20. Unexpected Desires
20
UNEXPECTED DESIRES
~JESSICA~
M y reflection stares back at me from the bathroom mirror like a stranger wearing my face.
Tousled hair, swollen lips, flushed cheeks — a visual catalog of the night's activities etched across my skin in unmistakable detail. I groan, tilting my head to examine the constellation of marks blooming along my neck and collarbone.
Evidence. Visible, tangible proof that last night wasn't a dream.
"You look like you've been mauled," I mutter to my reflection, fingertips tracing a particularly vivid bruise just beneath my jaw.
It's not the marks that surprise me, though. It's not even the soreness that radiates from muscles stretched and tested in the best possible ways.
It's the look in my eyes—the barely contained satisfaction, the lingering heat, the absence of the guardedness that's been my constant companion for seven years.
He knotted me.
The thought sends an electric current racing down my spine, pooling low in my belly with renewed interest. I hadn't expected it—not really. Despite all our encounters, despite the intensity between us, we'd always carefully avoided that level of commitment. That step over a line neither of us had been willing to acknowledge.
Until last night.
Until he was buried inside me, his body locked with mine, his voice raw with promises I'm still afraid to believe.
I lean closer to the mirror, searching my own face for signs of regret or doubt. Finding none is almost more unsettling than if I'd discovered fear lurking behind my eyes.
Instead, I find something dangerously close to contentment.
Dangerous because nothing good lasts. Nothing safe remains. Nothing whole stays unbroken.
A sigh escapes me, fogging the glass slightly. This wasn't just sex. Wasn't just another release valve for the tension that constantly thrums between us.
This was.. . ugh. I’m not ready to face the truth that’s right in my face.
Being with Rook means being with his pack.
With Marcus, Knox, and Bastian. It means fitting into a dynamic I don't fully understand, navigating relationships with men who are still largely strangers despite our shared proximity these past days.
Can I even handle a pack?
The question unfurls in my mind like smoke, impossible to grasp fully yet impossible to ignore. I've been alone for so long, isolated by choice and circumstance. The idea of being part of something larger, of belonging to multiple people while they in turn belong to me—it's foreign.
Intimidating.
Tempting.
My fingers grip the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening as I stare at my reflection with sudden intensity.
"Someone like you," I whisper to the mirror, the words barely disturbing the humid air.
Someone raped.
Tortured.
Deemed worthless by a group of Alphas who stole something precious from me.
Someone broken and remade, whose edges never quite fit back together the same way.
Can someone like me even be part of a pack?
Can I trust that many people with the vulnerability such a bond requires?
Would they even want me if they knew the depths of my damage?
I shake my head, trying to dispel the spiral of thoughts that threatens to drag me under. This isn't productive or helpful. This is exactly the kind of self-sabotage I've spent years avoiding through sheer force of will.
Focus on the practical. The immediate. The real.
That's how I've survived this long.
With deliberate movements, I push away from the sink and turn toward the shower. A hot spray will wash away these circular thoughts along with the physical evidence of last night's activities.
But as I reach for the knob, my mind drifts treacherously back to the sensation of Rook's knot locking inside me.
Fullness. Completion. Connection beyond the physical.
The feeling had been unlike anything I'd experienced before—a pressure that bordered on discomfort before transforming into something transcendent. As if our bodies had been designed specifically to fit together this way, to create this perfect, sealed circuit of pleasure and belonging.
I'd felt complete in a way I hadn't known was possible.
As if a piece of myself I never realized was missing had finally slotted into place.
I bite my lip, feeling a fresh wave of heat washing through me at the memory.
The way his knot had swelled, stretching me further, locking us together in the most primal connection imaginable. The way my body had responded—not with fear or resistance, but with a pleasure so intense it had momentarily obliterated thought.
And the purring. God, the purring.
Heat floods my cheeks at the memory.
