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I huffed. Alphas and their single-minded determination to underestimate the “weaker” dynamics. Their arrogance was as much a hallmark of their dynamic as their bark or knots.
“I only need one.” But no matter how I fought it, our little back and forth sent a thrill of arousal through my feverish body. My heat-scent spiked, and I groaned.
He stopped, the frown he wore not taking away from his beauty. Oh, but my head felt fuzzy. His scent deepened, which evoked fantasies of us entwined in a lust-filled tangle of bodies. My traitorous knees weakened.
“My Goddess, you are beautiful,” I murmured.
“While I wholeheartedly return the compliment, I desire you to drop the pistol. You might hurt yourself,” he purred. My core clenched, liking his purr as much as my breasts liked his growl.
“Oh… dear me…” I watched his eyes turn that mirrored gold of a feral alpha. I’d seen them once before. Ten years later, they had the same effect. Slick flooded from me, so much that it leaked from the protective padding and stained the crotch of my buff breeches. The pistol fell from my slack grip. My legs crumpled as another onslaught of cramps had me crying out in pain.
The strange and compelling alpha lunged, catching me before I collided with the hard marble floor.
“Dammit. What were you thinking? What was your alpha… Do you have an alpha? Do you have any care for your safety?” he asked. His eyes searched my face. “Allowing their omega out on her own. I’d bind you to your nest and never let you free. Goddess damn me, but you smell divine.”
He lowered his head to where my mating gland was and drew in a deep breath. “How do you smell so perfect?”
I closed my eyes in an attempt to quiet the world. When was the last time I’d needed an alpha to soothe me? I acted on pure instinct and wrapped his hand around my neck, encouraging him to tighten his grip and calm my racing pulse. I didn’t understand why, but the pressure had always granted me some relief. If I could not have this stranger’s knot to relieve my heat, I could have his powerful hand about my throat. How disconcerting to use my mate’s trick to settle me with another alpha, especially one who threatened my equanimity.
“Where is your alpha guardian? You must have one…” he murmured, sounding entranced by the sight of his large hand around my neck.
“None of your business.” Slowly the world came into focus. Being in an alpha’s arms, this alpha’s arms, appeased my heat enough for reason to return, and in force. Get away from him, I urged myself. The gun! I patted the ground near me, searching for the pistol I’d dropped. My hand wrapped around the handle.
“In your current state, you are my business,” he purred, burying his face into my neck, running his free hand up the back of my neck and into my hair. Oh, but the way he gripped my hair felt nice.
“Not in this lifetime,” I growled. “Now, Sir. Let. Go. Of. Me.”
I pressed the gun to his temple. My mysterious alpha—undoubtedly stronger than I—could have already done truly horrible things to me, but at this range I would blow his brains out before he could perpetrate a single indignity to my person. He did, however, possess an excellent sense of self preservation and pulled back. Our eyes met, matched in a battle of wills over our true natures, which demanded we mate. Still, our physical bodies would be denied. Some part of me knew he would not, could not harm me. It made no sense for him to be drawn to a mated omega, nor for me to desire any alpha but my own. I tried to scream in frustration, anger, and hurt at the painful reminder that my alpha was gone. Instead, a pathetic whine escaped and my scent turned bitter.
“What is your name? It isn’t Jane Smith. Tell me,” he ordered, those eyes once again frosted glass. He appeared unbothered by the gun pressed to his temple. Perhaps he didn’t believe it was loaded, or that I would pull the trigger. “Tell me. I must know.”
“Beatrice Hartwell,” I said, my voice rough. “I am Beatrice Jane Hartwell.”
“Hartwell? I know that name…” He inhaled my heat-sweet scent. “I must get you out of here. Somewhere safe… A nest.”
“Touch me, and I will blow your brains out,” I warned him.
“I am touching you,” he reminded me. Against reason, he brought his face close to mine and traced his lips along the sensitive shell of my ear. I moaned, shifting in his arms. All thoughts of breaking free forgotten as I relaxed into his arms.
“I won’t violate your innocence,” he promised, flexing the hand around my throat, but I could hear how much those words cost him. My scent was high, thick, sweet. As was his alpha musk and his own special sweet pine. But paired with pine was a scent I’d not smelled for many, many years.
“You smell like elfwort,” I told him. Amazed that more than one alpha would possess such a perfume. Impossible for him to smell like the ghost of the alpha who’d rejected me. Impossible.
“Goddess, you are like no other.” His eyes roamed my face as if taking in every detail, committing it to memory, and then looking again. I closed my eyes, appreciating his strength and the heat of his body against mine. This was an alpha who would care for me through my heat. I let my defences down, allowed the pistol to fall away. I didn’t want to hurt him, not really. Nor was I like Hippolyta, as likely to shoot as smile at an alpha. “Almost as beautiful as your paintings.”
“Sir!” I gasped. His words intruded, quite rudely, into my more pleasant imaginings.
“If I cannot have you, I want your paintings,” he purred, nuzzling my temple. “Will you sell them to me?”
His question snapped me out of heat brain. “You go too far.”
“That is too far? I could… Never mind. Name your price. You, the paintings. Your price.” His lips brushed my cheek. “I have the money.”
My eyes went round. This stranger, this alpha, this man wanted to buy me? In this day and age? In a civilised country? In London? In this hallowed ground for art and artists and art lovers? He wanted to buy me? Me! Beatrice? Beatrice Hartwell, the eldest omega child of Charles Hartwell, famous omega and scholar? The daughter of Christine Hartwell, alpha, diplomat, and the best of mothers? Did he see me as nothing but a trophy for his collection?
“Buy me! Me? You wish to buy me? I am not for sale. Beatrice Hartwell is not for sale. Her paintings,mypaintings, are not for sale. Let me go.” I wriggled in his arms, which were as malleable as good steel. Until then he’d been so careful with me, as if I was a piece of spun glass, liable to break in the breeze. I liked his display of alpha strength. Perhaps “like” was too weak a word. A more primal word would be more suitable. Craved, desired, would die without knowing how his skin felt against mine. I whined. My heat betrayed me despite the insult. “You are an oaf! Unhand me!”
“Enough, little Vixen.” He shifted, and his hard cock made itself known. Large and intrusive where it pressed against my thigh. A fresh wave of slick flooded from me, proof of my arousal, and a temptation to the alpha. I was not, however, some witless omega slave to her physical needs—well, not a complete slave to her lust.
