Chapter 18 #2
I shrug, reaching out to grip the bottom part of the dress and test if it'll close without too much of a fight. The fabric is soft under my fingers—some kind of velvet, maybe, or a very high-quality cotton. "If I said I did, would you call me cringe?"
"Hell no!" She sounds genuinely excited now. "I'd ask what season you've watched, because I've only reached four, so you have to wait for me to catch up."
She watches Bridgerton. She makes incredible coffee. She has a phoenix tattoo and gothic taste in fashion and a loyalty streak that most people would kill for.
This woman is a fucking treasure, and I'm increasingly annoyed that her ex-pack was too stupid to see it.
"Ahh, the Cinderella arc," I say, working the zipper slowly up her back. The teeth catch on the fabric for a moment before sliding smoothly.
She squeals and spins around before I can finish zipping, pressing her finger to my lips with an urgency that makes me freeze.
"Don't say a thing!" Her eyes are wide, pleading. "No spoilers. I mean it."
I chuckle against her finger, watching as the blush on her cheeks deepens. My eyes soften, and I do something I probably shouldn't—I press a kiss to her fingertip.
She goes redder. So red it's spreading to her ears.
"I'll save my season four virginity for you, then, Sweet Rebel," I murmur against her skin.
She yanks her hand back like she's been burned, huffing and crossing her arms. "Never mind! You're annoying me. Go away."
I laugh—can't help it. She's adorable when she's flustered. "I'll be good. Sorry." I hold up my hands in mock surrender. "Let me at least help you finish with the zipper."
She huffs again but spins back around, presenting her back to me once more. I close the remaining distance and finish pulling the zipper up, the metal teeth sliding into place with a soft click.
She turns to admire herself in the full-length mirror mounted on the changing room wall, and I watch her expression transform. The defensive huff fades into something softer. Something genuinely pleased.
"This is my favorite," she announces, doing a little spin that makes the skirt flare out around her knees. "This is definitely my favorite."
I take in the dress properly for the first time.
It's a deep burgundy—not quite red, not quite purple—made of some kind of material that catches the light and shimmers subtly as she moves.
The neckline is modest but flattering, and the skirt hits just above her knees with a playful hem.
It's sophisticated enough for a nice dinner but flirty enough for a date night.
It looks incredible on her. The color brings out the warmth in her skin and makes her eyes seem more gold than green. She looks like autumn personified—rich and warm and full of hidden depths.
Without thinking, I reach out and move her hair to the side, exposing the curve of her neck.
And that's when I see it.
A mark. Purple and fresh, clearly made within the last twelve hours. The unmistakable evidence of teeth and suction on delicate skin.
Tank's mark.
I can't stop myself from tracing the edge of it with my fingertip, watching goosebumps rise on her skin at the contact.
She blushes, her reflection in the mirror flushing pink. "Ah, that's... probably from last night. It'll fade, though, so no big deal—"
I'm not listening.
I don't know what comes over me. Maybe it's the warmth of her scent, thickening with something that smells like arousal as I touch her.
Maybe it's the way she looks in that dress, like something out of a dream I didn't know I was having.
Maybe it's the primitive part of my Alpha brain that sees Tank's mark and thinks mine too.
I've never been the possessive type. Never been the kind of Alpha who needs to mark his territory like a dog pissing on a tree.
But something about this woman—something about the way she fits into our pack like she was always meant to be here—makes me want to stake my claim.
Makes me want the world to know she's ours. All of ours.
Whatever it is, I move on instinct.
I lean in and press a firm kiss to the side of her neck—not on Tank's mark, but right beside it. She freezes, her breath catching audibly in the quiet of the changing room. But she doesn't pull away. Doesn't tell me to stop. Doesn't even tense up like she's uncomfortable.
If anything, she tilts her head slightly to give me better access.
So I don't stop.
I suck her flesh into my mouth, almost greedy in the way I work at her skin.
I use the edge of my teeth—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to ensure the mark will bloom.
Hard enough that everyone who looks at her will know she belongs to more than one Alpha.
I can taste the salt of her skin, can smell her scent intensifying as her body responds to the attention.
By the time I pull back, she's gawking at her reflection in the mirror. At the fresh love bite sitting pretty right next to Tank's, the skin already darkening from the pressure.
"Hmm," I say, admiring my handiwork. "Guess those Alpha hormones be taking away my logic."
She whirls on me, her blush extending all the way down her neck now—which, combined with the two marks, makes her look thoroughly claimed. "This has nothing to do with logic!" she sputters, gesturing at the two marks claiming real estate on her throat. "You were probably jealous!"
I shrug, completely unrepentant. "Maybe I was. I guess I got my revenge."
Revenge. Like it's a competition between packmates instead of shared appreciation for the same woman. But there's something satisfying about knowing my mark is there now too. Something that settles the Alpha in my chest.
She huffs—that adorable, frustrated sound I'm becoming increasingly addicted to—and crosses her arms. "You haven't even taken me on a proper date."
Valid point, Sweet Rebel. Valid point.
But instead of agreeing, I take a step forward. Close enough that I'm towering over her, using every inch of my height advantage. Close enough that when I lean in, our lips are barely a breath apart.
"So did Tank finesse you," I whisper, "or is he more your type?"
She blinks up at me, surprise flickering across her features. Then she huffs again. "It's not like... he's not my type."
"Mhmm." I let my voice drop lower, my lips brushing against hers as I speak. "Tank is your muscle daddy type."
She makes a sound—somewhere between a squeak and a laugh—but doesn't deny it.