I've never purred for anyone— never experienced that involuntary, visceral response that signals an Omega's deepest satisfaction and contentment. It's supposed to be rare, especially for unmated Omegas.
A sign of total trust, of complete surrender.
And I did it for him. Without hesitation. Without restraint.
I had nearly marked him too—had felt the primal urge to sink my teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, to claim him as mine just as his knot had claimed me as his. Only my last shreds of self-control had prevented it.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because once done, it can't be undone.
And Rook deserves a choice.
Deserves to be sure before binding himself to someone as complicated, as damaged, as potentially dangerous as me.
"Ugh, I need a cold shower," I mutter, turning the knob with more force than necessary.
The icy spray hits my overheated skin like a physical shock, drawing a strangled gasp from my throat. I force myself to remain under the frigid deluge, using the discomfort as a distraction from the persistent throb between my thighs.
It's hard not to shriek as the cold water cascades over my sensitized skin, but I manage to contain my reaction to sharp intakes of breath and muttered curses. The last thing I need is to summon the cavalry of Alphas with sounds of distress.
When I'm trembling— from cold rather than arousal —I finally ease the temperature upward, allowing myself the simple luxury of warmth. But the shift from discomfort to pleasure only seems to heighten my body's awareness, sensitizing nerve endings already primed for stimulation.
My nipples tighten to hard peaks, tingling with each brush of water against them. Between my legs, the persistent ache intensifies, a pulsing heat that the cold has only temporarily suppressed rather than extinguished.
"You've got to be kidding me," I groan, resting my forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall.
I'm acting like a teenager experiencing her first crush.
Like an Omega in pre-heat, desperate for any Alpha's touch. Like someone who hasn't spent years mastering control over her own body's responses.
I should call Rook. Ask him to come back. To finish what he started. To replace this gnawing emptiness with the fullness I now crave with embarrassing intensity.
The blush creeping down my neck has nothing to do with the water temperature and everything to do with how pathetically needy I sound even in my own thoughts.
This is what you swore you'd never become. A stereotype. An Omega ruled by biology rather than will.
I stand motionless beneath the spray, paralyzed by conflicting desires—to seek relief, to maintain control, to reject vulnerability, to embrace it. The water drums against my skin, minutes stretching as I wrestle with myself over something that should be simple but isn't.
Nothing is simple anymore.
Not since Rook knotted me.
S ince I nearly marked him in return.
Not since I admitted — even if only to myself — that what exists between us transcends the convenient arrangement it began as.
A sharp knock at the bathroom door jolts me from my internal struggle, heart rate spiking with momentary alarm before my senses identify the rhythm as non-threatening.
"VespRose?" Knox's voice filters through the door, the unexpected nickname incongruous in his playful tone. "You alive in there? Or should I start drafting your eulogy? I'm thinking 'Here lies Jessica aka Vesper, aka VespRose cause I couldn’t yet think of a cool nickname like the others so you’re going to have to keep that for now, who drowned in contemplation and hot water.' Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
I blink, momentarily startled by both his presence and his casual humor.
"What are you doing here?" I call back, hands instinctively moving to cover myself despite the shower door and the room's privacy.
"Mind if I come in?" he asks instead of answering my question. "I promise to keep my eyes averted from any scandalous displays of ankle or wrist. Scout's honor."
I hesitate.
Under normal circumstances, I'd reject the intrusion outright.
My private spaces have always been just that— private, inviolable, mine alone. But these circumstances are far from normal, and something in his tone suggests genuine concern beneath the flippant humor.
"Fine," I concede, surprised by my own agreement. "Door's unlocked."
The handle turns, and Knox's head appears around the edge of the door, his mismatched eyes immediately finding mine despite the glass shower door that barely conceals my naked form.
There's no steam to provide additional coverage—the cold shower took care of that, leaving me exposed in ways that should feel more uncomfortable than they do.
He assesses me with a quick, efficient glance that manages to be both clinical and appreciative without crossing into lecherous.
