Chapter 35
Laurent
T he locker room door swings shut behind me, and the scent of sweat, soap, and victory spills out into the corridor like a wave. The roar of post-game energy is still buzzing in my blood, but all I can think about is them .
I spot the puck bunnies first. Clustered like a pack of overdressed vultures in stilettos, batting lashes and whispering way too loud. They’re eyeing the door like they’re waiting for dessert to be served, lips glossy, intentions obvious.
One even perks up when she sees me. Too bad for her. Because just a few feet beyond their little hunting ground, I see what I’ve been waiting for all damn night. Rowan and Sébastien. My Omegas. My heart kicks into another gear, a cocky grin sliding into place.
Sébastien’s got that calm elegance about him, all French restraint and smooth lines, but his eyes lock on me the second I step into view. Rowan stands beside him, chin up, wrapped in my jersey like she was made to wear it.
Everything else falls away. I walk past the puck bunnies, ignoring them as they call out.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I murmur to Sébastien, gripping the back of his neck and pulling him in for a deep, slow kiss that turns heads.
Then I turn to Rowan. Her breath catches just before our lips meet, and I press my mouth to hers like the game wasn’t enough, like I’ve been starving for this exact moment. Because I have.
“Gods, you taste like everything I didn’t know I needed,” she whispers, breath catching as she leans into me. Her eyes shine, wide and dazed, and I know she feels it too. That spark, that claim, even if we’re not saying the words yet.
I grin, still tasting her on my lips, and tug Sébastien in for a kiss of his own. “Then let me give you more.”
I lace my fingers through theirs and lead them out, heart pounding like I’ve already scored the only goal that matters.
? ? ? ?
The limo glides to a stop beneath the porte-cochère of 660 12th Avenue, a glittering hub of glass and steel perched beside the Hudson. The Glasshouse waits at the top of this building, all sleek elegance and curated exclusivity, but down here, even the sidewalk knows something special just showed up. I slide out first, rolling my shoulders as I stand tall. Cameras flash from across the street, some fans, a couple of puck bunnies who followed us from the game. I don’t give them more than a glance. Let them wonder.
Because tonight? All eyes should be on what comes next. I reach back into the limo and offer my hand. Rowan’s fingers slip into mine, soft and warm. When she steps out, the air shifts. She’s not trying to steal the spotlight. She is the spotlight. Every inch of her curves wrapped in a dress that makes my mouth go dry. She tilts her chin slightly, that Omega elegance unfolding like a challenge.
Heads turn. I hope they look. I hope they fucking stare. Then Sébastien follows, smooth as silk, one brow raised like he knows exactly how breathtaking he is. His jacket fits like it was tailored just for tonight, which it was, and the quiet confidence in his step makes me feel like a damn king.
I slide an arm around Rowan’s waist, tug her in close, then reach for Sébastien and pull him to my other side. We walk into the building like we are together. Like this is forever and if I have my way, it will be.
We’re seated at a corner table near the glass, the city glowing around us like a soft, distant fire. Candlelight flickers in low crystal holders, casting a golden wash over Rowan’s skin, catching the shimmer in Sébastien’s eyes.
Menus rest open between us, but none of us are really reading them. Rowan’s fingers skim the stem of her wine glass, her gaze drifting out the window like she’s letting herself breathe for the first time today. She looks good like this. Soft. Lit from within.
Beside me, Sébastien adjusts in his chair, his movements fluid and precise. He’s calm, elegant in that unshakable way he always is, but I can tell he’s scanning the room, quietly reading the energy like he always does.
A voice from a nearby table whispers, just loud enough to carry.
“That’s him. Number twenty-seven.”
“And those, are they his mates?”
Rowan glances at me, a smirk tugging at her mouth. Damn right, let them see us. I don’t need to mark them for the world to know they’re mine. But I won’t pretend it doesn’t light something possessive in my chest. I also can’t deny that my teeth ache to mark them.
I long to make them mine. To mate them, mark them, and keep them.
She leans in toward Sébastien, saying something low that makes him laugh. And just like that, the rest of the room fades. This is the good stuff. Us.