Chapter 13 #2
This didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse.
Because now I know exactly how good it would feel to be inside her. How perfect she would be. How right.
And I can’t have it.
Not unless she asks.
I clean up quickly, disgusted with myself, and pull my clothes back on. My knot is already swelling again. The rut isn’t satisfied. Won’t be satisfied until I’m locked inside an omega.
Inside her.
When I emerge from my bedroom, Dax is in the hallway. He takes one look at me, and his expression darkens.
“Really, Cole?” he asks, voice low.
“Don’t,” I warn. “Don’t say it.”
“We’re supposed to be helping her, not—”
“I can’t help her if she won’t let me,” I snap. “None of us can. So, forgive me for trying to take the edge off before I completely lose my mind.”
Dax’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. Probably because he understands. Probably because he’s considered doing the same thing.
Maybe already has.
Another whimper echoes from down the hall, and we both freeze. The sound cuts off abruptly, like she’s bitten it back.
“Kitchen,” Dax says finally, his voice rough. “Before I do something stupid.”
I follow him back and find Jalen and Malik exactly where I left them at the table.
The silence stretches. Rain hammers against the shutters. Someone’s knee is bouncing. I think it’s mine.
“Deal me in,” I say to Jalen, nodding at the deck of cards on the table.
He blinks at me. “What?”
“Cards. Deal.”
“Cole, I don’t think—”
“Deal the fucking cards, Jalen.”
He does, his movements strained. We play three hands in complete silence, the only sounds our breathing and the storm outside. Nobody’s paying attention to the game. Malik folds on a winning hand. Dax bids without looking at his cards.
On the fourth hand, Jalen suddenly stands up, scattering his cards across the table.
“I’m going for a run,” he announces.
“In this weather?” Malik asks.
“I don’t care if it’s a storm. I need to move, or I’m going to—” He cuts himself off, grabs his jacket from his bag, and disappears into the storm.
Just before the door slams behind him, I can see him break into a sprint before he’s even off the porch.
“Smart,” Dax mutters. “Wish I’d thought of that.”
“Still could,” I point out.
“No.” He runs a hand through his black hair. “No, someone needs to stay. In case she—” He stops. Shakes his head. “Never mind.”
Malik sets his phone down hard enough to crack the screen. “I’m going to inventory the supplies. Make sure we have everything we need.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For whatever happens next,” he says shortly, and heads back toward the living room.
That leaves me and Dax sitting at a table covered in abandoned cards, both of us too wired to sit still, too responsible to leave.
“This is hell,” Dax says.
“Yep.”
“Actual, literal hell.”
“Yep.”
Thunder crashes. We both grip the edge of the table.
Four or five more days of this. Minimum.
I’m not going to make it.
Dax
I’ve been in the garage for two hours, beating the heavy bag someone hung in the corner until my knuckles split open again.
It’s not helping.
The rhythmic thud of leather against my fists should be grounding. Should burn off some of this aggressive energy coursing through my veins. But all it’s doing is giving my mind space to wander.
To imagine.
I can still smell her from here. The garage isn’t sealed well enough to keep out her heat-scent, and every breath brings another wave of honeycomb and cherry syrup that makes my knot throb.
I hit the bag harder, trying to focus on the pain instead of the ache.
But my mind keeps drifting back to that door. To what’s happening behind it.
Is she in her nest right now? Surrounded by pillows, skin flushed with heat? I imagine her sprawled across those blankets, thighs spread, one hand between her legs while the other grips the sheets.
Fuck.
I shake my head, trying to clear the image, but it’s burned into my brain now.
I’ve spent months watching Sierra Smith. Watching her lean forward when she’s making a point, animated and passionate. The way her eyes flash when someone challenges her.
The way she bites her lip when she’s thinking.
I’ve wondered what else makes her bite that lip. What sounds she makes when she’s not in control. Whether she’d fight for dominance even in bed, or if she’d finally let go of that iron grip she keeps on everything.
Another wave of her scent hits me, and I groan, leaning against the heavy bag.
She’s producing so much slick. I can smell it from here, sweet and desperate. Her body is calling for an alpha, advertising her need to anyone within range.
And I’m out here, punching an inanimate object like it’s going to solve anything.
I imagine what it would be like if she opened that door. If she called for me specifically. “Dax, I need you.”
I’d be there in seconds. Would gather her into my arms, let her feel how hard I am for her. How ready. Would press my face to her neck and breathe her in properly.
Would she wrap her legs around my waist? Pull me down into that nest? Tell me exactly what she needs in that sweet voice that always gets under my skin?
My cock throbs at the thought.
