[ She squirms and rolls in the sheets, delighting in smearing herself more with his scent and smearing his sheets with her scent in return, and barely pays any attention to what he's picking out for her. She trusts him to choose.

(IV doesn't trust anyone but she's not IV she's sir's omega)

(she's

Thomas)

She finally lifts her head at the question, wrinkling her nose. Why would she ever want to clean away any of his scent, of his markings, when she's newly claimed? When she's fresh out of her first heat, the sort of omega that other alphas might want to claim?

She stares down at the dress the best she can from her spot in the bed, admiring it. ]

Dress, sir.