Chapter 17
Elijah
She reaches for me, and I’m already there.
I’ve been watching. Waiting. That’s what I do. Ben talks, Milo charms, and I watch. I’ve spent the last however many hours memorizing every sound she makes, every expression that crosses her face, every way her body responds to being touched.
I know things about her now that she probably doesn’t know about herself.
I know that she arches her back right before she comes. That her breath catches in a specific pattern when she’s close. That she grips the blankets when she’s trying to hold on and reaches for skin when she’s ready to let go.
Right now, she’s reaching.
“Elijah.” My name in her mouth, broken and desperate and beautiful.
I don’t answer. Words have never been my strength. Instead, I settle over her, letting my weight press her into the nest, and watch her eyes flutter closed with relief.
There. That’s what she needed—pressure, grounding, the solid weight of me holding her down.
Ben and Milo are somewhere behind me. Resting, probably. We’ve been rotating for hours, and even alphas have limits. But I’ve been conserving energy. Waiting for my turn. Watching and learning while they took care of her.
I’m not jealous. That surprises me a little. I thought I would be, watching other alphas knot the omega I want. But it’s not like that. It’s pack. They’re not competition. They’re partners.
We’re building something here. Something that matters.
“Please.” Her voice pulls me back. “Elijah, please.”
I brush hair from her face. Study the flush on her cheeks, the glaze in her eyes, the way her lips are swollen from kisses. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve spent my life studying beautiful things.
I don’t tell her that. I show her instead.
I kiss her. Slow and deep, nothing like the frantic kisses I’ve watched her share with the others. I take my time. Taste her properly. Learn the shape of her mouth, the way she sighs against my lips, the way her hands come up to grip my shoulders like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I’m not going anywhere.
When I finally pull back, her eyes are wet.
“Elijah.” Just my name again. She says it like it means something.
It does. To me, it does.
I reach between us, find her pussy, stroke through the slick gathered there. She’s drenched. Has been for hours. The scent of her arousal is everywhere, mixed with the musk of the other alphas, layered into something that smells like pack. Like home.
My cock throbs. I’ve been hard since she first called my name, and the need to be inside her is a physical ache. But I don’t rush. I never rush. The best things take time.
I push one finger inside her and watch her face. She gasps, her inner walls clenching around me, so responsive and desperate for touch.
“More.” The word comes out strangled. “Please.”
I add a second finger. Stretch her slowly. She’s been knotted multiple times, but I still want to be careful. Still want to make sure she’s ready for me.
She rocks against my hand, trying to speed things up. Impatient. I press my other hand flat against her stomach, holding her still.
“Let me.” Two words. All I give her.
Her whole body goes limp. Surrender. Complete trust.
Fuck.
Something cracks open in my chest. This woman, this stubborn, beautiful, impossible woman, just handed me control like it was nothing. Like she trusts me that completely.
I will not betray that trust.
I work her slowly. Build her up with my fingers until she’s shaking, until her pussy is clenching rhythmically, until she’s right on the edge. Then I pull back. Let her settle. Start again.
She whimpers. “Elijah...”
I know what she needs. I’m not being cruel. I’m taking my time because I want this to be good for her. Want her to remember this moment, this feeling, when the heat haze fades.
I want her to remember me.
The third time I bring her to the edge, I don’t pull back. I curl my fingers, press against that spot inside her, and watch her shatter.
She comes silently, mouth open, back arched, every muscle locked tight. Her pussy clamps down on my fingers so hard it almost hurts, and I feel slick gush out around my hand. She’s beautiful like this. Wrecked and trembling and completely mine.
I don’t give her time to recover. While she’s still trembling through the aftershocks, I position myself at her entrance and push inside.
The feeling almost undoes me.
She’s tight and hot and wet, her pussy gripping my cock like it was made for me, pulling me deeper with every inch. I have to grit my teeth against the urge to just slam home and take what I want.
I keep the pace slow and steady. This is about her, not me.
I bottom out and hold still, watching her face, waiting.
Her eyes open, dark and dazed but present. She sees me. Really sees me.
“Elijah.” Her hand comes up to cup my face. “You feel...”
She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to. I can feel it too. The connection. The rightness of this.
I start to move.
Slow, deep, deliberate thrusts. I pull almost all the way out, then push back in, making her feel every inch of my cock. She’s making sounds, soft whimpers and gasps that go straight to my spine, but I don’t speed up. Don’t change my rhythm.
This isn’t about chasing an orgasm. This is about feeling. About showing her, with my body, all the things I can’t say with words.
Every thrust is a message. I see you. I want you. I’m not going anywhere.
She’s climbing again. I can feel it in the way her inner walls flutter around me, the way her breath catches, the way her nails dig into my shoulders. I adjust the angle, just slightly, and hit that spot that makes her cry out.
“There.” She gasps. “Right there, don’t stop.”
I don’t stop. Keep hitting that spot with every thrust, keep building her up, keep watching her face as the pleasure crests higher and higher.
My knot is starting to swell. I can feel it, the base of my cock thickening, catching at her rim with every stroke. The pressure is intense. The urge to just slam home and lock us together is almost overwhelming.
But I wait.
I bring her to the edge one more time. Hold her there. Watch her tremble and gasp and claw at me, desperate for release.
“Come.” The word is rough. Commanding. The only thing I’ve said since “Let me.”
She shatters.
This orgasm is different from the first, bigger and louder. She screams, actually screams, and I feel her pussy clamp down on me like a vice. That’s my signal.
I thrust hard, forcing my knot past her rim. The stretch makes her cry out again, but it’s pleasure not pain, and then we’re locked together. My knot swells to full size, sealing us, and I come so hard my vision whites out.
