30. Swaying Acceptance
Swaying Acceptance
~ E LIZABETH~
The bass thrums through my bones as I make my way to the bar, still riding the high of endless dancing. My feet should hurt from all the spinning and jumping I've done with James, Carter, and Felix, but the alcohol in my system has turned any potential pain into a pleasant tingling sensation.
Everything feels softer around the edges, warmer somehow.
The crowd parts easily – whether from the pack's reputation or just good luck, I'm not sure, and definitely too tipsy to care. My skin gleams with a light sheen of sweat, and I can feel some strands of hair sticking to my neck, but for once I'm not worried about looking perfect.
This is what freedom feels like.
I can’t help but think that again and again, a giddy smile spreading across my face.
Not caring who's watching or judging.
The bartender catches my eye as I approach, his professional smile widening slightly at what must be my obviously intoxicated state.
"What can I get you?"
"Something sweet," I say, already reaching for my clutch to grab a twenty. "Like, diabetes in a glass sweet. The kind of drink that makes dentists cry."
A hand appears in my peripheral vision, presenting a crisp hundred-dollar bill before I can even open my wallet.
"Make it virgin," a familiar voice commands.
My lips purse as I turn to face the culprit, having to tilt my head back further than usual to meet his gaze.
When did Holmes get so tall? Has he always been this tall?
"Holmesovich," I drawl, poking his chest with my finger. "I ain't no virgin, so you better let me drink what I want."
He doesn't react to my finger jabbing his sternum, just watches me with that infuriatingly calm expression. The club's lighting plays across his features, creating interesting shadows that make it hard to focus on his face.
Or maybe that's just the alcohol.
I squint up at him, trying to make his features stop swimming.
"I think I need to borrow Felix's glasses," I announce seriously. "Everything's all...wobbly."
"That's not how glasses work," he says dryly, but there's something almost fond in his tone.
"How do you know?" I challenge, swaying slightly. "Maybe that's exactly how they work. Maybe Felix has been lying to us this whole time and his glasses are actually magic. Did you ever think about that?"
The bartender returns with what looks like a fruity mocktail, complete with little umbrellas and fresh fruit garnish. Holmes hands it to me, his fingers brushing mine in a way that sends sparks shooting up my arm.
"Drink this," he says, "and then we can discuss Felix's potentially magical eyewear."
I accept the drink but narrow my eyes at him suspiciously.
"You're humoring me."
"Never," he says with such perfect seriousness that I can't help but giggle.
"Liar," I accuse, but I take a sip of the drink anyway. It's delicious – all tropical fruit and fizzy sweetness. "Oh! This is good. Want to try?"
I offer him the glass, but he shakes his head, something darkening in his expression as he watches me. The look makes heat pool in my stomach, and I'm pretty sure it has nothing to do with alcohol.
"You've been watching me dance," I say suddenly, the realization hitting me with the force of revelation. "All night. From up there." I point vaguely toward the VIP section where I'd caught glimpses of him throughout the evening.
"Someone has to make sure you don't fall off the dance floor," he says neutrally.
"I don't fall," I protest, then immediately have to grab his arm to keep my balance. "Much."
His hand settles on my waist, steadying me, and the warmth of his touch seems to seep through the thin material of my dress. I find myself leaning into him slightly, drawn by his solid presence in my spinning world.
"The room's moving," I inform him seriously. "Like, the whole room. Did you know it could do that?"
"The room tends to do that after seven cocktails," Holmes observes, his hand still steady on my waist. "Maybe we should get you some air."
"Or," I counter, brightening with sudden inspiration, "you could dance with me instead!"
He stiffens slightly.
"I don't dance."
"Yeah right," I scoff, poking his chest again. "I bet you're secretly amazing at it. But even if you're shit, we can just hug and sway. That's barely even dancing. That's like...vertical hugging with music."
As if the universe itself wants to prove my point, the pulsing club beats fade into something slower, more intimate. The change in tempo sends a ripple through the crowd as couples begin pairing off.
"Perfect timing!" I exclaim, quickly downing the rest of my mocktail before he can stop me.
Holmes barely manages to catch the glass before I can toss it over my shoulder, smoothly placing it on a passing waiter's tray.
"Elizabeth..."
"Look," I say, gesturing toward our pack's booth. "Everyone else is taking a break. Felix looks as wasted as I feel! Is he actually sleeping on Carter?"
Sure enough, Felix has his head rested on Carter's shoulder, glasses slightly askew, while Carter and James nurse what looks like expensive whiskey, deep in conversation.
"This is the perfect time," I insist, turning back to Holmes with what I hope is a winning smile. "No audience, no pressure..."
He groans, already shaking his head.
"I really don't?—"
"If you don't dance with me," I announce, feeling my eyes start to water on command, "I'm going to stand right here and cry." I push my bottom lip out slightly, perfecting the puppy dog look that used to work so well on my father.
Holmes watches the tears gather in my eyes, his expression shifting from resistance to resignation.
"You're faking," he accuses, but I can see him wavering.
"Am I though?" I sniffle for effect, and he groans again.
"Fine.” Poor guy. I’m diabolical. “We can stand here and you can sway."
The tears vanish instantly as I beam up at him.
"Got you!"
"Women are the bane of my existence," he mutters, but there's no real heat in it.
"Admit it," I tease as I guide him toward a less crowded spot on the dance floor, "you can be a really nice guy when you want to be."
"I don't understand you at all," he says, but he doesn't resist when I rise on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck.
