Chapter 34 Dalton
DALTON
We cleared the game board. Dice lay scattered under the sofa. And the world had narrowed down to this: the heat of the fire in the grate, the storm rattling the windows, and the overwhelming, intoxicating reality of my partners.
Peyton’s arm was a heavy, grounding weight around my waist as he pulled us down into the nest of blankets we’d piled on the rug earlier. It wasn’t just a cuddle anymore. The air was thick with it—that specific, electric charge that usually meant an alpha was asserting a claim.
But Peyton wasn’t claiming just me. He was claiming us.
“Right now,” he growled against my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot right over my pulse. “I want to feel it too.”
I shivered, the sound escaping me as a ragged gasp.
For so long, I’d been the one on the outside looking in, even when I was right there in the middle of it.
I’d watched them together—Alpha and Omega, biology’s perfect puzzle pieces—and fought the quiet, insidious voice that whispered I was just the packaging peanuts in the box.
Essential for safe transport, maybe, but not the prize.
Tonight, though? After showing them the sketchbook? After seeing the way Theo looked at my drawing of him, the way Peyton looked at me?
That voice was silent.
Theo pressed against my front, his back to my chest. His belly, round and firm with our daughter, pushed into me.
Our daughter. The words still sent a bolt of lightning through me every time I thought them.
I remembered our last ultrasound, the grainy grey image on the screen, and the technician pointing out the tiny, undeniable proof.
“It’s a girl,” she’d said. Peyton had roared with laughter, tears in his eyes, and Theo had just wept softly.
Because of course, Theo had gotten his way and needed to know the baby’s gender as soon as possible. He was a planner, through and through.
I had stood there, staring at that screen, and for the first time, the “biologically yours” qualifier didn’t even flicker in my mind.
She was ours. I was going to raise her, protect her, teach her to paint, and maybe even how to roll a d20.
Biology wasn’t everything. Love, presence, commitment—that was the ink that wrote the story.
I wrapped my arms around him tighter, my hands splaying over the stretched fabric of his t-shirt, possessive and proud. He smelled like vanilla, deeper and richer than usual.
“Dalton,” Theo breathed, tilting his head back to rest on my shoulder. His glasses were askew, his cheeks flushed a brilliant, healthy pink. “You’re warm.”
“You’re perfect,” I whispered back, the words tumbling out before I could check them.
Peyton moved then, shifting so he was looming over both of us, bracing himself on his forearms. He looked like the barbarian I’d drawn—fierce, large, protective. But his eyes were all soft focus and heat.
“Shirt,” Peyton commanded, though it sounded more like a prayer. “I need to see him. I need to see you.”
We stripped Theo of his shirt first. It was a clumsy, eager process, hands tangling and breath hitching. When the fabric was finally tossed aside, the sight of him stole the air right out of my lungs.
He was glowing. Literally, maybe—pregnancy hormones were weird—but definitely metaphorically. His skin was creamy and smooth, the swell of his stomach a testament to the miracle we were all a part of.
Peyton lowered his head, pressing a kiss to the very top of Theo’s bump. Theo let out a small, broken noise, his hands tangling in Peyton’s dark hair.
“Hi,” Peyton murmured against the skin, his voice vibrating through Theo and into me. “You awake in there, peanut? Your Papas are here.”
Papas. Plural.
A lump formed in my throat, hot and tight. I leaned forward, pressing my cheek against Theo’s shoulder, my hands still cradling the weight of the baby. “She’s quiet tonight,” I murmured.
“Sleeping,” Theo gasped as Peyton’s tongue swirled around his navel. “She’s… sleeping.”
He reached out, his large hand cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. I turned my face into his palm, kissing the calloused skin.
The tender intimacy of the moment soon gave way to a physical ache that we were all too ready to answer. It wasn’t a frenzy. It was a slow, deliberate worship. We took our time, stripping away the rest of our clothes until we were just skin and heat and tangles of limbs on the thick rug.
Peyton worshipped Theo’s body with the reverence of a devotee at an altar, but he made sure I was part of every prayer. He guided my hands, pressing them to Theo’s skin, to his own chest. He kissed me with a hunger that spoke of years of history and a future we were finally building properly.
And Theo… Theo was the magic. He was the conductor of the energy between us.
“Dalton,” Theo whimpered, reaching blindly for me as Peyton moved between his legs. “Need you. Back here. Close.”
“I’ve got you,” I promised, pressing myself flush against his back. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body prepared for the alpha. “I’m right here.”
Peyton didn’t just focus on the omega. As he settled himself, pressing into the slick, welcoming heat of our mate, his eyes never left mine. He reached for my hand, interlacing our fingers, gripping tight enough to bruise.
“Together,” Peyton grit out, his jaw tight with control.
“Together,” I echoed.
When Peyton began to move, it wasn’t just friction.
It was a current running through all three of us, a circuit that finally felt complete.
I kissed Theo’s neck, soothing him through the stretch, whispering praises that felt inadequate for the beauty of the moment.
Theo grasped my other hand, squeezing tight, anchoring himself to me as the pleasure began to climb.
“More,” Theo gasped, his head thrown back against my shoulder, eyes blissfully fluttering shut. “Please.”
“We’ve got you,” I vowed, the words vibrating against his skin. “We’re right here.”
It was chaotic and messy and perfect. It was the frantic packing in West Virginia, and the quiet nights painting the nursery, and the scent of smoke, and the smell of fresh ink—all distilled into this one moment of pure, unadulterated connection.
There was no past, no scary future. Just the heat of Peyton, the softness of Theo, and the undeniable reality of us.
Peyton’s rhythm faltered, his breathing turning ragged. “Dalton,” he groaned, the sound wrecked and desperate. “Can’t… hold on.”
“Don’t,” I said, leaning over Theo to press my forehead against Peyton’s, closing the circle. “Let go. Let go with us.”
The knot took hold with a guttural roar from Peyton that vibrated through my own chest, matched by a high, keen cry from Theo.
And me? I held them both. I held the Alpha through his release and the Omega through his endurance, and in the space between their heartbeats, I found my own rhythm.
Without touching my cock, I found my release, painting Theo’s skin with my essence.
I felt more powerful, more essential, than any barbarian with an axe.
We stayed like that for a long time, a tangle of limbs and slowing hearts while a storm raged outside.
Peyton slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of Theo’s neck, his heavy breaths evening out.
Theo was practically purring, heavily scented and limp with exhaustion, his skin flushed and warm against mine.
I carefully untangled one arm to pull an afghan up over us, creating a cocoon within the nest. The world outside didn’t matter. The only thing that existed was this warmth. This pile of limbs and love.
“I love you both. Dalton?” Theo mumbled sleepily, his hand seeking mine under the covers, fingers brushing against my wrist before lacing through mine.
“Yeah, sweetie?” I answered, my voice rough, unused.
“Portfolio looks good,” he whispered, his breathing already deepening toward sleep. “Really good.”
I smiled into the darkness, pressing a kiss to his temple and then one to the top of Peyton’s bald head.
“Yeah,” I whispered back, closing my eyes. “It really does.”
I wasn’t just drawing the story anymore. I was writing it. And for the first time in my life, I knew exactly where I fit in the composition.
“I love you both, too,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. “I love you both.”
Right here. With my alpha and our omega in the middle.