Chapter 35
Korbin
I spend the entire day pretending nothing happened.
Pretending I didn’t hear Bayleigh speak and her voice didn’t hit me like a blade made of hope and hurt.
Pretending the omega’s arms around my waist didn’t short-circuit something in my chest that I haven’t felt since…
hell, since before Gina tore everything apart inside me.
I tell myself it was nothing. That it was shock or instinct. A leftover high from the adrenaline of last night. A fluke reaction from an alpha system that doesn’t know the difference between “mine” and “danger” anymore.
But I woke up this morning with the feeling burned into my skin.
She hugged me. I held her, and every feral, buried part of my alpha screamed at me not to fucking let go.
So, I do what any emotionally stunted alpha with too many issues and not enough free therapy options does; I run.
I push myself down the icy sidewalk until my lungs feel like they’re being peeled open.
Until my thighs are burning. Until sweat soaks through my shirt in the freezing air and my peach and honeydew scent is sharp and overstimulated—anger, confusion, something too close to longing bleeding off me in hot waves.
None of it helps.
Because every time I blink, I hear it again.
Th…ank you… for… lett-ing me… stay here.
Her voice. Soft and uneven. Pulled from a place that must’ve hurt her to open. Fragile and fucking brave at the same time.
She trusted us with it. She trusted me with it. She let three alphas hear a sound most of the world has never earned from her.
And the more I try to outrun that fact, the more it chases me.
By the time I get back home and shower, my alpha instincts are still keyed up, restless, pacing under my skin. It’s time for practice. Milton’s skipping—Coach already got the “family emergency” text from him, and I didn’t question it—so it’s just me stepping into the Scorpion den today.
I should’ve known it would be hell the second I walked into the locker room.
As soon as I pass Philips’ corner, he gets this smirk—one of those shit-eating grins that makes my hackles rise. My alpha bristles, dominance climbing my spine on reflex.
“Yo, Brooks,” he calls out, loud enough for half the room to hear, “heard from my cousin who’s friend works for the Krakens, that your brother and Benton's sister are having a slumber party.”
My scent spikes sharp and bitter. I ignore him.
Barely.
Someone else snickers, while another mutters, “Bro’s whipped.” And someone else adds, “My grandma lives across the street from Lennox. She said Benton exploded. So maybe she needed comfort after getting yelled at.”
My fists clench. My jaw grinds. There’s a tight, coiled pressure in my chest that feels a hell of a lot like an alpha being called out about his omega before he’s even admitted she’s his.
I tell myself not to react.
The press is already circling Lincoln and Bayleigh like sharks. I don’t need to make it worse by breaking someone’s face, no matter how much my instincts snarl for it.
I’m holding it together.
I’m doing fine.
Right until one of them tries to imitate her signing, while another stands behind him, making lewd comments. I know it’s not her standing there, but it still hits me hard.
I slam the defenseman into the lockers so hard half the room jolts.
His helmet drops, while his water bottle rolls across the floor, and he curses.
My forearm pins him by the chest, my alpha aura pouring off me like a storm. The entire locker room goes still. I don’t yell, or shove him; nor do I swing.
I get close enough that he can smell the promise of violence rolling off me and say, very low, “Do not ever imitate her again. Do not say her name. Do not breathe in her direction. Not if you want to keep playing hockey. Are we clear?”
He nods so fast his skull hits the metal behind him, his scent flipping from smug to terrified in a heartbeat.
Good.
I let him go and walk away, while Coach pretends he didn’t see anything.
Smart man.
Practice is a blur after that—drills, shouts, the sharp stink of sweat and ego. None of it cuts through the hum under my skin. My alpha is pacing the bars of his cage, restless, pissed, protective as hell over an omega who isn’t mine.
Not officially.
Not claimed.
Not marked.
But tell that to my instincts.
By the end of it, something in my chest is crawling—like the emotions I outran this morning have caught up and are sitting on my ribs, heavy, claws digging in.
I tell myself I’m just going home, just to check in on the situation.
Pack solidarity.
Whatever.
But my alpha knows why I’m really driving faster than usual. Why my hands keep tightening on the wheel at every red light.
When I walk up to the house and push open the door, the first thing I hear is Milton’s laugh—loud, stupid, happy—and the second thing I “hear” is…
Nothing.
But I feel her. Her scent hits me a beat later—mint and green tea, sweet and cool, threaded through the familiar notes of my brothers. It wraps around my nervous system like a soft hand to the throat.
Bayleigh is sitting cross-legged on the couch wearing one of Milton’s hoodies, no scratch that, wearing my hoodie, actually, but Milton stole it years ago—her hair down, her cheeks soft pink, her body relaxed, omega-soft but steady.
She’s laughing at something he said, shoulders shaking, face lit up like the morning sun.
Her green eyes crinkle when she laughs, copper hair slipping loose around her cheeks, and I’m done pretending I’m not interested.
The air around her practically glows with contentment and safety, and my alpha settles for the first time all day, just breathing her in.
The second she looks up and sees me?
She smiles. “Hi, Korbin.”
Two words said perfectly. Two words pushed through vocal cords that are still relearning how to trust the world.
Two words that hit me harder than any punch I’ve taken on the ice.
My scent flares without my permission—lower, warmer, instinctively responding to that soft little greeting. To this omega acknowledging me like I’m something more than the asshole who hates her brother.
I stand there like an idiot, like I forgot how to talk, like someone unplugged my brain and cut the cord to my mouth.
“Hey,” I manage, my voice rough, low. “Hi.”
Lincoln raises a brow from the kitchen counter where he’s cutting fruit like he’s in a cooking show, his own scent amused and knowing.
He knows.
Of course he knows.
Alphas can smell when another alpha’s resolve is cracking.
I step further into the room, trying to look normal, and trying not to stare.
Failing miserably.
Because Bayleigh tucks her hair behind her ear—and the movement exposes her implant, the little piece of tech that’s part of her and yet something she hides when she can.
She doesn’t hide it now.
Not from us.
Not in our house. In her pack’s house, if I’m being honest.
Something tightens behind my ribs.
My alpha recognizes the vulnerability. The trust. The way she lets herself be seen in the one place she could’ve stayed guarded.
I’m falling.
God help me, I’m falling.
She signs something to Lincoln—quick, light—and he signs back, slower, focusing hard. His scent softens, threaded with pride and quiet determination. Milton grabs her phone and types something dramatic that makes her laugh again.
And I just stand there watching her smile in the home I share with my brothers, drowning in a mingled cloud of sandalwood, grapefruit, peach, and mint, with her wearing one of my hoodies, looking like she belongs here more than any of us ever have.
Lincoln gestures to the couch. “You eating with us? We’re doing breakfast for dinner.”
I grunt something noncommittal and walk in, dropping into the recliner. My heart is pounding as if I sprinted here. My alpha stays on high alert, tracking every micro-shift in her body—every laugh, every little exhale.
Bayleigh glances over at me again, and her eyes linger just a second too long.
And that one second tells me everything I’ve been denying.
I want her.
I want them with her.
I want this whole impossible, insane pack we’re building around an omega who has no idea how much of a hold she has on us.
And God help me…
I want to deserve it.