Chapter Twenty-One
Emery
I get home far later than I meant to.
The sky is ink-dark, the cold sharper than it was this morning, and my body feels… overaware. Every step sends a reminder up my spine: not just the ache between my thighs, but something deeper. A low, lingering hum that refuses to fade no matter how much time I put between now and then.
I still can’t quite believe that happened. Not just that Connor knotted me, but that it happened at work.
The thought makes my stomach flip again, equal parts disbelief and heat. I hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t even wanted it, not really—well, okay, I did, but not like that. I’d told myself I was being careful; that I was both professional and in control.
But then it hadn’t been careful at all.
I’d stayed in the PT room long after he left, wiping down every surface once, twice, then a third, just to be certain.
I’d sprayed cleanser until my nose burned, until the citrus sting made my eyes water, and I’d scrubbed everything: the table, the counter, the doorframe—anything that might’ve held onto the evidence of what I’d let happen there.
I’d sprayed myself, too. Twice. My hair, my neck, my wrists. Anything to drown it out.
Not that it made a difference. Connor’s scent is still on me now, threaded through my clothes and clinging stubbornly to my skin like it knows it doesn’t belong—and doesn’t care, for that matter. It’s softer than it was earlier, less sharp, but it’s there.
Persistent. Just like him.
I’d hoped, perhaps a little stupidly, that Beau would be out, that his truck wouldn’t be sitting in the drive, dusted with snow, dark and unmistakable beneath the porch light.
Well. Damn.
There goes that plan.
My chest tightens as I park my own car. There’s no turning around, or pretending this didn’t happen. I tell myself—again—that it’s my business. My body, and my choice. That Beau doesn’t own me.
But… it’s not that simple. Not when we work together. When we live together.
And alphas are territorial by nature. Even the good ones.
I step inside quietly, easing the door shut behind me and toeing off my boots.
My movements are careful and measured, as if that might somehow soften the fallout I can already feel coiling in my chest. I hang my jacket by the door, fingers lingering on the hook longer than necessary, and draw in a shallow breath.
The house smells warm. Clean. Familiar. Soap and coffee and him.
The kitchen light clicks on, and Beau steps into view.
He’s changed into dark sweats and a fitted long-sleeve that stretches tight across his shoulders and chest, the fabric pulling when he moves.
His hair is still damp, curls darkened with moisture, like he showered and didn’t bother finishing the job.
He looks relaxed in that dangerous, post-evening quiet way—like he was winding down.
Until his eyes land on me.
His expression doesn’t change right away. It’s subtler than that. His shoulders lock, and his nostrils flare almost imperceptibly.
Then his gaze sharpens with terrifying precision, and the air thickens.
I feel it in my chest before he says a word: instinct curling inward, bristling, going tight and hot all at once.
“What,” he says slowly, his voice low and unnervingly calm, “is that.”
My pulse jumps. Hard.
“Beau…”
He takes one step closer. Then another.
“Did you,” he asks quietly, jaw flexing, “...let one of my guys touch you?”
The way he says it—my guys—makes something sharp twist in my gut, and I straighten instinctively, spine stiffening.
“You don’t get to ask me that.”
His bright blue eyes flash.
“Emery.” His voice drops, then hardens. “Answer. The question.”
The command slams into me like a physical force. Alpha pressure rolls through the room, heavy and undeniable, pressing against instincts that are already raw from being touched, and knotted.
My breath stutters, but I hold my ground.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I did.”
Beau inhales sharply, like the confirmation still lands as a blow even though he already knew. Because he did know. It’s written all over his face: the anger, disbelief, as well as something darker and hotter tangled underneath.
“Connor,” he growls.
The name sounds like a promise of violence.
Then he closes the distance in two strides.
I take a step back on instinct, and his hand slams into the wall beside my head, the impact echoing through the entryway.
The vibration rattles my bones as his body cages mine in completely, broad and unyielding, alpha dominance flooding the space until my instincts scream and flare instead of retreating.
“Did you seriously think I wouldn’t smell him on you?” he snarls. “You walk into my house like that and expect me not to know?”
“This isn’t your house alone,” I shoot back, heart racing. “And I am not yours to police.”
His laugh is short and bitter; borderline unstable.
“Bullshit.”
His hand remains on the wall beside my head, and his other comes up to my jaw, his fingers firm and possessive as he holds me in place. His thumb presses in just enough to ground him—or maybe me.
