Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Blitz
I stood in the middle of my streaming room, staring at the carefully arranged workout equipment that had become as much a part of my identity as my actual face.
The ring light cast perfect shadows across my abs through my tank top, the same calculated lighting I'd perfected over three years of thirst trap content.
But for the first time in forty-eight hours, I hadn't gone live.
My phone showed seventeen missed texts from concerned viewers, four from my manager asking about the schedule disruption, and one from Callie that just said: "You okay?"
No. I wasn't okay. I was slowly losing my mind watching her walk around with Milo and Nova's bites on her neck while my own teeth ached with the need to mark her.
The biological imperative to claim her had been building since that first heat, but now, seeing her claimed by two of my packmates while I remained on the outside, it was becoming unbearable.
The door opened without a knock, only pack didn't need permission, and her scent hit me before I even turned around. Spun sugar and chili pepper, but underneath that, the warm honey of Milo's claim and the whiskey-leather notes of Nova's mark. My hands clenched involuntarily.
"You missed dinner," Callie said, moving into my space with that casual confidence that had destroyed me from day one.
She wore one of Ghost's hoodies, the black fabric drowning her small frame, her pink hair still damp from a shower.
"And your workout stream. Your viewers are starting conspiracy theories. "
"Let them." The words came out rougher than intended, my usual sunshine persona nowhere to be found.
She studied me with those brown eyes that saw too much, past the careful muscle display and dimpled smiles to the insecurity underneath. "This is about the bites."
"It's not—" I started to deflect, to play it off with my usual golden retriever energy, but she cut me off.
"Blitz." Just my streaming name, but the way she said it made me stop. "Eli. Talk to me."
I turned to face her properly, letting her see what I'd been hiding.
The exhaustion from fighting my instincts, the barely controlled need to claim her, the deeper fear that kept me from acting on it.
"You know what everyone says about me, right?
The himbo. The thirst trap. All muscles, no substance. "
"That's not—"
"It is, though." I grabbed a twenty-pound dumbbell, needing something to do with my hands before they reached for her.
Started doing bicep curls out of pure nervous habit.
"Seven years of content. Hundreds of thousands of people who follow me for abs and ass shots.
Even my charity work gets reduced to 'look at the hot guy being sweet. '"
"You're brilliant," she said firmly, moving closer. "You have a business degree, understand biomechanics better than some doctors—" She'd already given me this rundown before and I didn't want to hear it again. Not when my mark still wasn't on her skin.
"But that's not what people want from me." The weight moved in perfect form, muscle memory taking over while my mind spiraled. "They want the performance. The flexing. The empty-headed positivity. And I've gotten so good at giving it to them that sometimes I forget there's more to me than that."
She reached out, stilling my arm mid-curl. The contact sent electricity through my system, my alpha instincts roaring at her proximity. "Is that what you think I want? A performance?"
"I don't know what you want from me." The admission cracked something open. "Milo feeds you, literally and emotionally. Nova organizes your life and gives you structure. You haven't chosen me for anything."
"You're right." The agreement hit like a punch, but she wasn't done.
"I haven't chosen you yet. Because you haven't let me see what I'm choosing.
You're still performing, even now. Even with me.
The closest I got to seeing the real you was at the beach when we were just being goofy, and I loved that side of you.
" She grabbed the dumbbell, setting it aside with surprising strength.
"Show me Eli, not Blitz. Stop performing and just.. . be."
"I don't know how," I admitted, the words barely a whisper. "It's been so long since I've been real with anyone except the pack."
"Start with this." She pulled me down to sit on the workout bench, straddling it to face me. "Tell me about Sofia. The real story, not the inspiring content version."
So I did. Told her about the terror of watching my sister waste away, the helplessness that drove me to the gym at 4 AM every day.
How I'd learned to count macros because it was the only control I had.
The way she'd tease me about getting "too swole" even from her hospital bed.
How her survival had become so tangled with my content creation that I couldn't separate them anymore.
