Chapter 38 – PLAGUE
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
PLAGUE
Istare warily at the bright pastel storefront with its flowing script sign reading Omega's Touch.
Butterflies and flowers frame the name, because of course they do.
The display windows feature mannequins in loungewear and lingerie, and what appears to be a nest-building demonstration area with various fabrics and pillows.
It's the omega equivalent of a Victoria's Secret, and I'm going to have to walk in there with Whiskey of all people. An absolute barbarian.
"Oh, don't get your designer panties in a twist," Whiskey says, slamming the passenger door of my car with enough force to make me wince. "You act like you've never been in an omega supply store before."
"I haven't," I reply curtly, locking the car with a press of the key fob. "There's never been a reason."
Whiskey's eyebrows shoot up as he falls into step beside me. "Seriously? Not even for a hookup?"
"Unlike you, I don't keep a stockpile of heat supplies on the off chance I might get lucky."
He grins like I've just paid him a compliment instead of insulting him. "You think I get that lucky, huh?"
"I think you're delusional if that's what you took from my statement."
The automatic doors slide open, releasing a wave of artificial scents so concentrated I have to pause to adjust. They're clearly not meant for alphas. Smells like vanilla cake. Vanilla cake that was microwaved long enough to go nuclear.
I should've worn my mask. That would help. Unfortunately, it's such a normal part of my attire that I'm instantly recognizable with it on, even at a distance.
"Looks like the order's not ready yet," Whiskey says, studying his phone. "They just sent a notification. Fifteen minutes."
Perfect. Fifteen minutes trapped in omega heaven with a packmate who's been making increasingly inappropriate comments since we left the house. The universe truly despises me today.
"We'll wait by the pickup counter," I say, turning toward the back of the store.
Whiskey snags my arm, his hand warm even through the fabric of my sleeve. I shirk away from him. "Come on, we have time to browse," he says. "Let's make sure we're getting everything Ivy needs."
"Ivy placed a specific order through the app. She doesn't need us interfering with her selections."
"What if she forgot something?"
"She's a grown woman who has managed her heats for years, Whiskey. I think she knows what she needs."
He's already wandering down an aisle, completely ignoring me. "Dude, they have every kind of nesting material here." He picks up a bundle of silk scarves in various shades of blue and green. "Hey, these would match her eyes!"
"Put those down," I hiss, glancing around to make sure we're not drawing attention. An employee in a lavender polo shirt is already eyeing us from behind a nearby display. "We're here to pick up the order. Nothing more."
Whiskey ignores me again, moving to the next display. "Oh man, check these out." He holds up a set of heat-relief patches. "Extra strength, ultra-cooling."
I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. "Whiskey—"
"And these!" He grabs a bottle of scent neutralizer. "For after heat so you don't smell like—" he checks the label, "—'a walking pheromone factory.' That might be good for the pack house with Valek around."
The employee is definitely watching us now, her head tilted in a sympathetic omega way that makes me want to disappear into the floor.
"What do you think of these nest liners?" He holds up a package of what appears to be absorbent pads with an obscenely detailed diagram of their placement beneath naked cartoon people that look like they're playing a drunken game of Twister. "Ultra absorbent for when things get intense."
The employee approaches, her scent gentle and calming, clearly meant to soothe an omega in distress.
Me.
She thinks I'm the omega.
"Can I help you find anything?" she asks, directing the question to me while giving Whiskey a slightly wary glance. "We have a private consultation room if you'd like to discuss your specific needs."
Whiskey coughs to cover a laugh.
"We're fine," I say, my voice coming out more strained than I intended. "Just waiting for an order."
"Of course," she says kindly. Too kindly. "First heat with your alpha?"
Whiskey makes a choking sound.
"He's not my alpha," I say, feeling heat crawl up my neck despite my best efforts. "We're just—"
"Friends," Whiskey cuts in, slinging an arm around my shoulders. "Really close friends picking up supplies for an... upcoming cycle."
"Well, your 'friend' is very thoughtful," she says, smiling sweetly at Whiskey. "And I know you're just friends, but we actually have an inclusive support group for male alphas with male omegas that meets here every other Tuesday, if you know anyone who's interested."
Oh, how wonderful. She doesn't believe him. Not only that, she thinks he's fucking me.
"How fascinating," Whiskey says, looking like Christmas has come early. "Isn't that fascinating, honey?"
