Chapter 7 #2
And somehow, even though I know their opinions are trash, even though I've done the therapy and the healing and the affirmations, even though I've built an entire life proving them wrong—the words still hurt.
They still have the power to make me feel small.
To make me question if maybe they were right.
Maybe I am too much. Too fat. Too happy. Too everything.
No. Stop. They don't get to do this. They don't get to take up space in my head anymore.
I left…survived…am thriving.
They're just bitter that I'm happy without them.
I turn to walk back to the bar, my professional smile plastered on my face even though it feels like it's cracking at the edges.
"Hey!" one of them calls after me. "Hurry up and get us some more pints! We'll be chugging these down fast, so keep 'em coming, sexy slave!"
More laughter. The kind that makes my skin crawl.
Sexy slave. Like I'm not even a person. Just an object for their entertainment.
I keep walking, ignoring them, but I know my smile is going to be fake for the rest of the night. The revelation that Jasper is here, that Kael's pack is in my safe space, has shattered the easy joy I usually feel when working at the bar.
How long until they figure out it's me? How long until this disguise fails and they recognize the Omega they threw away?
I make it back to the bar, my hands gripping the edge of the wooden counter harder than necessary. Walter is busy pulling drafts for another order, so I take a second to just breathe.
Don't let them get to you. They're not worth it. They're just sad, bitter Alphas who probably peaked in high school and never got over it. Their opinions don't matter.
You've built something amazing.
You're happy now.
They can't take that away from you.
"You shouldn't take shit like that."
The voice comes from my left—low and rough, with an edge that suggests the speaker has seen things most people only have nightmares about.
I turn to find an Alpha sitting on the stool next to where I'm standing, a half-empty pint of what looks like a dark stout in front of him.
He's dressed casually—dark jeans that fit him in that way that suggests either really good genetics or a lot of time at the gym, a black Henley that stretches across broad shoulders, and a chest that's clearly muscular, combat boots that have seen better days, and probably have stories to tell.
But it's the details that catch my attention and hold it.
His hair is dark—almost black in the dim lighting of the bar—but threaded through with these incredible silver-grey streaks that catch the twinkling fairy lights and seem to glow.
It's not the grey of aging, but something more striking, more intentional-looking.
The kind of coloring that makes you do a double-take.
His hair is slightly longer on top, styled in a casual way that suggests he ran his fingers through it and called it good.
His eyes though—his eyes are what really get me.
They're an unusual shade of green, almost olive with flecks of gold that seem to shift and catch the light depending on the angle.
Deep-set and intense, framed by dark lashes that seem unfair on someone so masculine.
There's wisdom in those eyes. And pain. The kind that comes from seeing things you can't unsee.
There's a hardness to his features too—like life has carved away anything soft, leaving behind sharp angles and carefully controlled expressions.
High cheekbones, a strong jaw with the shadow of stubble, a mouth that looks like it doesn't smile often, but probably should.
A small scar cuts through his left eyebrow, and there's another one along his jawline.
Dog tags hang from his neck, resting against the black fabric of his Henley.
The metal glints in the light—military issue, worn from years of use.
Veteran. Definitely military. Everything about him screams it—the bearing, the way he sits with his back to the wall and eyes on all the exits, the controlled way he moves.
But there's also a ridiculous Santa hat perched on his head—red and white and topped with a fluffy white pom-pom that bounces slightly when he moves.
It's completely absurd against his serious demeanor, like putting a party hat on a German Shepherd. The contrast makes him look less intimidating and more...approachable.
Like a guard dog wearing a party hat—still dangerous, but maybe he won't bite.
Okay, Rev. He's hot. He's very hot. Focus on not making a fool of yourself.
I try to smile, aiming for my usual brightness, but I can feel how it doesn't reach my eyes.
"It's fine. Just part of the job, you know?"
He pauses mid-drink, lowering his pint to the bar. Those olive-green eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes me feel seen in a way that's both comforting and terrifying.
He can see right through me. Through the smile, through the costume, through the act. One look and he knows I'm not fine.
"It's not easy," I admit, my voice quieter now, "when it's one of your ex's pack members talking shit."
Why did I tell him that?
