ELIANO #3
Both betas stand up and head for the dance floor. At the moment, they are the only beta plus beta pair out there. The rest are couples from earlier unit numbers, at least as far as I can tell.
Salt and Roman start out with fast, lively music. They bounce around and clown a little, loosely holding hands. Roman is a bit taller than Salt, around six foot two, so he leads. He lifts their joined hands, making Salt spin, wobbling slightly as he does.
I keep my eyes on Salt. To be fair, even though he is quite drunk, he still moves well. There is a pleasant lightness and flexibility in his motions that sends a faint shiver through my abdomen, sliding downward toward my groin.
That is when I notice that Salt did not wear his flattener tonight. Through the thin fabric of his white tank top, the raised outlines of his nipples are clearly visible.
Great. Now that I have noticed them, my gaze keeps drifting back there. His slim hips sway to the music, Salt lifts his arms, and his bare, shaved armpits draw my eyes in as well. His tank top rides up, revealing a flat, pale stomach with subtle definition and a slim waist.
His body really does look like a work of art, and the way he moves… damn. Am I imagining it, or is it getting more and more erotic?
For one second, my gaze slides sideways, toward Sidorov.
He’s staring at my dancing beta with a strange, dark smirk, like a shadowed version of Miller’s and Pip’s usual grins, only far more unsettling.
I shake off the unpleasant feeling quickly.
I refuse to let myself get distracted when something far more tempting is moving across the dance floor.
Salt holds my attention completely. He looks at me provocatively, then reaches a hand toward me, curls a finger upward, and makes a few teasing, beckoning gestures.
But I firmly shake my head. He pouts, then turns back to dancing with Roman.
The next song is much slower. Couples press close to each other. Evan and I both keep staring at the dance floor.
Salt slides closer to Roman, glancing in my direction at the same time, then drapes himself over Roman, looping his arms around the other beta’s shoulders.
I notice Roman’s look flick briefly toward us, uncertain, with a faintly apologetic smile.
Salt, however, has no intention of apologizing.
He hangs off the taller beta openly, pressing his body tight against Roman’s.
I glance at Evan. He returns the look, just as uncertain. Neither of us seems to know how we are supposed to react to this.
I am almost sure that Salt does not feel sexual attraction toward betas or omegas.
You can usually sense things like that. But that is not really the point.
This whole act feels more like a challenge aimed at me, and possibly even at Evan.
A testing of boundaries that only someone very drunk would dare.
Roman, however, clearly does not want to take part in this kind of strange game. As soon as the music shifts back into something more dynamic, with a samba-like rhythm, Roman lets Salt go, says something to him, then turns and leaves the dance floor.
But to my surprise, Salt does not come back to the table.
Instead, he turns and notices a passing waiter carrying mineral water. The dancing must have overheated him. He grabs a cup and lifts it to his lips, but at that moment a couple dancing behind him, already fully caught up in the samba rhythm, bumps into him. The water spills all over his chest.
Salt snorts with drunken laughter, tosses the cup to the floor, and goes right back to dancing.
His behavior starts to draw more and more attention, not only from people watching the dance floor, but also from some of those dancing nearby.
The samba rhythm turns wild, intensely erotic.
Salt raises his arms, spins around in small steps, rolling his hips left and right, forward and back, jerking.
From time to time he leans slightly forward, sticking out his ass, twerking, then lifts his arms again.
His wet shirt clings to his chest, and the fairly harsh white-yellow lights set up around the dance floor make the dark outline of his large nipples clearly visible beneath the fabric.
I try to ignore the fact that my pants are uncomfortably tight as I watch this display of sensual, though drunken, dancing. He does not seem fully aware of what he is doing. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back, his body swaying and rippling to the hot tunes.
Unfortunately, his very provocative behavior starts to attract the attention of more and more alphas. Some of the betas, meanwhile, are looking at him with open hostility.
I feel my anxiety rising. This situation could easily spiral out of control, despite the presence of betas.
The problem is simple: betas are not omegas.
