Chapter 39
Korbin
Bayleigh: Hey. What’s up?
Bayleigh’s text lights up my phone. I don’t open it.
My stomach twists at ignoring her, because I know that she’s probably just checking in.
We should’ve told her about this meeting with the matchmaker. But it felt like the better option to handle it first. Get through it. See what the repercussions are before we dump that weight on her shoulders.
I lock my phone and slide it into my pocket, jaw tightening.
One problem at a time.
We get this over with. Then we tell her everything—armed with answers instead of fear.
I straighten my shoulders and follow the others down the hall, boots echoing too loud in the quiet.The moment we step into the conference room, I want to walk right the fuck back out.
The place reeks—perfume, desperation, and that artificial omega-sweetness companies pump into the vents when they’re trying to make alphas feel compliant. The overhead lights buzz like they’re already judging us.
And then there’s Marilyn.
Tight blazer. Tighter bun. Smile sharp enough to slice through bone. She gives us this fake-alpha grin that makes my skin crawl. Before we’re even fully in the room, she snaps her fingers at us like we’re rookies who showed up late to drills.
“You’re ten minutes behind schedule,” she scolds. “This meeting is critical for the Scorpions’ public image.”
I bite down on my temper so hard my jaw throbs. Lincoln just arches a brow. Milton’s smirk is already forming.
We move toward the table, but she suddenly holds up a hand, blocking our path.
“And why,” she says, eyes narrowing, “is your brother here? He’s not part of the team or your… pack.” Her lip curls like she’s tasting something sour. “He doesn’t belong in this meeting.”
A growl rips out of me before I can stop it—low, warning, primal. It vibrates between my ribs and spills into the air.
Milton doesn’t flinch. Instead, he steps forward, unbothered, cool as stone.
“Actually,” he says, drawing the word out just enough to be disrespectful, “he does.”
Marilyn blinks, confused. “He—excuse me?”
Milton reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded set of papers. He lays them on the table, smoothing them flat with the kind of smugness only Milton can pull off.
“As of twenty-seven minutes ago,” he says, tapping the top line with his finger, “we registered as a pack.”
Her face freezes.
Lincoln leans in, crossing his arms. “Officially.”
I can’t help the rush of pride that flares through my chest. We knew we were a unit long before the paperwork, but seeing it in black and white does something to me.
Marilyn picks up the document as if it might bite her.
“‘Brooks Pack’?” she reads aloud, voice gone thin.
Milton shrugs. “Has a nice ring to it. Plus, Brooks made sense. Two of them, and only one of me.”
She looks between the three of us like she’s trying to compute how the hell this happened.
“You can’t just…this is…this complicates things. Does the board know about this?”
“The board doesn’t get a say,” I cut in. My voice comes out rougher than I intended, but I don’t regret it. “You wanted to know why he’s here. That’s why. He belongs with us.”
Lincoln nods once, slow and deliberate. “You can check with legal, if you want. It’s already filed.”
Marilyn’s jaw works. She looks like she might shatter her teeth from clenching so hard.
“You three… formed a pack,” she says, disbelief coloring every syllable. “Right before a matchmaking appointment.”
“Yeah,” Milton says cheerfully. “Funny timing, huh?”
I swear she might combust.
We sit—because we feel like it. Not because she told us to.
She stands there for a moment too long, still holding the papers, staring at them like they personally offended her. Then, she slaps them down onto the table, smooths her blazer, and launches into her pitch like she’s rehearsed it in the mirror for months.
She cracks open a glossy binder and immediately starts laying out omega profiles across the conference table, one after another. Sweet, God-fearing omegas who look like they’d apologize for breathing too loud.
“Here we have Naomi,” she says, tapping a photo of a wide-eyed omega with a pearl necklace and a sweater set. “Twenty-two. Sweet temperament. No history of behavioral outbursts.”
Behavioral outbursts.
Christ.
Before I can grimace, she’s already sliding another sheet forward.
“And this is Elise. Wonderful fertility markers. Comes from a highly respected family. Excellent with children.” She lowers her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “A very pure image.”
Milton chokes on a laugh. Lincoln elbows him. Marilyn either doesn’t notice or pretends not to.
She fans out the next three profiles like she’s showing us luxury real estate. “This one’s volunteered at her church every Sunday since she was sixteen. This one hosts charity streams for veterans. This one’s taken compatibility classes tailored specifically for athletes.”
The women all look the same; quiet smiles, soft eyes, pastel sweaters, hands folded politely in their laps.
My skin crawls.
