Chapter 12 #3
“He’s right,” Malik says quietly. “We’re all going a little crazy. This is going to be harder than we thought.”
“Understatement,” Dax mutters.
I can still smell her. Even from here, I can smell honeycomb and heat-sweet slick. My alpha is practically howling at me to go to her, to stop this madness of pretending we’re not all thinking about it.
And the worst part? I know exactly what she needs. I know what would help her. And I’m standing here doing nothing.
“I can’t stop thinking about her,” Dax mutters suddenly.
We both turn to stare at him.
“Dax,” Malik warns, but his own scent has gone thick with interest.
“I’m just saying,” Dax mutters, eyes going distant. “Silicone can’t be the same. It just can’t.”
The image is absolutely devastating to my self-control.
Sierra, legs spread, working a knotted dildo inside her slick heat. But it’s not enough. Too small, too hard, too cold. She wants a real alpha knot, wants the heat and the pulse and the way it would swell inside her and lock them together.
She wants—
“Stop,” I manage. But it’s too late. The image is there, and my knot is already swelling in response.
“Why?” Dax challenges. “We’re all thinking it. Might as well be honest.”
He’s right. And maybe that’s what I need to do. Be honest. Stop hiding behind professional distance.
But before I can say anything, a sound from down the hall cuts through the tension.
Muffled but unmistakable, it’s Sierra, making some small noise that could be pleasure or frustration or need.
We all freeze.
My observation skills are now a curse. Because I can hear things in that sound that the others might miss. The note of frustration beneath the pleasure. The desperate edge. The way it cuts off abruptly, like she’s trying to stay quiet.
She’s struggling. And I know it.
“Fuck,” Dax breathes. “Was that...”
We strain to hear, every alpha sense focused in that direction. For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the storm outside and Cole trying to breathe through his rut on the porch.
Then another sound. Quieter, but definitely there. Definitely Sierra.
My knot swells in response, pressing against my shorts, and I have to close my eyes and count backwards from a hundred in prime numbers just to maintain some semblance of control.
Distraction. It usually works.
Not today.
When I open my eyes again, both Dax and Malik are in the same boat. Obvious bulges straining against their pants, scents gone thick with rut.
The back door opens, and Cole steps back inside, shaking the rain off his shirt. He freezes, looking between us. “What? What happened?”
“We heard her,” Malik says quietly.
Cole’s eyes go dark. “Fuck.”
“We should set up a rotation,” Malik says suddenly, voice strained. “Patrol the hallway every few hours. Listen for distress. Make sure she’s taking the food. That way we can monitor how she’s doing without being intrusive.”
“Good idea,” I agree, relieved to have something concrete to focus on. Something I can actually control. “Who wants first shift?”
“I’ll do it,” Dax offers. “Give me something to do besides pace and imagine—” He cuts himself off, but we all know where that sentence was going.
Imagine her using those toys. Imagine the sounds she makes. Imagine what she looks like when she comes.
My rut surges at the thought, and I have to grip the arm of the chair I’m standing next to with my good hand, my injured one throbbing in time with my pulse.
I’ve spent too long not imagining these things. Too long being careful, being professional, being the rival she expected instead of the alpha who wanted more. Too long noticing everything while pretending to notice nothing.
And now everything is crumbling under the weight of her heat and my rut and the knowledge that she’s just down the hall right now, alone and aching and using toys that won’t be enough.
“Okay,” Malik says, taking charge. “Dax takes first check-in, in about two hours. Then me, then Jalen, then Cole. We keep it brief, professional, just make sure she has what she needs.”
“And if she asks for help?” Cole presses.
Malik meets his eyes steadily. “Then we give it to her. But only if she asks. We don’t offer, we don’t push, we wait for her to decide what she needs.”
It’s a good plan. Reasonable. Respectful.
It’s also going to be torture.
Because I know what’s going to happen. One of us is going to check on her, smell her heat, hear her struggling, and our alpha instincts are going to scream at us to help. To offer. To give her what her biology is demanding.
And if she says yes, everything changes.
Everything I’ve been carefully managing. All of it becomes irrelevant.
Because there’s no staying distant after you’ve knotted someone. No pretending you don’t feel things after you’ve been inside them, felt them come apart around you, heard them cry your name.
The thought terrifies me.
But it also sends a thrill through me that I can’t deny anymore.
Because maybe, just maybe, this is my chance. My chance to show her how I feel without having to say the words. My chance to be what she needs.
Even if it’s just for a week. Even if it doesn’t mean to her what it means to me.
I’ll take it.
Dax meets my eyes, and I wonder if he can see the shift in me. The decision I’ve just made.
“One step at a time,” I say quietly.
But we both know the truth.
The first step is already behind us.
The next one is just a matter of time.
And when it comes, when Sierra finally asks for help or when one of us can’t take it anymore and offers...
I’ll be ready.
Ready to give her everything she needs.
Ready to show her everything I’ve been hiding.
Ready to risk it all.
Because the only thing worse than her knowing how I feel and rejecting me would be letting her suffer when I could help.
And I won’t do that.
I can’t.
Not to her.
Never to her.