35. Muscle Memory
~JESSICA~
My fist connects with the punching bag, the impact reverberating up my arm with satisfying force.
Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging slightly before I blink it away, not breaking the rhythm I've established over the past hour. Left jab, right cross, left hook, right uppercut. The sequence repeats with metronomic precision, each movement flowing into the next with practiced efficiency.
The heavy bag swings back, momentum carrying it away before gravity returns it to the path of my next strike. I meet it with perfect timing, knuckles landing exactly where I intend despite muscles that began trembling with fatigue twenty minutes ago. Pain radiates from healing wounds—particularly the one in my shoulder—but I push through it, welcoming the burn as evidence of survival, of continued capability despite recent trauma.
The bass-heavy music pumping through my headphones dictates the pace, driving me forward when rational thought might suggest rest. The rhythm changes, shifting into something faster, more aggressive, and my body responds automatically—movements accelerating, strikes landing with increased frequency if slightly diminished power.
I haven't trained like this in a long time. For years, I've relied primarily on my ballet background—maintaining flexibility, core strength, the precise body control that allows both dance and combat to flow with deceptive grace. Cardio typically consists of running the perimeter of Dead Knot's territory, more practical patrol than dedicated exercise.
Yet this morning I woke with a restlessness that demanded more intense physical outlet—a need to push my body to exhaustion, to burn away excess energy that's been building like static electricity beneath my skin. The sensation is familiar, a warning sign I've been studiously ignoring for weeks despite knowing exactly what it portends.
Heat approaching.
The thought surfaces despite my efforts to suppress it, to focus purely on physical exertion rather than biological inevitability. My last cycle was nearly nine months ago—delayed by stress, by the military-grade suppressants I'd stockpiled over years of careful planning, by sheer force of will that has kept my body's natural rhythms subservient to my mission's demands.
But proximity to four compatible Alphas for weeks has overridden even chemical intervention, awakening biological imperatives that no amount of training or determination can permanently suppress. My body is preparing for something my mind still resists acknowledging fully—the vulnerability, the need, the temporary surrender of control that heat requires even under the best circumstances.
A new track begins, the rhythm shifting toward something that demands quick footwork rather than raw power. I adjust automatically, dropping into a fighter's crouch before beginning a series of rapid combinations that incorporate movement around the bag—ducking, weaving, striking from different angles with the speed prioritized over impact.
Sweat has completely soaked through my sports bra, plastered my hair to my neck and forehead, created dark patches on the compression leggings that hug my legs. The physical exertion feels cleansing somehow, as if I might sweat out the approaching biological imperative along with toxins and excess energy.
Irrational. Impossible. Yet still I try.
My right hook connects with slightly too much rotation, sending pain lancing through my still-healing shoulder. I grit my teeth against the sensation, refusing to acknowledge weakness even in this private moment. The display of determination is pointless—no one watching to impress or intimidate, no tactical advantage gained from pushing beyond reasonable limits—yet I continue, driven by the particular stubbornness that's kept me alive for seven years.
The truth I'm avoiding through physical punishment is simple yet terrifying: being around the four Alphas is accelerating my biological timeline, pushing me toward heat with increasing speed despite my resistance. The symptoms are becoming impossible to ignore—the restlessness, the heightened sensory awareness, the particular quality of ache that settles low in my abdomen during quiet moments.
Most telling of all is my recent behavior—the instinctive nesting I've been attempting to hide from both them and myself, as if denying the evidence might somehow delay the reality it heralds.
I've been collecting their shirts.
The admission surfaces despite my attempts to frame the behavior as something more innocent, more practical. Not stealing, exactly—just... acquiring items temporarily. A T-shirt left on the back of a chair. A hoodie discarded on the couch. A button-down hanging on the bathroom door after a shower.
Each item carried carefully to what I've begun thinking of as "my" room in the lake house—not the one initially assigned to me, but the smaller space off the library that receives morning sunlight through east-facing windows. There, I've created what my Omega biology recognizes as a nest, though my conscious mind refuses to use that particular term.
Just a comfortable arrangement of pillows, blankets, and—increasingly—clothing items carrying the distinctive scents of four specific Alphas. Just a coincidence that I find myself gravitating there during moments of stress or fatigue. Just happenstance that I sleep more deeply surrounded by these specific olfactory markers than I have anywhere else in seven years.
Just obvious, undeniable, biological preparation for approaching heat.
I didn't realize how extensive my collection had become until last night, when Knox's bewildered complaint about laundry shortages prompted Bastian's dry observation about their collective inability to properly store clean clothing. The exchange had sent uncomfortable heat rushing to my cheeks, awareness of my secretive behavior suddenly impossible to dismiss as casual or meaningless.
My sleeping arrangements have evolved similarly without conscious decision—a pattern emerging from what I'd initially viewed as coincidence or convenience. Whoever finds me asleep around the house—usually in my nest, sometimes in the library or on the couch after late-night research sessions—seems to claim the right to carry me to their bed for the remainder of the night.