Then his gaze returns to mine, holding it with unexpected intensity.
"You've been in here for twenty-three minutes and fourteen seconds," he says, the precise timing so characteristic of his data-driven mind. "The water pressure fluctuated twice before stabilizing at a lower rate, suggesting potential issues with your standing position. Given recent events, including but not limited to your collapse and the discovery of environmental toxins in your system, I calculated a 27% probability of unconsciousness or other medical distress."
His explanation is delivered with such matter-of-fact precision that it takes me a moment to translate the technical assessment into its emotional equivalent.
He was worried about me.
"So... you came to make sure I didn't need help," I summarize, oddly touched by the concern hidden beneath layers of analytical observation.
He nods, hands sliding into the pockets of jeans that have definitely seen better days.
"Yeah."
There's a pause as his gaze drifts over me again, lingering briefly on the marks Rook left across my skin, on the water droplets tracing paths down my body. Something flickers in his expression—a flash of heat quickly controlled but not quickly enough to escape my notice.
"So... do you need my help?" he asks, the question weighted with subtext neither of us can pretend to miss.
The directness of the inquiry should surprise me.
Should offend me, even.
But there's something refreshingly honest about his approach—no games, no manipulation, just straightforward acknowledgment of mutual awareness.
I swallow, considering the question with more seriousness than I might have expected from myself. What if I say yes? What if I admit that this ache persists, that my own fingers aren't enough to satisfy it, that the thought of his touch— different from Rook's but no less intriguing —sends a fresh pulse of heat through my core?
What if another Alpha— an Alpha in the pack I'm supposedly considering joining —provides the relief my body craves with increasing insistence?
The logic of pack dynamics suggests it wouldn't be inappropriate. If anything, it would be expected— normal, even —for an Omega to explore connections with all potential mates before committing fully to the bond.
I bite my lower lip, meeting his gaze through the glass that separates us. His eyes darken perceptibly, pupils dilating as he registers the deliberation in my expression.
"Yes," I whisper, the admission both terrifying and liberating. "If... it aligns with the rules of this temporary packship."
A slow smile spreads across Knox's face—not the manic grin I've glimpsed in moments of technological triumph, but something more predatory. More Alpha. His eyes don't leave mine as he steps fully into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with deliberate care.
"Well," he drawls, voice dropping an octave, "anything can be arranged for our Omega."
Our Omega.
The possessive plural does something unexpected to my pulse, sending it racing with a combination of excitement and trepidation.
Not just his. Not just Rook's.
Theirs.
Collectively claimed, collectively protected, collectively desired.
The concept should feel confining. Trigger every defense mechanism I've carefully constructed over years of isolation and self-reliance.
Instead, it feels like possibility.
Potential.
Like permission to want things I've denied myself for so long they've become almost unrecognizable as desires rather than fears.
I find myself giving him an inviting look—something soft and yielding that I barely recognize as an expression my face can make. It feels foreign, this deliberate vulnerability, this conscious choice to allow someone past my defenses.
"Then, help me Alpha," I whisper, the honorific slipping out without conscious decision.
Knox's reaction is immediate and visceral—a sharp intake of breath, a visible tensing of muscle beneath his worn t-shirt, a darkening of his already intense gaze.
He takes a step toward the shower, then pauses, head tilting slightly as if listening to something beyond ordinary hearing.
"Before this goes further," he says, the forced casualness in his tone belied by the tension visible in his frame, "I should mention that Rook is currently engaging in what he likely considers necessary violence approximately eighty-seven miles northwest of our location. He'll be unreachable for approximately three more hours."
The unexpected update momentarily breaks the sensual tension between us.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Knox's smile turns softer, though no less heated.
"Because consent matters. Especially informed consent. And I want you to know exactly who is and isn't available to you right now."
The consideration is unexpected— touching, even. Not what I'd have predicted from a man whose technological brilliance often seems to outpace his social awareness.
