Chapter 17
17
HUNTER
S omething rips me from sleep at 6:07 a.m. with the subtlety of a chainsaw.
Not a sound. Not a dream. Just that gut-level instinct I’ve learned never to ignore—the same one that’s kept me alive on mountain rescues when avalanches were imminent. Something in the cabin is wrong.
I lie still, listening to the storm rage. Fucking blizzard hasn’t let up—if anything, it’s angrier than last night, like nature’s having a tantrum. The wind screams against the windows, the glass frosted over with ice crystals that distort the pre-dawn darkness. No one’s getting out today. We’re sealed in, trapped together.
That thought drags my mind to Lily. Images from last night pulse through my consciousness—her thighs straddling my lap, her lips soft against mine, that little whimper she made when I deepened our kiss. The memory alone stiffens my cock uncomfortably against the mattress.
“Shit,” I mutter, shoving myself upright and pulling on sweatpants. Thor raises his massive head from his bed in the corner, those ice-blue eyes too damn intelligent for comfort.
“Just checking the place,” I tell him, as if I owe the animal an explanation. “Go back to sleep.”
He yawns, unimpressed, but rises to follow me, anyway. Loyal bastard.
The hallway stretches dark and quiet as I pad down it, but that nagging wrongness deepens with each step. I pause outside Lily’s door, listening. Nothing.
I should keep walking. It’s none of my fucking business if she’s still sleeping.
“Lily?” I call softly, rapping my knuckles against the wood. No response.
I push the door open, peering inside. The bed is made. The bathroom door stands open, dark inside. Her phone sits on the nightstand, still charging. Her slippers remain neatly placed beside the bed as if awaiting feet that never arrived.
Thor glides past me, nose to the floor, circling the room once before looking up with a soft whine.
“Yeah, I don’t like it either,” I mutter.
That twist of concern in my gut tightens like a corkscrew. The rational part of my brain says she’s fine—just somewhere else in this oversized cabin. But fifteen years of search and rescue work has taught me that unusual patterns mean trouble. People don’t vanish from their rooms without cause. She must be with one of the guys.
I stride down the hall to James’s room, finding him asleep and on his own. Next I move to Archer’s room to check if she’s with him and knock on his door.
After what feels like an eternity, the door swings open. Archer stands there looking like hell warmed over—hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted, eyes narrowed to slits, wearing only boxer briefs. But he’s alone.
“Someone fucking better be dead, Hunt,” he growls, voice sandpaper-rough with sleep.
“Lily’s gone,” I say without preamble.
His eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Gone as in...”
“Room’s empty.”
Something shifts in his expression—surprise giving way to a sharper focus. “Since when do you keep tabs on when houseguests go to take a piss?”
I ignore the jab. “We need to wake James.”
“Jesus Christ,” Archer mutters, but he grabs a shirt from the floor, sniffing it before dragging it over his head. “Fine. But if she’s just raiding the pantry, I’m going to kick your paranoid ass.”
James hasn’t moved from where he’s sprawled across his king-sized bed, one arm flung over his head, the other disappearing beneath the sheets. The room reeks of whiskey and socks.
“Rise and shine, asshole,” Archer calls out, flicking on the lights with unnecessary enthusiasm.
James doesn’t move. Typical. He could sleep through the apocalypse.
I cross the room and give his shoulder a hard shove. “James. Up. Now.”
He groans, rolling onto his back. “It’s too damn fucking early. Someone better be bleeding out.”
“Lily’s missing,” I say, the word catching slightly in my throat.
That gets his attention. He sits up immediately, eyes suddenly clear and alert in a way that makes me wonder if he was really sleeping at all.
“What do you mean missing ?”
“Her room’s empty. Bed is made up.”
An expression I can’t quite read flickers across his face. “That’s... interesting,” he says carefully.
“Interesting? That’s your response?” I snap, suspicion blooming. “What do you know, James?”
He raises his hands defensively. “Nothing. Just thinking maybe she couldn’t sleep after last night’s... activities.”
My jaw clenches. Does he know something about what happened after we all went to bed?
“Get dressed,” I order. “We’re finding her.”
“Yes, sir,” James mocks, reaching for jeans draped over a nearby chair. “Always the fucking boy scout, aren’t you, Hunt?”
