Chapter Seventeen
Beau
The water hits my shoulders hard, steam blooming fast, and I brace both hands against the tile as the sound fills the bathroom.
It’s quiet now. There’s no crowd here; no blades carving ice, no bench rattling under adrenaline. Just the rush of water and my own breathing, still heavier than it should be.
My shoulder aches; alive and used and satisfied for the first time in weeks, if not months, but it's the memory of the drive back from the Icebox that's sitting in my head and won’t leave me alone.
Emery beside me in the passenger seat, beanie pulled low, legs drawn up for warmth. Every breath she took fogged the window, and her scent filled the truck—clean, soft, and unmistakably omega. It got into everything. Into the seats. The dash.
Me.
I’d cracked the window twice and then rolled it back up. Told myself it was for visibility.
(It wasn’t.)
We didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt intentional: sitting heavy and watchful between us, and tense in the way instinct is when it’s trying not to move too fast.
Like even breathing too loud might tip the balance.
I’d kept my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel as I told myself, repeatedly, that it was the win keeping me wired.
Bullshit.
Even now, under hot water, the memory hits: of stepping onto the ice and knowing she was watching. Not hoping, but knowing. I didn’t look for her, but I felt her attention like a hand between my shoulder blades. Felt it when I tested the joint, when I leaned into the turn.
When I took that last shift and didn’t hesitate.
It’s her job. I know that. She watches everyone. But my instincts don’t care. They’ve already rewritten it:
Mine to show strength for.
Mine to impress.
Mine.
I drag a hand over my face, water slicking through my knuckles.
It’s stupid. Primal.
But it’s impossible to shut off once it’s awake.
This is dangerous. She lives in my house. Sleeps in the room down the hall. Every rule I’ve lived by lines up and tells me to back the hell off.
But I can't.
The water tracks down my chest, my ribs, my stomach. Steam clouds around me until the world narrows to heat and skin and pulse.
Her scent won’t let go, humming low and steady, tugging at me like a hook set deep.
Pack win.
Alpha high.
Omega under my roof.
And there’s nowhere for the instinct to go.
I’ve been behaving. I’ve been holding the line.
I’ve done everything right. But my body doesn’t know what to do with this much want—not just for her, but the claim of her.
The pack-tie of it. It doesn’t know where to put the excess, and keeps reaching for her, again and again, instinct already deciding something I haven’t given permission for.
My head falls forward until my forehead hits the tile. Water pounds down over me, sliding through my hair and down my neck, tracing the lines of muscle and old scars, running over my shoulders and chest and stomach before streaming between my feet and vanishing down the drain.
I try not to think about her, but she’s already there; lurking just behind my closed eyes and pressed into the backs of my thoughts.
My breathing stumbles again, catching low in my chest, and this time, I don’t stop it.
She’s in front of me, as vivid as if I’d reached out and pulled her into the shower. Not some fantasy stand-in, but exactly how she was hours ago: team jacket zipped halfway up, sleeves tugged over her hands, shoulders tense but chin high.
My hand presses harder against the tile, bracing. Heat coils tight and low in my abdomen as my imagination slides into darker, deeper territory.
That jacket she wears—gone.
Her hands—bare, curled against my chest, clinging.
Her scent—thicker, spicier, seeping into every breath I take.
I picture her body under mine; the warmth of her skin, and the way she’d react if I let go of the leash. The sounds she’d make if I pushed her closer, held her tighter, gave in to the part of me that hasn’t stopped reaching for her since the moment I first scented her.
And then I'm not just picturing it: I swear, I can feel her beneath me—naked and slick and flushed. I watch as her mouth falls open when I bury myself deep, and she claws at the sheets like she needs to be held down.
I do. Gladly. I pin her and fuck her full and tell her she’s mine like my blood believes it.
My cock twitches, hard and heavy, and the ache that’s been humming through me all night finally spikes, flooding every nerve with raw, instinctive need.
I reach for myself with a trembling hand, gripping tight at the base and dragging upward in a slow, deliberate stroke.
The sensation jolts through me: hot, electric, and almost too much.
I let my head fall back, eyes fluttering closed, the tile cool against my neck while the water streams down over me.
I picture pushing her harder—letting my weight come down fully and gripping her by the back of the neck, rutting into her until she’s wrecked and soaked and begging for it.
“You can take it,” I’d growl against her skin. “You’re an omega. You’re mine.”
My cock jerks in my hand, and I grip myself tight.
It’s not gentle. It’s not supposed to be.
And then, something shifts. Instinct widening the lens.
Suddenly, I’m not the only one there.
Connor’s laugh echoes faintly, the kind of low, teasing sound he makes when he’s got someone flustered and exactly where he wants them.
He’d crowd in behind her without hesitation, cock rubbing between her cheeks, dragging his mouth down her spine, groaning like a fucking animal when she moaned his name.
He’d fuck her throat while I fucked her cunt. Hold her head still and whisper the filthiest shit.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he’d mutter. “Take it all. You love it, don’t you?”
I groan, hips stuttering into my hand.
It's still not enough.
Then there’s Theo. Always watching. Always waiting. Until he’s not.
His presence is quieter, though: more deliberate. He’d take his time. He'd lay her out like she mattered, like every inch of her deserved reverence. His voice would be low and unshakable, murmuring praise against her skin as he coaxed her open.
“You’re doing so good, baby. So full. So perfect.”
Fuck.
I stroke harder now, hand slick with precome, fist working in tight, relentless motions. My head falls back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut.
I can hear her. I can hear all four of us.
Her gasps. My growl. Theo’s breath breaking. Connor’s filth.
The image hits like a truck: her bent forward, stretched around me, dripping slick while the others take their turns, while her whole body begs for more.
She’s not just mine, she’s ours.
The possessiveness deepens, settling into something more rooted. Something that doesn’t want to chase her away or keep her for myself—just keep her close. Keep her safe.
I snarl under my breath, stroking faster now, chasing it down. The water masks the noise, but I can still hear the ragged edge of my voice.
I can feel how close I am to falling apart as her name lives somewhere behind my teeth. The tension coils tight in my spine, every muscle straining as heat climbs fast and brutal, knot-lust burning through me like a fucking match.
“Fuck,” I grit out, teeth bared. “Emery, fuck—”
The image of her curves between my hands again, along with the phantom sensation of the others close behind her. Of the pack forming around her. Wanting her. Needing her.
And it tips me over the edge.
I come hard—hips jerking forward, hand tight around the base, release pulsing out of me in sharp, desperate waves. It's too much all at once, and I bite down on a groan, body seizing against the tile as my breath rips free.
I ride it out with my jaw clenched, pulse thudding in my ears, body shaking from the force of it.
Even as it fades, even as the water washes it all away, the aftershocks linger.
The scent of her. The sound of her.
The idea of her.
Still there. Still echoing.
I stay with my forehead pressed to the tile, water still pounding down over me as my breathing slowly evens out. My body feels heavy and drained, utterly spent—
And still; the want remains.
It's quieter now, but no less certain, and I can’t just blame it on hunger or adrenaline any longer. This feeling… it’s instinct locking in, stubborn and territorial, digging its heels into something it refuses to release.
Her.
And no matter how hard I tell myself I shouldn’t—no matter how many reasons I stack up to keep my distance—I can still feel it humming under my skin, calling toward the omega sleeping down the hall.
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I don’t hear it.