His hands find my waist again, and with surprising gentleness, he encourages me to step onto his feet. The position brings us closer together, my head now perfectly positioned to rest against his chest.
"Are you going to carry me the whole time?" I ask, oddly touched by the gesture.
"Yes."
"That's...actually really romantic."
He doesn't respond, but his arms tighten slightly around my waist as we begin to sway to the music. The position feels unexpectedly intimate – not just physically, but emotionally too. Like we're sharing something neither of us quite knows how to name.
"Do you do this often?" I ask softly.
"No," he admits after a moment. "Never."
"Why not?"
He's quiet for so long that I think he might not answer.
"The others...in the past. They didn't care about this stuff. Dates. Close bonding shit. None of it." His voice carries an edge of bitterness. "Only cared about the benefits of my existence as an Alpha and nothing more."
"That's dumb," I declare, nuzzling closer to his chest. "I want to do all that stuff with you. I want to go on dates and watch you box and...everything."
I feel rather than see his smirk.
"You can barely see straight right now."
"Next time I'll be less wasted," I promise solemnly.
"Somehow I doubt that."
We sway in comfortable silence for a few moments before he speaks again, his voice thoughtful.
"You don't actually drink much, do you?"
A giggle escapes me as I press my face into his chest, but there's something darker beneath the sound.
"Stopped when I became an Omega."
"Why?" he asks quietly. "Is that some Omega thing I don't know about?"
My laugh this time is hollow, and I find myself holding him tighter as the words slip out before I can stop them.
"I don't want to be raped again so...no."
His entire body goes rigid, our swaying coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the dance floor. I can feel his heartbeat accelerate under my cheek as he processes what I've just said.
"When?" The word comes out rough, almost dangerous.
"Harvard," I whisper, the memories I usually keep locked away floating hazily to the surface. "The day I went into heat."
My laugh sounds wrong even to my own ears – too bright, too brittle.
"Surprise! Turns out that going into heat in public is pretty much a free-for-all. Who knew?" It shouldn’t sound so sad and demoralizing, but I guess when I’m stupid drunk everything sounds that way with a touch of dark humor.
Holmes's arms tighten around me almost painfully, and I can feel the tension radiating through his entire body.
"Elizabeth..."
"Don't," I murmur, pressing closer to him. "Please don't make it a thing. I just... wanted you to know why I don't really drink. Why I’m…a bitch a lot…hard front and all that. They stay away…thinking I’m no good. It’s for the best. Better that way. It’s why I'm careful about being too out of control. Alcohol makes you lose all those senses, and around those I don’t trust. Fuck that." I try to inject some lightness into my voice. "Though clearly I failed spectacularly at that tonight."
I pause to lift my head, almost leaning back too far, but managing to lay my chin on his chest so I can look at him with half-opened eyes. Everything is spinning but man, Holmes’s face is beautiful when surrounded by flashing lights and shadows.
He really is so handsome.
"You know..." I say, the words feeling heavy with meaning despite my alcohol-loosened tongue, "I could hate your guts before the world... but I trust you." The admission comes out like a precious secret, something meant only for this moment between us. "You'd never hurt me. Not to that extent... not leave scars that make me never want to go into Heat again."
"Never," he vows without hesitation, the immediacy of his response making me smile.
"This is when you kiss me and we never talk about it again," I whisper, but his frown tells me that's not going to happen.
As I study his face, trying to read the emotions flowing through his expression, something finally clicks in my alcohol-hazed mind.
"Wait... you're not wearing your blindfold anymore. Or sunglasses."
A soft smile touches my lips as I reach up to trace the scar tissue around his eye with gentle fingers.
"I approve," I murmur. "Very much approve."
He leans down until our foreheads press together, his breath warm against my face.
"We will talk about this again," he says softly but firmly. "As many times as it takes until you understand that what those Alphas did was wrong. Until you realize you deserve to have a Heat and come to enjoy the benefits of having one when you're ready and comfortable to do so."
His words wrap around me like a warm blanket, unexpectedly comforting in their certainty.
"I'll never let that happen again," he whispers, and something inside me breaks.
I want to make a joke, to brush it off like I always do when this topic comes up. But there's something about the way he says it – like it's not even a question like my safety is simply a fact he'll ensure – that undoes all my carefully constructed defenses.
For the first time, someone isn't telling me I should have been more careful, or that I should have known better, or that these things just happen sometimes to Omegas who aren't claimed.
He's just...promising to protect me.
Like it's that simple.
The tears come before I can stop them, and I bury my face in his chest, wrapping my arms around him tightly. His hold on me never wavers as I cry, his steady swaying keeping time with the music while my quiet whimpers get lost in the bass.
My tears soak into his shirt, but he doesn't seem to mind. He just holds me, one hand making soothing circles on my back as we continue to sway in the midst of the dance floor.
I can feel exhaustion creeping in at the edges of my consciousness, the combination of emotional release and alcohol making my limbs feel heavy. But for the first time in years, I'm not afraid to let go.
My pack will catch me when I fall.
The thought settles in my chest like a warm ember, bringing with it a peace I haven't felt since before Harvard. Maybe this is what I've been missing all along – not just protection, but understanding.
Not just acceptance, but active support.
Maybe it was always enough.
As my eyes grow heavier and the world starts to fade around the edges, I feel Holmes press a gentle kiss to the top of my head. The gesture is so tender it almost starts the tears flowing again, but I'm too tired to do more than snuggle closer to his chest.
The last thing I register before sleep claims me completely is the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear, as constant and reassuring as his promise to keep me safe.
For once, I believe it might actually be true.