5. Wren
Wren
The compression nut under the espresso counter is still fighting me when the scent hits.
Sour. Sharp enough to cut through plumber’s putty and burnt espresso and the damp floor mat I’ve been kneeling on.
His.
I slide out from under the counter. The café is half-empty, a few students, a girl with headphones near the window. And there, by the hallway to the bathrooms, some guy in a navy polo has Soren cornered against the wall.
I’m across the room before I know it, stepping directly into the space between them.
My voice comes out flat. Low and growly. I don’t think I’ve ever made that sound before in my life.
Polo guys looks at me like I’m the janitor who wandered into the wrong conversation, which—fair. I know what I must look like: gray T-shirt, campus maintenance logo, tool belt, probably a smear of plumber’s putty on my forearm.
“Mind your own business, man. We’re talking.”
“No, you’re not.”
He’s taller than me. Broader. He seems like he’s used to being the biggest alpha in the room and he’s looking at me like I should know that.
That growl thing bubbles up in my throat again and I let my scent out.
His grip loosens, and Soren stumbles backward, right into my chest. His scent floods up, and it’s—a lot. Every faint bit of contact I’ve had was just a ghost. Echoes. This is the real thing.
The line of his throat is right there. His hair is against my jaw, the soft skin where neck meets shoulder an inch from my mouth.
My teeth ache with how badly I want to set them there.
Not bite. Not yet. Just... rest. Just feel the life in him against my mouth while I wrap both arms around his waist and pull him so tight nothing else can reach him.
My hand comes up without permission and brackets his hip, pulling him behind me.
I look at Polo. He’s standing there, mouth open like he’s going to say something again.
“He said no,” I say flatly. “You’re leaving.”
“Omegas on KnotMe—“ he starts.
“Finish that sentence.”
He doesn’t finish it.
His nostrils flare, but then he seems to realize we have an audience. He huffs out a breath, taking a step back, muttering something about crazy omegas and psycho maintenance guys as he grabs his jacket and shoves through the café door hard enough to rattle the glass.
The café seems to exhale.
“He’s gone,” I say, and my voice cracks on the second word like I’m seventeen. Great. Very alpha. Very protective. “You’re okay. He’s gone.”
“Your voice cracked,” Soren says into my shirt.
I laugh, but it’s strained.
“Yeah.”
“It was nice.”
I want to turn around. I want to see his eyes, check every inch of him for damage, press my nose into his neck and breathe until no trace of Polo’s flat, chemical stink is left on his skin.
But I also want to not terrify him. He just got cornered by one alpha, and the last thing he needs is another one losing control.
The barista clears her throat from behind the counter. “Do you guys, um. Need anything? I can call Campus Safety if—“
“We’re fine,” I say. “We’re okay. Thank you.”
Soren’s breathing against my back is evening out, but I can still feel him shaking. His hand slides from my back to my arm, fingers curling around my bicep.
He doesn’t let go.