Marilyn clasps her hands together, stepping back like she’s proud of her little spread. “These are all top-tier vetted candidates. Polite, feminine, stable. Exactly what the board feels would complement the Scorpions’ brand.”
She gives us a practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“And, of course, you’ll need to consider compatibility scores.” She flips a laminated page toward us, filled with charts and pastel pie slices. “It’s important the public sees you matched with omegas who represent discipline, moderation, and good values.”
I stare at the charts like they’re written in another language.
Milton looks seconds from laughing. Lincoln looks seconds from murder. Marilyn continues anyway, oblivious to the heat rolling off all three of us.
“You need to cooperate with us on this,” she says, pacing. “Controlling the narrative is essential. The team’s image has taken recent… hits.”
Her gaze flicks between us with pointed disapproval.
“You must present stability. Commitment. A clear, unified front. We can’t have alphas running wild. Courtship. Dating. Something predictable. Something clean.”
She punctuates “clean” with a tap on Naomi’s file.
I look at the pastel omegas spread out like sacrificial offerings. They look like they’d cry if someone raised their voice. They look nothing like our girl.
My jaw tightens, and that’s when something in me snaps.
I lean forward, voice flat and cold. “Fuck off.”
Marilyn gasps, hand flattening over her necklace. “Excuse me?”
Milton doesn’t even blink. His smirk widens.
Lincoln sits back, crossing his arms, pride burning in his eyes like he’s watching his kid win a science fair.
“We’re not matching with some random omega,” I growl.
She slaps another stack of files onto the table.
“You boys don’t have the luxury to chase fantasies.
The team needs you to look stable. Committed.
Dating. Courtship.” She points at us one by one.
“Your locker room is a PR disaster waiting to happen. Failure to comply can and will have intense consequences.”
Milton stands up. “Too bad,” he says. “Bench us. Trade us. Kick us off the roster. We met an omega. We’re seeing where it goes. We’re not hurting her by playing fucking cupid for PR.” He pauses, tilting his head. “We said what we said.”
Marilyn sputters, threatening to report us to management, then ownership as if any of us give a single fuck.
I shrug. Milton yawns. Lincoln stands and smiles, the fakest smile I’ve ever seen on a human being. “Thanks for your time.”
We walk out as a united front, leaving her red-faced, shaking, and muttering something about professionalism behind us.
The second we hit the parking lot, Lincoln exhales and laughs under his breath, punching us each in the shoulder.
“I’m proud of you idiots.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth flares in my chest anyway. It’s stupid how good it feels. We’re finally a pack, and we have our eyes on an omega like no other.
Lincoln pulls out his phone immediately. “I’m telling Bayleigh. She’ll freak out.”
He scrolls, searching for her name, and I swear he gets softer just seeing it. “Maybe we can take her out tonight. Catch a movie. Didn’t she say she wanted to see the new Wicked?”
“Oh she texted us earlier checking in. See perfect timing.” He smiles as he texts her.
Nothing.
Then again. Still nothing.
My stomach tightens. Because she texted us earlier and I ignored it.
Milton leans over his shoulder, frowning hard enough to carve new lines into his forehead. “Try again.”
Lincoln does.
Again and again.
No dots or read receipts.
No reply.
Just… silence.
A cold, heavy feeling settles in my chest. My instincts—usually sharp, usually reliable—start screaming. I told myself it was better this way—get through the meeting, hear whatever bullshit they planned to throw at us, then go to her with facts instead of fear. No half-truths. No maybes.
Lincoln tries Benton next.
Benton answers with, “Get bent,” and hangs up.
What the fuck.
I try calling him again, but it goes straight to voicemail.
Now all three of us are on alert.
I pace the length of the parking space, fists clenching and unclenching, imagining every worst-case scenario like they’re trying to claw their way out of my ribs.
Milton refreshes the group chat every three seconds. That unanswered message . . .
Lincoln texts her again.
And again.
Still nothing.
We go home, restless and wired, every second stretching thin. We sit in the living room, TV off, lights dim, waiting for a message that doesn’t come. Minutes bleed into hours.
At some point, Lincoln whispers, “Something’s wrong.”
Milton nods, but I don’t say a single word, because I know he’s right. I felt it the second the silence kept going. And the not knowing is tearing me apart.
By the time six p.m. rolls around, we’ve already made the decision.
If she won’t answer us—if she can’t—then, we’re going to her house.
We refuse to let another minute pass wondering why she’s not answering us.
Bayleigh Lennox isn’t just some omega anymore.
She’s ours.
Whether she realizes it yet or not.