"And Marcus? Bastian?" I ask, curiosity overcoming temporary embarrassment.
"Marcus is conducting business calls from his office and has engaged privacy protocols that would make the Pentagon jealous. Bastian is running perimeter security, which will occupy him for another forty-six minutes based on statistical analysis of his previous patterns."
I absorb this information, appreciating the transparency even as part of me wonders if this is standard procedure for pack dynamics or something specific to this unusual situation.
"So we're alone," I summarize.
"Functionally, yes." Knox's hands move to the hem of his shirt, toying with it without yet removing it. "Which means whatever happens next is between us. No audience, no pack politics, no external pressure. Just choice."
The deliberate creation of space for decision-making strikes me as profoundly considerate.
He's ensuring I understand that accepting his help doesn't mean performing for others, doesn't mean committing to anything beyond this moment, this connection, this potential pleasure.
I find myself smiling—a genuine expression rather than the calculated ones I typically allow.
"Are you always this analytical about sex?"
His answering grin is quick and sharp.
"I'm analytical about everything. It's my special talent. Though I've been told I have others worth experiencing firsthand."
The playful boast draws a laugh from me, easing some of the tension that still coils beneath the surface of my skin. This doesn't feel like submission or surrender. It feels like choice—my choice, made with clear understanding of parameters and possibilities.
"Show me," I challenge, reaching to slide the shower door open in clear invitation.
Knox doesn't rush.
His movements are deliberate as he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing a lean torso covered in an intricate tapestry of scars and tattoos that tell stories I can only guess at.
Unlike Rook's bulk or Bastian's imposing mass, Knox's frame speaks of wiry strength and unexpected flexibility.
He kicks off his boots, movements economical and practiced, before shucking his jeans and underwear in a single efficient motion.
Naked, he's a study in contrasts— pale skin against dark ink, lean muscle against sharp bone, controlled precision against barely contained energy.
His cock stands fully erect, an impressive length that curves slightly upward, already leaking at the tip. Not as thick as Rook's, but with its own appeal—elegant rather than overwhelming, precision instrument rather than blunt force.
He steps into the shower without hesitation, the space immediately feeling smaller with his presence. Water sluices over his tattooed skin, darkening the ink, highlighting the topography of scars that map his history in raised lines and puckered tissue.
"You're staring," he observes, no judgment in the statement.
"You're worth staring at," I counter, eyes traveling from the mismatched irises that first caught my attention to the collection of marks that make his body a living canvas.
His lips quirk, an almost-smile that softens the sharp angles of his face.
"Most people don't look past the eyes. Or they get stuck on trying to catalog the scars rather than seeing the whole."
I reach out, fingertips hovering just above his skin without quite touching.
"May I?"
His nod grants permission, and I allow my fingers to make contact, tracing the edge of a particularly intricate tattoo that spans his left pectoral—a mechanical heart rendered in shades of black and gray, gears and circuits intertwined with anatomical precision.
"Not what I expected," I murmur, following the lines with gentle exploration.
"Most people expect the tech genius to be soft," he says, watching my fingers move across his skin. "They forget that surviving in our world requires more than mental acuity."
I hum acknowledgment, continuing my exploration down his torso, mapping the geography of a body built for more than sitting behind screens. There's strength here—real, functional power rather than aesthetic muscle.
The kind that comes from necessity rather than vanity.
He allows the examination with surprising patience, standing motionless beneath my curious touch, water cascading over both our bodies in warm rivers. Only when my fingers drift dangerously close to his erection does he finally move, catching my wrist in a gentle but firm grip.
"Your turn," he says, using his hold to guide me into a slow spin until my back presses against his chest, his arousal evident against my lower back.
His hands slide over my shoulders, down my arms, mapping my body with the same curiosity I'd shown his. Unlike Rook's possessive touch or Bastian's cautious gentleness, Knox explores with analytical precision—finding each sensitive spot with uncanny accuracy, cataloging my responses with quiet focus.
