Chapter 23
Lincoln
Bayleigh said yes.
I must’ve read that text ten times already, but it still hits the same way every time my eyes land on it—stupidly good.
I’m sitting in my truck at home after work, engine off, cab cooling. My gloves sit on the passenger seat, a smear of drywall dust across the knuckles. My tool belt’s dumped on the floor, half on the mat, half off.
And my phone’s in my hand like it’s the only thing that matters.
Yes.
I scroll back up, just to make sure I didn’t hallucinate it.
Me: So, Bayleigh Lennox… will you go out with me?
Bayleigh: Yes.
The corner of my mouth pulls up again, helpless. I lean my head back against the headrest and let out a laugh that’s half breath, half disbelieving sound.
“Holy shit,” I mutter to myself.
My thumb hovers a second, then I flip over to the group chat with Milton and Korbin. The one that’s usually memes, game clips, bitching about Wallace.
Me: I asked Bayleigh out and she said yes. Holy shit, holy shit!
Three dots pop up under it almost immediately, then vanish. Reappear. Vanish.
Milton reacts first with a thumbs-up, then sends:
Milton: Proud of you, Romeo
I snort.
Korbin’s typing bubble shows up next, hangs there longer. Of course it does.
Korbin: Don’t get cute. She’s still Lennox’s sister.
Milton: And she still said yes tho (wide-eyes she basically handed me a do-over, and I’m not screwing that up.
My fingers drum the steering wheel. I reread her last text one more time, fighting the urge to grin like a fool.
Headlights sweep across the yard.
Milton’s car.
He pulls in beside me, door slamming, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He gives my truck a look, like he already knows I’ve been sitting here overthinking. He doesn’t approach, just smirks and heads toward the front door.
Time to get inside and make that damn video. I toe my boots off in the entryway and find him in the living room, leaning back on the couch with a game on mute.
In my room, I shut the door and sit on the edge of the bed, phone in my hand, nerves suddenly louder than the excitement. It’s one thing to text. Another to put my face on video, hands and all, knowing she’s going to watch every move.
I open the camera, prop the phone up on my dresser between two folded shirts, then step back far enough that she’ll be able to see my chest, face, and hands. The mirror behind the screen shows a guy in a work-worn T-shirt, hair a little messy, stubble creeping along his jaw.
I take a breath. Then another.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Don’t fuck this up.”
I hit record and lift my hands.
Hello, Bayleigh.
It’s still a little rough, but smoother than the first time. My fingers move through the signs I practiced in the bathroom mirror, my expression softening the edges. I say the words with my voice too, slow and clear, so she can read my mouth if she wants.
I pause, swallow, hands hovering midair.
Will you go to dinner with me?
The sentence comes out cleaner this time. The dinner sign still feels weird—closing my fingers like I’m pinching a chip instead of shoveling food—but it’s what the instructor told me. I lean into it, shoulders loose, letting a small smile tug at one corner of my mouth.
Probably still clumsy. Definitely not perfect.
But it’s mine.
I lower my hands, step forward, and tap the screen to stop recording. Watching it back is torture; I see every stiff finger, every hesitation, but when I get to the part where I say her name, something in my chest loosens.
I send it before I chicken out.
Me: Practice makes… slightly less terrible
Me: But I meant it. I want to take you to dinner.
I toss the phone onto the bed and lie back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the buzz. My heart’s pounding like I’m about to step onto the ice for a shootout.
The vibration comes sooner than I expect.
Bayleigh: You’re not terrible.
Bayleigh: You’re trying.
Bayleigh: And yes. Again.
I exhale, a laugh breaking out of me, tension bleeding right out of my muscles. I close my eyes, phone pressed to my chest for a second like I’m sixteen and ridiculous.
Milton
I’m sitting in the living room pretending to watch the game highlights, but I haven’t processed a single damn play. The remote’s in my hand, my leg’s bouncing, and my phone’s on the table beside me, mocking me like it knows something I don’t.
Lincoln’s probably in his room smiling like a lovesick idiot. Good for him. Really. I should feel nothing but proud.
Except I don’t. Something twists sharp and low in my chest, and I hate that I recognize it.
Jealousy.
Not the ugly kind, just the quiet, annoying sort that makes you sit a little straighter and breathe a little deeper like it’ll shove the feeling down.
I grab my phone and pull up her pictures that I saved like a damn creep. Scroll. Stop. Scroll back.
Her picture that the publicist took at the charity event is still there.
Bayleigh, kneeling beside me, checking the scrape on my wrist like I didn’t even notice the damn thing.
Her fingers were soft. Her scent was softer.
And for a split second, I forgot she was a Lennox.
Forgot everything except the way she looked at me—direct, curious, unafraid.
My jaw tightens. I toss the phone facedown and scrub both hands over my face.
“Don’t even start, man,” I mutter to myself.