"She watches everything," I said, voice cracking slightly. "Comments on every stream with these terrible muscle puns. Says I saved her life, but really, she saved mine. Gave me purpose beyond just... existing decoratively."
"You're not decorative," Callie said, her hand finding mine. "You're functional art, at the very least. Beautiful and useful."
I laughed, but it came out watery. "That's the nicest way anyone's ever called me furniture."
She frowned when I took her teasing seriously.
"You know what I mean." She shifted closer, her scent intensifying.
"The workout streams aren't just about your body.
They're about discipline, dedication, the joy you find in movement.
You make fitness feel achievable, fun, not just another way to hate yourself. "
"Is that how you see it?"
"That's how I've always seen it. Even before the convention, I'd watch your streams when my imposter syndrome got bad. Seeing you work that hard, that consistently, reminded me that success isn't just talent. It's showing up."
The compliment hit deeper than any comment about my abs ever had. "I want to bite you."
The admission hung between us, raw and honest.
"I know," she said simply. "What's stopping you?"
"What if that's all it is? Physical attraction, biological compatibility? What if you wake up bonded to the himbo and realize—"
She kissed me quick, leaning in before I realized what she was doing, cutting off the spiral. It tasted like certainty. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark with want and something deeper. "You want to know what I see when I look at you?"
I shook my head, not trusting my voice.
"I see someone who turned trauma into purpose. Who broadcasts joy even when struggling. Who treats his body like art but his heart like a gift." She stood, pulling me up with her. "I see someone worth choosing. Worth claiming."
"Callie—"
I stood there, heart hammering against my ribs, watching the way her eyes tracked over my body.
Not with the usual hungry appreciation I got from viewers, but with something deeper.
Like she was cataloguing every insecurity I'd just laid bare and filing them away as things to protect rather than exploit.
"So show me," she said, the challenge clear in her voice. "Show me who Eli is when he's not performing."
The words hung between us, heavy with possibility. I set the dumbbell down with careful precision, my hands trembling slightly. "I don't know if I can just... turn it off. The performance. It's been my armor for so long."
"Then let's do something where performance doesn't help." She moved to the center of my streaming room, pushing equipment aside to create space. "Dead hang challenge. See who can hang from the pull-up bar longest."
I blinked at her, surprised. "You want to challenge me to a fitness competition?"
"I want to challenge you to something where your muscles are actually useful, not just decorative." She was already pulling off Ghost's hoodie, revealing a sports bra underneath that made my mouth go dry. "Unless you're scared I'll beat you?"
The competitive spark in her eyes lit something in my chest. Not the usual need to show off, but genuine excitement. "You're on."
I set up the pull-up bar while she stretched, trying not to stare at the way her body moved. She'd filled out since the heat, looking healthier, stronger. The sight of Milo and Nova's marks on her neck made my jaw clench, that possessive Alpha need surging through me like electricity.
"Rules?" she asked, bouncing on her toes.
"Simple. Whoever drops first loses." I pulled off my tank top, not for show this time, just practical. The way her eyes darkened as they tracked over my torso sent heat straight through me. "Ready?"
We jumped up together, gripping the bar. The first thirty seconds were easy, muscle memory from countless training sessions. But then I made the mistake of looking at her.
Callie hung with surprising grace, her face set in determination.
A bead of sweat rolled down her neck, following the curve toward her chest, and I had to look away before I lost my grip entirely.
My body wasn't just fighting gravity anymore — it was fighting the overwhelming urge to drop down, grab her, claim her right here on my gym floor.
"This is harder than it looks," she gasped at the ninety-second mark, her grip starting to slip.
"You're doing amazing," I said, meaning it. Most people couldn't last thirty seconds, but here she was, pushing two minutes through sheer stubbornness.
She lasted another forty-three seconds before dropping, landing with a curse. I held on for another ten seconds out of principle before letting go, my shoulders screaming.
"You won," she panted, hands on her knees.
"Barely." I flexed my fingers, working feeling back into them. "You're stronger than you think."