I lean in further, and she tries to step back, but I'm faster. My hand finds the small of her back, pulling her close until there's no space between us. Until I can feel the rapid beating of her heart against my chest. Until she has no choice but to stare up into my eyes.
"But my observant mind tells me you like assertive men who don't waste time with pleasantries," I murmur.
"Men who aren't cocky fuckers about it. Men who know what they want and go after it without playing games.
" I let my thumb trace small circles on her lower back, feeling her shiver under the touch. "So where would I fit in?"
She pouts—but there's fire in her eyes. That bold, fearless streak that only seems to emerge when she's truly in her element. When she's challenged. When someone pushes back against her and she refuses to give ground.
There she is. There's the real Rosemarie—not the shy Omega who blushes when people look at her, but the fierce woman underneath who bit her ex-pack back until they bled.
And then she does something I absolutely don't expect.
She rises onto her tiptoes. She presses her lips firmly against mine. And then she bites.
Her teeth catch my bottom lip, tugging slowly—not hard enough to seriously injure, but hard enough to sting. Hard enough that I taste the faint copper of blood.
I don't dare move.
The tension between us is thick enough to drown in.
Electric enough to spark. I can feel every point where our bodies touch, can smell the way her scent has shifted from nervous to something darker.
Something that smells like want. Like challenge.
Like a woman who's decided to meet my energy with energy of her own.
She releases my lip slowly, watching with hooded eyes as a very tiny bead of blood begins to bloom.
"Right in between," she whispers, her voice low and husky in a way that goes straight to my cock.
Her eyes narrow, assessing me with an intensity that makes me feel exposed.
Seen. Catalogued and filed away in her memory.
"But you're like that dangerous underdog.
The kind you don't know if it’s going to hide in the shadows or bite. "
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
This woman. This bold, surprising, absolutely infuriating woman. She just bit me. Drew blood. And somehow made it the hottest thing that's happened to me in years.
I grin—probably looking unhinged, probably tasting blood on my teeth—and feel pride bloom in my chest. "Well, I'll take that as a compliment."
She smirks, clearly pleased with herself.
I lean in close, letting my lips brush against the shell of her ear.
"And I'd gladly take my Omega on a proper date," I murmur, "so that our changing room sessions can consist of me stripping that short lacy dress off you.
.." I pause, letting the words hang in the air, letting her imagination fill in the blanks before I continue.
"And letting you ride my cock the way you rode Tank's all night long. "
I pull back, feeling like I've won this particular round of our game. The look on her face is priceless—flushed and flustered and trying desperately to maintain composure. Her scent has gone thick and sweet with arousal, and I file that information away for later.
Good to know my words have an effect on her. Good to know I can match Tank's physical intensity with verbal precision.
Before she can respond, a knock sounds on the doorframe.
"Oh!" The shop owner's head appears around the corner, a kind-faced Beta woman with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses perched on her nose.
Her eyes land on Rosemarie, and she clasps her hands together with genuine delight.
"This dress turned out so nice! The color is perfect for your complexion, dear.
It brings out the warmth in your skin beautifully. "
I step back from Rosemarie, putting appropriate distance between us. Professional distance. Definitely-not-just-marking-this-woman's-neck distance. Definitely-not-just-whispering-dirty-things-in-her-ear distance.
"It does look incredible," I agree, smiling at the owner with what I hope is an innocent expression. "Actually, I was wondering—do you have this style in all colors? In stock, I mean?"
The owner's eyes light up—the look of a small business owner who's just realized she's about to make an excellent sale.
"Oh, yes! It would just take some time to find the inventory codes, and I'll need to step out to grab them from our sister store down the street.
" She considers for a moment. "Fifteen minutes at best."
"No rush at all," I say, keeping my voice casual. Easy. "Take your time. We're not in a hurry." I pause, meeting her eyes with what I hope reads as genuine gratitude. "But I want every color for my Omega."
My Omega. The words feel right in a way they shouldn't. Not for a temporary arrangement. Not for a woman I've known for less than a day. But they slip out naturally, like I've been saying them my whole life.
The owner nods happily, already moving toward the door. "I'll get right to it! Be right back, dears."
The little bell above the shop door chimes as she exits, and suddenly we're alone. Just me and Rosemarie and the thick tension still hanging between us. Just two people playing a game neither of us expected to start, in a changing room that suddenly feels very small and very private.
Fifteen minutes. The owner said fifteen minutes. That's a lot of time. That's enough time for...
No. Don't think about it. Don't let your mind go there.
I turn back to her, gesturing at the changing room. "You should go change. Unless you want to keep standing there looking devastatingly beautiful."
She huffs—but there's heat in her eyes as she walks toward the changing room. Heat and challenge and something that looks a lot like anticipation. Something that tells me the game between us isn't over—it's just entering a new phase.
She pauses at the doorway, looking back at me over her shoulder with an expression that makes my blood run hot.
"Well," she says, her voice dripping with challenge, "if you talk the talk so much, why don't you walk it, Chief, and take this dress off like you mean it?"
My jaw drops.
Actually, genuinely drops.
Did she just—?
She disappears into the changing room, the curtain swishing closed behind her. I stand frozen, processing her words, my brain short-circuiting as I try to comprehend what just happened. What she just said. What she just implied.
Did she really just challenge me to...?
And then I hear it.
The soft rustle of fabric. The quiet hum of her breathing. But no click. No metallic slide. No sound of a lock engaging.
She didn't lock the door.
She didn't lock the door.
My heart is pounding. My blood is rushing. Every Alpha instinct I have is screaming at me to follow her through that curtain and show her exactly what happens when she challenges me like that.
Which means one thing and one thing only:
An open invitation.