Kaiden knows that his 'pole dancing' is a shame to actual pole dancers in the world. All he does is shake his hips, smile at the crowd, twirl around the metal, and maybe lift himself up with the help of neither the corset nor the high heels. He isn't being paid to actually dance anyway. The manager took one look at him, asked for his name and age, and said that he is pretty enough to keep the customers occupied.
All things considered, releasing his pheromones under the lewd gazes of drunk and possibly drugged partygoers isn't the worst way to spend his birthday. He's being paid and he can make sure he won't spontaneously go into heat because he regulates his pheromones through this job. If only he wasn't kicked out of his so-called family, then maybe he can still afford the regular pheromone reduction treatment at the hospital.
Alas, it can only be his misfortune that he was born unloved.
Kaiden loses track of time as one remix changes into another. It is only during the latter part of the evening when he realizes that his body is warmer than usual. His scent is also changing, going from the light strawberry fragrance into something deeper, heavier, and unmistakably /needy/.
Something's not right; he still has a full week before his next heat, so why are his limbs heavier than normal?
He feels slick pooling down on the lower half of his body, kept at bay only by the tight, leather shorts, and he panics.
It's one thing to tantalize others while he's on stage, but it's a different matter if he is to go in heat while in public.
He needs to be somewhere safe—he needs to leave, /now/.
Kaiden casts his gaze around the place, hoping to catch the manager's attention. Instead, he notices a pair of dark, violet eyes, illuminated only by the platform lights, that follows his every move.
The man looks ready to devour him whole, unblinking and unmoving the entire time, and his heartbeat speeds up. He finishes the song with a big move—the only proper pole dancing move he can do—and hopes that it's enough of an apology for leaving early.
He steps back, heading for the stairs hidden beneath the stage, when all of a sudden, he stumbles. As he's falling backward, he has half the mind to scold himself for buying cheap boots. A broken heel is what he gets for saving a few dollars.
--
Damon's body moves before his mind can react. It's easy to see where the Omega will have landed since his eyes never left the boy anyway. He extends his arms and the Omega falls perfectly into his embrace, one arm under his knees while the other is under his shoulders.
He's light, Damon notes as he adjusts to a more comfortable hold, and his pale skin is hot to touch. He's even smaller now that he can see him up close, smaller than the typical omega—younger too, it seems, with his big, carmine eyes and long, pink hair that reminds Damon of cotton candy sold only during festivals.
How old is this kid? 17? 18? Is this club employing minor omegas? He knows the place is shady but his friend assured him that the place doesn't prostitute their employees. Why is a kid who doesn't look old enough to drink shaking his ass for a crowd?
The questions fly out of his head the moment he inhales, catching a full whiff of the Omega's pheromones. This is it. This is the scent that is piercing the haze in his inebriated mind.
He smells like strawberries and pancakes on a lazy morning—of comfort and innocence, and Damon can't help but want more. It's intoxicating, especially as the scent changes by the minute.
He recognizes that change.
Damon may have avoided omegas all his life because he's disgusted by them, but that doesn't stop them from throwing themselves at him, not under the allure of marrying under the Lin Finance Group. From the numerous times omegas tried to seduce him with their pheromones, Damon is sure that the kid in his arms is going into heat.
Damon's drunken mind wonders if this is deliberate—if the Omega did this on purpose, falling into his embrace to tempt him with his smooth skin, tiny waist, and perky butt. What does he want? Money? Power? Sex?
The kid whimpers. From pain or something else, Damon doesn't know, but something inside him stirs when he hears the sound of distress despite the loud music next to his ear.
He starts moving towards the exit; they don't talk. The Omega clutches the front of his clothes and Damon holds him tighter, scared of dropping the tiny creature in his arms.
He makes his way around sweaty bodies on the dance floor, his body focusing on a single command. He doesn't even stop when Edgar calls for him—doesn't look back at the Beta trailing after them as best as he can. Damon doesn't have the mind to tell his friend, or any of them left in the private room, that he's leaving. He doesn't know where to go yet but he knows that he needs to bring the omega somewhere safe, somewhere not here where there are lots of wandering hands and obscene conversations.
He parked outside, he remembers, even asked the driver to stay behind because he knew he would be drinking.
The car, /yes/, the car is safe. The car is /his/, full of his scent, and his inner alpha approves of this decision.
Everything is a blur, his feet moving faster with every step, and the next thing he knows, he's outside and sprinting through the parking lot.
The place is dark, barely lit from the dim street lamps, but it's enough to guide him to his white, off-road vehicle.
The driver catches sight of him and immediately alights to open the back door for him. If the driver widens his eyes upon seeing the person in Damon's arms, the Alpha doesn't notice.
He throws said person to the backseat, enters, and closes the door. The car starts and without a word, he pulls the Omega back into his embrace.