I imagine spreading her thighs and seeing the evidence of her heat. All that slick, her body so ready, so desperate for a knot. Would she be swollen? Sensitive? Would she gasp when I first touched her?
I’d take my time. Would work her with my fingers first, learning what makes her moan. Would she be the type to give instructions, to tell me faster or slower or right there? Or would she be too far gone, too desperate to form words?
Then I’d replace my fingers with my cock. Would push inside that tight, wet heat and feel her clench around me. Would her competitive nature extend here? Would she demand more, harder, would she meet me thrust for thrust?
And when I finally knotted her—
“Fuck,” I breathe, pressing my forehead against the bag.
I can picture it so clearly. The way she’d feel locked around my knot. The sounds she’d make. The way her scent would mix with mine until the whole room smelled like us.
Not just alpha and omega. Dax and Sierra.
My knot is swollen so tight it hurts. I reach down and adjust myself, trying to ease the pressure, but it doesn’t help.
Nothing helps except the one thing I can’t have.
I resume hitting the bag, putting all my frustration into every punch.
But the images won’t stop. Sierra in her nest. Sierra under me. Sierra crying out my name as I knot her properly, give her what those useless toys can’t.
This is torture.
Pure, exquisite torture.
Malik
The rain is doing fuck-all to clear my head.
I’ve been out here for thirty minutes and I’m no better off than when I started. Worse, actually, because now I’m soaked and cold and my rut doesn’t give a damn about either.
This is pathetic. But it’s better than thinking about what’s happening inside.
The door behind me opens. I don’t turn around.
“You’re going to catch pneumonia,” Dax says.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
He doesn’t leave. I hear him lean against the doorframe, probably trying to decide if he should say whatever’s on his mind or leave me to my misery.
“The bag’s got blood on it,” he says finally.
“So tape up your knuckles next time.”
“Not my blood. Yours.”
I look down at my hands. My knuckles are split open. I don’t remember hitting the bag, but I must have before I came out here.
“It’ll heal.”
“That’s not the point.”
I turn to look at him. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, shirt clinging to his chest. He’s been in the rain too, then.
“What is the point?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Damned if I know. That we’re both losing our minds? That her heat is going to kill us before it’s over?”
“Five more days.”
“Minimum.”
We stand there in the rain, two alphas in rut, both completely fucked.
“I’ve never—” Dax starts, then stops.
“Yeah.”
“The ruts I’ve had before, they were manageable. Uncomfortable, but manageable. This is—”
“Different.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s putting it mildly.”
Another wave of her scent cuts through the rain. We both tense.
“I need to think about something else,” I mutter.
“Good luck with that.”
I try anyway. Force my mind toward work. We have a client we’re trying to win over, but Sierra’s proposal for their wedding…
Sierra.
Everything circles back to her.
“I’m going to check the generator,” I say abruptly.
“You checked it an hour ago.”
“Then I’ll check it again.”
I push past him into the house. Her scent is stronger inside, wrapping around me as soon as I step in. My knot throbs, and I grit my teeth against it.
The utility room is better. Cooler. The concrete walls and mechanical smell of the generator provide some relief.
I inspect connection points I already know are fine. Check fuel levels that haven’t changed. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.
But even in here, I can still smell traces of her.
I sit down on the concrete floor, back against the wall, and let my head fall back.
This is absurd. I’m ex-military. I don’t lose my composure.
Except apparently I do when there’s an omega in heat down the hall who landed the Vander wedding after I’d spent weeks courting the client, only for her to turn it into the event of the season.
Who shows up at venue walkthroughs and captures the focus of the owners by simply smiling at them.
Who watches me across crowded ballrooms with this look, like she’s already three steps ahead, already knows how my next pitch will fail before I’ve even made it.
I’ve spent months stealing glances at her portfolio online, studying how she transforms spaces I’d written off as unusable. Trying to decode the secret behind her flawless reputation.
And now my rut has decided it’s done playing detective.
What does she do when she’s not working? Does she have hobbies? Friends? What does she read? What makes her laugh?
Does she ever let her guard down, or is she always this perfectly controlled?
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting work emails, but it’s a message from Dax.
Her scent just spiked again. I’m heading back to the garage.
I stare at the message, then shove the phone back in my pocket.
Of course, her scent spiked. She’s in heat. That’s what happens.
But knowing that doesn’t stop my body from reacting. My knot swells again, pressing painfully against my jeans. I adjust myself and force my attention back to the generator.
Count the connections. Check the fuel gauge. Monitor the output levels.
I stay down here until my knuckles stop bleeding and my knot finally goes down.
It takes an hour.
And I know it’s only temporary.