Scaramouche wasn’t the kind of alpha who smiled politely at strangers. He never made small talk unless forced, and he especially didn’t entertain unnecessary attention from people he didn’t care about. That’s why it confused you—because lately, when he came back from the daycare run, you kept hearing the same thing. That a few of the beta mothers liked to linger just a bit too long, liked to strike up meaningless conversation, and worst of all, liked to glance a little too obviously at his chest through the thin fishnet shirt he wore under his open jacket.

You weren’t sure when he started wearing that damn shirt again. Technically called a mesh long-sleeve, it hugged his frame and left very little to the imagination. Sure, he threw a light jacket over it, but it wasn’t like that helped much. His build was clear, his abs defined, and his scent? Still potent from the late morning rush. You didn’t think much of it the first time he wore it to pick up the twins—just Scara being Scara. But when you saw him leaning against the car, hair tied back, casually scrolling on his phone while a couple of beta women laughed too loudly nearby… something twisted in your gut.

He walked into the kitchen like nothing was wrong, toddler in each arm, their tiny shoes dangling as they babbled about juice boxes and nap time. You didn’t say anything at first. You just wiped your hands on a towel and leaned back against the counter, watching him as he knelt to unstrap their shoes. He must’ve felt it—the way your gaze lingered too long, the way your scent dipped just slightly, cool and laced with quiet irritation.