The apparent competition between Knox and Rook hasn't escaped my notice, their alternating nights of discovery becoming so predictable I've begun to suspect coordination rather than chance. Both have progressed well beyond mere sleeping, each with distinctive approaches to pleasure that leave me breathless and temporarily sated before the constant low-level arousal returns with stubborn persistence.
Marcus has claimed me less frequently, primarily during my initial recovery when medical monitoring took precedence over other considerations. His approach to shared sleeping space is characteristically different from the others—preferring proximity without excessive contact, maintaining personal space even while providing security. I typically wake wrapped around him despite beginning the night with careful distance between us, my sleeping self apparently more honest about desires than my waking mind allows.
Bastian remains the most restrained, the gentlest despite his imposing size. When I sleep in his room, he holds me with a particular quality of reverence that suggests he understands exactly how significant such vulnerability is for someone with my history. His hands never wander, his embrace protective rather than possessive, his breathing steady and soothing against my hair.
The pattern would suggest jealousy should be emerging among them—four Alphas with territorial instincts all focused on a single Omega approaching fertility. Yet I've witnessed nothing resembling competition beyond Knox and Rook's seemingly good-natured alternation. No aggression, no posturing, no demands for exclusivity that would normally characterize Alpha response to shared Omega attention.
I suspect Marcus and Bastian's age and experience play roles in their restraint—both demonstrating patience that suggests confidence rather than disinterest, certainty that necessity will eventually overcome my resistance without requiring force or manipulation. Their approach is strategic where Rook and Knox operate from more immediate impulse, all four somehow aligned despite their different methods.
All four waiting for what biology will soon demand regardless of my conscious desires or fears.
The music in my headphones shifts again, driving me into a final sequence of combinations delivered with whatever energy remains in muscles approaching complete exhaustion. My technique grows sloppier as fatigue overwhelms training, but I push through, determined to wring every last ounce of capability from a body that will soon betray me to biological imperative regardless of my preferences.
I shouldn't even be here—not in the academy gym, not engaging in high-intensity exercise with wounds still technically healing. Marcus was explicit about restrictions on physical activity, about the importance of allowing tissue to regenerate properly before resuming normal training regimens. But the walls of the lake house had begun to feel confining, the constant proximity to four Alphas simultaneously comforting and threatening as my body's timeline accelerates.
I needed space. Needed the illusion of independence, of self-determination, of choices still available rather than biological inevitability approaching with the relentlessness of natural law. Most of all, I needed to be here—on campus, in territory Elliott considers his—as act of defiance rather than retreat. Refusing to be driven away by fear or threat, refusing to concede any ground despite recent violence.
The final notes of my workout playlist fade, leaving only the sound of my labored breathing and the rhythmic creaking of the punching bag's chain as it swings in diminishing arcs. I step back, finally allowing myself to acknowledge the trembling in my legs, the burning in my lungs, the particular quality of exhaustion that comes from pushing beyond reasonable limits into territory where determination alone maintains function.
With shaking hands, I unwrap the protective bindings around my knuckles, revealing skin reddened but unbroken thanks to proper technique and equipment. My body feels simultaneously lighter and heavier—muscles properly fatigued yet somehow less burdened, as if physical exertion has temporarily quieted the constant vigilance that typically occupies significant mental resources.
I reach for my water bottle, draining half its contents in continuous swallows that barely address the dehydration evident in my sweat-soaked clothing and flushed skin. The cool liquid provides momentary relief, but the underlying heat that's been building beneath my skin for days remains undiminished—biological preparation continuing regardless of my conscious resistance.
What now?
The question surfaces as I consider the remainder of the day stretching before me. Classes remain canceled until further notice, the campus operating on minimal staffing following both tragedy and subsequent security concerns. I have nowhere specific to be, nothing urgent demanding attention beyond my own restlessness and approaching biological timeline.
I could return to the lake house, continue pretending I'm not collecting items for a nest I refuse to acknowledge building, resume the careful dance around four Alphas who clearly recognize what's coming even if I continue denying it. I could research Elliott and Caldwell further, though Knox has already provided more information than I've had capacity to fully process while recovering from injuries.
Or I could simply exist in this moment—sweaty, exhausted, temporarily free from both immediate danger and constant company. Just Jessica in an empty gym, making decisions about immediate future rather than grand strategy or vengeance long pursued.
The novelty of such simple choice feels almost luxurious after years of single-minded focus, of every decision filtered through lens of survival and mission rather than preference or desire. What do I actually want, separate from necessity or obligation? The question itself feels dangerous, indulgent in ways I've trained myself to resist as weakness rather than legitimate consideration.
A sound penetrates my contemplation—something loud enough to register even through headphones that continue playing at reduced volume between active tracks. My hand moves automatically to the gun strapped to my thigh, movement smooth and practiced despite exhaustion still radiating through overtaxed muscles.
I pull the headphones off in single efficient motion, head tilting to better localize whatever disrupted my solitude. The sound resolves into impacts against heavy bags in the adjacent training area—rhythmic, powerful strikes delivered with precision rather than random aggression. Familiar cadence, familiar pattern that speaks of specific training rather than generalized athletic background.
