Chapter 18 Pine
PINE
"Hey," Sharon says as she walks into my studio, and her voice carries with it the kind of warmth that makes everything else in the room feel irrelevant.
"Down boys!" I shout as Vale and the other unbounded alphas still lingering around the shop start moving toward her like she's a three-course meal they've been waiting to devour.
Their pupils are dilated. Their scents spike.
Their bodies go rigid in that particular way that suggests they're about one moment away from losing whatever thread of control they're holding onto.
That's the problem when an unbonded omega walks around alphas and she's not taking her suppressants.
She makes them all hungry. There's something about Sharon's natural scent that calls to every alpha in a five-mile radius.
Strawberry and honey and something deeper, something that smells like home and belonging and all the things an alpha is hardwired to crave.
But me, I'm not hungry for any omega. I'm not even hungry for most omegas. I'm just fucking starving for Sharon.
"We've shut up shop!" I announce, shooing the other alphas away like they're stray dogs looking for scraps.
Vale catches my eye as he heads toward the back door, and I give him a look that says "don't you dare come back out here.
" He grins, flashing teeth, and disappears into the back room where I keep the private appointments.
The other alphas follow like they're on a leash.
The moment they're gone, the air in the studio shifts. It becomes clearer somehow, less crowded. More like just me and her in a room full of memories and ink and possibilities.
"You said you had something important to tell me," Sharon says as she draws closer to me, trying to put distance between herself and the alphas who definitely want to bite her. "And based on your expression, it's not good news."
"Help me close up first," I say, gesturing toward the front window where the fading afternoon light is casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. "And then we talk."
We work through the closing routine together.
I show her how to cover the tattoo chairs with fresh sheets, how to organize the ink bottles by color, how to wipe down the workstations.
She moves with purpose, asking questions when she doesn't understand something, listening when I explain.
There's something intimate about working alongside someone in silence.
Her scent wraps around me like smoke. Strawberry and honey and something deeper that's just her, just Sharon. My body responds immediately. My hands get warmer. My breathing gets heavier.
"You're good at this," she says softly as I show her how to sterilize the needles. "At organizing. At making things orderly."
"It's a requirement in this business," I explain, setting the sterilized needles into the proper containers. "If you don't keep things clean and organized, people get infected. They lose trust. In tattooing, like in life, you have to earn the right to mark someone permanently."
She looks up at me, and there's something in her expression that suggests she understands exactly what I meant by that.
"Do you do that often?" she asks. "Mark people permanently?"
"Only when they ask," I say. "Only when they're absolutely sure they want it. A tattoo is a promise made to yourself. I take that seriously."
We finish the closing routine, and I show her the portfolio wall where I've displayed some of my best work.
Intricate designs. Meaningful symbols. Pieces that represent significant moments in people's lives.
She studies each one carefully, running her fingers along the frames like she's trying to absorb the stories behind them.
"These are beautiful," she says, her voice soft with genuine appreciation. "You have real talent."
"Thank you," I say. I'm standing close to her now, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off her body. "You know, I've been thinking about designing something for you."
She turns to look at me, her eyes wide. "For me? A tattoo?"
"If you wanted one," I say carefully. "I know exactly what would suit you."
"Really?" she asks, and there's something playful in her voice now. "What would it be?"
I lead her over to one of the design stations and pull up a blank canvas on the tablet. I spend the next twenty minutes sketching while she watches, her chin resting on my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck.
"Okay," I say finally, turning the monitor toward her. "This is what I see when I think about you."
On the screen is a design of a phoenix, rendered in intricate detail. This isn't a traditional phoenix. This one has roses woven into its wings, and its tail feathers are shaped like question marks. There's movement to it, like it's caught mid-flight, mid-transformation.
"It represents rebirth," I explain. "The phoenix rises from the ashes.
It transforms itself. But it also carries the roses with it, which represent the beauty that comes from surviving something difficult.
And the question marks because you're still figuring out who you are.
You're still learning. You're still growing. "
She stares at the design in silence for a long moment. "That's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever designed for me," she says softly.
"I know you better than you think," I say quietly, and I move closer. I lower myself to one knee in front of her so we're at eye level.
"But here's the thing," I continue, reaching out slowly and giving her time to pull away. She doesn't. My hand finds her face, my thumb brushing across her cheekbone. “When you thought that something dodgy was happening with Ben and Penelope, you told us about it.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and then her eyes fill with tears. Not sad tears. Angry tears. Betrayed tears.
