Page 2 of Holly Jolly Heat
His head turned. His eyes met mine across fifteen feet of crowded market.
And I watched recognition slam into him like a tidal wave.
His pupils dilated. His nostrils flared. His entire body went rigid, camera bag sliding forgotten from his shoulder.
"Oh," he breathed, and even from this distance, I could hear the wonder in his voice. "Oh."
He took a step toward me.
I stumbled backward, directly into someone solid.
"Whoa—" Strong hands caught my shoulders, steadying me. "Sorry, I didn't see?—"
The second scent hit me even harder than the first.
Spruce and woodsmoke. Grounding. Protective. Safe.
The hands on my shoulders tightened fractionally, and I looked up into dark brown eyes that had gone very, very wide.
"You," the man said, his voice rough with shock.
He was Korean-American, lean and wiry, wearing a black baseball cap and cargo pants with too many pockets. A professional camera hung around his neck. His grip on my shoulders was gentle but firm, like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go.
His scent wrapped around me like a blanket, and my omega—traitorous, ridiculous, inconvenient omega—leaned into it.
Mate. Pack.
"I—" I tried to form words. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to?—"
"Are you okay?" His voice had dropped to something softer, more intimate. His thumb brushed my shoulder, and even through my coat, the touch burned. "You look?—"
A third scent crashed over me.
Leather and bergamot. Solid. Steady. Unmovable.
My knees actually buckled.
The dark-haired man caught me before I could fall, but a third person was suddenly there, a wall of a man, broad-shouldered and tall, with short blonde hair and pale blue eyes currently locked on my face with laser focus.
"Omega," he rumbled, and his voice resonated in my bones.
Camera equipment clattered to the cobblestones. He didn't even look down.
Three of them. Three scents, three sets of eyes, three alphas all staring at me with identical expressions of shock and recognition and want.
Pack bond.
I'd just recognized a bonded alpha pack.
"No," I said out loud, trying to take a step back. The dark-haired man's hands were still on my shoulders. The huge blonde was blocking my retreat. The sandy-haired one was moving closer, his cedar-vanilla scent getting stronger with every step.
"Please," the sandy-haired one said, and his voice was desperate and hopeful and everything I couldn't afford to feel right now. "Please don't run. I'm Lucas, and this is?—"
But I was already moving.
I twisted out of the dark-haired man's grip, ducked under the blonde's reaching arm, and shoved my way into the crowd with the kind of desperate strength that only sheer panic could provide.
Behind me, I heard Lucas call out, "Wait! Please! We just want to talk!"