Tension coils through me despite recognition, instinct responding to potential threat before conscious mind fully processes identification. I turn slowly, weapon ready but not yet drawn, to confirm what senses have already suggested.
Bastian stands in the doorway connecting gym sections, his massive frame silhouetted against the brighter lighting beyond. He's dressed entirely in black—tactical pants with multiple pockets designed for practical function rather than aesthetic appeal, fitted t-shirt that does nothing to diminish the imposing breadth of his shoulders, combat boots that should make his movements loud but somehow don't.
Relief floods through me, muscles releasing tension I hadn't fully registered accumulating. The sigh that escapes carries more emotion than I typically allow to surface, revealing something about my mental state I might prefer to keep private if I were operating at full capacity.
"If you want to stalk me," I say, aiming for casual teasing despite the residual adrenaline still coursing through my system, "you can just say so."
His lips curve slightly, the subtle expression barely qualifying as smile yet transforming his scarred features with unexpected warmth. "It's called bodyguarding," he corrects, voice pitched low but carrying clearly across the space between us.
I roll my eyes, the gesture more performative than genuinely dismissive. "Some habits die hard, huh?"
I roll my eyes, the gesture more performative than genuinely dismissive. "Some habits die hard, huh?"
Bastian crosses the space between us with the efficient grace that always seems incongruous with his massive frame. Each step is deliberately placed, controlled power evident in even this simple movement. He extends his hand, offering a clean towel I hadn't noticed him carrying.
"Thought you might need this," he says, voice pitched low despite the empty gym surrounding us.
"Thanks," I respond, accepting the offering with genuine gratitude. The fabric is soft against my overheated skin as I pat my face, neck, and shoulders, absorbing sweat that has accumulated to uncomfortable levels during my extended workout. The simple gesture feels unexpectedly intimate—this small act of consideration, of anticipating need without being asked.
Bastian watches me with that particular intensity I've come to recognize as his default state—observant without being intrusive, attentive without demanding response. When he finally speaks, the question carries no judgment, merely curiosity.
"Any particular reason you're training at the crack of dawn when you're supposed to be resting?"
I consider deflection, the automatic response honed through years of maintaining careful distance from others. But something about his direct approach, his evident concern without controlling overtones, encourages honesty instead.
"Needed a break from the house," I admit, focusing on refolding the towel rather than meeting his gaze. "Needed to move, to breathe, to just... exist somewhere else for a while."
His only response is a single raised eyebrow, the skeptical expression somehow communicating volumes without words. The silent challenge to my partial truth is impossible to ignore, drawing a reluctant groan from my lips.
"Fine," I concede, heat rising to my cheeks that has nothing to do with recent exertion. "I get... restless staying in the house too long. Especially now." I hesitate, fighting against embarrassment to voice what we both know is happening. "I'm not trying to trigger my heat until Elliott and the Senator are taken care of. Being around you guys constantly just... accelerates things."
The admission hangs between us, raw and honest in ways I rarely allow myself to be. Bastian processes my words with careful consideration, his expression revealing nothing beyond attentive focus.
"You know making sure you're appeased is our pack's duty, right?" he finally responds, the statement delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty that it momentarily leaves me speechless.
The blush deepens across my cheeks, spreading down my neck to my chest. "I understand that," I say, voice emerging smaller than intended. "But I don't want to be a burden. And if I go into heat, that's exactly what I'll be—vulnerable, needy, completely dependent on all of you in ways I haven't been on anyone since..."
I trail off, unable to complete the thought aloud, though the implication hangs clearly between us. Since before the alley. Since before six Alphas destroyed my trust along with my body. Since before I rebuilt myself into someone who needs nothing and no one.
Bastian tilts his head slightly, studying me with unexpected gentleness given his imposing presence. "Is that what you think? That you're a burden when none of us see you that way in the slightest?"
I open my mouth to respond, then close it again, uncertain how to articulate the complex tangle of fear, need, and stubborn independence that drives my resistance. My lips press together in what I know must appear childishly pouty, evidence of emotional complexity I typically work harder to conceal.
"I guess you wouldn't really know how I feel in particular," Bastian murmurs, voice dropping to a register that sends an unexpected shiver racing down my spine despite the gym's warmth. "Since I'm not around as much. Always patrolling. Always watching. Always keeping my distance."
There's something different in his tone now, something I haven't heard from him before—a heat that transforms his usually steady voice into something darker, more primal. He takes a step forward, then another, each movement deliberate and controlled yet carrying unmistakable intent.
I find myself backing up instinctively, not from fear but from some other emotion I'm not entirely ready to name. My shoulders meet the padded wall behind me, leaving nowhere else to retreat as Bastian continues his measured approach.
He stops when barely a handspan separates us, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can detect the subtle notes in his scent that speak of arousal carefully contained beneath his characteristic control. His eyes have darkened to the color of night sky, pupils expanded until only a thin ring of color remains visible.
"Maybe I should show you instead," he suggests, the words emerging as barely more than whisper yet carrying the weight of command. "Get the message across more clearly."