When his palms cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over nipples already tight with anticipation, a soft gasp escapes me. He makes a sound of satisfaction at the response, repeating the motion with slightly increased pressure, adding a gentle twist that sends electricity arcing down my spine.
"Responsive," he murmurs, the observation both clinical and appreciative. "Fascinating how individual physiology dictates specific pleasure pathways. The same nerve endings, the same basic structure, yet everyone's response matrix is uniquely calibrated."
I might have laughed at the scientific commentary during sex if his fingers weren't working such methodical magic on my body. One hand remains at my breast, teasing and tweaking with precise pressure, while the other slides lower, tracing the curve of my waist, the flare of my hip, the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
"Tell me what you need," he says, voice low against my ear. "Data improves performance. Specificity enhances satisfaction."
The clinical phrasing contrasts sharply with the heat of his touch, creating a dissonance that's oddly arousing in its unexpectedness.
"Touch me," I breathe, letting my head fall back against his shoulder. "Inside. I need... fullness."
His teeth graze my earlobe, a gentle nip that sends shivers racing across my skin. "Where Rook's knot stretched you? Where you're still sensitive and aching?"
The direct reference to what transpired between Rook and me should feel intrusive, possibly even threatening. Instead, it feels like acknowledgment—of what happened, of what I need, of the connection that exists between all of us whether I've fully accepted it or not.
"Yes," I admit, the single syllable carrying more vulnerability than I'd normally allow.
His fingers slide lower, finding the slick evidence of my arousal with unerring accuracy. He makes a sound of approval at the discovery, the rumble vibrating through his chest and into my back.
"Arousal evident," he murmurs, the clinical observation at odds with the heat in his voice. "Physical readiness confirmed."
Two fingers circle my entrance, gathering wetness, spreading it upward to my clit in a precise stroke that draws a gasp from my throat. He repeats the motion, establishing a rhythm that builds tension without providing the penetration I crave.
"Knox," I protest, hips shifting restlessly against his hand.
"Patience," he advises, continuing the maddening circles. "Optimal pleasure requires adequate preparation. Your body is still adjusting to previous stimulation. Rushing risks discomfort rather than satisfaction."
The logical explanation makes sense even as it frustrates. I want to argue, to demand, to take control of the pace—but there's something compelling about surrendering to his methodical approach, about letting someone else calculate risk and reward while I simply feel.
When his fingers finally slide inside me, the stretch is both relief and renewed craving. Two digits press deep, curling forward to find the spot that makes my knees buckle, my back arch, my breath catch on a strangled moan.
"There," he says, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Physiological response confirms correct positioning."
He establishes a rhythm— deliberate, measured, precisely calibrated to build pleasure without rushing toward climax . His other hand remains at my breast, occasionally shifting to the opposite one, ensuring equal stimulation as if following some internal checklist of optimal sexual technique.
The analytical approach should diminish the experience, should feel mechanical or impersonal. Instead, it heightens everything—the deliberate nature of each touch making it impossible to predict, to anticipate, to prepare for the next sensation.
Water continues to cascade over us, adding another layer of stimulation as it slides between our bodies, over sensitized skin, into intimate crevices already slick with arousal. Knox's erection presses insistently against my lower back, a reminder of his own desire despite his focus on my pleasure.
"More," I gasp, pushing back against him, seeking deeper contact. "I need more."
He hums acknowledgment, adjusting his position slightly. A third finger joins the first two, stretching me further, filling me more completely. It's good— so good —but still not enough to satisfy the craving Rook's knot has awakened.
As if reading my thoughts, Knox speaks against my ear.
"I can't give you what he did. Physically impossible without the biological imperative of Alpha-Omega bonding." The admission contains no jealousy, just factual acknowledgment of reality. "But I can give you something else. Something uniquely mine."
