29. Claiming Protection Through Ice Cream And Whisky Part Two #2
"You gave me those damn puppy eyes. One look and it was over. Completely unfair advantage."
The information settles into my tipsy brain like a gift.
"Awww," I draw out the word, batting my lashes dramatically. "My eyes are your weakness? Interesting."
He groans, dropping his head into his hands.
"I should not have told you that."
"Too late! Information absorbed and filed away for future use." I tap my temple, nearly poking myself in the eye. "Strategic intelligence gathered."
"You're a menace," he mutters, but he's smiling as he slides cash across the bar. More cash than necessary, I notice, even through my pleasant whisky haze.
The bartender—a mountain of a man with kind eyes and salt-and-pepper beard—grins as he collects the bills.
"You two need anything else? Water for the lady, maybe?"
"Water's for quitters," I announce, then immediately reconsider. "Actually, water sounds nice. Room temperature though. Not cold. Cold water is aggressive."
Both men stare at me.
I stare back, wondering why this is controversial.
"Room temperature water and the check," Mavi says finally. He leans in closer to the bartender, voice dropping. "And if you tell Cole about any of this, I'm shutting this whole establishment down."
The bartender laughs, deep and rumbling.
"Your secret's safe with me, Cross. Though if you need to crash, suite upstairs is empty tonight. On the house."
"Appreciate it." Mavi glances at me as I attempt to drink water with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. "Might take you up on that, considering there's no way I'm driving with this disaster."
"Disaster?" I set the water down with exaggerated care. "Who's the disaster? You?" I gesture at myself with both hands, nearly knocking over my glass. "Because I'm too sexy of a package to be close to a reckoning."
The words make perfect sense in my head.
Out loud, apparently not so much, because Mavi starts choking on nothing, coughing and sputtering while his ears go that pink color I'm beginning to recognize as his tell.
"What does that even mean?" he manages between coughs.
"It means," I say with great dignity, "that I'm very attractive and therefore cannot be disastrous. It's basic math."
"That's not how math works."
"That's how girl math works."
He stares at me for a long moment, something soft and incredulous in his expression.
Then he's standing, shaking his head with resigned fondness.
"Alright, we're going. Up you get."
"I can walk," I insist, sliding off the barstool with complete confidence. My legs have other ideas, going wobbly like a newborn colt's. "Mostly."
"Nope." Before I can process what's happening, he's bending down and scooping me up, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back. "Not dealing with you face-planting on these stairs."
"This is kidnapping," I inform him, but I'm already wrapping my arms around his neck because the world is spinning and he's very solid. "Alpha kidnapping. That's probably double illegal."
"You can file a complaint in the morning." He nods to the bartender and heads for a door marked 'Private' that leads to a narrow staircase. "Right now, you're going upstairs without breaking your neck."
I consider protesting more, but being carried is actually nice.
His shirt smells like him—smoke and cinnamon and that particular scent that makes my hindbrain purr with contentment.
So instead of fighting, I occupy myself with lightly kicking my legs, watching my feet move through the air like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen.
"You're being very still," he observes as we reach the top of the stairs. "That's concerning."
"I'm being have," I correct, then frown. "I'm behaving. Being have. Having been good."
"Sure you are." He manages to open the suite door while still holding me, which is impressive. The room is clean and basic—queen bed with white linens, small seating area, everything in shades of beige and brown. "Bathroom's through there."
He sets me down carefully, hands lingering on my waist until he's sure I'm steady.
The room only spins a little, which I count as a victory.
"Go pee," he instructs, gently steering me toward the bathroom. "And whatever else you need to do so you can sleep."
"You're very bossy," I inform him, but I'm already heading for the bathroom because he's right and I do need to pee. "Bossy Alpha with your carrying and your instructions and your stupid pretty eyes."
"My eyes are stupid?"
"Stupidly pretty. It's different." I wave him away from the bathroom door. "Go away now. I need privacy for human things."
He shakes his head, but he's smiling as he steps back.
"I'll be right here. Don't fall in."
"I'm not that drunk," I protest, closing the door with as much dignity as I can muster.
The bathroom is blessedly normal—white tile, clean towels, no spinning. I handle my business, wash my hands twice because I forget I already did it the first time, and catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Oh boo.
