Chapter 37 #3
When she finally falls apart beneath me, it’s loud, with my name on her lips and her back arching up as she shakes with desire. Her pussy squeezes me tight, and I swear I see stars.
I follow her over the edge a heartbeat later, burying my face against her neck, breathing her in like air. My body tightens, then shudders, that swollen pressure at the base of me pulsing with instinct, wanting to stay, to lock, to claim.
I don’t let it.
I ride the wave without giving in to the need to knot, bracing one hand on the mattress, the other laced with hers, knuckles white. Rope after rope of cum releases from my body, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I enjoy the feel of my omega wrapped around me.
When I finally soften enough to move, I ease out, checking her face for any flicker of pain.
All I see is dazed softness.
She’s flushed, lips swollen, hair a wild halo around her. Her hands come up automatically, fingers brushing my jaw.
“Okay?” I ask.
She nods, eyes suspiciously bright.
“You?” she asks.
I huff a soft laugh, drop a kiss on her nose.
“Best I’ve ever been.”
We stay like that for a long time, intertwined together in the mess of my sheets, trading lazy kisses and softer touches. Her head rests on my chest, ear over my heartbeat, the rise and fall of my breathing the only sound in the room.
At some point, my mouth gets ahead of my brain, and I force her to look at me so she can read my lips.
“I can’t ever be with someone else after this,” I say. “You know that, right?”
She lifts her head, frowning slightly like she’s not sure she caught that.
I repeat more clearly, letting every word land.
“You’re it for me, Bayleigh. You’re my omega.”
Her lips part on a soundless little inhale.
For a second, I worry it’s too much, too soon. Then she leans in, presses her forehead to mine, and whispers, rough but sure:
“You’re… mine too. Alpha.”
My heart does something I’m pretty sure isn’t medically safe. My scent floods warm and content around us, wrapping us both in sandalwood and mint and something that feels dangerously like forever.
We come out of my room a while later, hair mussed, clothes hastily pulled back on, both of us still walking like gravity’s been reset.
Milton’s sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He looks up, takes one look at us, at her flushed cheeks, ruined hair, the way our scents are tangled thickly in the hallway, and his mouth curves into a knowing smirk.
“Well, well,” he mouths dramatically, then signs happy? at Bayleigh, eyebrows arched.
She blushes hard but nods, biting back a smile.
Korbin’s in the armchair, one leg thrown over the other. His jaw flexes when he looks up and gets a noseful of what just happened. His peach and honeydew scent spikes for a second, sharp with some complicated cocktail of feeling—heat, jealousy, and want, before it settles into a low, steady warmth.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
We can all feel it. The shift. The new thread woven into whatever it is we’re building.
“Pizza?” Milton asks, popping to his feet like nothing monumental just happened. “I’m starving.”
He starts toward us, already thumbing his phone open. By the time he reaches the couch, he’s got the notes app pulled up, the screen bright in the dim room. He shows the phone to us.
Sex energy in the air always makes me hungry.
Bayleigh chokes on a half-laugh, half-mortified gasp, clutching the phone like it might betray her again. Milton snatches it back with a smug grin.
“Subtle,” I mutter.
He just grins, already dialing.
We end up on the couch, Bayleigh tucked between Milton and me, Korbin on the other side of the coffee table. A movie plays with captions. The pizza boxes sit open on the table. The whole room smells like cheese, tomato, and the four of us tangled together.
Bayleigh laughs at one of Milton’s ridiculous commentary texts he shoves in her face.
Korbin asks her a question about a show she likes, facing her so she can read his mouth.
I watch the way she relaxes into the cushions—shoulders loose, head tipping against my shoulder, feet pressed under Milton’s thigh.
It’s not perfect. It’s not official. We’re not marked, not bound, no formal pack contracts signed.
But it feels real. It feels like the start of something solid and unshakeable.
After we eat, Milton grabs his keys.
“I’ll drive her home,” he says. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep sitting up, old man.”
He’s not wrong. The combination of physical exhaustion, emotional weight, and bone-deep contentment is hitting hard.
I walk them to the door. On the porch, Bayleigh turns back to me, mint and green tea curling around us in the cool air.
“Goodnight,” she says, lips forming it gradually.
I lean in and kiss her once more, soft, lingering, pouring everything I don’t yet know how to say into it.
“Goodnight, Omega,” I say when we break apart. “Text me when you’re home.”
She nods, eyes shining.
As she walks down the steps beside Milton, she looks back over her shoulder, just once, and mouths. “Mine.”
I stand there long after the car disappears down the street, heart pounding, scent rich with quiet, fierce joy.
Yeah.
I’m hers.
And I plan on spending every day from here on out proving it, to her, to her family, to anyone who dares to question it.
Because tonight, something shifted.
Bayleigh and I crossed a line.
And instead of feeling like a fracture, it feels like the foundation of a pack finally starting to settle into place.