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Jack has had rules all his life. He even grew up to like them. Eventually. Sometimes.


Never walk alone at night. Just in case.


Always have an Alpha sergeant. Collin’s is an excellent example. Young, innocent, but with an undeniable scent that scares the punters off.


Marry young. Look how well that turned out. 


Jack pulls up at Rosie’s current residence, her sister’s place and their first home generously provided to them by George Sanderson. Taken away of course once it was clear their relationship wasn’t going to offer the Sanderson line any grandchildren. 


He made Rosie swear on her life that both Val and her husband and children are out of state, ensuring they will be alone. 


He has no choice but to trust her because he’s still hard and twitchy and pretty sure he’s going to stay that way. 


Fucking heat. 


Fucking Phryne. 


No, he really shouldn’t think like that right now.  


An Omega knows an Alpha from the moment they meet one- yet Jack had never met one like Phryne before. 


For one stereotypically Alpha’s are men, and secondly within a few days of them meeting Jack had already seen her wet and wearing only a towel. On her knees. Looking up at him through her eyelashes. 


It was the most female flesh he’d seen in months. And she smelt amazing. Like sex come to life. Then she just happened to become one of the best detectives he’s ever met in his life.


Did he ever truly stand a chance?  


Jack pats the slight bump hidden in his inside coat pocket. A lifelong habit. The small bottle is still there. Of course. It's never moved. 


Male Omega’s get pills. Jack can’t even remember how long he’s been taking them. It dulls everything- his mood, libido, and most importantly his scent.  It supposedly makes you more masculine. With them Jack can pass for a regular beta except for his yearly heat. 


The price for masculinity is damn depressing however. Jack has been walking around in a fog for years. A fog of war, of loss, of a stupid green pull every morning taken with his burning black coffee.


At least it was, until a certain Miss Fisher blew his fog away. His depression ebbing away in the cocktail glasses Mr Butler hands out to him. Long talks by her fireplace about the mud in France, and the Melbourne of their childhood. 


If only she’d be down on her knees right now perhaps he could stop thinking about the pink bow of her lips. 


Mate,’ His omega croons hopefully, ‘Our Mate,’ 


Jack slams his car's door shut with a purpose, his gut twisting. 


No. He can’t. She wouldn’t. He won’t let her. 


His knocks on Rosie’s door are hard and heavy. He can immediately hear her hurried steps to reach him. He’s late- must have took a wrong turn somewhere. The fact that Jack can’t remember means he knows he’s fucked. 


“Jack,” Rosie opens the door in her dressing gown, her doe eyes wide and anxious, “You look awful,” 


Jack pushes past her, unsteady on his feet. On what used to be his armchair she has everything prepared. Wet flannels for his neck and face, a cup of cold tea and mercifully what looks like a bottle of gin. 


“Thank you,” Jack collapses into the pillows shivering from the fever slowly wrecking his body. 


Rosie stands over him, her brow furrowed. With his parents dead, she’s the only person alive who knows. 


Your son being an Omega isn’t something you celebrated in Richmond. Not unless you wanted your family hounded for bringing up something so unnatural. Or worse- a woman with a painted smile knocking on your door asking for a good price to sell you to a brothel. 


Jack's father warned him with a hard stare to never tell anyone. Not even his wife. But he had been young and in love. And lonely.  Rosie may have been a Beta, but she always looked after him during periods like his. She was sweet and understanding. She sent him supplies when he was at the front. 


It was only when things turned sour when Jack felt that Rosie began to hold it against him.  Blamed his presentation on his lack of ambition. His withdrawal a confirmation that she was never going to compare to the draw an Alpha could have over him. 


“Is it her?” Rosie asks stiffly, her bottom lip wobbling. 


Jack says nothing, throwing one of her cool soggy towels over his sizzling face.


Rosie had said exactly the same thing before. A rare dinner together, their last failed attempt to patch their beaten relationship. 


Jack could still taste Phryne’s tongue on his lips.  Her wild blue eyes from Café Replique haunted him when he closed his eyes. She was incredible. Strong. Magnificent. Her scent hung around him like a cloud, so thick he swore even Rosie could pick up on it with her weaker nose. 


He’s been tempted before. Irrationally so because he’s almost certain he’s not into men. But when biology calls… Alphas and Omega’s. It’s basic chemistry, or so they say.


With Phryne it felt different- even back then. Biology was there. She was and Alpha through and through, the way she banged about like she was God’s very gift to earth. Her will, as strong as brass. Her ability to protect- to draw people under her wing was astounding.  


Her pack was the most well loved group of people he knew.  A real family, despite the lack of bloodlines.  Without asking Jack if he even needed one suddenly he found himself standing beside her side at parties, hanging on her every word.  He could be blind, but Jack believed Phryne had begun to lean on him too. 


'Partners' as she called them. 


