She’s throwing rings and she’s doing well. She’s always doing well, and the visiting pack notices her.
I see the moment. The way that happens, the subtle reorientation of Alpha attention, the scent register, the recognition. She’s an unattached Omega in an Alpha-heavy environment and the visiting pack hasn’t worked out yet that she’s ours. Because that’s how it reads from the outside. That’s how it should read.
Apparently, it doesn’t read that way yet.
The one who approaches her is big, blond, with the arrogant confidence of someone who has never found it not to work. He leans on the ring toss counter beside her, too close, like he thinks being close is a compliment. He says something I can’t hear from here.
She doesn’t move back. Of course she doesn’t move back. She never moves back.
She says something which must not have been a compliment based on her expression. He says something back. He’s still smiling, like he finds resistance charming rather than informative.
His pack mate joins him.
Two Alphas at the counter, both turned toward her. Her body language screams that she’s uncomfortable and about to tell them so. They won’t like that. At all.
I’m moving before I’ve decided to move.
I don’t run.
I don’t make it a territorial display. I’ve learned, from watching her, that territorial displays are something she has opinions about, and the opinions are not favorable. More to the point, she doesn’t need me to make her problem worse, she needs me tohandleit.
So I walk.
I front up to the ring toss counter at a pace that is unhurried. By the time I’m there, the visiting Alpha has registered my approach and done his own assessment.
“Archer,” he says. He knows my name, which means he knows the pack, which means he should have worked this out already.
“Ben,” I reply. “Didn’t know your pack was in town.”
“Came for the closing weekend. Couldn’t miss the carnival.” He’s still turned toward Lola, but his posture has changed. “Friend of yours?”
“Pack,” I say. One word that should explain everything.
Lola goes very still beside me. I don’t look at her.
Ben and his pack mate exchange a look—a rapid recalculation as they have just understood a situation they’d misread—and the posture shift is immediate. Not retreat, just correction. The body language ofmy mistake, acknowledged.
“Good to know,” Ben says, and it’s not unfriendly. “My apologies. Didn’t register the—”
“Easy to miss,” I say. Giving him the exit.
He takes it. They move on down the alley, unhurried, and within thirty seconds they’re in conversation with Jack who has materialized from somewhere and is doing the diplomatic thing he does where he makes people feel welcome in his space without any of it being accidental.
I look at the ring toss. Beside me, Lola has picked up her rings again. She throws one and it lands.
“Pack?” she says. Not an accusation. Just the word, sitting in the air.
“Simplest explanation,” I reply.
“Simplest.” She throws another ring. “You could have let me handle it.”
“I know.”
“I was handling it.”
“I know that too.”
She looks at me and I keep my gaze fixed on the ring toss. We are standing at the counter side by side and she is very close. I have flashbacks to the afternoon we spent together in my bedroom and I yearn for more of that.
