15. Olive
Iwalk out of the east wing suite. My bare feet pad against the hardwood floor of the main hallway.
I slept for ten solid hours. The frantic, desperate need to climb the walls vanished.
Malcolm kept his promise. Handing him the reins yesterday silenced the chaotic storm in my head.
I feel grounded and in control. The heat fever faded, leaving behind a manageable, lingering hum of arousal buzzing under my skin.
I push through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Finn, Lawrence, and Malcolm occupy the space around the marble island.
Victor remains absent, keeping his distance in the west wing of the house.
The atmosphere in the room carries a tense, aggressive electricity.
Their scents fill the air. The crisp ozone, spicy black pepper, and rich cedar turn dark and territorial.
Finn turns away from the stove. He holds a spatula in his hand. "Morning, Liv. Grab a stool."
I climb onto a leather barstool. Finn slides a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon across the marble counter. I pick up a fork and take a hungry bite.
Lawrence leans against the refrigerator. He wears a tailored dark-blue suit. "You look better today. The color in your cheeks looks normal."
"I feel human." I take a sip of the black coffee Malcolm sets next to my plate. "Malcolm helped."
Malcolm nods once as a soft smile pulls at his lips.
Finn drops the spatula into the sink. "We have a favor to ask. We play our last regular-season game tonight."
Lawrence runs a hand through his dark curls. "A win secures our spot in the playoffs. A loss sends us home for the summer. We want you there."
I blink, staring at the three of them. "At the arena?"
"In our private VIP box." Lawrence crosses his arms, flashing a confident smile.
"I hired a private security detail using my family's firm. They are a bonded Alpha team, immune to unbonded Heat scents, and they will escort you from this house straight to the suite. No crowds. No fans. Total safety. Victor’s Uncle Rhett and his Omega will be there as well, but they're great people. "
"I don't know a damn thing about hockey." I trace the rim of my coffee mug. "I never watched a game in my life. I wouldn't even know what to look for."
Finn offers a warm, dimpled smile. "You don't need to know the rules. We just want you in the building. Hearing you scream for us gives us the edge we need on the ice."
"Just watch us win." Lawrence winks.
I look at their expectant faces. They gave me a safe haven. They provided food and shelter when my world crumbled. Going to a hockey game feels like a small request.
"Okay." I pick my fork back up. "I'll go."
Two hours later, a towering man in a gray suit walks into the kitchen.
He wears an earpiece and carries himself with a professional calm.
His scent profile carries the distinct, steady signature of a bonded Alpha.
He remains unfazed, neutral, and uninterested in unbonded pheromones.
Two more bonded guards stand in the mudroom behind him.
"Ms. Blanchard." The lead guard gestures toward the door. "Mr. Davis arranged our transport. We have the car waiting."
I follow the guards out of the house. A black, armored SUV idles on the concrete driveway. The lead guard opens the back door and helps me inside. The interior smells like expensive leather and clean air freshener. The tinted windows block out the afternoon sun.
We drive through the city streets. The closer we get to the arena, the more chaotic the traffic becomes. Thousands of fans flood the sidewalks. They wear gold and black jerseys. The names on their backs flash past my window. Walker. Hayes. Davis. Sterling.
The sheer scale of their fame hits me in the chest. My sensible brain knew they played professional sports, but seeing the endless sea of fans wearing their names makes the reality undeniable. They aren't just rich athletes. They own this city. They hold an untouchable status.
The SUV bypasses the main entrance. We pull into a private, underground parking garage beneath the arena. Concrete pillars and bright fluorescent lights blur past the window. The driver parks near a secluded elevator.
"This way." The lead guard opens my door, maintaining a respectful, professional distance.
We ride the private elevator up to the suite level.
The doors slide open. A sprawling, ultra-luxurious VIP box waits for me.
The space looks bigger than my entire old apartment.
Plush leather couches occupy the center of the room.
A catered buffet of hot food and cold drinks lines the back counter.
A private bartender stands near a sleek, black marble bar.
Huge glass windows overlook the ice rink below.
Three people stand near the glass windows, looking out over the bowl.
A tall man with shaggy brown hair, kind eyes, and a rugged five o'clock shadow turns around.
Next to him stands a man with slicked-back black hair styled in a pompadour, wearing a tailored designer suit and radiating a cold, distant aura.
