Chapter 11 #2
"Thankfully," he agrees. But then his expression shifts—concern replacing the playfulness. "But you shouldn't have to deal with that either. Plus, those suppressants aren't good for you long-term. They mess with your hormones, your bone density, your—"
I nod, cutting him off before he can launch into a full medical lecture. "I know. I've read the warnings. Seen the studies."
But what's the alternative? Risk another Heat alone? Risk attracting Alphas who see me as an easy target? Risk falling into another situation like Kael's pack where I'm just a convenience?
I don't look at his eyes. Can't. Because if I do, he'll see how much this conversation is affecting me. How much I hate that he's right. How much I wish things could be different.
I can feel his gaze on me—intense, searching. Trying to read what I'm not saying. But he doesn't push. Doesn't try to fix me or tell me what to do.
It's not his place to lay judgment. He's not my Alpha. He doesn't own me in any way. We just had sex in a supply closet. That doesn't give him the right to have opinions about my reproductive health choices.
But still. Someone as pretty and probably talented enough to survive away from her pack in a small town like this—someone like me—deserves to have a long life.
Deserves to manifest a proper pack that will adore her instead of using her.
Someone told me that once. Maybe it was Hazel.
Maybe I just need to start believing it.
"We probably only have about ten minutes left," I remind him, my voice deliberately bright. Changing the subject. "My break is an hour, and we've been in here for—what? Fifty minutes?"
Theo glances at his watch—a practical, military-style thing with too many functions—and frowns. "Eight minutes."
"Eight minutes," I repeat, trying to calculate in my head. Eight minutes to make myself presentable enough to go back to work. To fix my makeup, hide the sex hair, pretend I wasn't just thoroughly fucked against the supply closet counter.
I giggle—the sound is slightly hysterical even to my own ears.
"Enough time for me to wipe down and say RIP to these pantyhose.
They were good tights. Served me well through many shifts.
May they rest in pieces. I'll hold a small funeral service later, perhaps write a eulogy about their dedicated service to my legs and my costume. "
I look down at the destroyed nylon with something that might be fondness if pantyhose could inspire such emotions.
Multiple runs creating a ladder effect from thigh to ankle, like someone took a marker and drew lines down my legs.
The knife cuts are precise—clean slices through the fabric that somehow make them look artistic instead of just ruined. Deconstructed fashion.
Actually, they look kind of hot in a destroyed, post-apocalyptic way. Like something from an edgy fashion magazine. 'Deconstructed Holiday Chic: The Supply Closet Collection.' Maybe I should take a photo for my portfolio of 'outfits that have stories.'
"I'm sorry."
I blink, surprised. Look up at Theo, who's watching me with something that looks almost like guilt.
"What? Why are you apologizing?"
He gestures vaguely at my legs. "It was your property. I got into the heat of the moment and ruined it. That's not—I should have been more careful."
Is he blushing? The big, tough military Alpha is blushing about ripping my pantyhose? This is possibly the cutest thing I've ever seen.
There's a hint of warmth in his cheeks—subtle, but definitely there. He's trying to maintain his composure, trying to keep that military bearing, but I can see the cracks. The emotion bleeding through the carefully constructed walls he's built around himself.
He hasn't felt emotions like this in a long time, I realize. Maybe since before he enlisted. When he was younger, kinder, less... hardened by whatever he's seen and done overseas. When he could still blush and apologize without feeling like it was a sign of weakness.
"I get turned on by the oddest things," he admits, his voice rough with embarrassment and something that sounds like vulnerability.
"And, well, blade play is apparently one of them.
I guess. Which is probably weird and slightly concerning from a psychological standpoint, but what can you do?
Military training rewires your brain in strange ways. "
I grin—can't help it. The absolute absurdity of this gorgeous, confident Alpha apologizing for giving me the best sex of my life and worrying about his kinks is too much. Too endearing. Too human.