I don’t wait for him to finish, already heading for the door with Thor trotting at my heels. I take the stairs two at a time, scanning the living room as I descend. The fire that was roaring when we all turned in has burned to embers. The couch pillows are slightly askew, and there’s an empty whiskey glass on the coffee table that wasn’t there before.
The kitchen is empty except for Thor, who immediately abandons the search to slurp noisily from his water bowl. Traitor.
“Check the rest of the downstairs,” I tell James as he appears behind me, still buttoning his flannel shirt. “Archer, front door.”
“Since when are you giving orders?” James mutters but moves to comply, checking the living room more thoroughly.
Archer examines the entrance, opening it and bending to inspect the outside. “Snow’s undisturbed. She didn’t leave this way.” He straightens, frowning. “Though, I’m not sure why she would step into a fucking blizzard, anyway.”
“People do stupid shit when they’re scared or confused,” I say, thinking of the dozens of search and rescue missions that started with exactly that scenario. “Let’s split up. Check everywhere. She’s got to be here somewhere.” My gut tightens, panic spinning out of control.
James gives me a sideways look, something calculating flaring over his features. “You’re awfully worked up over a woman who can obviously take care of herself. She’s been here what, three days? And suddenly, you’re her keeper?”
“Fuck off,” I growl, not in the mood for his mind games. “She’s in my home, which makes her my responsibility.”
“Ooh, territorial,” Archer chimes in with a smirk. “Someone’s Alpha instincts are showing.”
“Both of you… shut it and search,” I snap, stalking toward the back of the house.
We move through the house, having known every inch of this place since we were teenagers. Archer takes the basement and home gym. James searches the office, library, and west-wing guest rooms. I recheck upstairs more thoroughly, looking in closets and storage spaces that a curious guest might explore.
Nothing.
“Find anything?” James’s question bellows through my house.
“Nothing upstairs,” I shout. “This is fucking bizarre.”
“Basement’s clear of our little Omega,” Archer yells.
Something about the way he says Omega sends a jolt through me—a possibility I hadn’t fully considered. The timing would be... catastrophic.
“Mudroom,” I shout abruptly.
Acting purely on instinct now, I head toward my laundry room adjacent to the mudroom. It’s not a place anyone would normally wander, especially a guest.
The door is slightly ajar. I freeze, suddenly aware of a warm, honeyed scent emanating from inside—subtle but unmistakable. My body responds instantly and violently, blood rushing south, muscles tensing, a primal recognition that bypasses conscious thought entirely.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe.
I push the door open slowly, confirming my suspicion with a single glance.
The laundry pile I’d dumped on the folding table the other day has been transformed into an elaborate nest. Clothes are artfully arranged in a circular pattern, with my clean sheets—the ones I keep on the shelf above the dryer—draped in a way that creates walls and a soft center. And in the middle of this carefully constructed refuge lies Lily.
She’s curled on her side, deeply asleep, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Her oversized sweater has ridden up past her hips, exposing the pale skin of her thighs and the edge of black lace panties. One white ankle sock is half-off her foot, the other missing entirely. Her dark brown hair spills across the sheets like ink, framing her flushed face.
Most telling of all, she’s clutching my Henley shirt—the moss-green one I wore yesterday—pressed tightly under her face. Another of my shirts, the black thermal I wear for night rescues, is bunched between her thighs.
My cock hardens painfully at the sight, a response so intimate and powerful, it’s almost embarrassing. The flush on her cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on her brow despite the cool air in the room—all confirm what her choice of location and my clothing already tell me.
“Fuck me sideways,” I whisper, backing out and pulling the door nearly closed.
I text the others to meet me, and they arrive within moments. The second they round the corner, their reaction shift—nostrils flaring, pupils dilating as they catch the scent I’m now acutely aware is permeating the hallway.
“She’s going into heat,” I say bluntly. There’s no point dancing around it.
The three of us exchange loaded glances, the air suddenly thick with testosterone, with grunts.
Archer sniffs again, more deliberately. “Early stages,” he murmurs, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “Probably started during the night. Explains the truth or dare enthusiastic kiss.”
“And why she was so warm,” James adds, a strange note in his tone that has me glaring at him. What does he know that we don’t?