I'm going to murder him. Slowly. With something dull and rusty, and I'm going to make sure it hurts.
I remove his arm from my shoulders and step away. "I need to check on our order."
"He gets emotional," Whiskey stage-whispers to the employee. "The mood swings are—"
"We're here to pick up an order," I cut in, loud enough that several customers turn to look. "Order number thirteen."
The employee's eyes widen in recognition, and she studies our faces more carefully. "Oh! Oh my goodness, you're from the Ghosts team! Plague and Whiskey!"
This is somehow worse.
"In the flesh," Whiskey confirms, flashing that easy smile that melts fans' underwear right off. "Sorry about the confusion."
"No, I'm sorry!" she gushes, her professional demeanor dissolving into excitement.
"I shouldn't have assumed—I mean, you were showing him those omega supplies, and with all the scents in the air, I couldn't tell you were both alphas, and—you look so different without your mask, Plague!
" She stops herself mid-ramble, blushing. "Um. Let me check on your order."
And yet she still assumed I was the omega.
Another employee comes up with her mouth hanging open. "The team is courting an omega? Who's the lucky girl?"
"Or guy," the first employee adds hastily.
The question hangs in the air between us. I can feel Whiskey about to say something catastrophically stupid, so I cut in quickly.
"No, nothing like that," I say smoothly. "We're picking up supplies for my sister." The lie rolls off my tongue easily. "She's going through a difficult time, and I promised to help."
Whiskey shoots me a look that clearly says what the fuck? I ignore him.
"Well, that's very thoughtful of you both," she says, but I can tell she doesn't fully believe me. "Let me check on that order for... your sister."
"I didn't think he had a sister," a customer says as she walks up to ogle us, not quite keeping her voice low enough.
"To be fair, Plague is the opposite of an open book," says her friend.
Here comes another. Fuck. At least they're talking amongst themselves and staying away from us. They giggle about something behind their hands, glancing up at us before dissolving into giggling whispers again.
Whiskey snorts next to me.
Yep. He's going to die tonight.
The employee returns, still looking slightly starstruck. "Your order will be ready in just a minute. They're finishing packing everything." She hesitates, then adds, "Can I ask you something? It's a bit... personal."
Here we go.
"Shoot," Whiskey says before I can stop him.
"I was at your game against the Wolves last month, and I couldn't help but notice..." She glances between us. "The way you two work together on the ice is amazing. There's this chemistry that just... well, a lot of us fans think you'd make a really good couple."
I stare at her, momentarily speechless.
"You know, I'm personally more into shipping the brothers, but I might be a convert now," she continues, growing more animated.
My eye twitches. "The... brothers?"
"Thane and Wraith," Whiskey clarifies.
The cursed mental image that flashes unbidden in my mind is bad enough to give me cold spots. "I can assure you," I say with as much dignity as I can muster, "that I'm not attracted to alphas, and if I were, it wouldn't be Whiskey. Whiskey and I are not together."
Whiskey grins at her. Or at me. I can't tell and I don't care.
"If you say so," she says in a sing-song. "Let me go grab your order. They just pinged me."
The moment she's out of earshot, I round on Whiskey. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Having fun," he says simply. "It's good for PR to keep the fans guessing."
I’m about to threaten him with how quickly I could go nuclear on his “PR” when the employee returns with two large bags and a box. "Here's everything in the order." She hands me the receipt with a shy smile. "I threw in some extra heat relief patches. On the house."
"Thank you," I say stiffly, taking the bags while Whiskey grabs the box.
"Good luck with your 'sister,'" she says with a knowing wink.
I growl and head straight for the door, pushing through it with my shoulder and breathing in the blessed fresh air of the parking lot. I stride toward the car as Whiskey trails behind me, desperate to put as much distance between myself and that store as possible.
"So," Whiskey starts to drawl as I pop the trunk and he drops the box in.
"Shut up." I shove the bags in alongside the box and slam the trunk shut with more force than necessary, narrowly missing his fingers as he jerks his hands out of the way.
"Geez, Plague, chill—"
"Get in the fucking car."
I move to open the driver's side door, but Whiskey blocks my path, forcing me to stop short.
We stand there for a moment, too close, his broad body radiating heat in the evening air.
His cinnamon-tinged scent is stronger without the overwhelming artificial sweetness of the omega store surrounding us.