Chapter 25 Etienne
Etienne
I spent eighty minutes throwing my body into other men, seeking the kind of pain that would dull the roar in my head.
I'd taken hits that should have cracked ribs.
Delivered tackles that left my shoulders screaming.
Been at the bottom of a ruck where boots scraped across my back and elbows drove into my kidneys.
I'd welcomed every bit of it. The way the grass stained my knees and the cold muck filled my mouth.
It was honest. Unlike the air in the townhouse.
Usually, the physical exhaustion was enough to silence the alpha. Usually, the burn in my lungs replaced the burn in my soul.
It hadn't worked.
I couldn’t go back to the townhouse last night, staying in a hotel.
But now the drive back was worse. Forty-five minutes of silence in the back of a car, watching the countryside blur past, knowing that with every mile I was getting closer to her.
And the reality I'd been trying to outrun on the pitch.
I'd showered at the stadium. At the hotel. I scrubbed until my skin was raw. But I could still smell her on me. In me. The bond that should have been ours—mine, Fritz's, Hastings'—had been tainted before we'd even had a chance to build it properly.
As I walked into the townhouse, the pack scent hit, making me groan.
Vanilla. Rain. Leather. And the heavy, oppressive cedarwood that belonged to Hastings.
But it was the leather that wasn’t mine that was now everywhere. It coated the back of my throat. I hated the scents had merged, twisted together in a way that made my alpha howl with rage.
She smelled like him now.
I dropped my kit bag in the hallway, the thud echoing through the silent house. My boots left wet prints on the pristine marble.
I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be back in the mud, where the rules were simple and a foul was called when someone cheated.
The house was too quiet. Too everything that Hastings demanded and controlled.
I found him in the dining room.
He looked as polished as a fresh-cut diamond, seated at the head of the table—because of course he was at the head—with a tablet propped up in front of him. His suit was pressed. His hair was perfect. His tie was knotted ready for his day at work.
He was probably reviewing a plan. He always found a logical solution to every human problem.
"You cheated," I said.
My voice sounded like I'd been swallowing glass. Raw and jagged and barely holding together.
Hastings didn't look up immediately. He finished scrolling, his fingers moving with a clinical precision that made my jaw ache. My hands curled into fists at my sides.
"It's biology, Etienne. Not a game of cards." His voice was calm, and infuriatingly rational. "She’s a four-scent match. The probability of finding her was less than zero. I didn't 'cheat.' I secured the pack's future."
"You secured your own need," I snapped.
I moved toward the table, my boots leaving damp, earthy tracks on the white marble. Mud flaked off with every step. I didn't care. Let him see what real mess looked like.
"We agreed. Together. We were supposed to build the bond as a unit. You didn't give her a choice. You didn't give us a choice."
"Choice is a luxury for those who don't understand math.
" He finally looked up, his gray eyes flat, devoid of the guilt I wanted to see.
Needed to see. "She is the missing piece of the puzzle.
To me, Presley isn't just an omega; she is a biological necessity.
My need was instinctual. I didn't want her just for me; I wanted her for the pack.
I articulated the need the only way a man in my position can. "
"You articulated it by biting her neck while the rest of us were waiting for a green light."
The words came out as a growl. My alpha was too close to the surface, pushing at my control, demanding I do something. He wanted to reclaim what had been taken.
But Hastings was my pack. My brother. And that's what made this so much worse.
"She presented to me," Hastings said, his voice dropping. "She tilted her head back and offered me her neck. I didn't force her. I didn't coerce her. She wanted it."
"She was in heat."
"She was lucid."
"Was she?" I leaned forward, my hands bracing on the table. "Or was she out of her mind with need and you took advantage of biology to get what you wanted first?"
His jaw tightened. The first crack in his perfect composure.
"I would never—"
"Wouldn't you?" I straightened, stepping back before I did something stupid. Like punch him. "You're the king of calculated risks, Henry. You always have been. You saw an opportunity and you took it. Don't dress it up as pack welfare when we both know you wanted her for yourself."
The door to the kitchen creaked open.
I smelled her a second before she appeared.
The sweet vanilla of her scent was so thick it coated my lungs, making it hard to draw a clean breath. But it wasn't just hers anymore. It was laced with him. Her hidden scent, cedarwood was now wrapped around her like a shroud, a brand, a permanent mark of ownership.
