Aline Hunter - Omega Mine

“What’s with you?” Brett stayed her hand with a light touch of his fingers when she reached for a clean shot glass under the counter and called another server over to pick up the slack when he pulled her to the side. He lowered his voice when they stood against the backdrop. “The last few weeks you’ve been edgy as hell. You don’t stick around after close. You don’t come in early to shoot the shit. You don’t even cut up with the customers anymore. You come in, do your job and clock out. Don’t think everyone hasn’t noticed.”

His concerned face was too difficult to deny and she found herself caving with a half-truth. She was sure her coworkers noticed the shift in her behavior. Four weeks after leaving a certain Omega high and dry and she still couldn’t get the man out of her head. Following what could have been sure disaster, she had barricaded herself inside her home, ventured out only when necessary and told Craig Newlander he could take the locket and shove it where the sun didn’t shine. Unfortunately, after a few weeks the hermit lifestyle had started to get to her. She was a social creature by nature and missed the interaction at the club. Not to mention her rounding ass missed her usual routine at the gym. It was time to reconnect with the world and get her head on straight.

“I just really need this vacation. Some quiet time alone will help me regroup.” When he frowned she patted his hand. “Scout’s honor.”

Brett moved close to whisper, “I know you don’t want to do the auction but think of it as an early vacation present. It’s crowded, the alcohol is flowing and people are bound to be loose with their wallets. It’s one dance.” She met his grass-green eyes and he continued, “Humor me. Let the club send you off with a nice, fat bonus.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll work your schedule so that you’re on every Saturday night for a year.”

That elicited a wince. A year of Saturday nights would damn near kill her.

Brett smiled when she rolled her eyes and nodded. He hiked his head to the right, in the direction of a large group of shifters. “Take care of the bikers and meet me on the center stage.”

She watched Brett walk away before she turned her attention to the group at the far end of the bar. A pang of apprehension stalled her. To the average bear they would look like bikers—covered in leather and sporting multiple tattoos—but when she reached out with her mind there was nothing to greet her.

Damn.

Another thing that had changed in the last few weeks was the notable absence of shifters at the club. She noticed the first night she had returned to work after meeting Diskant Black that the fur-sprouting populace weren’t making their usual appearances and had hoped that maybe they found a new club to frequent. Apparently not, since they were back in force. There were six of them total, four men and two women. The men were regulars, although she could only place their faces. Snagging a clean towel and wiping her hands, she marched over and stopped when her breasts pressed against the wooden counter.

“What can I get you?”

One by one they named their poison—vodka, whiskey, whiskey, Cape Cod, Orange Rambler—until she got to the last man perched halfway across the counter. He was a regular she recognized, one who usually sat quietly at the bar observing everything around him. His short brown hair was messy and his face was scruffy by lack of a recent shave. Yet his caramel eyes were on full alert, and when she met his stare she realized they were frozen on her.

“Yuengling on tap.”

She steeled herself not to look away when she asked, “Tall or short?”

“Tall.”

As she made the drinks she felt the weight of the shifter’s stare. He watched her as she collected the glasses, poured the shots, mixed the Rambler and Cape Cod and made her way to the station to fill the tall, icy mug with the lager of his choice.

She brought the drinks over and placed them onto the counter. “That’ll be thirty-two even.”

“I’ve got it.” He broke his stare to retrieve his wallet. He sorted through the cash inside, removed a couple of bills and passed them over. “Keep the change.”

She shied away when she extended her hand to accept the cash and, instead of handing it over, he brought his head closer, sniffing the air.

She yelped when his chin brushed her hand and she staggered across an empty box on the floor. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Your perfume,” he answered. “It seems familiar.”

Angry now, she took a step forward, snatched the cash and informed him briskly, “I don’t wear perfume, Pepé .”

His hand shot out before she could make a hasty departure, strong fingers winding snugly around her wrist. He brought his body halfway across the counter and pressed his nose to her palm, his nostrils flaring at the mound of Venus. The shifters with him went quiet, observing curiously.

“Definitely familiar,” he growled in a low timbre.

“Let go of my arm,” she said each word distinctly. “Before I call security over.”

“Trey…” One of the men next to the shifter started to interrupt when abruptly he released her. His caramel eyes shifted, becoming gold.

She left before any of them could see how unnerved she was. Her hands were trembling and her heart was racing as she cashed the till and stuffed the remainder into the tip jar. Shifters were the oddest creatures. Always sniffing, licking and fighting over pecking order. Undoubtedly he was trying to reinforce his position with his group and mark his place at the club.

Or maybe he gets off on scaring women shitless.

“Ava!” Delmar, one of the friendlier bouncers, called out for her from the floor. “Brett said to move your ass!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she grumbled.

Before she exited the bar she chanced a look at the shifter with a sniffing fetish. He was on a cell phone now, talking quietly, and those gleaming eyes were focused solely on her. Her stomach flip-flopped and she spun around, marching off to face her doom on the auction block.

Tonight can’t get any crappier…

The music stopped, the spotlight on center stage permeated the darkness of the club and she heard Brett’s deep voice cut through the crowd. “Can I have your attention, everyone? We have a birthday in the house, and you know what that means!”

A chorus of cheers and sexual innuendo carried to her ears and she cringed.

Strike that. It just did.

Ain’t that a pisser ?

Trey Veznor couldn’t believe the turn of events. Here he was, out with pack mates for the first time in a month and the cause of his—and the rest of the packs’—suffering was standing directly in front of him with a scowl on her face. He’d never forget that sweet scent, and the description D had passed along was a spot-on match—delicate and small, blonde hair with shades of pink buried within, big blue eyes.

Undeniably beautiful.

D had gone ape-bitch when the little sprite vanished and had called on the assistance of all the shifter communities to locate her. Since the Omega had been born a werewolf—inside Trey’s very own pack some two-hundred plus years previous—that meant the request was personal. He had chosen one place to scour each week—Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, Staten Island—and Manhattan was the final stop.

Of all the dumb luck.

It appeared that Pinkie worked in Times Square, smack-dab in the center of the action, and had been just around the corner from D the entire damn time.

Un-fucking-believable.

His eyes never left the tiny female as he retrieved his phone and found D’s number. Allowing her to vanish into nowhere couldn’t happen. The last few weeks had been awful. Even now D was one grumpy-ass son of a bitch. Thank god he was finally about to get laid and mated. Trey couldn’t stand his surly attitude much longer.