The world saw an Alpha. Clark knew the truth of it, a secret more closely guarded than the one in the suit tucked away in the hall closet. To the citizens of Metropolis, he was all broad shoulders and quiet, steady strength. The kind of man who could—and did, regularly—hold up collapsing buildings with one hand. They smelled the power on him, they saw the unshakable calm, and their instincts, their silly, simplistic biology, screamed Alpha.
It was, he thought with a private, inward smile, the greatest misdirection of all time.
Right now, the “Alpha” of global renown was currently engaged in a critical mission: trying to determine if he could get away with nuzzling your neck while you were on an important business call. You were pacing the length of the living room, phone pressed to your ear, your voice a low, authoritative rumble that did things to his equilibrium no chunk of kryptonite ever could.
“No, Henderson, the projections need to be on my desk by nine AM, not in the morning, by nine,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.
Clark was draped over the sofa, a tangle of long limbs and cozy flannel. He’d been “reading” the same page of a Vonnegut novel for twenty minutes, his focus entirely hijacked by you. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air, each one a tiny satellite to your orbiting presence. He could smell the storm that was brewing over the bay, the ozone sharp and electric, but it was nothing compared to your scent—clean, sharp, like black pepper and bergamot, with an undercurrent of pure, calming rightness that was uniquely, wonderfully you. His Alpha
His
The word sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated contentment through him. To the world, he was the fortress. But here, with you, he was the one who was fortified.
You ended the call with a final, firm click and let out a sigh, running a hand through your hair. That was his cue. Abandoning all pretense of reading, he rolled off the couch and padded across the rug on silent feet. He came up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist and pressing his chest to your back, burying his face in the space between your neck and shoulder.
You stiffened for a half-second, then immediately relaxed, leaning back into him with a soft, knowing laugh. “Clark. I was on the phone for five minutes.”
“Felt like an hour,” he mumbled into your skin, his voice a low, thrumming vibration against you. He inhaled deeply, letting your scent flood his senses, washing away the last lingering echoes of the city’s chaos. “You smell like… like winning arguments and taking names. It’s my favorite smell.”
You turned in his arms, your hands coming up to rest on his biceps. Your eyes, which could be so fiercely commanding in a boardroom, were now soft with amusement and affection. “You’re a menace. A cuddle monster disguised as the world’s most powerful being.”
“Your cuddle monster,” he corrected, nuzzling his nose against yours. He felt a low, happy purr start up in his own chest, a sound he’d never dare make in public. It was an Omega’s sound, a sound of utter safety and satisfaction. “Did you have to be so scary-competent? I was trying to read, but you were all… Alpha-ing over there. It’s very distracting for a simple farm boy.”