Chapter 6 Bodyguard With Benefits #2
I don't know how Julian handles it—the constant pressure, the unspoken criticism.
In the city, an Alpha without an omega isn't just single.
He's suspect. His business associates question his stability.
His social standing suffers. Eventually, if he doesn't have a bonded omega on his arm, it starts affecting his ability to work.
To network. To exist in the spaces he's built his entire career around.
I've watched it happen. Watched potential partners back out of deals because Julian wasn't "stable enough." Watched society events turn cold the moment it became clear he was attending alone. Watched him pretend it didn't bother him while something in his eyes went a little more distant each time.
It's only a matter of time before Julian can't ignore it anymore. Before the absence of an omega costs him everything he's worked for.
I dared to wonder, watching this omega sit alone at her table through the entire mixer, if she could be a potential for us.
If the universe was finally throwing us a bone in the form of a stunning, scent-perfect, slightly terrifying woman who clearly had no interest in any of the Alphas circling the room.
Two and a half hours I watched her. Two and a half hours of observing her project such powerful "don't approach me" energy that not a single pack dared try.
She sat in her corner of cold elegance, ate her dinner like she was reviewing it for a magazine, and radiated the unmistakable aura of someone who was here under duress and counting the minutes until escape.
I watched the other Alphas watch her. Watched them hover at the edges of her orbit, drawn in by that incredible scent and that magnetic presence, only to retreat before they got close enough to actually introduce themselves.
A pair of packmates made it three tables away before losing their nerve.
A silver-haired Alpha in an expensive suit circled her section twice, clearly working up the courage, before ultimately veering off toward easier prey.
Cowards. All of them. Intimidated by a woman who had the audacity to sit alone and not smile invitingly at anyone who passed.
But that wasn't entirely fair. She wasn't just projecting disinterest—she was radiating a very specific kind of energy.
The kind that says I am not here for you.
I am not available. I will cut you if you waste my time.
Most Alphas, for all their bravado, don't actually want to be rejected.
They want easy conquests. Guaranteed outcomes.
They want omegas who flutter and blush and make them feel like gods.
This omega would make them work for every inch of ground. Would challenge and question and probably verbally eviscerate anyone who approached with anything less than genuine respect.
And that made me want her more, which is probably concerning.
I'd texted Julian halfway through the dinner service. Just a quick update: Target acquired. Currently eating scallops like she's personally offended by their existence. No approach attempts. Will continue observation.
His response had been typical Julian: Details on appearance. Any visible security? What's she wearing?
I'd rolled my eyes and typed back: Black dress. Expensive. Open back. Butterfly tattoo. She looks like she could model. No visible security but she clearly doesn't need it—every Alpha here is too scared to approach.
The typing bubbles had appeared and disappeared three times before Julian finally responded: Good. Keep watching. Let me know if anything changes.
He knows something about her. Something he's not telling me. The question is whether it's related to the bounty those Alphas mentioned, or something else entirely.
And not a single Alpha was worthy of her. They all knew it. One look and you could tell she was here to stand on business, nothing more. Probably forced by those government participation requirements that even small towns like Oakridge enforce.
But none of them had the guts to try.
Except me. If I wasn't supposed to be undercover.
Which is probably why I followed her when she got up.
Something in my chest—something primal and possessive and completely irrational—told me that if I let her leave this venue completely, I'd lose her.
That she'd walk out into the night and disappear, and I'd spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been.
Dramatic? Maybe. But I learned a long time ago to trust my instincts. They've saved my life more times than I can count.
And then I heard them. The two Alphas in the hallway, voices low but not low enough, discussing their target. Discussing her. Something about a bounty. Something about extracting her since she was alone.
Well. They were about to find out she wasn't alone.
They were about to find out she was mine.
The bathroom door opens behind us, and the spell shatters.
I don't break the kiss immediately—part of the act, I tell myself, even though we both know I'm just reluctant to stop—but the cleared throat from the doorway is impossible to ignore. Slowly, deliberately, I pull back just enough to see her face.
She's flushed. Beautifully, devastatingly flushed.
Pink spreading across her cheekbones and down her throat, disappearing into the neckline of that sinful dress.
Her lips are swollen from my attention, slightly parted, and when she notices the way I'm looking at her—like I want to devour her all over again—the blush deepens to a proper red.
I can't stop myself from licking my lips. Chasing the last traces of her taste like I'm licking frosting off a spoon.
Get a grip, Terrance. You have an audience.
Her eyes slide past my shoulder, taking in whoever just interrupted us. I watch her expression shift—confusion giving way to calculation, followed by something that looks suspiciously like amusement.
"This is the women's washroom," she says, and her voice is steady despite the flush still staining her cheeks. Bold. Pointed. Not a hint of the vulnerability I glimpsed during our kiss.
There she is. The ice queen is back.
I don't turn to look at the intruders. I can hear them just fine—the shuffling of feet, the stuttered attempts at explanation, the dawning realization that they've walked into something they didn't expect.
"We—uh—she—" one of them manages. "Why is this big fucker in here?"
Big fucker. Nice.
I'm about to tell them exactly where they can shove their questions when the omega in my arms does something unexpected.
Her arms wrap around my neck, and before I can process the movement, she's climbing me like I'm a goddamn tree.
Her legs hook around my waist, forcing me to cup her thighs to keep her from falling—not that she seems in any danger of falling.
She moves like she's done this before, with the kind of athletic grace that comes from training rather than instinct.
Her chin comes to rest on my shoulder, and I can feel her breath against my ear. Can feel the amusement radiating from her in waves.
What are you doing? I want to ask. What game are we playing now?
But then she speaks, and I understand.
"Well, obviously, he's my bodyguard." Her voice is pure seductive amusement, dripping with the kind of confidence that makes my heart skip an actual beat. "Did you really think someone of such high class would come to a mixer without security?"