This isn’t who I am. I don’t swoon over omegas I barely know.
I don’t get weird just because my best friend finally found someone he likes and who likes him back.
And I sure as hell don’t get hung up on a woman whose brother would put a puck through my skull if he knew I even breathed in her direction.
But I can’t shake it.
Her signing, her smile, that soft little wrinkle she had at the corner of her eyes when she was focusing on reading my lips. The way she didn’t treat me like some towering, scary alpha… just Milton.
I lean back, drape my arm over the couch, and close my eyes for a second.
Lincoln’s got the green light. He earned it. He’s trying, really trying, in ways I’ve never seen him try for anyone.
And if she picks him? Good. He deserves an omega who actually gives a damn.
Still… a thought worms its way in before I can crush it.
I want to see her again. Not to steal her. Not to compete. Just… to see her, to see if this obsession can turn into something real. I mean, we have been trying to get Lincoln to join our pack. So what if Bayleigh is our omega?
Maybe it isn’t jealousy I’m feeling? Maybe it’s longing? Or wanting?
But how the hell do you do such a thing without being creepy?
I can’t text her, I can’t “accidentally” run into her, and I can’t ask Lincoln to invite me along like some third-wheel puppy.
So I sit here, chewing the inside of my cheek like it’s gum, watching the ceiling fan spin slow circles.
There has to be a normal reason. Something that doesn’t make me look like I’m stalking my best friend’s maybe-girl.
Maybe I could check in about the charity event paperwork, or I could “thank her” for helping at the rink, or hell, I don’t know. Every option sounds worse than the last.
I drop my head back against the couch, groaning.
“Get your shit together,” I tell myself.
But all I see is the way she looked up at me that day, like she was seeing something good in me I haven’t shown anyone in a long time.
And the worst part?
I want her to look at me like that again.
Just once more.
Korbin
I’m sprawled on my bed, back against the headboard, an ice pack melting over my busted knuckles. Water drips down my wrist onto the sheet, but I don’t move it. The ache feels good. Earned.
Every punch from earlier replays behind my eyes—the crack of his nose under my fist, the way Bayleigh’s breath hitched when I ripped him away from her. And the way something inside me snapped clean in two.
I keep telling myself I just did what anyone would do. But that’s bullshit, and I know it. My alpha didn’t see “anyone.” It saw her. Small, frightened, and cornered. And it wasn’t obligation that shoved me forward. It wasn’t even rivalry. It felt personal.
I curse under my breath and press the ice harder into my knuckles, letting the cold bite.
She said yes to going on a date with my brother.
A hot, sharp twist coils low in my stomach. Not anger—not at her, anyway. Just this stupid, unfamiliar feeling I don’t have a damn name for. Lincoln gets the yes. Lincoln gets the date. Lincoln gets to try.
Good.
That’s good.
So why the hell does my chest feel tight?
My phone buzzes a few seconds later.
Milton: You good?
Me: Fine. Just still pissed about that guy.
It’s mostly true. My blood still heats thinking about that asshole putting his hands on her.
Another buzz.
Milton: Sure that’s all it is?
I don’t answer.
What the hell am I supposed to say? Yeah, man, actually I can’t stop seeing the way she looked up at me like I was the only solid thing holding the world together for one damn second? Like maybe I wasn’t just the loudmouthed hockey player everyone expects me to be?
No fucking way.
I flip the phone facedown and let out a breath through my teeth. The room goes quiet, my hand throbs, but it’s nothing compared to the restless burn under my ribs.
“She’s a Lennox,” I mutter, dragging a hand over my face. “That’s all this is.”
Except that’s a lie too.
Because when I close my eyes, I don’t see Benton.
I see her.
Bayleigh on the sidewalk, clutching that folder like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Her hands shaking but still reaching for the papers scattered across the concrete.
Her scent—clean mint threaded with green tea—cutting through the blood and adrenaline like a punch straight to the center of my chest.
And then that sign she made at me. That soft, simple motion she probably does a hundred times a day.
Thank you.
I didn’t understand it then, but I looked it up and then felt it. Every damn inch of it.
I sit up, elbows braced on my knees, ice pack sliding to the floor.
Maybe… maybe I do see what Lincoln sees. What Milton sees. What neither of us wants to admit out loud.
There’s something about her. She’s stronger than she looks. The kind of strong that isn’t loud or flashy. The kind you only notice when the world tries to knock you down and you refuse to stay there.
“This is stupid,” I mutter. “She’s Lennox’s sister. Off-limits. End of story.”
But the image of her small, fierce, trembling but unbroken, won’t leave me alone.
And worst of all?
It doesn’t scare me like it should. It pulls. Hard.
I’m not supposed to care. I don’t want to care. But something in me shifted the second that asshole touched her.
And for the first time…I’m starting to think my resolve isn’t just cracking.
It’s already gone.