Chapter Twenty-Six
Emery
Time doesn’t pass in clean lines anymore: it softens.
Days blur at the edges in the best possible way—morning coffee gone lukewarm on the counter because Connor distracted me with a dumb story about a missed penalty call, late evenings stretched across Beau’s couch with his arm heavy around my shoulders while a game murmurs on in the background, the Icebox becoming less a workplace and more a second home I actually look forward to entering.
Connor has been spending a lot more time at the house without ever formally announcing it.
He just… appears; tosses his keys into the bowl by the door like it’s always been his spot and steals Beau’s hoodies when he forgets his jacket.
He even eats cereal straight out of the box and leaves the spoon in the sink with a grin that says you love me anyway, and somehow, it works.
The bond between Beau and I stays steady, deepening quietly rather than flaring.
It’s there when I wake up, when he leaves early to check on his mom, when his thoughts pull inward and his moods go heavy with responsibility and restraint.
On those days, Connor fills the space without trying to replace anything; loud where Beau is quiet, playful where Beau is deliberate, grounding in his own way.
On the days I crave intensity—when my instincts want weight and heat and that low, controlling presence Beau carries so effortlessly—he’s there. Focused, attentive, and all-in.
I… don’t have to choose.
That still feels revolutionary.
At work, the team clocks it almost immediately. Not the details—not the how—but the shift. The way Beau’s shoulders ease, the way Connor’s grin sharpens into something more assured, and the way I move through the space with my head up instead of braced.
They don’t pry. They tease, of course—chirps and looks and the occasional ‘don’t break the PT’ tossed over a shoulder—but underneath it, there’s support, and respect.
The unspoken understanding that this pack, such as it is, is functioning.
The Icebox, however, is a lost cause.
There are moments where professionalism is technically maintained, but only just. Connor leaning too close while I tape his wrist, murmuring something low that makes my pulse jump.
Beau watching from across the room, eyes dark and unreadable, the bond tightening just enough to remind me he feels it too.
Car rides turn into stolen glances and laughter that borders on giddy. Grocery runs become excuses to brush hands and crowd space. Evenings stretch long and loose, filled with inside jokes and shared looks that say this is ours; and the thing that surprises me the most…
I’m having fun.
Real, uncomplicated fun.
I’d forgotten what that felt like: how light love could be when it wasn’t built on secrets or power imbalances or the constant fear of being replaced. There’s no deceit here, no waiting for the other shoe to drop, no quiet tallying of who owes whom what.
We're just choosing each other, again and again, without it feeling like a gamble.
Of course, my attention doesn’t stop at the two of them.
The other guys are… attentive. Flirty in that harmless, alpha-heavy way. A few have omegas of their own, and I’m careful not to blur lines where they don’t belong. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.
But Theo…
Well. Theo is different.
He’s quiet, for a start. Observant, and always watching, even when he pretends not to be. I catch it during sessions: in the way his breath shifts when I step closer, the way his gaze flicks between Beau and I as though he’s trying to solve an equation he hasn’t been given all the numbers for.
He gets nervous around me. Around us. And I notice him noticing Beau, too—the way his attention lingers, the way something in him tightens when Beau laughs with Connor, or when Beau’s focus sharpens on me across the ice.
It’s… interesting. Not something I’m acting on yet, but I’m not blind to it, either.
For now, I let it sit where it is. Something potential. Something patient.
Something to keep an eye on.
Because if these weeks have taught me anything, it’s that good things don’t always announce themselves loudly. Sometimes they arrive quietly, settle gently, and wait for you to realize that life doesn’t have to hurt to be real.
*
I’m filing away my last note when Dylan wanders into the PT room like he’s got nowhere else to be.
Which, knowing Dylan, is absolutely intentional.
He’s all damp hair and lazy swagger; a white towel slung over one shoulder, muscles gleaming faintly from the post-shower steam. His scent hits a second later, adrenaline and clean soap and something sharp and male, and my spine goes taut before I can stop it.
He grins when he sees me tense.
“Emery,” he says, as if he’s been waiting all day to say my name. “Tell me you’ve got five minutes to save my career. Maybe my life.”
“You twisted your ankle trying to block a goal you weren’t supposed to block,” I say dryly, not looking up. “Your career will survive.”
