The four of us reached the main road and we jaywalked across the street, the oppressive sky scrapers of Downtown Port Haven looming over as we barely had to dodge the creeping slog of bumper to bumper vehicles. Jackal jogged ahead, hopping onto the sidewalk and marched to a shop.
He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and started unlocking the door to the shop, the unlit neon sign above spelling outPins & Nettles Tattoo Parlour.The door opened, and Athame pulled me into the shop, followed by the males.
It took all my self-control not to drop to my knees and present myself to the three of them then and there.
Jackal shut and locked the door behind us. The shades were pulled down all the windows, granting no one from the outside world permission to peek inside. The four of us were alone.
The shop was spacious, tidy, but drowning in esoteric objects. New age books, crystals, tarot cards, bongs and pipes, zippo lighters and pocket knives, anti-fascist bumper stickers, ironic t-shirts, wind chimes, incense, figurines of dragons and unicorns and fairies, and enough drawings pinned on the walls to wallpaper a gymnasium.
This place smelled like them. It was their domain. The strawberry-lemonade of Raine, the nearly-burned brulee sugar of Jackal, and over it all like a glaze, Athame’s vanilla and coconut. My mouth watered, my core begged.
Jackal walked past me and leaned close to Raine. He inhaled, catching my mild scent from where I had marked his packmate. Jackal purred and caught me in a side glance before looking at Raine. I clenched my thighs together in a vain attempt to stop any slick from seeping out.
Raine pushed Jackal away from him and disappeared deeper into the shop. Soon, the speakers came alive with pounding, guttural heavy metal. It made the place feel more welcoming, like people like me were permitted to be here after hours. It was a stupid thought, I knew that, but it still took up space in my mind.
Athame unclipped the leash from the collar around my neck. She sauntered away and sat in the artist’s chair next to the reclinable client chair.
“Why is your scent so weak?” She asked with a cute wrinkle of her nose.
“I took dampeners,” I admitted. “I didn’t want—” I stopped myself. I couldn’t say I didn’t want to find my scent match, not now that they had found me. “I was just… trying to be considerate to the other fans. I wasn’t trying to hide, or escape.” Shame bubbled up in my chest.
“So you do want to be one of us,” Jackal asked, slithering past me and sitting on the client chair. It wasn’t really a question as much as it was a conclusion.
“I think so,” I said. “Yes. I do.”
Raine reappeared and took up residence behind the glass display counter, some of his hair falling artfully over one eye. “An omega of our very own.”
I took a breath, daring to speak. “I want to. But I’m not going to grovel.”
Jackal barked out a laugh.
“We wouldn’t want anyone in our pack to grovel, beg or plead,” Athame said. “Well, boys.” She looked at each alpha in turn. “You had a taste of her. What do you think?”
“I think I want to watch you sink your teeth deep into her, Athame,” Jackal said, looking at me with wolfish eyes. “But only after she’s been thoroughly exhausted by my and Raine’s knots.”
Athame tossed her head, her voluminous tresses all falling down her back. “We all have matching ink. You willing to get ink, Caira?”
I almost lost all sense when she said my name.
“Depends. Let me see it.” I wasn’t about to get a naked woman, or a smiley face or a rose and dagger on my body. Nothing so cliche and tackey. Or worse, abstract tribal designs or words in an alphabet no one in the room knew how to read.
Athame extended her arm and turned her wrist upward. Written across it in a style that looked astoundingly realistic, as if it was carved into the skin by a razor blade, was the wordOstray. Around it was an Alpha symbol.
“You all have the same one?” I asked.
The males rolled up their sleeves and bared their arms, hands curled into fists, knuckles a whisper away from touching. Across the tendons, just like Athame, was the same carved into flesh, harsh word, surrounded by their own designation.
“What does it mean?” I looked to the pack.
“Sharp,” Raine said.
Athame took my hand and offered my palm to the sky. She ran a thumb across my thrumming virgin pulse. I had ink, but it was on my back and upper arms, in case I had to hide it.
“Do you want this,” Athame asked. “Do you want us? We want you.”
A pack of artists and metal heads of my very own. Handsome and beautiful and wild in ways that matched mine. A scent combined that felt like belonging and safety.
“I do,” I admitted.
