Chapter 37
Lincoln
The house feels wrong without her.
It’s not quiet—we’re three alphas in one space; it’s never really quiet—but it feels…
empty. The couch looks wrong without her curled on it.
The kitchen feels too big without her perched on the stool, sipping coffee and rolling her eyes at Milton.
Even the hallway smells wrong—no thread of mint and green tea winding through the stronger notes of sandalwood, peach, and grapefruit.
Bayleigh’s been back home for four days.
Four days of group chat messages. Four days of “good morning” texts. Four days of pretending that’s enough.
It’s not.
Milton is the most obvious about it. He wanders around the house sighing like a Victorian widow, dramatic as hell, texting her every meme he can find and then pouting when she sends back only laughing emojis and not paragraphs.
Korbin hides in the gym. He’s snappier than usual, all clipped words and tight jaw, beating the hell out of the treadmill and the punching bag. His peach and honeydew scent runs hotter, more frustrated, every time her name comes up.
Me?
I check my phone like it’s a heartbeat monitor and she’s the pulse. Every time my screen lights, my chest tightens. Every time it’s not her, something inside me sinks just a little.
By the time I finish work, I’m dusty, exhausted, hands scraped from wrestling with a stubborn breaker box, and all I can think about is her. Her smile. Her hands. The way she’d said thank you for letting her stay here like it cost her something precious to say it out loud.
I sit in my truck for a full minute, phone in my hand, thumb hovering over our chat. The last thing she sent was:
Bayleigh: I miss you too, and I need to talk to you about something. I’m nervous.
I’d stared at the word nervous for a long time.
I exhale, finally type:
Me: Don’t be nervous. Whatever it is, we'll handle it. Can I come get you?
The second I hit send, my pulse spikes, my scent tightening in the cab—sandalwood, warm and a little sharp with nerves.
The dots appear almost immediately.
Bayleigh: Yes.
Bayleigh: Please.
That’s all it takes. My whole body exhales at once, every alpha instinct in me flipping from restless to focused.
On her. Always her.
I text Milton and Korbin that I’m taking our girl out and not to wait up. Milton sends three obscene winks. Korbin replies with a single thumbs-up that somehow still manages to say, don’t fuck this up.
Her house glows faintly when I pull up, porch light on, curtains drawn tight. I park at the curb and sit for a second, palms pressed to the steering wheel, scent running hot with nervous anticipation.
The night air bites at my skin when I step out. My heart is thudding too hard, too low in my chest, my alpha instinct wound tight, ready to ease only when I know she’s okay. I lift my hand and ring the doorbell. I wait.
For half a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then the lock clicks and the door cracks open. She’s in leggings and an oversized sweater, hair in a loose braid over one shoulder. No makeup that I can see. Just her. Soft, real, beautiful.
Her scent hits me a second later, calmer than the last time I was here, but threaded with a faint nervous edge that my alpha locks onto immediately.
“Hey,” I say, slow and clear.
She lifts her gaze, eyes brightening the second she sees me. Her lips form the word back.
“Hi.”
I can see the tiny tremor in her hands, the way her shoulders drop a fraction when she realizes it’s just me on the porch.
I sign Hi back, then add, a little clumsy, you okay?
Her mouth twists. She tilts her hand so-so, the familiar omega honesty written all over her face.
“Come on.” I point toward the driveway, then sign come as well, reinforcing the motion. “I want to show you something.”
She grabs her coat and bag and steps out onto the porch, tugging the door shut behind her with a soft click. No words tossed over her shoulder, no voice, just the glow of her phone lighting up her face as she types quickly with her thumbs.
I pull her to my side, her shoulder brushing against me. I catch a glimpse of what she typed.
Bayleigh: Lincoln’s here. We’re heading out.
My chest warms, a slow pulse of heat moving right through me. Not I’m going out. Not I’ll be back later. Lincoln’s here.
There’s a subtle claim in it, and my alpha reacts before I can temper it, my scent slipping warmer around us.
She tucks her phone into her coat pocket, cheeks faintly pink from the cold or from my proximity, and I wrap my arm tighter around her, guiding her gently down the steps.
“Ready?” I mouth, slow enough for her to read.
She nods, and just like that, the night feels right again.
The lake is twenty minutes outside of town, far enough that the air smells different; cleaner, colder, pine and water instead of exhaust and concrete.
By the time we get there, the sun has dropped low, all pink and gold bleeding into the water. The gravel crunches under the tires as I pull into the small overlook lot.