My alpha snarled.
Presley walked in, laughing. The sound was light, genuine, the kind of laugh I used to pull from her with stupid jokes and terrible French puns.
“Hi,” she whispered, staring at me.
Fritz was right behind her, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. They were sharing a private joke, their voices low and intimate. She turned to him and said something I couldn't hear. Fritz threw his head back, his laughter filling the room.
A sharpness hit me between my ribs.
I turned away, focusing on the coffee mug in front of me.
“She said hi,” Hastings growled.
“I’m tired.”
“Then sleep it off and be better later,” he muttered under his breath.
Better?
I’d been her protector. I was the one who saw her first, cared for her first, made sure she was safe and fed and happy.
"Etienne." Her voice was soft and hesitant as she searched for the man who usually gave her a boyish grin and a wink. The man who called her Princesse and made her blush.
That man wasn't here right now.
"How are you feeling?" I muttered, my voice clipped.
"I didn't sleep well."
"I bet."
The words were out before I could stop them. Cruel and sharp. Enough to make her flinch. I didn’t have the connection that Hastings did, but I felt her hurt spike.
Good. Let her hurt. Let her feel a fraction of what I was feeling.
Except it didn't feel good. It felt like I'd kicked a puppy.
"Merde," I muttered under my breath.
"God, it smells like a locker room in here," Fritz chirped, sliding into his chair with an ease that made me want to throttle him. He reached for the eggs, piling them onto his plate like we were having a normal family breakfast. "And can we dial back the testosterone? I'm trying to eat."
Only Fritz could walk into a room full of alpha aggression and act like it was a minor inconvenience.
He reached out and tucked a stray lock of damp hair behind Presley's ear. It was a bold move.
Hastings's jaw tightened.
At least I wasn't the only one suffering.
Fritz didn't care about the four-scent math. He didn't care about biological destiny or rare genetic matches. He just saw Presley. The woman who made terrible jokes and stole our shirts for her heat, and cried over a ginger cat named after cheese.
Maybe that made him smarter than the rest of us.
"Now that we're all here," Hastings said, his voice dropping into that professional, efficiency-focused tone I currently hated.
Presley picked up her coffee. The one Fritz made her.
"I've outlined the schedule for the next month. If the conception was successful, we need to discuss medical oversight. I want a specialist brought in from London to monitor her levels. Weekly blood work, ultrasounds at six and eight weeks, a nutritionist to ensure proper—"
He was talking about her like she was a vintage car he’d just insured. Like her womb was just another piece of real estate to be managed. My alpha didn't want a specialist; he wanted to wrap her in a blanket and growl at anyone who came within ten feet.
"Does she get a say in any of this?" I asked, my voice cutting through his monologue.
He didn't mean it that way. He was hiding his awe behind business-speak because Henry Hastings didn't know how to process emotions. I could tell he was terrified. He was holding onto her so tight because he couldn't believe his luck.
But it didn't change how it sounded.
Hastings paused. "Of course she does. These are recommendations, not demands."
"They sound like demands."
"Etienne—"
"No." I pushed my chair back. The screech of wood on marble sounded like a scream. "I can't do this."
I looked at them. Presley sat there with the mark on her neck, angry and red and impossibly visible. She'd tried to cover it with her hair, but it peeked through, a constant reminder that she belonged to him first.
Fritz sat beside her, his hand still resting on her arm, protective and gentle.
And Hastings sat at the head of the table like a king surveying his kingdom.
"I'm heading to the cottage in Wales for a few days."
The words came out flat, final.
"Etienne, wait—" Presley started, her eyes wide and full of a hurt I couldn't handle.
She stood, her chair scraping back. She reached for me, her hand extended, her fingers trembled.
"I need to breathe air that doesn't smell like a betrayal, Princesse."
The words came out wrong. Too harsh.
Her hand dropped.
"You don't mean that," she whispered.
"Don't I?"
I turned away before I saw her face crumple. Before I saw Fritz stand to comfort her or Hastings calculate the exact percentage of damage I’d done.
The pack was supposed to be my sanctuary. My home. The place where I belonged. But as I walked out, grabbing my kit bag, it felt more like a cage.
And I was the one who'd locked myself inside it.