Between them stands a gorgeous full-figured woman with bright red hair.
Her warm, welcoming smile eases the immediate tension in my chest.
"You must be Olive." The red-headed woman steps forward, her hand outstretched. "I'm Sloane. These are my Alphas, Rhett, and Bennett."
I take her hand. Her grip feels warm and steady. "I'm Olive. It's nice to meet you."
"We're family." Rhett offers a kind grin, his resemblance to Victor obvious in the carved lines of his face and his jaw. "I'm Victor's uncle. We came to watch the game and cheer the boys on."
Bennett gives a polite, cool nod, keeping his arm wrapped around Sloane's waist. The cold exterior melts the second he looks down at her. The obvious, deep devotion between the three of them stands out in a heartbeat. Sloane leans into Bennett's touch, at ease.
"Finn mentioned you didn't know much about hockey." Sloane links her arm through mine and guides me toward the plush leather seats facing the glass. "That's fine. I didn't know a puck from a pancake when I first met these two. Grab a seat. I'll translate the chaos for you."
I sink into the leather cushion next to her. Below us, over twenty thousand screaming fans pack the bowl. Gold and purple lights flash from the jumbotron hanging over center ice.
Sloane checks her watch. "They come out for warm-ups in a minute. They skate around and take practice shots to get loose. After that, a big machine called a Zamboni comes out to clean the ice and make it smooth again. Then we get the actual game."
A loud buzzer sounds over the loudspeaker.
The tunnel doors open. The Iron Wolves skate onto the ice.
The crowd erupts into a roaring frenzy. I press my hands against the cool glass.
My eyes track the gold and black jerseys.
I spot Finn skating toward the goal crease.
I spot Malcolm gliding near the blue line.
Lawrence weaves through center ice with fluid, blinding speed.
Victor follows behind him, skating with cold, calculating precision.
Seeing them in full gear steals the breath from my lungs. The staggering size of them dominates the rink. Broad shoulders, thick thighs, and towering height make them look like unyielding gladiators. They command the ice. They own the space.
Finn stops near the crease. He tilts his helmet back and looks up at the VIP level.
He knows my location. The tinted glass hides my face from the crowd. Malcolm turns his head and follows Finn's gaze. Lawrence stops at center ice and looks up. Victor turns toward the glass, tracking the same section of suites.
Four Alphas focus their attention on my box.
The dark, territorial intent radiating from the ice hits my nervous system like a lightning strike.
My inner Omega gives a deep, satisfied purr.
A fresh wave of heat floods my veins, pooling wet and hot between my thighs.
My skin flushes. The lingering hormones hijack my brain, demanding I drop to my knees and bare my neck for the men looking our way.
I grip the armrest of the chair. I refuse to look away from the ice.
The buzzer blares through the stadium speakers. The stadium lights go dark for a fraction of a second. A spotlight hits center ice.
Sloane leans forward in her seat. "Okay, the game starts with a face-off. The referee drops the puck, and the centers fight for it to gain control."
The opposing team lines up against the Iron Wolves. The referee holds the black puck between them. The stadium holds a collective breath. The noise dies down to a tense hum.
The puck drops.
Chaos erupts on the ice. The game begins with a violent, unapologetic speed. Sticks clash against sticks. Skates carve deep gouges into the frozen surface. The sound of crushing impact echoes up to the VIP box.
My healthcare-worker brain protests the display.
Working in the pediatric ward taught me the brutal cost of concussions, broken ribs, and shattered collarbones.
I spent years comforting kids with sports injuries.
I know the dark side of high-impact collisions.
Logic dictates I should hate the violence happening in front of me.
I should cover my eyes and cringe at the raw aggression.
My new instincts override my logic.
A winger from the opposing team speeds down the right side of the rink. He breaks past the defense. He winds up and fires a blistering slapshot toward the net.
Finn doesn't flinch. He drops to his knees with impossible speed.
His thick, padded chest blocks the puck.
The rubber disc smacks against his sternum with a sickening crack.
Finn traps the puck under his glove, freezing the play.
He stands up, his towering frame acting as an immovable brick wall.
The opposing players try to crowd the crease, hacking at his skates.
Finn shoves the nearest forward backward with a brutal thrust of his blocker glove.