My dress is wrinkled beyond salvation, there's a suspicious stain near the hem that might be barbecue sauce from those wings, and I smell like a combination of bar, truck, and desperation.
When did I become this person? This messy, giggly disaster who gets carried up stairs and admits out loud that her Alpha has pretty eyes?
"Shower," I decide, already struggling with the dress zipper. "Quick shower, then sleep, then tomorrow I'll be mortified like a proper person."
The dress puddles on the floor, followed by everything else.
The water is perfect—not too hot, not cold, just right for washing away the film of the day.
I use the complimentary shampoo that smells like nothing, scrub myself pink with the tiny bar of soap, and feel marginally more human by the time I shut off the water.
That's when I realize my crucial error.
"Towel," I mutter, staring at the rack where one lonely hand towel hangs. "Where are the body towels?"
I check the cabinet under the sink, behind the door, even the shower itself in case I missed them. Nothing. Just the one tiny towel that might dry approximately one arm if I'm lucky.
"Okay. Okay, it's fine." I use the hand towel to get the worst of the water, then crack the door open. "Mavi? Slight problem."
"What's wrong?" His voice is closer than expected, like he's been hovering.
"No towels. But it's fine! I'll just..." I trail off, realizing I have no end to that sentence.
Air dry? Put the dirty dress back on? Hide in the bathroom forever?
Before I can decide, survival instincts take over.
I dart out of the bathroom, making a beeline for where I remember seeing the bed. If I can just get under the covers?—
"Jesus Christ, Willa!"
I freeze mid-stride, suddenly very aware that I'm completely naked and dripping water on the carpet.
Mavi has his back to me, one hand over his eyes for good measure, his whole body rigid with tension.
"I'm trying to dry off!" I defend, hands attempting to cover things that definitely need more than hands to cover. "It's a process!"
"You're gonna slip and break something," he says through gritted teeth. Without looking, he reaches for something on the chair—his flannel from earlier—and holds it out behind him. "Put this on before you hurt yourself."
I scurry forward and snatch the shirt, pulling it over my head gratefully. It falls to mid-thigh, soft and warm and smelling so strongly of him that my knees go weak for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.
"Is it safe?" he asks, still facing away.
"Define safe," I mutter, but louder I say, "Yes, I'm decent. Ish."
He turns slowly, like I might be lying, and something flashes across his face when he sees me drowning in his shirt.
His jaw works, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"Better," he manages. "Now go sit on the bed like a good girl before you find more trouble."
The words shoot straight through me, making me shiver.
"Yes, Alpha," I say, and I definitely don't mean for it to come out so breathy, don't mean to look up at him through my lashes like that.
He groans, running a hand through his hair. "You're gonna be the death of me, woman."
But there's fondness mixed with the exasperation, warmth beneath the frustration. I climb onto the bed, tucking my legs under me, feeling oddly proud of myself for reasons I can't quite articulate.
Maybe it's the whisky or it's the way he looks at me like I'm driving him crazy in the best way.
It's just nice to be someone worth going crazy over.
He approaches the bed with the measured steps of someone approaching a wild animal, or maybe a bomb—something dangerous and unpredictable that might explode if handled wrong. His eyes never leave mine, green gone dark in the low light of the single lamp.
Every step closer makes my heart beat faster, makes the shirt feel thinner, makes me hyperaware of how much skin is bare beneath the soft flannel.
"You going to sleep like a good Omega?" His voice is carefully controlled, but I can hear the strain underneath, the way he's holding himself back.
I pout, an exaggerated expression that I've never let myself make before—too childish, too manipulative, too Omega. But here, now, with whisky courage and his shirt warm against my skin, I let my lower lip push out, eyes going wide and pleading.
"Not tired anymore," I say, and it's true. Every nerve is singing, every cell suddenly, brilliantly awake. I tilt my head, looking up at him through my lashes, giving him those eyes I've discovered are his weakness. "Don't want to sleep."
His hands clench at his sides, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
"Willa." My name comes out like a warning, like a prayer. "If you keep looking at me like that..."
"What?" I challenge, pupils dilating further, making my eyes go soft and wanting. "What will happen?"
"I'm going to have to see how you look with my cock deep in your mouth." The words are rough, stripped of any pretense or gentleness.
Raw want bleeding through his careful control.