Sugar Coated

12

Andres Ibarra

Jax and I closed up shop early, herding customers out the door while Em flooded our bond with bouts of anxiety and the occasional flare of lust.

By the time we'd made it back upstairs into our pack space, Em was dripping sweat and the house was nearly spotless as long as you didn't peek too hard into any of the closets scattered around our home.

Our sweet omega was desperately out of his element, fighting with the vacuum cord when we found him in the kitchen, "Please tell me someone else will cook because I am at my absolute wit's end." Not for the first time I considered the option of hiring on a few more extra employees to cover shifts whenever we had pack business or bonding to take care of.

Jax had always loved the idea of an intimate parlor shop though, but that was long before we'd gained the notoriety and the fame that we had. Navigating the shop as a three-man pack was getting hard. We might have a fourth soon, though.

Thoughts of Delaney dredged up a lot of notions. They rose up from the depth of my mind about as quickly as my cock did in the just slightly too tight work pants. "We will, Em." I'd make dinner and Jax would make something sweet, probably eclair casings that we'd fill and dip after Delaney arrived.

I watched our alpha snag Em in a soothing embrace, pressing small kisses to his brow and cheeks before telling him he'd been good and done well.

Em melted.

Just like dark chocolate, he turned decadent and sweet in the air around us.

"Do you think she'll be here soon?" Hope wiggled its way through the bond. Excitement. Both of them pursued by a tangling bout of nerves as Em's hands stole to the rumpled hem of the sweater he wore.

"You've got time to shower and get ready, omega," I didn't use his title often. He was still getting used to it most days —or getting used to the way we said it in reference to him at least. But, when I did use it I always wanted it to be soothing, helpful, and entirely about him.

I caught the flick of his eyes over Jax's shoulder. He tracked me as I pulled spices out of the cupboard, laying them on the counter. Jax could handle sweetness, but neither he nor Em had ever managed to perfect simple dinner seasonings. It was the first thing I'd taken over command of and Jackson let me do it —relinquished that control before I'd even been pack proper.

The man, the myth, the alpha.

All of the Tampa Bay Area wondered what kind of alpha you'd have to be: to own Sugar Coated, to not get wildly jealous with patrons and their flirting, to even encourage it, to not constantly worry and fortify your pack with more alphas?

You needed to be Jackson Sinclair.

Who was Jackson Sinclair?

Mine. Em's. And Delaney's as soon as she realized it.

"Go get ready, Em," his hand brushed along Emil's arm, the one that still had a limp grip on the handle of the vacuum. "We've got it from here. I promise. Clean up and get comfortable. Take some time and rest in your nest until she gets here." His voice was soothing, that intersection between a command and a gift when it came to handling omegas.

It was a responsibility I'd once thought I wanted, most betas did if only secretly. Though, that sentiment had long since burned out of me, only rearing its ugly head whenever society demanded it of the world, to make any of us feel lesser —uncomfortable in the people we were.

"Promise you'll come get me when she's here?" He looked to both of us, asking for our care and for our responsibility. It was a heady thing to have an omega in your pack that trusted you enough to rely on you.