buckled.

The dark-haired man caught me before I could fall, but a third person was suddenly there, a wall of a man, broad-shouldered and tall, with short blonde hair and pale blue eyes currently locked on my face with laser focus.

"Omega," he rumbled, and his voice resonated in my bones.

Camera equipment clattered to the cobblestones. He didn't even look down.

Three of them. Three scents, three sets of eyes, three alphas all staring at me with identical expressions of shock and recognition and want.

Pack bond.

I'd just recognized a bonded alpha pack.

"No," I said out loud, trying to take a step back. The dark-haired man's hands were still on my shoulders. The huge blonde was blocking my retreat. The sandy-haired one was moving closer, his cedar-vanilla scent getting stronger with every step.

"Please," the sandy-haired one said, and his voice was desperate and hopeful and everything I couldn't afford to feel right now. "Please don't run. I'm Lucas, and this is—"

But I was already moving.

I twisted out of the dark-haired man's grip, ducked under the blonde's reaching arm, and shoved my way into the crowd with the kind of desperate strength that only sheer panic could provide.

Behind me, I heard Lucas call out, "Wait! Please! We just want to talk!"

The dark-haired man said , "Lucas, let her go—"

The blonde, closer than the others, called out, "Omega, wait—"

But I was already running, pushing through the Thursday morning market crowd like my life depended on it. My heart hammered. My scent, peppermint and winter pine, sharp with distress, flooded out despite years of suppressant conditioning.

I could feel them behind me. Not following, they'd stopped, probably recognizing that chasing a frightened omega through a crowded market was exactly the wrong move, but I could feel their presence like a physical pull.

The bond trying to snap into place.

I didn't stop running until I reached my car three blocks away. I fumbled with my keys, hands shaking so badly I dropped them twice before getting the door open.

Safe in my Subaru, doors locked, I gripped the steering wheel and tried to remember how to breathe.

Three alphas.

A pack bond.

My newest client.

Because I'd recognized that sandy-haired, dimpled face. Lucas Morrison. CozyLuke. The wholesome gaming streamer I'd signed just a few months ago, whose channel I'd been managing remotely, whose producer I'd been emailing with for six months.

"Oh god," I said to my empty car. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."

My phone buzzed. A text from Mom. Don't forget the ornament! I want the blue one with the snowflakes!

I looked at the market, still visible through my windshield. Looked at the time—9:47 AM. I had thirteen minutes to get across town for my video call.

With Lucas.

With my mate.

With one-third of the pack bond that was currently trying to claw its way through my chest and drag me back to them.

I put the car in drive and pulled into traffic, leaving Pike Place Market and three alphas and my entire world tilting on its axis behind me.

My phone buzzed again.

An email notification. From Rowan Park, CozyLuke's producer. The one I'd been corresponding with for months. The one whose dry humor and competent efficiency I'd actually come to enjoy.

The one whose hands had been on my shoulders.

The one who'd said "You" like he'd been waiting his whole life to find me.

I didn't open the email.

I drove.

And tried very hard not to think about cedar and vanilla and spruce and woodsmoke and leather and bergamot, all tangled together in my senses like they'd been waiting there all along.

The video call at ten was torture.

I'd made it back to my apartment with two minutes to spare, just enough time to throw on a blazer over my coffee-stained blouse and pray the camera angle hid the mess. My hands were still shaking as I clicked into the meeting.

Lucas's face filled my screen, and my omega keened.

"Michelle! Hi!" His smile was sunshine bright, those dimples on full display. "Thanks for making time. I know you're dealing with family stuff."