Page 81 of Knot in the Wedding Cards
Suddenly, the room feels it and quiets by a degree, and I suddenly notice how prominent his pure aura of masculinity now is as he stands there boldly.
Is this how an Alpha is supposed to project when he’s standing his ground?
"There seems to be a misunderstanding," he says, in the unbothered drawl of a man who has personally defused drunk relatives, famous egos, sobbing brides, and at least one venue on actual fire.
He introduces himself to the room, formal and full: Sawyer Devereaux, senior luxury wedding producer, certified designation-sensitive ceremony coordinator, licensed officiant, currently contracted to the Carroway-Reeve wedding.
A good way to divert attention from Sloan and Nolan’s wedding.
Then he says it, clear enough to reach the back of the lobby.
"Miss Whitlock is my Omega."
And wait…WHAT?!
The room freezes.
My heart stops, restarts, and elects speed over rhythm. The bold declaration is not only loud and firm, but it’s spoken with such strong conviction, I truly believe you wouldn’t have to know Sawyer to believe he’s telling nothing but the truth.
Behind Sawyer, three Alpha scents detonate at once — Beckett's cedar going thunder-dark, August's sage sharp enough to sting the eyes, Cade's blood orange scorching toward smoke — and Sawyer keeps talking before any of them can put a word into the air.
"These three gentlemen work within the event-support structure I coordinate. I work for Miss Whitlock. So professionally, medically, and operationally, we function as asingle designation-support unit. That is the only relevant fact this office needs today."
I hear the architecture of it even through the roar in my ears.
He made a possessive claim loud enough to satisfy a hostile room, then bolted it immediately to a professional frame — leaving me every inch of legal room to redefine it later, on my terms.
He didn't take anything.
He built me a door and left it unlocked.
A reporter notes that Mr. Devereaux only arrived in town recently.
"Emergency teams are assembled by credential and contract," Sawyer says. "Not by how long the gossip's had to warm up."
Someone else asks why the men are all here, if it's merely professional.
Sawyer looks slowly around the packed lobby — councilmen, reporters, vendors, the curious.
"Are all of you here to register into packs?" he asks.
Silence.
He gestures mildly.
"Because I count considerably more men in this room than women. Unless a number of you bend in more directions than your questions suggest, which I don't judge and don't consider my business, it seems unwise to assume that standing near a woman constitutes a household."
Juniper chokes on a laugh to my right. Marlowe addresses a brief prayer to the ceiling.
"That was annoyingly good," Cade mutters.
"Miss Whitlock came here to file professional compliance documents," Sawyer finishes, still perfectly pleasant. "She is not required to hand this town a diagram of her private life before she's permitted to earn a living."
That closes most of the room's mouth for it.
One reporter won't quit.
He pushes to the front and asks me directly — do I confirm it? Do I confirm what Mr. Devereaux just said?