His touch sends a shock straight through my body, traitorous heat blooming low in my belly.
“You live here,” he says, voice shaking now, restraint fraying. “You sleep down the hall. You move my things. Fold my blanket. Make this place smell like you.”
His grip tightens.
“And you want to stand there and tell me you’re not mine?”
“That doesn’t give you ownership,” I say, pushing against his chest.
He doesn’t move an inch. My instincts light up instead of recoiling, slick heat pooling where it shouldn’t.
“You don’t get to decide who touches me.”
Those gorgeous blue eyes burn into mine.
“I don’t want to,” he snaps. “That’s the problem.”
He leans in until our foreheads almost touch, his breath hot against my cheek, scent flaring sharp and dominant.
“Every instinct I have says you’re pack,” he says hoarsely. “Says you’re mine to protect. Mine to keep safe.”
His jaw clenches.
“And yet you walk in here wearing another alpha’s scent like a challenge.”
“I didn’t do it to provoke you,” I whisper.
His grip tightens.
“That makes it worse.”
The silence between us is volatile, humming with tension so sharp it feels like it could slice skin.
One wrong word. One wrong move.
“You don’t own me,” I say again, softer now, but no less certain.
His jaw works, muscles jumping as he fights something feral clawing up his spine.
“Yes,” he says finally, voice breaking on the truth of it. “I fucking do.”
And then he kisses me.
The impact is brutal: his mouth crashing into mine, all restraint gone.
The kiss is rough and consuming, furious with hunger and alpha pressure, like he’s trying to reclaim something he thinks he’s already lost. His hand slides into my hair, gripping hard enough to anchor me there—not forcing, but not letting go.
My instincts scream, and my body answers.
I gasp against him, but he doesn’t back off. The hand that was against the wall moves until it presses flat against my lower back, keeping me pinned as his mouth drags across mine. I push back, just enough to make it a challenge—just enough to feel his chest rumble with a warning growl.
“You think I don’t know what this is?” he snarls against my mouth. “You walk in here with his scent all over you: slick-slick-slick, and none of it mine.”
“Beau…”
“Don’t,” he snaps, biting the word off. “And don’t ever say his fucking name again.”
I blink up at him, chest heaving.
“You think I did it to hurt you?”
“I think you did it to test me,” he grits out. “And now I’m done being tested.”
He steps back just long enough to grab my thighs—
Then lifts.
I yelp as he throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
The entryway disappears behind us as he heads toward the staircase, then up.
His huge hand presses against my back as he hauls me into his bedroom, kicks the door shut with one heavy boot, and drops me to the bed with a thud that bounces the mattress.
My whole body sparks.
“You’re mine, Emery Tate,” he growls, already stripping off his shirt. “And you’re gonna remember it.”
“I’m not yours,” I pant, even as my thighs rub together, slick pooling again.
He laughs, the sound low and dangerous.
“Right,” he says, crawling up the bed after me. “So explain why your scent’s already begging.”
I scramble back on instinct, breath tearing out of me, but his hand clamps around my ankle and yanks. My back hits the mattress hard, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.
My body lights up anyway.
Heat surges low and sharp, every nerve screaming awareness—especially where I’m still sore, still stretched, still aching from being knotted not that long ago. I suck in a breath, and Beau feels it. I see it in the way his jaw locks.
He lowers his head, and as his nose drags down the inside of my thigh, and he inhales—deep and savage, like he’s ripping the scent straight into his lungs.
His whole body goes rigid, and then he snarls.
“Fuck,” he spits. “I can smell him inside you.”
My breath stutters. “Beau—”
“Stop.” His voice is vibrating with barely contained fury. “Don’t you fucking say anything else.”
His eyes snap up to mine and then drop between my legs again.
“You let him knot you,” he growls.
It’s an accusation, not a question, and I flinch as his hand tightens on my thigh.
“You’re still open,” he continues, his tone vicious. “Still leaking him.”
I swallow thickly as he looks right at me again.
“You come back to me smelling like another alpha’s knot and expect me not to fucking snap?”
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” he cuts in harshly. “You wanted this. You wanted to see what would happen if you pushed me.”
He grabs both my thighs and drags me to the edge of the bed, hauling me open until I’m spread wide and exposed, slick glistening between my legs.
“I’m fixing it,” he snarls. “Every trace. Every fucking molecule.”
His mouth slams over my pussy without warning, or mercy.