"You should totally get into it more," I say, surprising even myself with the enthusiasm and certainty in my voice. "Like, seriously. That was hot. I'm pretty sure I developed a knife kink tonight that I didn't know I had. So thanks for that awakening."
His eyes widen slightly. Surprised that I'm encouraging this instead of being horrified.
I reach down and pat his cock—still sensitive, probably, but I keep the touch gentle and playful. Like patting a dog who's done a good job. "Good work, soldier. You've served your country—and me—admirably."
I help him tuck himself back into his boxers, the intimacy of the gesture somehow more affecting than the sex itself. There's something tender about aftercare. About taking care of each other when the desperation has faded and reality returns.
"I'm gonna go clean up," I announce, stepping back and trying to assess the damage. My Mrs. Claus dress is wrinkled but salvageable. My wig is slightly askew. My makeup is definitely smeared.
Eight minutes. I can work with eight minutes. I've done full costume changes in less time during fashion show chaos.
But before I can reach for the door handle, Theo's hand wraps around my wrist. Gentle but firm.
"What's your number?"
I freeze. Turn back to look at him. "What? Why?"
Is this the part where he pretends he wants to see me again? Where he asks for my number and then never calls? The classic one-night-stand brush-off disguised as interest?
But his expression is serious. Earnest. "I don't want this to be the end. Even if it's just us being friends. I want to stay in touch."
Oh. He's... he's actually serious. This isn't a line. He genuinely wants my number.
I'm genuinely intrigued. Cautiously hopeful. Trying not to let myself believe too much because hope is dangerous and disappointment hurts.
But I nod slowly, pulling out my phone—miraculously still in my dress pocket instead of lost somewhere in the supply closet chaos, which is where I shoved it before my shift started hours ago. "Okay. Yeah. Here."
I rattle off my number while he pulls out his own phone from his jeans pocket, typing it in with military precision that suggests he's done this a thousand times.
Each digit entered carefully, double-checked, and probably committed to memory in case something happens to his phone.
The attention to detail is both impressive and slightly intimidating.
A nervous laugh bubbles up before I can stop it.
"Don't go searching me online, though. Seriously.
I make cringe content. Like Jasper and his posse of douches said.
Dancing around in my apartment, talking about books nobody cares about, being too happy about stupid stuff.
It's embarrassing. My whole brand is basically 'aggressively cheerful Omega does things. '"
Why did I say that? Why am I pre-apologizing for my content before he even sees it? Why am I letting Kael's voice—Jasper's voice—live rent-free in my head?
I turn toward the door again, ready to escape before he can say something that will either make me fall for him or confirm that this was just a one-time thing.
"Reverie."
I look back at him. He's zipping up his jeans, adjusting his henley, making himself presentable. But his eyes are on me—intense, focused.
"For an Omega to stand on her own and have the boldness to make something of herself—especially on a platform as cruel as social media where people tear each other apart for entertainment—you're doing what many probably wish they had the guts to do.
Building a following, creating content, putting yourself out there knowing that trolls and assholes will judge you. "
What? Where is this coming from? Why is he saying these things? Does he actually mean them or is this just post-sex sweetness that will fade once the endorphins wear off?
"So it's not cringe," he continues, his voice firm.
Absolute. Like he's stating an undeniable fact instead of an opinion that could be challenged.
"You had the confidence to get out of a situation that didn't serve you—that was actively harming you.
And now you're building yourself up without riding any Alpha's coattails to do it.
Without asking for permission or approval from people who don't matter. That's inspiring."
He pauses, his green-gold eyes never leaving mine.
"And if that's looked down upon, then those who are mocking you simply wish they had the same confidence to do what you're doing.
They're jealous. Bitter. Probably stuck in their own shitty situations and taking it out on someone who had the courage to leave. "
I... I don't know what to say. No one's ever put it like that before. Hazel supports me, obviously. But this? From an Alpha I just met? Who has no reason to build me up or make me feel good about myself?