Before I can question what he means, he withdraws his fingers, drawing a whimper of protest from my throat. The loss is momentary—he spins me to face him in a fluid motion that speaks of unexpected physical grace, lifting me with surprising strength until my back presses against the shower wall, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.
The new position aligns us perfectly, his cock pressing against my entrance without penetrating. The head teases my opening, gathering slickness, promise without fulfillment.
"Yes?" he asks, the single syllable carrying layers of question beyond simple consent.
I meet his gaze—those mismatched eyes intense with focus and desire. There's something refreshingly straightforward about Knox, about the clarity of his interest and the precision of his approach. No games, no manipulation, just honest pursuit of mutual satisfaction.
"Yes," I answer, equal parts permission and encouragement.
He pushes forward in a single, smooth thrust, filling me completely. The stretch is delicious, the fullness exactly what I've been craving since waking alone in my bed. A moan escapes me, head falling back against the shower wall as my body adjusts to his presence.
Knox remains still once seated fully inside me, allowing adjustment, watching my face with that same intense focus that seems to be his default state. Only when I shift restlessly, silently asking for movement, does he begin to move.
His rhythm is nothing like Rook's primal, possessive claiming. Knox fucks with the same precision he applies to everything—each thrust calculated for maximum impact, angle adjusted based on my responses, speed and depth calibrated to build pleasure with methodical certainty.
It's like being the subject of the most pleasurable experiment ever conducted, each response noted and incorporated into the next action, building toward a conclusion that feels both inevitable and transcendent.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me steady as he drives into me with increasing force. The position allows deep penetration, his cock hitting spots inside me that send sparks shooting up my spine, behind my eyelids, through my core.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, watching my face contort with pleasure. "The neurochemical cascade of approaching orgasm creates expression patterns unique to each individual. Yours is particularly aesthetically pleasing."
The clinical observation delivered in the midst of passion startles a laugh from me, the sound transforming into a moan as he hits a particularly sensitive spot.
"Do you always—ah!—narrate during sex?"
A smile flickers across his face, there and gone like lightning.
"Data collection enhances future performance. Would you prefer I stop verbalizing observations?"
"No," I admit, surprised by my own answer. There's something oddly comforting about his analytical approach, about the way he transforms something often laden with emotional complexity into a straightforward pursuit of mutual pleasure. "Just...unexpected."
"I specialize in unexpected," he replies, punctuating the statement with a particularly deep thrust that draws a gasp from my throat. "Now, let's test a hypothesis."
Before I can question what he means, his hand slides between our bodies, thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. The additional stimulation combined with the steady rhythm of his thrusts pushes me rapidly toward the edge I've been approaching since he entered me.
"Knox," I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as tension coils tighter in my core. "I'm close."
"Optimal," he approves, increasing the pressure of his thumb slightly. "Release endorphins and oxytocin. Experience pleasure. Data indicates you respond well to direct verbal instruction in moments of peak arousal."
The observation is so unexpected, so perfectly Knox , that it somehow pushes me over the edge. My orgasm crashes through me with shocking intensity, muscles clenching around his length, vision blurring as waves of pleasure radiate outward from where we're joined.
He continues thrusting through my climax, extending it with careful attention to my reactions, adjusting when sensitivity threatens to tip from pleasure to discomfort. Only when the final aftershocks subside does his rhythm falter, his own release approaching.
"Inside?" he asks, the question remarkably coherent given his obvious state of arousal.
I nod, oddly touched by the consideration of checking even in this moment.
"Yes."
His hips snap forward once, twice, three more times before he stills, buried deep as his release pulses inside me. Unlike Rook, there's no knot to lock us together, no physical bond that prevents separation.
Yet the moment feels no less intimate for its temporary nature.
We remain connected as our breathing slows, the shower's spray washing away sweat and other evidence of our activities. Knox's forehead rests against mine, an unexpectedly tender gesture from someone so analytical in his approach.
