Chapter 25 Observations And Anticipation #2
Still operating under the assumption that time is limited, that we need to hurry, that efficiency is a priority.
Gregory's programming runs deep.
I frown, disliking the implication that she's still governed by constraints that no longer exist.
"It's not a rush," I correct gently but firmly. "We don't have pressing commitments requiring immediate return. No agenda beyond spending time together, enjoying activities, existing without constant time pressure."
Understanding flickers across her features—realization that she's been operating under outdated rules, that the urgency driving her behavior is an artifact from a pack that no longer controls her schedule.
"You're right," she admits quietly. "I'm actually not accustomed to not rushing home to be prompt. Gregory's pack had an unofficial curfew…needed to be back by six pm unless I had explicit permission and an approved reason for absence."
Curfew.
They imposed curfew on a grown woman with a demanding career.
Treated her like a teenager requiring supervision rather than an autonomous adult.
The medical professional in me catalogs this as additional evidence of controlling behavior patterns. The Alpha in me wants to track down Gregory and demonstrate exactly what happens to people who cage things meant to fly.
Focus on the present.
Can't change her past, but can shape her future.
"We don't operate that way," I state clearly, wanting zero ambiguity about our expectations.
"You're Omega, which means we're invested in your safety and well-being.
But you're also an adult with autonomy and interests.
If you want to take cooking classes that run past six pm, join a book club that meets in the evenings, or pursue any hobby that brings you joy. Those are your decisions to make."
Her eyes widen slightly—surprise evident, like she hadn't expected this level of freedom, like autonomy is a novel concept rather than a basic right.
"I don't actually have hobbies," she confesses with something approaching embarrassment. "Between work and pack obligations, never developed interests beyond professional competence and basic survival."
No hobbies.
A thirty-something woman with no hobbies because every moment was consumed by work and a relationship that demanded everything while providing nothing.
"Then we'll discover what you enjoy," I respond with certainty, already formulating plans. "Try various activities, expose yourself to options, see what captures your interest beyond firefighting and baking."
I gesture at the workspace, at the remnants of the class we'd just completed.
"You clearly loved the baking class. Genuine enthusiasm is evident in your participation, your laughter, and the way you engaged with the process."
Her smile is radiant—pleasure at being seen, at having preferences recognized and validated.
"It was amazing," she agrees enthusiastically. "The group activity aspect made it special—watching everyone work toward a common goal, seeing different skill levels and approaches, the shared satisfaction when things turned out well."
Or spectacularly poorly in Aidric's case.
"I particularly enjoyed seeing how concentrated Aidric and Calder became," she continues, amusement coloring her tone. "Both of them are so determined to succeed, competitive even in a baking context."
"They were quiet for once," I add with clinical observation. "First extended period of non-argumentative coexistence I've witnessed in years."
Blessed silence.
No bickering, no sniping, no passive-aggressive commentary.
Just focused on tasks requiring attention.
"The only other time they achieve that level of quiet cooperation is during dancing," I hear myself saying, medical professional detachment slipping as I share information that might be strategically useful.
Or just entertaining.
Probably both.
Wendolyn's reaction is immediate—eyes widening, mouth dropping open in expression of pure surprise.
"They dance?" The question emerges almost accusatory, like I've revealed classified information. "Both of them? Together?"
This is going to be good.
I can't suppress the chuckle that escapes, genuine amusement at her shock.
"Yeah. Aidric is exceptional at line dancing—won awards and competitions back in his youth, and maintains skills through regular practice. Calder excels at most forms of dance, but particularly club environments where he can demonstrate his natural dominance through movement."
I pause, considering how much to reveal.
"That's where their dynamic really shows—Aidric soaking up Calder's commanding presence like he's starving for it, Calder providing exactly the kind of direction Aidric craves without consciously acknowledging. Think that's a significant factor in why their relationship developed the way it did."
Dancing as foreplay.
Movement as communication.
Physical expression of desires they couldn't articulate verbally.
Wendolyn whistles—low, impressed sound that suggests wheels are already turning.
"Operation: Get The Alphas Line Dancing shall commence immediately," she declares with mock seriousness, plotting evident in her expression.
She's going to meddle.
Actively work to push them together.
This will either be brilliant or catastrophic.
Possibly both simultaneously.
I lean in, closing the distance until we're sharing air, my voice dropping to an intimate register.
"What operation are you planning to get my attention focused exclusively on you?"
Direct.
Extremely direct.
Warned her I don't do subtle.
Color floods her cheeks again—that delightful blush that makes me want to discover exactly how far down it extends, whether it covers her chest, her stomach, other areas I'm increasingly determined to explore.
"You're more direct than I expected," she breathes, clearly affected despite an attempt at composure.
"Most medical professionals observe before we act," I explain, hand coming up to trace her jawline with clinical precision disguised as a caress. "We watch, we assess, we gather data—then we pounce when optimal opportunity presents itself."
Like now.
Right now is an optimal opportunity.
Empty shop, privacy, Omega, who's been unconsciously inviting attention all afternoon.
I punctuate the statement with a wink, enjoying the way she shivers at the implication.
Margaret's voice calls from the back room, interrupting a moment that was rapidly approaching the point of no return.
"I have to run to the other side of town for special delivery!" Her words carry cheerful unconcern about leaving her shop in the hands of relative strangers. "Don't mind holding down the fort while I'm gone, do you?"
Perfect timing.
Absolutely perfect timing.
I straighten slightly, projecting professional competence while internally celebrating this development.
"We can handle that. Just baking cookies, which requires oven time and patience. Nothing we can't manage unsupervised."
Nothing we can't manage.
And several things we definitely can manage better without supervision.
Margaret emerges with purse and keys, already halfway to the door.
"Perfect! I'll lock up so you're not disturbed—your pack members mentioned they'd help fix the fence out back since it's been broken for months. So hard to find reliable help from young Alphas these days!"
Lock up.
She's locking us in.
Alone.
With complete privacy.
This day keeps improving.
She departs with a cheerful wave, the door chiming behind her. The distinctive sound of the key turning in the lock follows—a mechanical click that somehow sounds louder than it should, that emphasizes our sudden isolation.
I turn slowly, deliberately, finding Wendolyn's eyes already tracking my movement.
"So—" My voice carries weight that has nothing to do with cookies. "—are we baking cookies?"
Not actually asking about cookies.
Both of us know I'm not asking about cookies.
Her blush intensifies, spreading down her neck in ways that make me want to trace the path with my tongue.
She's taken off her apron at some point, leaving her in just the dress—thin fabric that's clearly revealing her body's reaction to our proximity, hard nipples evident through the material despite her attempt at casual posture.
She's affected.
As affected as I am.
Good.
She attempts boldness—leaning against the work counter with deliberate nonchalance, trying for seductive confidence despite obvious nervousness.
"Well, if you're really interested in baking, we could manage a quick side quest once the cookies are in the oven."
Side quest.
Gaming terminology for a sexual encounter.
She's actively propositioning me.
In a locked vintage shop.
While our pack fixes the fence outside.
I approach slowly, predator stalking prey that isn't actually trying to escape, each step measured for maximum impact.
My eyes track over her deliberately—clinical assessment transformed into obvious appreciation, medical professional detachment abandoned in favor of pure Alpha want.
"I don't think I can wait long enough to make these cookies to not fuck you, Wendolyn."