I pulse inside her, filling her with my release, feeling her pussy milk me and pull every drop deeper. My teeth ache with the urge to bite.
Claim her. Bond her. Mark her. Make her mine.
The instinct is overwhelming. Her neck is right there, soft skin, thundering pulse, that spot where her scent is strongest. I could do it. Could sink my teeth in and make her ours forever.
My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood from biting my own cheek.
No.
She asked us not to. She looked at us with those dark, trusting eyes and asked us to help her without bonding her. I will not betray that trust. Not now. Not ever.
I bury my face in her hair instead, breathing her in, letting the urge pass one agonizing second at a time.
“Elijah?” Her voice is drowsy. Concerned. “You’re shaking.”
Am I? I hadn’t noticed. The adrenaline of fighting my instincts is coursing through me, making my muscles tremble.
“I’m okay.” Three words. More than I usually give.
“Was that...” She trails off. Tries again. “Did I do something wrong?”
I pull back just enough to look at her. She’s watching me with those eyes, those beautiful dark eyes, and there’s uncertainty there. Vulnerability. She thinks she did something wrong.
I cup her face. Force myself to speak. “You’re perfect.”
Two words, but I pour everything into them. Every feeling I can’t articulate, every emotion I’ve been holding back, every thought I’ve had while watching her over the past hours.
She searches my face. Whatever she finds there must satisfy her, because she relaxes and smiles. It’s small and tired and still heat-dazed, but it’s real.
“You don’t talk much,” she murmurs.
“No.”
“I like that.” Her eyes are closing. “It’s restful.”
Restful. No one has ever called me that before. I’ve been called intimidating. Intense. Off-putting. But never restful.
She falls asleep before my knot goes down. Just like that. One moment awake, the next completely out. Her body knows what it needs, and right now it needs rest.
I hold her and wait. Watch her breathe. Study the way candlelight plays across her skin. Memorize every detail, every freckle, every tiny imperfection that makes her perfect.
This is what I do. I observe. I remember. I build things with my hands because my words always fail me.
I’m going to build her something. When this is over. Something beautiful, something that shows her what I can’t say. A piece of furniture for her home, maybe. Or a carving. Something she can touch and know that I see her. That I understand her.
That I love her.
The thought surfaces and I don’t push it away. It’s too early to say it. Too soon, too intense, too much during heat. But I know it’s true. I’ve known since she walked into my workshop six months ago to ask about custom chairs for some town event.
She’d stood there with her clipboard and her schedules and she’d looked at my work, really looked, like it mattered. Like the hours I’d spent carving and sanding and finishing meant something.
No one looks at me like that. Like they see the person behind the silence.
She did. She does.
My knot finally softens. I ease out of her carefully, slowly, and she whimpers but doesn’t wake. Slick and my release drip out of her, and the sight sends a possessive thrill through me that I don’t try to suppress.
Mine. Ours. Pack.
I pull her against my chest, tuck her head under my chin, and close my eyes.
Somewhere in the nest, I hear Milo shifting. Ben’s breathing has the deep, even rhythm of sleep. We’re all here. All together. Taking care of our omega.
It feels right.
For the first time in years, I don’t feel like the odd one out. Don’t feel like the quiet guy in the corner that people forget is there. I’m part of something. Part of them. Part of her.
Another wave will hit soon. The heat isn’t over yet. But for now, in this quiet moment between waves, I let myself rest.
I dream of building her a home.
I wake to her whimpering.
The sound cuts through sleep instantly. I’m alert before my eyes open, my body already responding to my omega in distress.
Our omega. She’s ours.
The possessiveness doesn’t scare me anymore. It feels natural and right.
“Shh.” I gather her closer. “I’m here.”
But it’s not me she needs. I can tell by the way she’s moving, restless and seeking. The heat is building again, and she needs to be filled.
“Ben.” I keep my voice low. “Wake up.”
He’s awake instantly. Alpha instincts. “What’s wrong?”
“She needs you.”
He doesn’t ask questions. Just moves to my side, takes one look at Tessa’s flushed face and desperate expression, and nods.
I ease her toward him. She goes willingly, her hands already reaching, her body already arching toward his warmth.
“Hey, beautiful.” Ben’s voice is rough with sleep but gentle. “I’ve got you. Come here.”
I watch him pull her close. Watch his hands slide over her body, familiar now after hours of learning her. Watch her melt into him, the tension draining from her muscles as he gives her what she needs.
I should feel jealous. I don’t.
Instead, I feel something warm spread through my chest. Pride, maybe. Or satisfaction. This is pack. This is what it looks like when alphas work together instead of compete.
Ben catches my eye over Tessa’s shoulder, and something passes between us—understanding and respect.
We’re in this together.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, even as his hips start to move.
I nod. “Rest. I’ll take next.”
He grins, that easy Ben grin that makes everyone like him. “Deal.”
I settle back into the nest and watch. Not because I’m a voyeur, but because I’m learning. Because watching helps me understand her, understand them, understand us.
Tessa cries out, a sound of pleasure and relief, and Ben groans against her neck. They move together like they’ve been doing this for years instead of hours, natural and easy.
Beautiful.
Milo is awake now too. I can feel his eyes on the scene, can sense his readiness to step in when needed. We’ve fallen into a rhythm without discussing it. A rotation that keeps her satisfied and us functional.
Pack.
The word keeps coming back to me. Pack. That’s what we are. That’s what we’re becoming.
When this heat is over, things are going to be complicated. There’s no roadmap for this. Four people, three alphas and one omega, building a life together in a small town where everyone knows everyone’s business.
But right now, watching Ben knot our omega while Milo and I stand ready to take our turns, it doesn’t feel complicated.
It feels like home.