Chapter Twenty-Nine
Emery
The house smells like garlic and butter when I walk in, ending my call with Sasha.
It's been surprisingly difficult to keep in touch, given how busy everything has been here, but one lovely thing I'm learning about long-distance friendships is that you don't have to speak every day to still hold that bond.
The delicious scent stops me short in the entryway, keys still in my han. It’s such a simple thing—the smell of someone cooking—but it hits differently now. Not home, exactly, but something close enough that my instincts lean toward it before my brain has time to catch up.
Beau’s in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up and broad shoulders slightly hunched as he stirs something on the stove. He doesn’t turn right away. The bond is still learning the shape of us, but I know he knows I’m there.
“You’re late back,” he says eventually, not looking over his shoulder.
“Long day,” I reply simply.
He hums in acknowledgment, and I move closer, setting my bag down on the dining table and watching the way he moves around the kitchen.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Pasta,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I think.”
I smile and step closer, leaning my hip against the counter. He finally glances at me; his stunning blue eyes flicking over my face, my posture, and the faint tiredness I know he can feel through the bond, even if he won’t comment on it.
“How’s Theo?” he asks.
“Disappointed,” I say. “He’s definitely not playing in the next game. Might even be out for two. But… he understands. I think.”
His jaw tightens briefly, the protective edge of him sharpening before smoothing back out.
“Yeah. He’s good at that,” he comments. “Understanding, I mean.”
He turns the heat on the stove down a notch.
“And Connor?” he asks, tone carefully neutral.
I tilt my head, watching him.
“He’s fine. Just his usual, loud self, from what I saw of him earlier. He’s coming over later, apparently.”
“Football’s on,” he nods. “Figured it’d be easier watching it here than as a whole group, and dealing with Gordo’s commentary.”
“That’s a low bar,” I laugh softly, and Beau nods in agreement. “Theo’s coming, too,” I add.
That earns me a look.
“Yeah,” Beau says after a long beat. “He texted.”
He turns his attention back to the stove. He reaches for a spoon, tastes the sauce, frowns at it, and moves to add salt. I watch the way his shoulders loosen just a fraction: when I don’t comment. When I don’t hover.
When I simply exist beside him.
This is what surprises me the most about Beau. Not the dominance, or the intensity. Not even the way he comes undone when we’re alone and the walls are closed in tight.
It’s this.
The quiet. The restraint. The way he seems to hold so much inside unless he’s certain it’s safe to let it out.
“You can shower if you want,” he says. “I’ll finish this.”
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’ll help.”
He nods, then shifts slightly to make room for me, handing me a knife and a cutting board without asking. The ease of it sends a warm flicker through my chest.
We’re bonded, but learning.
I’ve been claimed, but not consumed.
*
The living room feels smaller with all of us in it.
The low hum of the TV fills the background, some college football game none of them are particularly invested in, serving mostly as an excuse to sit, drink beer, and talk over one another.
Connor’s sprawled on the floor with his back against the couch, one knee bent, bottle balanced lazily in his hand.
Theo’s claimed the armchair, his injured shoulder propped carefully with a cushion, ice pack abandoned somewhere near his foot, while Beau’s on the couch beside me, his thigh pressed against mine.
I’ve had one beer. It’s enough to feel loose, but not enough to dull anything.
“Still can’t believe you tried to play through that,” Connor says, jerking his bottle toward Theo. “You went into the boards like a martyr.”
Theo snorts. “I was fine.”
“You were horizontal.”
“Briefly.”
Beau huffs, shaking his head. “You’re benched for a reason.”
“I know. And I get it.” Theo shrugs one shoulder. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
I smile without thinking, watching the way they move around each other—affectionate without being showy. There’s an undercurrent there that feels pack-deep. Something old and instinctual, humming quietly beneath the banter.
I didn’t grow up with this kind of belonging, and yet, it feels… easy.
I sink back into the couch as my gaze drifts across the room to where Theo sits in the armchair, his long legs stretched out, his posture deceptively relaxed.
But I know better.
He’s quiet, but his eyes don’t miss a thing. They track the way Beau’s hand curls over the cushion behind me, the shift in my breathing when I laugh a little too easily at something ridiculous Connor just said, the subtle tilt of my head when I scent the room without even thinking about it.
Theo notices everything, and I shouldn’t be thinking about it, but the thought slips in before I can stop it.
I wouldn’t mind him.
It’s not a plan. It’s not even a fantasy. It’s just a reaction: one I feel down to my bones.
Still, the second it forms, my body responds.
Beau notices first, which is… unsurprising. His head turns a fraction, those glacier-blue eyes flicking down to me with a look that’s half question, half warning. The bond between us tightens, a pulse of restrained dominance laced with curiosity, and my skin prickles.
I don’t respond out loud, but I don’t have to.
The heat beneath my skin answers for me.
It’s Connor who reacts next. He’s grinning at the screen, but then he goes still. His nostrils flare, and his head tips slightly as he looks in my direction.
His smile turns sharper.
“Anyone else smell that?” he asks casually, voice rougher than before.
I feel myself flush.
“Little omega’s getting all worked up.”
Beau’s thigh presses more firmly against mine, unmistakably possessive.
Theo shifts slightly in his chair, and one hand curls tighter around the armrest. His gaze lingers on my mouth just a beat too long before flicking away, and my heart pounds.
“You like being the center of attention, don’t you?” Connor murmurs. “Sitting there between us, smelling like slick and curiosity. It’s… it’s kinda fucking hot.”
“Connor.”
There’s warning in Beau’s tone, but there’s no real fire behind it. There can’t be: not when he’s gripping the couch like he’s barely holding himself in check.
Not when he smells just as affected.
My thighs press together instinctively, but it does nothing to stop the ache, and I realize with startling clarity that this isn’t fear pooling low in my belly.
It’s want. Crackling, coiled, feral want.
I’m sitting here, surrounded by three dominant alphas, each of them keyed into me in their own unique, maddening way, and instead of feeling overwhelmed, I feel powerful.
I’ve spent so much of my life feeling small, feeling careful; but right now, I want to see just how far this will go.
And judging by the way all three of them are suddenly very aware of me, I’m not the only one.