I expect Skyla to go red again, but she doesn’t. Instead, she leans over the side of the cart, fingers brushing the package like she’s not sure it’s real. And then she smiles, clearly touched by all these basic things.
What kind of fucking alphas did she have before?
By the time we finally roll into the clothing aisles, Skyla’s smile has turned manic again. It’s like watching a kid turned loose in a candy store.
Our omega doesn’tbrowsethe clothing—she dives straight into it.
Every hanger she touches turns into a possibility: denim jackets, sundresses, oversized hoodies, even a sequined crop top that looks like it crawled straight out of a music video from twenty years ago.
It doesn’t matter if it’s her style or not—she’s trying it all.
“I’m not sure what size I am.” Skyla checks the label of a powder-blue top, worry flickering across her face.
“They’ve got dressing rooms in the back,” Tadeo says, nodding toward the far corner of the store. “You can try everything on if you want.”
“Everything?” she asks, eyes bright.
“Everything,” I say, stepping forward before she can protest. I take the growing pile of clothes from her arms, balancing jackets, dresses, and tops against my chest until I can barely see over the stack. “You pick, I’ll carry.”
Her laugh is soft but real, lighter than anything else inthis store. She hands off the last of the clothes, then turns toward Tadeo, brushing his chest as she leans in—unthinking, instinctive. He steadies her, their eyes meeting for a quick second, something quiet and warm passing between them.
I shift the armful of clothes against my chest and grin. “You two gonna move, or should I start charging rent?”
“Sorry.” Skyla laughs, soft and breathy.
“Knox,” Tadeo grabs our pack alpha’s attention. “You coming?”
Knox scans the racks, his brow furrowed, clearly not paying attention to us. “She’s gonna need slick panties,” he mutters, half to himself, half to us. Then he looks around like he’s hunting a damn exit strategy—or the intimates section, whichever comes first.
“There,” I say, nodding my head toward the other side of the store, but he’s already moving—big shoulders cutting that cart around the racks like he owns the place.
Alex rolls up a second later with a new cart, all business. “Here.” He pulls the pile of clothes out of my arms and dumps them in the buggy. “I’m gonna check the protein powders real quick,” he says to Tadeo, then he’s gone before I can blink, disappearing down an aisle like the place might explode if he lingers.
And just like that, it’s me, Tadeo, and Skyla—her mountain of clothes spilling everywhere, her scent all soft and sugar-sweet. She’s all bright eyes and easy smiles as she grabs a few more items.
Tadeo looks like he’s standing guard at the gates of heaven and hell at once. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw tight, pretending like he’s not watching the way she holds every soft thing up to her cheek, nuzzling it.
I elbow him lightly. “You good there, man?”
He doesn’t answer. Just exhales, slow, like maybe he’s trying to keep from combusting.
And Skyla? She laughs again, twisting in front of another mirror as she holds up a pretty summer dress.
If this place sold oxygen bottled with her laugh in it, we’d all be broke by now.
The Dressing Room
Skyla
The dressing roomis surprisingly spacious—at least twice what I expected. There’s a bench tucked in the corner, a wide mirror, and enough room to turn without knocking into the walls. The air smells faintly of detergent and cedar polish. It’s kind of cozy under the quiet hum of fluorescent lights.
I tug the snug pink skirt up, trying to get it over my hips. The top fits perfectly—soft cotton hugging my ribs, flattering what little curves I have—but the skirt’s another story. It’s losing a battle with my hips, clinging tighter the higher I pull.
Finally, the skirt pops up over my butt, settling in place. I smooth my hands over my waist, then reach for the zipper on my hip. My fingers fumble when it sticks halfway, teeth catching like it’s fighting me.
“Dakota,” I say, half laugh, half sigh. “I need a hand.”
He’s supposed to be helping. Instead, he’s slouched inthe corner chair, long legs sprawled, staring right at the apex of my thighs.