Why am I being honest with a complete stranger?
What is it about this Alpha that makes me want to tell the truth?
His expression darkens, a storm cloud passing over those unusual eyes. He looks back at the table where Jasper and his friends are getting louder, their laughter more obnoxious.
"Was it the one trying to call you fat?"
I can't help the smirk that tugs at my mouth despite everything.
"Thick thighs save lives. But if a size six is fat, then fuck the world, because I swear the average size is like twelve to fourteen these days."
Something shifts in his expression—approval, or respect. He checks me out then, his gaze traveling down and back up in a way that should feel objectifying but somehow doesn't.
It feels... appreciative. Genuine.
"It shouldn't even matter what size you are," he mutters, his voice dropping lower. "But for the record? You're hot. And curvy thighs that can lock a man in a headlock are more than fine by me."
Oh. Oh my. Is the hot veteran Santa flirting with me? Should I flirt back? Is this appropriate when I'm working? Do I care?
I smile—genuinely this time, the expression reaching my eyes.
"Thank you. Really. I appreciate you trying to cheer me up."
I glance back at Jasper's table, watching them drain their pints with aggressive enthusiasm.
"I should probably get back. Those type of men get rowdy when they're kept waiting."
As if on cue, one of them shouts across the bar, "Oi! Silver-haired beauty! More pints! Now!"
I sigh, preparing to head back to face them again—
But before I can move, the Alpha's arm hooks around my waist.
Strong. Confident. Pulling me back effortlessly and guiding me to sit on his left knee.
What—
My face floods with heat immediately. I'm sitting on his lap. On this gorgeous veteran Alpha's lap.
In the middle of the bar.
Where everyone can see.
And his scent—
Oh god, his scent.
It hits me all at once, overwhelming and intoxicating.
Cedar and smoke—not the acrid smoke of cigarettes but the clean, woodsy smoke of a campfire under the stars.
There's something else too, something spicy like cardamom mixed with dark chocolate, rich and warm.
Underneath it all is gunpowder and metal, the scent of someone who knows weapons intimately, mixed with fresh bread that somehow makes the whole combination domestic instead of dangerous.
My whole body reacts. My hindbrain sits up and pays attention in a way it rarely does. My thighs clench involuntarily. Heat pools low in my belly.
This is rare. This level of instant attraction, this visceral response to an Alpha's scent. What is it about him that makes my body want to melt into his?
"Why don't you stay right here?" he says, his voice a low rumble against my back. "This Santa Claus would rather pay for one-on-one service."
He uses his free hand to pull out a hefty bill from his wallet—I catch a glimpse, and it's definitely a hundred—and slides it across the bar to Walter, who's watching this interaction with barely concealed amusement.
"That okay?" the Alpha asks Walter, his tone casual but with an underlying edge that suggests this isn't really a question.
Walter smirks, his eyes knowing. He's seen enough bar drama to recognize when an Alpha is staking a claim.
"Yeah, that works. I'll let them know she's busy attending to the elite drinkers of the night."
Elite drinkers. Walter is such a troublemaker. He's going to give me so much shit about this later.
I'm blushing so hard I can feel it in my ears.
"Aren't you scared he's gonna retaliate? That table is…they're not nice people."
His smile grows then—dangerous and predatory and absolutely devastating. His eyes darken to a deep forest green, the gold flecks catching the light. "I'm hoping he tries."
There's a pause, and then he adds, almost conversationally, "I've always wanted to be an evil Santa for Halloween, but I was called for training at the base. Missed the whole holiday. Shame, really."
He wants them to try something.
He's actively hoping for a fight.
And somehow that knowledge makes me feel safer than I have in months.
“But for reassurance,” he pauses and whispers in my ear. “I can fight.”
Fuck…an Alpha who will fight for me?
Why does that dare make me horny just by the thought of it?
His arm tightens around my waist—protective, possessive in a way that should probably bother me but doesn't. His hand rests just above my hip, his thumb brushing against my ribs through the velvet of my costume.
"Aren't you uncomfortable?" I ask, my voice coming out smaller than intended. "I probably smell bad. Bar sweat and spilled beer and—"
He leans in then, his nose brushing against the side of my neck where my scent gland is.