“The storm’s not letting up for at least five more days,” Archer says, glancing toward the nearest window, where nothing is visible beyond a wall of white. “We’re completely snowed in.”
I growl, pacing a few steps away and back. “A heat-triggered Omega and three unmated Alphas trapped in a remote cabin during a blizzard. This scene is going to escalate and fast.”
“Or it’s the setup to a very specific kind of porn,” Archer quips, earning a murderous glare from me.
“It’s up to her,” James says, surprisingly serious. “Her choice, her body.”
“She won’t be happy,” Archer adds.
“Nobody touches her unless she explicitly asks,” I say, the words coming out more growl than speech. “I fucking mean it. We’re not animals.”
“Speak for yourself,” Archer mumbles, but there’s no real challenge in it.
James steps closer, meeting my gaze directly. “We’ll help her through this,” he says quietly. “However she needs us. But you need to check that possessive bullshit at the door, Hunt. You don’t have any claim on her over us.”
I want to argue, but he’s right, damn him. I have no claim beyond a kiss that was part of a drinking game. The fact that my clothes are the ones she chose to nest with means nothing—I own this cabin, so my scent would naturally be most dominant.
“This isn’t about fucking us,” I state. “Let’s focus on what she wants.”
We back away from the door, huddling in the hallway to not wake her up.
“She needs to stay comfortable. Warm,” I murmur, mentally cataloging the cabin’s supplies.
“Food, water, pain meds,” Archer adds. “Some Omegas get killer cramps in the early stages.”
James nods. “And options. Real options, not just us throwing ourselves at her.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I already know.
“Suppressants,” James says. “If she wants them. Toys if she’d rather handle it alone. Safe spaces she can lock us out of.”
“Jesus, James, she’s not a prisoner needing escape routes,” Archer says.
“She’s an Omega in heat with three Alphas she barely knows,” James counters sharply. “Trust me, she’ll want options.”
I take charge, as I always do in crisis situations. “I’ll get food and drinks ready. Protein, sugar, hydration.”
“I’ll gather blankets, extra pillows, more nesting materials,” Archer volunteers. “Maybe grab some of her own clothes from her room, too. Familiar scents help. I’ll set up a new nest for her that isn’t in the laundry room.”
“I’ll check the backup generator and bring in more firewood,” James says. “If the power goes out during this, we’re well and truly fucked.”
We disperse to our tasks like a well-oiled machine. In the kitchen, I begin preparing an elaborate spread—cheeses, cured meats, fruits, chocolate, nuts. Instinct drives me to provide, to care for, to demonstrate my value as an Alpha. I boil water for tea, prep the coffee maker, then arrange juice and water bottles on a tray.
Archer enters as I’m slicing aged cheddar, his arms laden with blankets and pillows. He dumps them on a kitchen chair and eyes my preparations critically.
“You know what she actually needs isn’t a five-star brunch, right?” he says, leaning against the counter. “She needs an Alpha knot. Cocks. Preferably three.”
“She will work that out on her own terms.”
“All I’m saying is, be prepared for her not to want your little picnic here,” he states.
James comes in from outside just then, bringing a sharp blast of cold air and the scent of snow with him. His hair is dusted with white, his cheeks ruddy from the biting wind.
“Generator’s good,” he reports, setting down an armload of firewood. “Filled it up; should last three days even with continuous use.” He brushes snow from his coat. “You know not every Omega rushes straight into the desperate stage, right? Some take time to transition. Maybe we just take turns, giving her all the pleasure she desires. Put our tongues and cocks to good use.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” Archer mutters.
“So we pamper her. Take care of her basic needs. And make it clear that we’re here if she wants us, but we’re not expecting anything unless she wants to,” James adds.
“When did you become an expert on Omega care?” Hunter asks, arching an eyebrow.
Something dark passes across Archer’s features. “I’ve been around,” he says vaguely. “Learned a few things.”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I arrange food on a wooden platter. “Well, we offer her all of it, and she can pick and choose.”
Archer turns to James. “Speaking of last night… we all good after what happened? Things got pretty heated.”
James shrugs with exaggerated casualness. “That kiss? Please. It was a dare, not a marriage proposal.”
My knuckles whiten around the knife handle. We all know he’s not talking about Lily kissing me. There was history in the way they interacted, tension that went beyond physical attraction.
