Chapter Twenty-Four
Connor
I don’t leave with the others.
I pretend I forgot something and linger just long enough to watch Beau head down the hall. Coach follows a minute later, and then the others start to filter out, one by one, all moving toward the exit.
The Icebox empties out fast, and after a few more minutes, the echoes fade.
Good.
I head toward the PT room once I’m sure we’re alone.
Emery’s door is half closed, light spilling out into the hallway, and I slow as I approach—not because I’m hesitant, but because something hits me square in the chest before I even touch the handle.
My jaw tightens, and this time, I don’t bother knocking.
I push the door open and step inside, and there he is: sitting on the bench, shirtless with his broad shoulders bare, skin still flushed from training and posture loose in a way I’ve never seen on him.
Emery stands in front of him, hands steady on his shoulder, working the joint with professional focus—calm and precise, like this is just another rehab session.
It’s… normal.
That’s the problem.
The room smells like omega and alpha and something settled. Not fresh heat, or chaos; but something deeper. Something claimed.
Something lived in.
Beau looks up when I enter, and his gaze locks onto mine immediately. The air physically shifts.
“You need something?” he asks evenly.
Emery freezes, then turns.
“Connor.”
Her voice is calm; almost as though she already knew this was coming.
Knowing her, she probably did.
“Thought you’d headed home,” I say to Beau.
His eyes flick briefly to Emery’s hands on his shoulder, then back to me.
“I’m in treatment.”
I scoff. “Lucky you.”
His jaw flexes, and I feel the way that his scent presses outward, the change completely deliberate. It’s meant as a warning rather than a threat, but those things mean the same to me anyway.
Emery sighs softly and steps back, putting herself between us without even thinking about it.
“Okay,” she says. “Nobody’s posturing in my room.”
I finally allow myself to look at her, and she looks… good. Grounded. Bright, even. There’s something different in her scent—not heat, or arousal, but confidence, I think.
That rattles me more than anything else.
“You stayed late,” she comments.
“So did you,” I reply.
“And me,” Beau adds flatly.
Silence stretches, and I glance back at him.
“You’re not hiding it.”
He shrugs. “Wasn’t planning to.”
The words land heavy: ownership without apology.
Emery turns slowly, eyes moving between us. I expect her to bristle, to shut it down, but instead, she folds her arms loosely and says, “You’re both doing that thing.”
Beau raises an eyebrow. “What thing?”
“Circling,” she replies. “Waiting for someone else to move first.”
I snort. “You got a schedule in mind?”
Her mouth curves slightly. “I do, actually.”
She walks to the door and closes it behind her. The click echoes louder than it should, then she turns back to us.
“Here’s the situation,” she says calmly. “I didn’t want either of you in here to compete, and I’m not interested in pretending I don’t feel what’s happening in this room.”
Beau shifts. I do too. Still: neither of us backs off.
“There’s no reason this has to be a problem,” she continues. “Unless you make it one.”
Beau studies her for a long beat.
“You’re sure about this.”
She meets his gaze without hesitation. “I am.”
Then she looks at me.
“And you?”
My alpha instincts surge, but I push them down as best I can, trying to gain control over my rising pulse.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” I admit.
Her smile is slow.
“Good,” she says, nodding her head. “Because I don’t want to choose.”
The words hit like a dropped puck, and Beau exhales. I feel it—the way that his restraint tightens.
The room hums.
“I want both of you,” she clarifies.
I glance at Beau, who’s watching her like she’s the only fixed point in the universe.
“You okay with that?” I ask him quietly.
He simply shrugs his shoulders.
“I’d rather adapt than lose her.”
Emery steps closer, placing a hand on Beau’s shoulder again—then reaches for me too, fingers brushing my forearm.
The contact is light.
The effect is not.
“Then stay,” she says softly. “Both of you.”
I do.
Something in the way she says it hits somewhere deeper than logic, and maybe I’m not thinking clearly, but it feels like it's not just a command, it’s an invitation.
And fuck if I don’t want to be the kind of alpha who answers when she calls.
Beau’s still planted on that bench, his arms flexing like it’s taking everything he’s got not to throw a punch—or fuck me up in some other way, and maybe I’d let him. Maybe I want him to.
My instincts are all over the place, burning up under my skin.
Fight or fuck.
Ruin or claim.
But then she moves between us again, drawing all that heat and static toward her.
