Page 3 of In Stockings
“Uh-huh,” I manage to squeak.
“You weren’t an omega at school,” Craig says, tilting his head.
“What’s an omega?” Lyra asks, brushing her fingers through the dark beard on Samson’s chin in a way I would frankly die to.
My eyes flick to the three men, wondering how they’re going to explain this to – what – their daughter?
“An omega is someone who binds a pack together,” Samson says, his dark eyes locked on me, making me feel all hot and faint.
“Like me?” Lyra asks.
“Yes, sweetheart.” Craig kisses the crown of her head.
“You’re a pack?” I ask, my heart suddenly pounding and the butterflies in my stomach turning somersaults.
“Yes, we’re a pack,” Archie answers.
“Pack Hart,” Lyra cheers, punching her little fist into the air. “Best pack ever.”
“I’m sure,” I laugh.
Oh, I’m totally sure. A pack with these three? Any omega would kill to have them. If the pack doesn't have an omega already, of course.
“Hey,” the woman standing behind Samson calls out, “Are you handing out sweets or what? We’ve been waiting a flipping hour and –”
“Coming!” I chime before the disgruntled woman with three kids hanging off her arms can spout out any more blue language.
“It was nice to meet you, Lyra.” I wave as I scuttle to the family behind.
* * *
By the timemy bag of sweets is empty, it’s time for us elves to rotate. Next stop for me is grotto crowd control. I’m positioned outside the little cabin where Father Christmas is tucked up inside. My job is to usher families in and out, making sure nobody overstays their welcome.
This is easier said than done, especially when everybody’s been waiting so long. One family dives into a long conversation with Santa and resists all my subtle hints to move along. In the end, I have to resort to commanding them to leave. When they ignore me, I call in the two bigger elves that are roaming the hospital this year to prevent incidents like last time. They frog march the disgruntled parents out of the grotto, and the line starts moving again.
I’m at the front for ten minutes when Lyra greets me like a long-lost friend.
“TwinkleToes!” she gushes, bouncing up and down in front of me.
“Hi, Lyra, you’re nearly there. Are you excited to meet Father Christmas?”
She squeezes her hands together, and, with her eyes shut, squeals. “Yes!”
“She has a lot of stamina,” I say to her three dads. “Most kids are wilting by the time they reach the grotto.”
“This one never wilts,” Craig says with affection. “She’s only excited or exceedingly excited.”
“Awww,” I say, taking her hand in mine. “That is the best way to be.”
“Although bloody exhausting for us,” Samson mutters.
I’m given the secret signal by the other elf working the grotto and lead Lyra inside the cabin. She skips along by my side, her eyes growing even wider with excitement as they land on Father Christmas. He sits on a rocking chair by a fake fire, brightly wrapped presents piled around his feet, and a small Christmas tree tucked into the far corner.
The aroma of gingerbread pumps through the cabin. Still, it’s not half as appetising as the scents of the three alphas that follow me inside the cabin. All three have to duck their heads, and the cabin feels positively titchy with these hulking great alphas inside.
“Santa, this is Lyra,” I tell him, giving Lyra a little nudge forward. She clings to my hand and refuses to budge.
“Hello, Lyra. Would you like to come a bit closer? I’m sure your …” Santa’s gaze trails over the three men, and he looks utterly lost.