The couples here are not mated in the way alphas and omegas would be, with gland biting during heat that allows an omega to regulate an alpha’s sexual behavior to some extent, and vice versa.
The betas without mating bonds have no way to calm or regulate the aroused libido of alphas through toning down the pheromones.
That is one more reason why cheating between betas and alphas is far more common than between alphas and omegas. They lack the pheromonal connection, that powerful bonding that gland marking provides, which greatly reduces the arousal toward others.
Meanwhile, Salt sinks even deeper into his erotic trance. His fingers slide over his chest, over his wet, stiff nipples, then trail down his stomach and even brush his groin.
That seems to be the last straw. One of the alphas dancing nearby suddenly lets go of his beta, turns toward Salt, and grabs him by the waist, pulling him close while leaning toward his neck glands, snuffling loudly.
In a split second, I am on the dance floor. There won’t be any scenting over my beta, not under my watch.
With a brutal, fast shove, I knock the alpha to the ground. I do it so quickly that he does not even have time to cry out. But it is already too late. Erotic tension mixed with aggression is the worst possible combination for young alphas. A double hormonal burst.
Nearby alphas release their partners almost in unison. Some of those betas start shouting in fear, others try to grab and restrain them, all of it useless.
Only another alpha can stop an alpha.
At least four or five men move toward Salt. Their pupils are blown wide, and that is when I realize that the delicate, subtle scent of pheromones Salt had been producing earlier now seems stronger. From dancing, his body has grown warm and damp with sweat, the scent intensifying, spreading.
There is also a specific, faint candy note layered into it, something I have only rarely encountered in my life, yet every alpha recognizes it on a biological level. One that makes alphas frenzied, feral, and unstoppable.
The scent that means heat is on its way.
A cold wave of fear rolls over me.
Even the smell of pre-heat can be intensely stimulating for alphas, especially inexperienced ones. Almost everyone here is under twenty-five, which only makes things worse and heightens their reactivity.
The next few seconds are very busy for me.
My strikes are precise. I congratulate myself internally for not drinking.
And because I know I have to disable each of them with basically a single blow, my focus sharpens like a blade.
I do not have time for grappling when five guys are charging at me at once.
I have to slip into the mindset of stepping into a ring.
Every hit has to be full force. Every hit has to land exactly where it should.
So I strike. One. Another. A third. I put everything into it, forgetting for a moment that these are not trained fighters. I’m like a well-oiled machine. Thirteen years of daily training finally find their use.
They go down like sacks of potatoes.
Suddenly, I hear a shout behind me.
It’s Jeff, who has also jumped up and rushed to the edge of the dance floor.
Our eyes meet for a second, and I know he wants revenge…
"Gentlemen, looks like we’ve got a free round of Last Man Standing tonight! Come on! Let’s make him feel the spirit of this island!" Jeff throws his arms up, waving them in a beckoning gesture, calling all the alphas over.
And, damn it, that is exactly what happens.
The alphas sitting around rise at once, one after another, and start charging toward me.
"What the fuck is wrong with you!" I shout at Jeff, but it is already too late. The first attacker leaps onto the dance floor.
Bam.
Another strike.
Another alpha hits the ground.
Bam. Bam.
Some of them try the tactic they once used on Bashir, rushing me head-on, but I trained in jiu-jitsu and picked up quite a few techniques from judo as well. I know how to step aside and redirect that force so my opponent ends up on the floor, hard.
But the next ones are already coming.
I do not have time to try to scare them off with shouting. To reason with them. Hell, who can even reason with excited alphas? Unfortunately, I am a young alpha too, and my own hormonal system does not always obey me completely. My body, fired up by the situation, switches into survival mode.
Either me, or them.
The small mercy in all of this is that not every alpha jumps up to join the chaos. The table where Evan and his group are sitting stays put. They are all staring in our direction, clearly stunned, but I do not have time to analyze that.
I also register, briefly, that Bashir is not joining the fight. He remains at his table with his beta, Fred, watching it all unfold.
There are still more than enough alphas to keep my hands full for the next couple of minutes as they come at me.