I feel him inhale slowly, deliberately, and my entire body goes rigid with awareness.
"You smell sweet as fuck, Ms. Claus," he whispers against my skin, his breath hot. "Like a cupcake I'd gladly eat."
Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Did he just—is he—I can't breathe. I literally cannot breathe. My face is on fire. My whole body is on fire. I'm going to combust right here in the middle of the bar.
We share a look—his eyes dark with interest, mine probably wide with shock and arousal—and I'm fighting so hard to keep my body under control. Because I can feel it happening. The slick. The way my body is responding to his proximity, his scent, his words.
If I gush any more slick, everyone in this bar is going to smell my arousal. The whole place will reek of turned-on Omega, and I'll never be able to show my face here again.
"I should—" I clear my throat, trying desperately to find my voice. "I should probably remind you that I don't do... uh... services like that. This is a bar, not a—"
He grins, and it transforms his entire face from dangerous to devastating.
"Good. I'd rather take you out on a proper date before we do anything else. But it's getting hard to think straight when I'm relatively tipsy and can smell just how much I'm affecting you, sweet ladybug."
Ladybug. He called me sweet ladybug. That's... that's actually adorable.
Why is the intimidating veteran Alpha being adorable?
I'm burning up. My skin feels too tight. My heart is doing acrobatics in my chest. And he leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers, "Am I the one making you wet, little ladybug?"
I cannot answer that question. If I answer that question, I will spontaneously combust and die right here, and they'll have to scrape what's left of me off this barstool.
My mouth opens, but no words come out.
Just a small, strangled sound that could be agreement or protest or both.
"Oi!"
The voice cuts through our moment like a knife.
Aggressive. Entitled. Familiar.
I look up to find Jasper standing near us, his face flushed with alcohol and irritation. The sharp citrus of his scent is spiked with anger now, cutting through the pleasant haze of cedar and smoke.
"I demanded service," Jasper says, his words slightly slurred. "She shouldn't be flaunting around with this half-ass Santa who can barely wear his hat properly. Get over here and do your job.”
Oh no, he's going to cause a scene. He's going to get violent. I've seen Jasper drunk before, and it never ends well.
The Alpha beneath me chuckles—low and dangerous, with absolutely zero fear.
"Well, sorry bud, but she's my Omega. So obviously I get special dibs on what's mine."
"You shouldn't let them talk to you like that," he murmurs, keeping his voice low enough that only I can hear. His thumb brushes against my ribs through the velvet, a small gesture of comfort. "You deserve better than that shit."
I turn slightly to look at him, my eyes slightly wide with surprise and something that hopefully looks like gratitude.
"It's complicated," I say softly.
"Life usually is."His Omega. He just called me his Omega. In front of Jasper. In front of everyone. My face is still angled away from Jasper's direct line of sight, hidden partially by the Alpha's body and the angle we're sitting, but—
"You're bullshitting," Jasper snarls. "She's just a bar worker. Not your anything."
He reaches forward, his hand extended to grab me—
Another hand shoots out, fast as lightning, stopping Jasper's wrist mid-reach.
I turn, surprised, and—
Nash?
The mechanic-lawyer from the elevator is standing right there, his hand wrapped around Jasper's wrist in a grip that looks casual, but I can see the whiteness of Jasper's knuckles, the strain in his expression.
And next to Nash is—
The maple-honey Alpha from the bookstore. The one who bought me the books.
The one with the soft smile and kind eyes who made my heart do fluttery things.
He's here.
They're both here.
All three of them. The veteran Alpha I'm currently sitting on, Nash with his motor oil and leather scent, and the bookstore Alpha with his maple-wood sweetness.
What is happening right now?
Nash tsks, his expression darkening into something dangerous. His voice drops into a tone that brooks absolutely no argument—the lawyer voice, probably, the one he uses when he's done being nice.
"Now, now, now. No other man touches our Omega. If you didn't know that, you're about to find out. But I'll give you saving grace if you're from out of town."
He pauses, his smirk widening into something predatory.
"Y'all folks always like to play stupid games to win even stupider prizes."