Partner is such a simple term for what their relationship is to him.


It’s not just the fact that she’s irresistible and knows it. She’s whip smart. Endlessly interesting. And she makes him laugh. Jack at one point thought he’d never be able to laugh honestly again. 


Jack doesn’t know when he started thinking of himself as her Omega. For longer than he realised and definitely longer than he should’ve. 


Phryne is not his Alpha. 


She’ll never be anyone's Alpha. 


Which is why he’s staring through fabric up at his ex wife’s ceiling instead of worshipping Phryne’s beautiful breasts. 


He’s tortured enough in her presence. He’s got too much pride to kill himself over her rejection. 


“I told her I was coming here,” Jack pulls down the already lukewarm hand towel to replace it with another round his neck. 


“So?” Rosie asks, her lips turned up into a smug smile, her tone sardonic, “You come to her beck and call at the mere batter of her eyelashes,” 


“Rosie,” Jack snaps, his fists clenched, “Don’t,” Except it’s not exactly an unfair statement. Phryne doesn’t even have to bat anything these days- he’s always right behind her. 


“She doesn’t want to help you,” Rosie’s face is curled up in disbelief. 


Jack’s Omega starts at the accusation. Unconsciously he feels his lip pull upwards into a growl. As if his Alpha had anything to do with his situation. 


But against his better judgement, memories of Phryne chatting happily beside him come roaring back to him, the scent of some other Omega all over her that wasn’t him- her eyes tired and sated looking.


The jealous monster inside his head, one he thought had died with age and the war, once again rears it’s ugly head. It seems to be doing that more and more lately. 


Phryne is an Alpha who loves the finer things in life,


It makes him want to die. But her sexual freedom, so different to Rosie and Concetta, is also one of the many reasons why he loves her. 


He promised her once he’d never change her, and he means to keep it. 


“She doesn’t know,” Jack admits, his pride over Phryne getting the better of him. 


He knows how people talk about her. About him and her. Even if they don’t know their designations. He sees the way his officers have begun to titter about him. 


Detective Robinson and his less than 'Honourable' heiress. 


Or more likely Miss Fisher and the horny divorced Jack Robinson. 


Rosie probably thinks he’d fallen into her bed months ago. 


“Jack,” Just as he expected, Rosie looks flabbergasted, wrapping her arms tightly around her, “How?” 


Jack doesn’t even have the energy in him to shrug, his body floppy against the soft fabric of his armchair. 


How? For the same reason hundreds of Beta men and women wear Alpha cologne, and Omega perfume. 


Honestly it would be more likely for Phryne to figure it out than Jack to tell her willingly. 


“I can’t,” Jack croaks, a wave of heat soaking the of his neck, “Trap Phryne when I’m like this,” 


He’d be irresistible to her like this. 


It’s already bad enough when they’re on cases together. He knows Phryne won’t be shy when she discovers why he is helpless to saying no to her. To learn why his eyes follow her unconsciously. Why he’s memorised the scent of her perfume and the curves of her legs. 


Best case scenario they’d have incredible sex, he’d say something truly embarrassing like ‘I love you,’ and things would never be the same between them again. 


Worst case scenario, he somehow convinces Phryne to bite the mating gland currently throbbing at his neck and they’d be bonded for life and Jack will have caught her in something more permanent than marriage. 


“Good luck trapping that woman to do anything,” Rosie mutters under her breath. 


Jack shifts awkwardly in his trousers which have not gotten any less tight. The idea of Phryne’s hot breath on his neck is only getting him going. 


“I’d beg her for everything,” Jack talks more to himself than anything, “Things she doesn’t want, more than sex-,” 


“I understand Jack, thank you,” Rosie interrupts briskly, looking irritated, “Do you really want that though?” 


Yes fucking please,’ Jacks Omega howls their consent. 


He didn’t know how much until he thought she’d died in that damn motor car. Didn’t know it was more than attraction until he realised not only does he not want to live without her- but that he can’t. 


Which is why Jack is never going to tell her he’s an Omega. 


“No,” Jack says resolutely, no matter how much it hurts him, shaking his head numbly, “Not for her,” 


“You love her,” Rosie says flatly, her eyes wet with disappointment. 


“Of course,” Jack replies simply. 


The kind of love that didn’t have him questioning if it was worth a man’s blood on his hands to save her. 


Jack shot Sidney Fletcher without thought for her, and he’d do it again. Although knowing Phryne end up saving him far more than he’ll do for her. 


“I think… she wants you more than you realise,” Rosie offers up, patting the air around his shoulder. 


Jack would laugh if he found it funny. 


“Phryne,” Jack wets his dry lips, “She wants the world,” 


She is his world. His Alpha. 


But he’s certainly not hers. 


“She wants you, Jack Robinson,” Rosie without knowing perfectly repeats what Phryne told him only a few weeks before, “She practically bit my head off when I implied she wasn’t good enough for you,” 


Jack’s heart suddenly feels suspiciously full. 