“Ouch. So cruel.” He presses a hand to his chest like I’ve wounded him. “No bedside manner at all.”
“Sit,” I tell him with a sigh, pointing my head to the table. “And don’t flirt with me. I’m working.”
He hops up obediently, swinging his legs, absolutely smug.
“Who’s flirting? This is just my personality.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“I’m charming.”
“You’re halfway to a pulled groin.”
That earns a bark of laughter from him. “You offering to stretch me out?”
I pause, then look up slowly, narrowing my eyes.
“Do you want to explain that one to Beau?”
Dylan smirks.
“Doesn’t seem like he’s locking it down all to himself,” he comments.
I freeze for half a second, and his gaze drops to my mouth, then lower.
“I mean… there’s a beta who works at Kessler’s that swears she saw you with Connor. Upstairs. Late.”
My jaw tics. “I go to Kessler’s for coffee, Dylan.”
He tilts his head like he’s not convinced.
“You don’t strike me as the vanilla latte type.”
I force a breath through my nose and crouch beside the table, keeping my movements clinical as I assess his ankle. But I feel it anyway: the way his scent nudges at my instincts, the way it spikes faintly when I touch his skin.
His eyes are on me the whole time, waiting for a reaction.
Hunting for one.
“Inflamed,” I mutter. “Stable, though.”
He hums. “Shame. I was hoping you’d need to keep me after hours. Maybe ice me down personally.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“And yet,” he says, voice lower now, cockier, “you’re still touching me.”
I shoot him a look. “Because it’s my job.”
“Still. Not the worst thing in the world—getting your hands on me.” He shrugs, unconcerned. “If you ever get tired of being the only omega in a building full of alphas playing nice…”
I stand abruptly, grabbing the tape and wrapping his ankle with practiced speed.
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
His grin is slow, unapologetic. “Touch a nerve?”
The worst part is—it does touch a nerve. Not because of him necessarily, but because my body’s still recovering.
Because I am the only Omega in a building full of Alphas, and because no matter how stable I think I am… Dylan smells good. He looks good. He’s dangerous, and flirty, and available, and my traitor instincts stir in my chest—shameful and unwanted.
“You’re done,” I mutter, stripping the tape and standing back.
He hops off the table and pauses just before the door.
“You know,” he says casually, looking me over like he’s considering licking his lips, “you’d look real pretty with my mark.”
My heart skips. My thighs clench.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I narrow my eyes. “Goodnight, Dylan.”
He glances at my throat again, then meets my gaze with one last cocky, knowing smirk.
“See you around, Emery.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
And the second it does, the bond yanks.
Beau’s presence crashes through me like a fucking freight train; sharp and possessive, the sensation curling around my ribs. Heat rolls low in my gut, blooming out into every inch of my skin, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.
Oh.
He felt that.
Not Dylan, but the way my body reacted to him. The flicker of awareness, the ripple of instinct that said alpha, male, attention.
The pull comes again, stronger this time. It’s directional and insistent.
Locker room.
I lock the PT room without fully remembering doing it, heart thudding as I follow the sensation through the corridor. The Icebox hums around me, but Beau’s presence is a steady line I can’t miss.
The locker room door is cracked, and I push it open with a hand that’s not as steady as I want it to be. He’s inside, leaning back against the bench; helmet already packed away and shirt tugged loose at the collar, exposing the thick line of his throat and the swell of his chest.
His eyes snap to me the moment I step inside, jaw clenched so tight I can hear the faint grind of his teeth.
“You felt that,” he says.
It’s not a question.
“Yes,” I nod. “I did.”
His gaze drags over me slowly; neck to chest, chest to hips, down my legs and back again. Possessive and controlled, yes, but I can also feel the restraint humming off him.
“You okay?” he rumbles.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just… reminded.”
Of what I am. Of what he is.
Of what a single sharp scent can do to a bond not yet sealed.
He takes a step forward, then another, and the air shifts around us. By the time he’s standing in front of me, everything else—Dylan, the hallway, my job, my rules—melts into static.
Because Beau’s scent floods the room.
It wraps around me like a net, woodsmoke and storm and something darker, something feral.
I sway before I can stop myself.
“Careful,” he murmurs, catching my waist.
It’s not an embrace. It’s a claim.
“I don’t mind you being wanted,” he says, voice low and rough. “Of course you’re wanted. You’re fucking irresistible.”