My throat feels tight. My eyes sting with the threat of tears I absolutely will not cry in this supply closet.
"Be safe on the rest of your shift," he says, his tone gentling. "Let's keep in touch, yeah?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. Manage a smile that probably looks watery and pathetic.
"Thank you," I finally say. "For the good fucking."
Smooth, Rev. Real smooth. Why not just thank him for his service while you're at it?
But he just smirks—that devastating smile that makes my knees weak. "Don't go riding other cocks though."
I laugh—surprised and delighted by the possessiveness in his tone. "Hmm. I'll try. But now that my standards are way up here—" I gesture somewhere above my head. "I'm not so sure I'll find anyone who measures up. Might have to come back for seconds."
His grin widens. "Always down for seconds. And thirds. And however many rounds you want."
God, why is that so hot? Why does the idea of him wanting me again—multiple times—make my stomach flip and my pussy clench?
I leave the closet before I do something stupid like kiss him again or ask him to fuck me one more time even though I absolutely need to get back to work.
The hallway is blessedly empty. The bar noise is a distant roar—music, laughter, the general chaos of a Friday night in a small-town tavern.
I slip into the employee bathroom—a tiny, cramped space that barely qualifies as a bathroom with a mirror that's seen better days and fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look slightly dead or possibly undead. The kind of lighting that washes out all color and emphasizes every flaw.
But when I look at my reflection, I don't look dead.
I look alive. More alive than I've looked in months, maybe years.
Flushed and happy and thoroughly fucked in the best possible way.
My eyes are bright, almost glowing. My lips are swollen and red from kissing.
There's color in my cheeks that has nothing to do with makeup.
My wig is fixable—a few adjustments and it's back in place, silver waves cascading over my shoulders.
My makeup needs a touch-up but nothing too serious—some powder to reduce the shine, a bit more lipstick to replace what I kissed off.
The blue contacts are still in place, making my eyes look otherworldly.
The pantyhose are beyond saving—multiple runs, clean knife cuts, completely destroyed.
I end up just taking them off completely, rolling them down my legs carefully so I don't create more runs, and stuffing them in the trash can under a bunch of paper towels so no one will see them and ask questions.
Bare legs under my Mrs. Claus dress. Slightly scandalous for the costume, but who's going to notice? Everyone's drunk anyway. And honestly, my legs look good. Smooth and shapely and showing off the curves that Kael's pack made me feel bad about. Screw them. I look hot.
I fix my hair with practiced motions, reapply my lipstick in the shade that Marcus calls 'Mrs. Claus Red,' smooth down my velvet dress and adjust the white fur trim.
Take a deep breath—in through my nose, out through my mouth—and try to compose myself into someone who definitely didn't just have mind-blowing sex in the supply closet with a gorgeous military Alpha.
Spoiler alert: I'm failing spectacularly. I look exactly like someone who just got thoroughly ravished. But you know what? I don't even care.
That was the best thing to happen to me this year. Hands down. No contest. The best fucking—literally and figuratively—of my entire life.
And now I'm wondering if this holiday season is going to fulfill my knotty Christmas wish. Not just getting laid like that again—though that would be amazing—but maybe finding a set of Alphas as bold and frisky as Theo.
Three of them, apparently. If that whole public claiming thing at the bar was real and not just a performance to get Jasper to back off.
The bookstore Alpha with his maple-honey scent and soft smile. Nash with his motor oil and leather and that cocky grin. Theo with his cedar smoke and military precision and hands that know exactly where to touch.
Could they actually want me? All three of them? Or was tonight just a fluke—a perfect storm of alcohol and pheromones and Christmas magic?
I don't know. But for the first time in years, I'm hopeful. Excited. Ready to see what happens next.
Maybe this holiday season will fulfill my knotty Christmas wish of not only getting laid like that again, but finding a set of Alphas as bold and frisky as Theo.