Bayleigh leans forward, eyes widening, lips parted in a soft little oh.
I kill the engine, turn to face her.
“You like it?” I ask slowly.
It’s beautiful. Thank you. Can we walk? She signs and speaks at the same time.
Her signs are fluid, certain. Mine are still rough. I mirror the last one back to her, a little crooked, and she laughs, shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling at the corners.
There it is. The thing I’ve been missing. The thing that makes this exile from her unbearable: that laugh.
We climb out and walk the narrow path down to the shoreline.
The air bites pleasantly at my face. Our breath clouds faintly in the cooling air.
She walks with her hands tucked into her sleeves, boots nudging little stones along the sand.
Every now and then she glances up at me, like she’s checking that I’m still here, still real.
We don’t force conversation.
We don’t need to.
It’s just… easy.
She stops near the edge of the water, stares out at the reflection of the fading sky. The wind toys with the loose strands of hair around her face.
When she speaks, her voice is quiet.
“Heat… soon.”
The word lands in my chest like a dropped weight. My alpha sits up inside me at once, instincts sharpening, scent thickening with warm, possessive spice.
I turn toward her fully, making sure she can see my mouth, my hands if she needs them.
“Soon?” I echo.
She nods, licking her lips. Her fingers lift, signing as she talks, the two modes overlapping.
“I’ve always used blockers before.” She swallows. “Didn’t want to use a helper,” she adds, “No alpha. It didn’t feel safe.”
The taste of those words—not safe—make something in me bare its teeth.
My hands lift almost without my permission. This is why I practiced. This is why I keep sitting in a class full of strangers and stumble through fingerspelling and grammar because I knew this conversation was coming.
I sign, slowly, deliberately:
Safe. With me. Always.
She freezes.
Her eyes flood, and it makes my chest ache. Her scent shifts, too—mint and green tea warming, it’s almost like a sweet hot tea on a cold night.
Her fingers rise, hesitant, touching my cheek.
“Always?” she whispers, the word rough but clear.
“Always,” I say out loud, just as slow. I don’t look away from her even once.
Her throat works as she swallows. She glances down, then back up, cheeks flushing.
“Was… thinking…” she says. “This heat. Maybe… no blockers.” Her hands fumble through the sign as she speaks. “I want your help.”
My heart thunders.
“You want… help,” I repeat carefully, making sure I don’t twist her words into what my instincts are already screaming.
Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then away. “Yes,” she adds, whispering. “I want you to help me through my heat.”
I swear I feel the Earth tilt.
My scent spikes, thick sandalwood rolling off me in a wave before I wrestle it back, forcing myself to breathe slowly. She’s an omega. I’m an alpha. Her heat is coming. Every biological imperative in my body is roaring, yes, yes, take, claim, keep.
But this isn’t about instinct.
This is about her choosing.
“When?” I ask, voice low. “For sure?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Two weeks, maybe less.” Then, after a second, her face goes even redder. “Never… had,” she says, and I have to focus to catch it. “Real heat with alpha. No knot. No… mate.” Her fingers stutter over the word never.
My lungs stop working.
“You’ve never had sex with someone?” I ask as gently as I can. “No alpha. No knot. Nothing?”
She bites her lower lip, eyes flicking away, then back. A tiny shake of her head.
Something possessive and reverent and absolutely feral tears through me.
“That—” I break off, laugh once under my breath, because the truth is too raw. “That turns me on more than you know, Bayleigh.”
Her eyes widen.
I take a step closer, close enough that her scent wraps around me, soft and cool and utterly her. My voice roughens.
“I’m going to take such good care of you,” I tell her, making sure she can read every word on my mouth. “During your heat. Before your heat. After. However long you'll let me.”
Her eyes shine. Her hand trembles when she lifts it, fingertips brushing the side of my jaw.
“Lincoln,” she whispers.
I’ve heard my name a million times in my life.
Never like that. I cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek.
“Say it again,” I breathe.
She swallows, lips parting.
“Lincoln.”
I don’t stand a chance.
I lean in and kiss her, coaxing, giving her every opportunity to pull away. Her lips are soft and cool from the air. She starts off tentative, then melts, her hands sliding up my chest to grip my jacket.
Her scent flares, mint sharpening with a hint of honey omega-sweetness that makes my head spin. My alpha surges, heat pooling low and heavy, knot throbbing faintly in anticipation. I keep it leashed, focusing on the ways I can make this good for her without letting instinct take over.
She makes a sound in my mouth, half gasp, half moan, and my knees nearly buckle.