Chapter 6 #2
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She’s drowning in career shit and trust issues. You think she’s gonna hear three bounty-hunting Alphas say ‘You’re ours’ and clap her hands like it’s Christmas?”
Chris shrugs. Kane half chuckles.
I want to hit them both.
“I think biology is gonna make the call before her brain gets there,” Kane adds. He crosses his arms, a tank of a man, blocking the only exit. “Her heat will show sooner or later. Better she’s with us than alone. Or worse, handled by some random asshole who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.”
The image punches every rational thought straight out of my skull. Some unknown Alpha’s hands on her. Her in heat. My teeth grind loudly enough that Chris raises a brow.
“Easy,” he drawls, fighting a grin. “Thought you were the patient one.”
“Since when?” Kane shoots back.
“Since,” I say, adjusting the stupid hat, bells jingling like a damn mockery, “I realized scaring her off would be the dumbest shit we could do. She’s skittish. One wrong move and she’ll run.”
Kane nods. “So we play it careful. Get close. Let her settle. Wait for the right moment.”
I hate how reasonable that sounds. “Exactly,” I admit out loud. Though, inside, every instinct is clawing at me, telling me to find her, put my scent on her, make sure the whole damn world knows she’s not fair game.
Chris shoots a look between us.
“So… careful?”
I shrug. “Careful-ish. She’s an Omega, not a porcelain figurine. But yeah. Slow enough that she doesn’t think we’re hunting her.”
Kane’s mouth kicks up like he’s already ruining the plan. “We are hunters.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But not for her. Not unless she asks real nice.”
Chris whistles low. “Fuck, she’s gonna kill us.”
“Probably,” I mutter. “And I’ll still hold her fucking hand while she does it.”
Kane snorts out a laugh, the tension easing just a little. But under it, beneath the jokes, the pacing, the swearing, we’re all thinking the same thing. If she’s ours… we’re making her ours.
The door opens, and Hannah strolls in, all smiles. Every thought in my head evaporates.
She’s wearing the elf costume, she has no idea how good it fits her.
The dress is green, fitted from a sweetheart neckline that showcases her breasts, that impossibly small waist. It flares at the hips, the skirt hitting mid-thigh and showing off legs covered in red-and-white-striped tights. Little boots with bells complete the look.
Her dark hair is down, waves falling past her shoulders, and she put glitter on her cheeks. She looks like every fantasy I didn’t know I had wrapped up in festive packaging.
I’m staring. We’re all gawking.
“Well?” She does a little spin, bells jingling, and the skirt flares enough to show more thigh. “What do you think?”
None of us can answer.
My mouth is hanging open. My brain is completely offline. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to cross the room and—
“That good, huh?” Her laugh is nervous, and she’s blushing now, that pretty pink climbing her cheeks. “Come on, we need to get out there. The client is about to open the gates.”
She takes a quick glance at Chris in his Santa suit, then at Kane and me in our elf costumes. Her eyes linger down our bodies, widen slightly, then jerk away.
She loves what she sees. I grin widely.
“Let’s go,” Hannah calls from the doorway, grinning back at us. “Time to spread Christmas cheer.”
We file out into the petting zoo area, and immediately chaos erupts.
“SANTA!”
“LOOK, ELVES!”
“ARE THOSE REAL REINDEER?”
Kids are screaming, parents are laughing, and everyone is trying to get through the gates at once. Hannah is managing the flow, directing families to different areas, explaining the rules about gentle touching and supervised feeding.
I’m stationed near the reindeer section. My job is to make sure overexcited kids don’t pull tails or try to climb on backs. Rook and Bishop are tolerating the attention, probably because Hannah snuck them extra treats earlier.
The next two hours pass in a blur of explaining reindeer facts, preventing disasters, and trying not to think about how ridiculous I look in this costume.
A little boy tugs on my tunic. “Mr. Elf, are these Santa’s reindeer?”
I crouch down to his level. “They’re in training.”
His eyes go huge. “For pulling the sleigh?”
“Exactly. Very intensive training program. They have to pass several tests.”
“Like what?”
Shit. I’m in too deep now. “Flying. Navigation. Cookie taste-testing.”
“Cookies?”
“How else do you think Santa knows which cookies are worth eating? The reindeer test them first.”
He runs off to tell his parents, and I notice Kane watching me from the goat section, grinning.
Around noon, I spot the demographic shift in visitors.
Fewer kids are coming through the gates. More women in their twenties and thirties, traveling in groups, giggling and pointing.
At us.
One approaches me while I’m refilling a water trough for the reindeer. “Hi! Can I get a photo with you?”
