Knotting the Christmas Angel

Chapter 3 - Eskil

The dry grass crunches under my cowboy boots, no matter how quietly I tread. I fit my Stetson on my head, thankful for the shade since my pale complexion burns easily, and fix the hair tie holding my blonde hair at my nape.

About as remote as a person can live, the shoddy single-wide sits at the end of a long, desolate road. The nearest house must be at least ten miles away.

The curtains move and a figure disappears deeper into the hovel. Dirt clings to everything. The wind carries away the plume of red kicked up by my tires. Two mesas jut up from the otherwise flat landscape, at least another five miles north.

I saunter up to the front door and knock.

She doesn't answer. I know she's inside—her scent leaks out from under the door.

I knock again. Nothing moves inside the flimsy excuse for shelter.

"Open up, little one. I know you're in there."

Gods, the need to put my hands on her body again plagued me all night. I shouldn't want to touch her—she belongs to Saint Nick, not me—but she's a tempting little morsel.

I knock again, harder this time. Nothing moves.

Pulling the sheriff card won't bring her out to me, like it would a less intuitive omega—the mite already knows I'm from The Knottiverse. I saw it in her eyes. She recognized me as a predator.

And she's my prey.

"Open the door before—" a soft noise, imperceptible to human ears and barely loud enough for me to catch over the wind, comes from the back. I dart around the trailer and catch her before she steps over the threshold, pushing her back into the dark, musty room.

Her squeak has my cock fully hard and aching against my trousers. I press her shoulders against the side of the refrigerator, anger spearing through me as her nails scratch down my arms.

"Get off me!"

Even her furious scream sounds melodious. I fill my nostrils with her pheromones, tasting her ripeness and letting my desire rumble from my chest. She chokes, stopping her whimper before it fully forms. Her nails draw blood.

I wrap my fingers around her throat and press my body flush against hers. She stills like a mouse caught in a trap. Her scent thickens.

"Here's the thing, mite. You still don't call the shots, got it?"

She grits her teeth and glares her defiance up at me. I smirk and reach for the brim of her hat.

"No!"

Her denial falls on deaf ears. Disappointment flows through me as a scarf blocks my view of her hair. When I reach for the tie, she bites me. Hard.

I hiss and slide my other hand upward, grabbing her jaw instead of her throat. Pinching the fleshy part of her cheeks, I force her mouth open and don't let go after slipping my hand free. I shake my head and chuckle as I eye the forming bruise.

"That wasn't smart, little omega. What if you'd broken the skin?"

Her pupils shrink to pinpoints and she tries to shake her head.

"That'd be a shame, jumpin' the gun like that. Saint Nick would have my hide if I let you claim me before he had his turn."

She pushes against my sides and shakes so hard the fridge bangs against the counter. I release her jaw but can't resist the lure of her throat. My hand fits so nicely around the slender column.