She giggles—the sound both innocent and devastating—and adds, "With a few benefits, obviously. Who doesn't want a sexy bodyguard who can break bones but also kisses ravishingly?"
Sexy. She called me sexy. And ravishing. My ego is doing cartwheels.
She sighs—almost dreamily, like she's playing a role but also maybe meaning it—and continues, "If you're here to try to make some sort of claim, you're out of luck, boys. Real men... Alphas at that... don't wait for the afterparty to claim."
One of them stutters—I can hear the confusion and panic in his voice. "B-but what about him? If he's a bodyguard, he shouldn't be—shouldn't be fucking you!"
"Why not?"
The question is so simple, so matter-of-fact, that it leaves them completely flabbergasted. I can practically hear their brains short-circuiting, trying to come up with an argument against her logic and finding nothing.
She doesn't wait for them to recover. "Women of my standards want men who know what they want but override lust for protection when needed.
He's clearly been here way before I even arrived, which means he knew I'd be at this mixer.
" She pauses for effect. "Why? Because I told him.
Because it would only make sense for me to tell my Alpha that I'm attending a mixer on behalf of my friend. "
Her Alpha. She called me her Alpha. This is a performance. This is just a cover story. This doesn't mean anything.
Then why does it feel like it means everything?
"F-f-friend?!" one of them manages, like the concept of friendship is somehow the most shocking part of this whole scenario.
"Mhmm." She sounds almost bored now. "And if you two had done your research instead of coming down here as if I'm someone you can try to swoon—or dare I say, kidnap—you're lucky I didn't have to use my lovely friend over here."
She shifts against me, her legs tightening around my waist, and I can't help but look down. Can't help but follow the line of her thigh where the dress has ridden up and—
Holy shit.
There's a knife strapped to her thigh.
Not a cute little decorative blade. A real knife. The handle is wrapped in leather dyed the color of dried blood, and the blade itself—visible in its sheath—catches the light like captured lightning. The engraving on the hilt is intricate, purposeful. Custom work. Expensive.
This isn't a fashion accessory. This is a weapon carried by someone who knows exactly how to use it.
I've seen a lot of weapons in my time. Fifteen years military, five years private security—you learn to recognize the difference between someone who carries a blade for show and someone who carries one with intent.
The way she has it positioned speaks to training.
The angle of the holster suggests she's practiced drawing it quickly.
The custom engraving means she invested serious money in something she fully expects to use.
This omega isn't just beautiful and intimidating. She's actively dangerous. And I am absolutely here for it.
She probably left a gun at home. The thought surfaces unbidden, and I find myself absolutely certain it's true.
An omega who straps a custom blade to her thigh definitely knows how to shoot.
Probably has a concealed carry license. Probably has training beyond the self-defense class I helped with.
The kind of training that wealthy families provide for their daughters when they know the world isn't safe, but don't realize they're creating someone who can handle that unsafe world on her own terms.
Just the idea of this woman—this gorgeous, infuriating, perfect woman—knowing how to handle a firearm is making me hard as fuck.
Odd turn-ons you have there, Terrance.
But also completely understandable, given that every Alpha instinct I have is screaming that this is someone who could stand beside me. Who wouldn't need to be protected so much as partnered with. Who could hold her own in the kind of dangerous situations my pack occasionally finds ourselves in.
She leans back, pulling away from my shoulder to meet my eyes. Her expression is a masterwork of seductive innocence—doe eyes wide, lips curved into a pout that makes me want to kiss her all over again.
"Why don't we take this to your place?" she offers, and her voice is honey and sin and promises I desperately want her to keep. "No interruptions."
Behind me, I hear the two Alphas shuffling backward.
Retreating. One of them mutters something about this not being worth the trouble, the other making excuses about having the wrong information.
The omega's performance—if that's what it was—has clearly convinced them that she's not the easy target they anticipated.
That she came with protection, with preparation, with a blade strapped to her thigh and a willingness to use it.
Smart. She's so fucking smart. Turned what could have been a dangerous situation into a display of power that sent her would-be captors running. Used me as a prop without hesitation, read the room perfectly, improvised a cover story that was just believable enough to create doubt.
I need to tell Julian about this. About her. About everything.
But first, I need to get her somewhere safe. And if 'somewhere safe' happens to be my place, where Elias is probably passed out on the couch and Julian is probably working late and this omega can be protected by an entire pack instead of just one Alpha... well. That's just good strategy.
The bathroom door closes behind them. We're alone again.
She's still wrapped around me like a koala, still looking at me with those hazel eyes that see far too much, still smelling like cinnamon and cherries and everything I've ever wanted.
"So," she says, and there's a hint of uncertainty beneath the bravado now. A question in her voice that wasn't there when she was performing for our audience. "Your place?"
She doesn't need to ask twice.
"I'm all yours, Miss Carlisle."
The name slips out before I can stop it—information Julian included in his briefing, though he didn't explain how he knew it or why it mattered.
Carlisle. A name that means something in certain circles, that carries weight and history and probably a whole mess of complications I'm about to walk directly into.
Her eyes widen slightly at the recognition, but she doesn't pull away. Doesn't demand to know how I know her name. Doesn't freeze up or go defensive or do any of the things I might expect from someone who's clearly running from something.
Instead, something in her expression softens. Like she's finally decided to trust me. Like she's finally letting down the walls she's been maintaining all evening. Like maybe—just maybe—she's as tired of being alone as the rest of us.
I should call Julian. I should tell him what's happening. I should be professional about this—bodyguard first, interested Alpha second.
But looking into those hazel eyes, feeling her weight in my arms, breathing in that devastating scent... I find I don't want to be professional. I want to be hers.
And I dare to admit... I mean it.