"Hypothesis confirmed," he murmurs, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Physical compatibility established. Mutual satisfaction achieved."
I find myself smiling despite the clinical assessment—or perhaps because of it. There's something refreshingly honest about his approach, about the lack of pretense or manipulation that often complicates sexual encounters.
"Is that your way of saying it was good for you too?" I tease, fingers trailing through the short hair at the nape of his neck.
He pulls back slightly to meet my gaze, expression serious despite the lingering flush of pleasure on his face.
"It was exceptional. You are exceptional. Both as an individual and as a potential pack Omega."
The direct acknowledgment of what this encounter might mean in the larger context of pack dynamics brings reality crashing back. I'm not just having casual sex with an attractive Alpha. I'm exploring potential bonds with members of a pack that's offered protection, resources, and a connection I've denied myself for years.
Knox seems to sense the shift in my thoughts, carefully withdrawing and setting me back on my feet with surprising gentleness.
"Overthinking commencing in three, two, one..."
The accurate prediction startles a laugh from me, breaking the tension before it can fully form.
"Am I that predictable?"
"Not predictable," he corrects, reaching past me to adjust the water temperature that's begun to cool. "Consistent in certain response patterns. It's not the same thing."
He helps me rinse off with the same methodical care he applied to bringing me pleasure, movements efficient but not hurried. There's something soothing about his touch now that immediate desire has been satisfied—practical, attentive, devoid of the possessiveness that often characterizes Alpha behavior post-coitus.
As we finish showering, as he hands me a towel with casual courtesy, I find myself wondering if this is what pack life might be like. Different connections with different individuals, each fulfilling unique needs, each offering something the others can't provide.
Rook with his primal intensity and fierce protection.
Knox with his analytical precision and surprising thoughtfulness.
Bastian with his quiet strength and unexpected gentleness.
Marcus with his strategic mind and unwavering command.
Not competing for my attention or affection, but complementing each other. Creating a whole greater than the sum of its parts.
The possibility is both terrifying and tempting—a future I never allowed myself to imagine, a connection I convinced myself I didn't need or want or deserve.
Knox watches me with those mismatched eyes that seem to see more than I'm comfortable revealing.
"The answer is yes, by the way."
I blink, momentarily confused.
"To what question?"
"To whether you can handle a pack," he says simply, as if reading my earlier thoughts directly from my mind. "The question you were asking yourself before I interrupted your shower. Your physiological responses, behavioral patterns, and adaptability metrics all indicate high compatibility with pack dynamics despite your extended period of isolation."
The assessment should feel invasive, presumptuous even. Instead, it feels oddly reassuring—an external validation of a possibility I'm just beginning to consider seriously.
"Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Eastman?" I ask, voice lighter than I might have expected given the subject matter.
He grins, the expression transforming his face from intensity to boyish charm in an instant.
"It is. And I'm never wrong. Well, hardly ever. There was that one time in Budapest, but in my defense, quantum mechanics don't typically apply to standard security protocols."
The non-sequitur is so perfectly Knox that I can't help but smile in response. As we finish drying off, as he helps me detangle my hair with surprising skill and patience, I find myself thinking that maybe— just the possibility— there's room in my carefully constructed life for more than vengeance and solitude.
There's room for this.
For them.
For a future I never dared to imagine but suddenly can't stop considering.
It's a dangerous thought. A vulnerable admission, even if only to myself.
But as Knox presses a surprisingly gentle kiss to my forehead before slipping out of the bathroom with a wink and a promise to see me at breakfast, I find myself unable to summon the usual fear that accompanies such vulnerability.
Instead, there's only a quiet curiosity about what comes next. About what the other Alphas might offer. About what I might become if I allow myself to be more than the weapon I've crafted from the broken pieces of Jessica Calavera.
More than Vesper. More than Venom.
Maybe even whole.