His thumb brushes under my shirt, barely grazing skin.
“I just need to feel you choose me.”
“I do,” I whisper.
But it’s not enough. Not for what’s surging between us.
I reach for him, fisting the front of his shirt and pulling him down. His mouth catches mine with sheer muscle memory, and the second our lips meet, the bond snaps tight again, humming hot and alive between us.
I whimper into his mouth, thighs clenching as heat floods my bloodstream.
Beau growls low in his chest and walks me back without breaking the kiss, his huge palms flattening against my ribs and my hips until my spine hits the cold metal of the locker with a jolt that makes me gasp.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my mouth. “There you are.”
Our mouths collide again. Teeth clash and tongues slide, and I can taste him, smell him, feel him everywhere.
His hands slide down to my hips and lock there, thumbs digging in, and then his thigh pushes between mine—
Oh, fuck.
I break with a sound I don’t recognize as mine as he grinds up against me, slow and filthy. His cock is thick and hard through his sweatpants, grinding right up into my soaked cunt, his body knowing exactly where to press.
I buck against him, chasing it.
“Fuck,” he rasps into my mouth. “You feel that, Emery? You smell how wet you are already?”
I nod helplessly, dizzy with the weight of his alpha attention, with the way his voice drops when he talks to me like this.
“I can feel your slick through my fucking sweats,” he growls. “You’ve been walking around the Icebox like this? Letting my guys smell you?”
The question makes my pulse spike.
“Answer me,” he murmurs, teeth grazing my lower lip.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His groan is rough and pleased. “No wonder they look at you like that.”
I rock back into him without meaning to, instinct taking over as I chase the friction, and he lets me rut against him as though I don’t have a single thought left in my head.
“There’s no dignity left, is there?” he mutters, palms sliding under my shirt, rough hands finding bare skin.
His mouth moves to my throat, teeth scraping just enough before he sucks.
“You think about them?” he asks quietly, voice rough and threaded with instinct. “My teammates. You think about how they’d touch you?”
My hips jerk hard against him, slick spreading shamelessly.
“Beau—”
He lets out a dark, pleased chuckle.
“That wasn’t a no.”
He grips my thighs, pinning me higher against the locker. The angle is devastating; his cock grinding exactly where I need it, thick and relentless, rut-heavy and impatient.
“You want all of us?” he murmurs, mouth dragging up my neck. “You want my hands on you while they watch? While they take turns making you come undone?”
My head falls back with a broken sound, throat bare, pulse hammering.
“Yes.”
His growl is pure alpha: deep, feral, and vibrating through my bones.
“All at once?”
My answer comes from somewhere ancient. “God, yes.”
“That’s my girl,” he snarls, rutting up against me harder now, faster, like he’s stopped pretending he has control.
“You were mine the second you walked into that diner. You remember that? The way you smelled. Sweet. Curious. Omega enough it nearly knocked me on my ass.”
I nod frantically, words gone, instincts roaring.
Slick soaks my leggings, my thighs trembling as his hand slips between us, pressing hard against my cunt through the fabric.
“You’re so ready,” he murmurs, voice reverent and wrecked. “So open. You don’t even fight it.”
He rubs slow, brutal circles, thumb grinding exactly where I’m most sensitive, and the pressure snaps something loose deep inside me. I come with a cry that echoes off the lockers, my whole body shuddering violently as heat detonates low and hard.
My legs lock around him, slick flooding as my scent spikes sharp and unmistakable. I shake in his arms, breath tearing loose in broken sobs I can’t stop.
Beau catches every tremor, and holds me through it.
With his strong arms locked around me, he rocks us gently as the aftershocks roll through my body. His mouth softens against my temple, my jaw, my lips—grounding me, anchoring me while my instincts slowly settle back into my skin.
“Mine,” he murmurs—not as a claim, but a promise; and god help me, I believe him.
Once I’ve come back down to earth, he exhales a laugh, his forehead resting against mine.
“Okay,” he says, amused now, brushing his thumb under my chin as my legs finally loosen. “That’s enough for one afternoon.”
I blink, still dazed, and he grins.
“Let’s get you home. Pronto.”
His nose wrinkles slightly as he breathes in again, amused and fond.
“Before the entire Icebox smells like slick.”
And somehow—despite everything—I laugh too.