Alpha wants us,’ His Omega feels a little too hopeful for Jack's battered nerves. 


In fact he knows he’d be on the way to Wardlow right now if he thought he could make it to his car.


“I don’t-” Jack shudders with need, “Need to hear that right now,” He can’t deny there’s a part of him that doesn’t believe her. 


Phryne doesn’t get jealous. She wouldn’t. Not for the sake of him. 


Rosie’s face slides into a sympathetic smile. She rubs the bridge of her nose, an anxious habit.


“Take your medicine,” She points at the glass of whiskey sat next to him, “And we’ll get you to bed,


Jack likes rules.


 He takes the drink. Then he has another for good measure. 


Rosie helps him into a standing position, and he folds against her.


“I’m pathetic,” Jack moans, feeling boneless and lightheaded at the sudden change of gravity. Perhaps he shouldn’t have drunk so much at the office.


“You’re talking to the woman whose father and fiancé are rotting in a jail cell,” Rosie quips, sounding more like her youthful snarky eighteen year old self than she has in years. 


The pair slowly shift towards the bedroom in quiet comradery and Jack attempts to pretend that this is going to be enough for him. 


He should have kissed Phryne. Pressed her against her staircase. 


Damn her Aunt. Damn his heart. 


Except if he really believed that he’d be in her bedroom right now. 


Rosie helps him take off his clothes, just leaving him in his pants and shirt. Perhaps it should have felt intimate, but it really only felt like she was his mother and he was a struggling toddler. 


Jack collapses onto his mattress. His lack of clothes makes him feel a little better, but not by much. 


He’s still unbearably hot, and his cock unbearably hard.


“I appreciate this Rosie,” Jack slurs, his words coming out less than lucid, “After everything,” His fingers are already playing with his buttons. He’s got to get cool.


It’s nothing his ex-wife hasn’t seen before, but she still turns away, her cheeks rather pink. 


“Get some sleep Jack,” Rosie nods by the doorframe, sounding tired, “I’ll see you in the morning,” Finally she shuts the door with a click.


Jack immediately falls into the pillow, his hot face squashing against the cool fabric. 


Rosie used to sit with him in their early days of marriage. Even helped him sometimes, although it was never enough.  Eventually her visits became merely perfunctory, until they weren’t there at all.


J ack was too much for her, and too little all at once. 


The bed smells musty and vaguely of flowers that have been sitting in water too long. Rosie must have changed her sheets because there’s barely a whiff of her on them. 


“Thank god,” Jack breathes, leaning down to swipe something out of the secret pocket in his coat hidden next to his pills. 


A simple white handkerchief, embroidered with red thread with the letters ‘PF’. Left on his desk- on purpose or on accident- he has no idea.


Jack buries his nose into it. If he shuts his eyes, he can almost picture her next to him. 


“Phryne,” Jack whispers. 


Her black hair mused across her face. Would she suck a love bite to his neck- would she dare get close to the mating gland throbbing at his throat?


Jack palms his cock, which is aching for attention. Her attention.   


 Phryne would. She’d take the risk. Jack can’t even begin to imagine all the things she could probably do with her tongue. 


Jack shifts, pressing his pelvis against the sheets. He moans again, louder this time. He hides his face deeper into her handkerchief and allows himself to fall into oblivion.  


Phryne running her sharp nails through his hair. Her breasts rubbing against his chest. Even better- his tongue pressed flat against her nipple, plucking at the hard bud until she keens. 


He begins to rut against the mattress. Jack can’t help it. He’s had her breast in his mouth before. It was so soft. She was soft. They would fit perfectly into his hands. 


Naked. He needs to be naked. 


He needs to see her- naked. Lying out beneath him. On top of him. Wherever. As long as she’s with him. 


Jack is making little choking noises in the back of his throat. He can’t help it. He doesn’t even have his hand around himself but it feels so good. 


Not as good as his dick would feel sliding into Phryne’s cunt. When that happens he will probably die from pleasure, and he will enjoy every sweet second. 


Here’s no time to think about how he’s humping his ex-wife’s mattress pretending it’s the woman he’s in love with. 


It’s worse knowing he can picture her perfectly. That he’s seen that thatch of hair between her thighs. On oil paint, but it doesn’t matter. He’s seen. 


And that’s exactly where he’s going to bury his face into. It’s going to smell ever better than the faint tang of French perfume exuding from her handkerchief. Sweet and tart, and all over his tongue. 


She can almost hear her voice, that way she can purr. Sexy and sultry. 




“Phryne,” Jack shudders as he spills into his underwear. 


He’s breathing hard, feeling sticky and sore. Wet and uncomfortable. And still fucking aroused. 


Jack sighs, turning back round so he can strip off his ruined pants. This is just the beginning.