Archer notices my reaction. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
James’s expression sobers. “We talked afterward. It’s complicated.”
“What’s complicated?” I ask, unable to stop myself despite knowing I’m walking into his trap.
“I never meant to hurt her,” James says quietly, something like genuine regret in his words.
“No one ever does,” I reply, the words bitter on my tongue.
“I fucked up,” he says finally. “I know I did. And I’m going to make it up to her.”
Something in his tone has me studying him more carefully. This isn’t the usual James—smooth, savvy, always in control. There’s a rawness to him I rarely see.
“I like her,” he continues, still facing away from us. “Like a fucking lot.” He turns around, meeting first my stare, then Archer’s. “And I know you two do, too. It’s growing on you both, but I’m already too far gone.” He shakes his head, a humorless laugh escaping him. “Addicted to her, and it’s not just the Omega thing. It’s her.”
Archer leans against the refrigerator, arms crossed. “Well, shit.”
“Yeah,” James agrees. “Shit.”
“How long were you texting?” I ask, curiosity overriding my earlier anger.
“Six weeks,” James admits. “Started as a wrong number, then we kept talking.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “She made me laugh when nothing else could.”
I’ve never seen James like this about a woman. Hook-ups, sure. Casual flings, plenty. But this vulnerability? Never.
“We’ve known each other our whole lives,” James says, looking between Archer and me. “You two are the only family I’ve got. So, I’m telling you both straight—she matters. This isn’t just about getting through her heat.”
Archer nods slowly. “Noted.”
I study James for a long moment. We’ve been through hell together, the three of us. Shared everything—pain, loss, triumph, women. This is different, though. This feels like a line being drawn. A look into the future, instead of just today.
“I hear you,” I say finally. “But remember—it’s her choice. All of this. Who she wants, how she wants it.”
“Of course,” James states immediately. “Always her choice.”
An understanding passes between us, unspoken but clear. We will all care for her during this heat, but what comes after—that’s for Lily to decide.
“All right, enough with the feelings,” Archer mutters, breaking the tension. “Let’s finish getting this shit together for our girl.”
Our girl. The phrase settles between us, and I like the sound of it.
We gather our supplies—the food tray, drinks, extra blankets, hot water bottles, pain medication—and head back toward the laundry room. Archer carries a stack of pillows, trailing behind me.
“Think this is enough for her nest until we move her upstairs?” he asks.
“She’ll rearrange everything anyway,” I reply, leading us down the hall. “Omegas always do.”
James follows with water bottles and a bottle of whiskey I hadn’t noticed him grab. “How did none of us notice she was approaching heat? We’re not exactly inexperienced.”
I pause, considering. “The storm. Barometric pressure changes can mask pheromones. Plus, she’s probably on suppressants that only just failed.”
“Or the alcohol last night accelerated things,” Archer suggests. “Wouldn’t be the first time tequila shots triggered an unexpected heat.”
As we approach the laundry room door, a sound from within stops us in our tracks. A low, pained moan filters through the door, followed by another that sounds more distressed.
All three of us freeze, exchanging alarmed looks.
The moans intensify, sounding like genuine discomfort or pain.
“Fuck, she’s hurting,” I say, setting down the tray so fast, items slide off it. I reach for the door handle, protective instincts overriding everything else.
“Wait—” James starts, grabbing for my arm, but I’m already shoving the door open.
The sight that greets us isn’t what I expected.
Lily isn’t writhing in pain. She’s awake, pressing my shirt to her face and inhaling deeply. Her body moves against another bunched piece of my clothing between her thighs, seeking friction. The sounds we heard weren’t pain at all—they were pleasure mixed with frustration.
She pauses at our entrance. For one suspended moment, we all stare at each other, the air electric with wanton desires and embarrassment.
Her face blushes, but she doesn’t move to cover herself or bolt from the nest she’s created. Instead, her eyes lock with mine, pupils wide, lips parting and glistening.
“Hunter,” she whispers, my name on her lips like a prayer—or a demand.
Behind me, I hear James exhale sharply. Archer mutters, “Holy fucking shit,” under his breath.
And I know, in that moment, that whatever happens next will change everything between all of us irrevocably. And I can’t wait!