I straighten. “Sorry, no photos.”
“Why not?”
“Elf union rules.” The lie comes easily. “We can’t have our images posted online. Ruins the magic.”
“Oh.” She looks disappointed. “That’s too bad. You’re really hot.”
“Thanks?” I step back, creating distance. “Enjoy the reindeer.”
She lingers for another minute, clearly hoping I’ll change my mind, then moves on when I don’t.
This happens four more times in the next hour.
Chris is getting swarmed near the miniature horse, women lining up to sit on Santa’s lap. Kane is surrounded by them, and they are ostensibly interested in the goats but keep finding excuses to touch his arms and ask about his workout routine.
I catch Hannah watching from across the pen, and I swear there’s jealousy in her expression. Possessiveness.
I like it.
A lot.
She moves past me to check the goats, pretending she isn’t paying attention, but her gaze keeps drifting my way like she’s tracking a threat she hasn’t decided whether to run from or tackle.
I lean in just enough to brush her space.
“You keep looking at me,” I murmur. “I’m flattered, but you’re gonna hurt yourself if you stare that hard. ”
Her cheeks warm immediately, which tells me everything. “Relax,” she says, lifting her clipboard like it’s a shield. “I was making sure you weren’t losing any children.”
“Pretty confident that’s not what you were noticing,” I say, smiling because she’s cute when she tries to play it cool.
She exhales like I’m exhausting, then mutters, “It’s a small pen. You’re loud. My eyes had nowhere else to go.”
“They could’ve gone anywhere, sweetheart.
They picked me.” I wink, and she gives me the look women give men right before either kissing them or threatening bodily harm.
For her, these might not be mutually exclusive.
She shakes her head and walks away, hips stiff, like she’s too aware that I’m watching.
Two hours later, I crouch to help a kid who dropped his feed cup. The moment I bend, I feel the fabric of my tights strain, then it gives with the kind of catastrophic rip that doesn’t ask permission. It detonates.
I freeze. Wind everywhere wind should not be.
I stand slowly, spine straight, fully aware the back of my pants is now a crime scene. Several heads turn. A mother gasps and covers her child’s eyes like I’ve summoned Satan.
Somewhere behind me, Hannah makes a sound like she just bit her fist to keep from laughing. I hear a choked “Oh, no,” but she’s absolutely delighted.
Chris, operating as Santa against his will, loses every ounce of composure. His laugh bursts out like he’s been shot. “Noel—holy—” He can’t finish. He’s doubled over. Bells jingling. Beard shaking. Useless.
I can’t move. I’m a statue of humiliation. This is how I die, ass out, surrounded by livestock and children with sticky hands. Not chasing a fugitive off a roof. Not wrestling a wanted criminal from a moving car. No. Exposed in a petting zoo while wearing elf tights.
A chicken stares at me like it’s judging me.
Hannah finally rushes over, stepping in behind me like she’s shielding a VIP from sniper fire, though I’m pretty sure she’s laughing behind her hand. “Okay. Inside. Before someone livestreams this.”
I mutter, “Pretty sure they already did,” and she steers me toward the elf house.
“Just walk,” she says, her voice a little breathless. She’s trying to be professional, but she’s pink in the cheeks and biting her lip, and for a moment, I’m not sure if she’s flustered or two seconds from laughing herself unconscious.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare pair of pants tucked in your bag of holiday miracles.”
“I’ve got a sewing kit,” she says. “That’s the best you’re getting.”
“I’d rather bleed out.”
“You’ll survive,” she says, guiding me through the door. “But if you don’t hurry, I’m going to lose it laughing, and then you’ll be on your own.”
I don’t doubt it.
The elf house door swings shut just as Chris calls after me, “Good news, your underwear is festive!”
I flip him off behind the door. I’m ninety percent sure he got a picture.
We duck inside, and the blessed quiet after all that crazy outside is almost as good as the air on my overheated face. Then I take off the elf tights.
Hannah digs through her backpack like she’s defusing a bomb. “Needle… thread… miracle patch kit—yes. Knew I packed you.” She turns toward me and freezes.
Her gaze drops to my underwear. Then a strangled noise escapes, somewhere between a laugh and a tiny death. “So…” she says, eyes sparkling, “festive briefs, huh?”
“They were the only clean pair,” I mutter.
“They have candy canes on them.” She tries to keep a straight face and fails as she smiles. “This is… not the vibe I expected from a dangerous bounty hunter.”
“What vibe did you expect?” I pass her the tights.
“I don’t know. Something grim. Black. Maybe ‘I lift motorcycles to relax.’ Not… holiday-themed.” She sits, threading her needle, cheeks pink.