Knotting the Christmas Angel

Chapter 2 - Amaru

The lingering scent of feminine lust almost pulls me after the tiny female, but my boots refuse to lift from the deck. Her fear singes my nostrils and fills my mouth with bitterness.

Every female reacts the same. I understand.

Most females don't smell as delicious as she did, though. Like wind from a snow-topped mountain. Add in the memory of her soft breasts against my abs and her vulnerable green eyes piercing my soul, and I fight the urge to follow her. My cock throbs behind my zipper for the first time in ages.

Realization punches me in the gut. She's an omega. Here. Alone. On the cusp of Christmas.

Will this be her first heat?

I slam the door on those thoughts, grit my teeth, and swing my long, black braid off my shoulder while silently cursing the weapon between my legs.

Life taught me early on to never trust an alpha. When I presented as one myself, the hatred I'd used to survive my adolescence turned inward.

I deserve to hurt, just as the males inside this sad little building do. Just like the trail of broken bodies I've left behind. No amount of gore is too much.

Wrapping my fury around me like a shield, I turn away from the tiny form disappearing into the wilderness and open the door.

Three humans crack ball cues and drunken jokes around the pool table to the left, while three gnome bikers sit at a table to the right. A human woman with a vibrant aura serves them beer. Behind the bar stands a large human male. Aggression wafts off him in waves, his gaze moving to the woman every few seconds before he returns to his conversation.

My hackles rise impossibly further.

Leaning against the bar with lethal grace, an alpha elf acts as though he belongs here. He doesn't. Power emanates from him, too potent for this corner of the world. His ice-blue eyes narrow on mine for half a second before he nods and purposefully turns back to his conversation.

I meet the bartenders' eyes. He scowls. The woman greets me in broken English, telling me to sit anywhere I please. I choose a chair two tables away from the gnomes, accepting the risk of putting my back to them. When the woman comes over, I order a beer and a coffee and focus on the biker's conversation. After a few moments of tense silence, the one on the right speaks.

"At least they have good beer here, eh? Last place tasted like horse piss."

"We ain't here for the beer, cabrón."

"Watch yourself, ese. I don't like your tone."

As they fall into bickering, I let their voices settle into my psyche but expand my focus to the rest of the cantina's sounds. The cop and the bartender talk about the local terrain and the idiot sightseers who always end up needing help. The three humans at the pool table slur more than speak, obviously two sheets to the wind.

"But we found her and she ain't got nowhere to go. Time to call in the tracker."

My abdominals tense at the malice in his tone as my mind latches onto the memory of terrified green eyes. Are they talking about the female I met on the porch?

"Why didn't we just follow her now?"

"Do you wanna go out on foot into the desert?"

There's a beat of silence before the one on the right growls.

"No, but think of the clout we could earn if we snatched her up and brought her home on our own."

"Miguel makes first contact. You touch her and you die," the one on the left speaks for the first time.