“You can both stay.”
The gravity of that offer weighs down on me, and she looks at me first. Her lashes are thick, her lips slightly parted, and her scent is all over this room now. It’s not just that it’s slick, or heat, or omega; it’s hers: sweet and demanding and absolutely drenched in want.
For both of us.
“Are you going to kiss me,” she murmurs, “or do I have to kiss you?”
I don’t even think; I just move.
My hand finds the back of her neck and I lower my mouth to hers, brushing first in a barely-there touch just to feel that first jolt of contact.
Then harder, more insistent, mouth slanting as my fingers tighten against her throat.
She opens for me, her lips soft and tongue teasing mine, and I fall into it like a man starved.
She whimpers against me, and I swear I could come from that alone.
I pull back because I have to; because if I don’t, I’m going to lose whatever grip on control I’ve got left, and she doesn’t even pause for breath. Her lips are still wet from our kiss as she turns to Beau, and then she kisses him.
And I know deep down that I should look away, that I should feel something ugly twist in my chest, but I don’t.
I watch.
Beau’s hands are possessive from the start, fisting on her waist and holding her still as he leans down into her. His mouth is rougher, hungrier, even; not just kissing her, but staking a claim.
And I get it. I feel the same.
When she pulls back, her lips are shiny and swollen, her chest rising fast with every breath. She looks between the two of us, and I swear it’s almost as though she’s deciding whether she should command us again, or just strip us both where we stand.
"Clothes off,” she says, breathless but sure. “Now.”
Eager to please, I yank my hoodie over my head and toss it to the floor. My shirt comes next, damp with sweat.
I’m vaguely aware of Beau doing the same, peeling off his joggers and standing proud and broad and hard like this is some kind of faceoff, but she steals the air out of my lungs.
She undresses too—her top first, then the tight sports bra, peeled up over flushed skin.
Her tits bounce free, nipples tight, and my mouth waters at the sight.
Then, it’s her leggings: one hip at a time until she’s bare in front of us, her thighs slick and shining with arousal, the inside of them already sticky with the evidence of how badly she needs us.
I don’t even feel jealous when she turns to Beau first. I’m too fucking lust-drunk on the sight of her, now bare and kneeling on the treatment bench, to care about anything but how fast I can get inside her next.
She’s perched on the padded surface, knees spread wide and spine a perfect curve as her hands brace on the bench beneath her. He shifts so that he’s standing behind her, one foot on the floor, one knee resting on the cushion between hers, his hand already sliding up the slope of her back.
“You’re still sore,” he says low, his voice ragged with restraint.
She tilts her head back toward him.
“Don’t care,” she pants. “I want it.”
Fuck.
Something twists in my gut: the kind of possessive burn that should make me tear her away from him, should make me remind her she begged for my knot first, but it doesn’t.
I just get harder.
I step in front of her, fists clenching at my sides, and I swear I could come just from the sight of her like this: flushed, panting, dripping slick down her thighs, and kneeling between two alphas like she was fucking made for it.
My cock is already in my hand, thick and aching, and I stroke it as I stare her down.
“Look at you,” I murmur. “So greedy.”
Her hazel eyes meet mine. Her lips curve slightly before she leans forward without a word and sucks the tip of my thumb into her mouth, all while holding my gaze. Her tongue swirls, hot and wet, and my hips jerk forward despite myself.
Behind her, Beau groans. I hear the wet slide of his cock dragging between her thighs, smearing her slick and his spit everywhere.
The scent in the room is insane. Emery’s heat, her slick, and our arousal tangled with hers.
She pulls off my thumb with a soft pop and lifts her chin.
“Come closer.”
I step in, feet planted on either side of the bench, cock level with her mouth. She licks the underside of it once, teasing, then takes me in with one long, wet stroke. Her lips wrap around the head and I hiss through my teeth as she sucks, hard, her cheeks hollowing.
My hand fists in her hair, anchoring myself so I don’t lose control too fast.
Beau groans behind her again, and I glance up just as he grabs her hips and starts to press in. His jaw is tight, his brow furrowed, like he’s barely hanging on.
“You want it this way?” he grits out, voice all gravel. “While you’re sucking his cock?”
Emery moans. It sends a shockwave through me before her throat tightens, and her mouth pulls me in deeper. I hiss and tighten my grip on her hair, hips twitching forward.
Beau thrusts into her at the same time.