"I believed her when she said about her grandma,” she whispers.
I'm kneeling in front of her, my hands on her thighs, my scent mixing with hers. “She was using the situation. Those are different things. That's not the same as using you personally."
"Okay," she says.
I reach up and wipe a tear away from her cheek with my thumb. "I know it feels like that. But you're stronger than this. You're Sharon Martinez, and you're fucking incredible."
She laughs, a shaky, wet sound. "You barely know me."
"I know you well enough to know that you care about people,” I say. I'm still on one knee in front of her, holding her face like she's something precious.
"How?" she asks softly.
"Because I've been paying attention," I say simply. "Since the moment you started planning your ex’s wedding. Most people would have walked away, but you did it, because you promised Savannah and because you’re a professional.”
She reaches down and tangles her fingers in my hair, and suddenly I'm kissing her. It's not tentative. It's not asking permission. It's a statement. My hands slide from her face to her waist, and I pull her closer. She's standing now, and I'm still on one knee.
She pulls back first, breathing hard. "Pine, I can't do this right now. Savannah depends on me for the wedding, and so far I’ve been acting like some cry baby and not being professional about it all. I need to be. Savannah handed me her business.”
"I know," I say, and I mean it. "But that doesn't mean I'm going anywhere. That doesn't mean I'm not here if you need me."
"I need to go," she says finally. "I need to get back to the hotel and process all of this."
"I'll drive you," I say immediately, standing up and extending my hand to help her to her feet.
She takes it, and the moment our skin touches, electricity sparks between us. It's intense. It's immediate.
We gather our things in silence, and I flip the sign on the door from open to closed. I lock up the studio, and the two of us head out into the December evening. The sun has already set, and the street is lined with Christmas decorations. Lights twinkle in the darkness.
"No suppressants," she says softly as we walk toward my truck, staring at the pavement like it's the most interesting thing in the world. "I stopped taking them this morning."
"I know," I say. "I can smell it. You smell incredible. You smell like something I want to spend the rest of my life around."
"I smell like an unbonded omega hanging around alphas," she corrects, a hint of amusement in her voice despite the heaviness of the conversation we just had.
"You smell like Sharon," I say simply. "And that's all that matters to me."
I drive her back to the hotel, my hand resting on her thigh the entire way.
Her fingers play with the fabric of my jeans, light and careful.
We don't talk much. Just exist in the comfortable silence of two people who've already said the important things.
The heat from the vents fills the truck.
The radio plays soft indie music that neither of us is really paying attention to.
When I finally pull up to the curb in front of Pine Inn, I turn off the engine and turn to face her.
"I'm not asking for anything," I say. "I'm just telling you that I'm here. If you need to talk about any of this, if you need help with the wedding, if you just need someone to sit with you while you fall apart, I'm here. No pressure. No expectations. Just here."
"I know," she says softly. She leans over and kisses me one more time, a soft brush of her lips against mine that feels like promise. Like possibility. "Thank you. For telling me. For helping me. For being here. For caring about your grandfather enough to protect him even when it's complicated."
"That's what pack does," I say. "We protect our own."
"Am I your own?" she asks quietly, vulnerability clear in her voice.
I reach out and tuck a loose curl behind her ear, my fingers lingering on the soft skin of her cheek. "You're becoming it. Every day, every moment we spend together, you're becoming mine. And I'm becoming yours. That's how this works."
She smiles, sad and hopeful at the same time, and then she's leaving the truck. I watch her walk into the hotel, watch her disappear through the glass doors, watch her press her hand against the window as she looks back at my truck one more time.
I sit there for a long moment, breathing in the lingering scent of her that's still heavy in the cab of my truck. Strawberry and honey and something warm. Something that smells like home.
My phone buzzes. A text from Cassian: "How'd she take it?"
I type back: "She's processing. But she's not running. That's good enough for now."
Another text comes through, this time from Jett: “We have to visit Grandpa."
I stare at that text for a moment, and then I start the truck and pull out of the parking lot.
There's work to do. But right now, in this moment, driving through the cold December night with the scent of strawberries and honey still clinging to my clothes, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time.
Hope.
Maybe, just maybe, this is all going to work out the way it's supposed to.