17. Olive
Sunlight cuts through the thick velvet curtains of the east wing bedroom. I stretch my legs out against the high-thread-count sheets, but my foot bumps against a warm, solid calf.
I blink my eyes open.
Lawrence lies sprawled next to me on the king-sized mattress. His dark curls look messy against the white pillowcase. One of his broad, golden arms rests across my waist, pulling me to his side. The sheets tangle around our bare legs.
The memory of last night in the hot tub floods my brain. The edge-play and teasing; the absolute bliss of his knot finally locking inside me leaves a deep, satisfied ache in my muscles.
I wake up glowing.
I hate admitting it, but my body feels cared for.
Between Finn’s rugged, steady comfort, Malcolm’s quiet and unshakeable control, and Lawrence’s terrifying, brilliant ruthlessness, I'm wrapped in a web of total provision.
They don't just feed me or give me a bed.
They dismantle my problems before I even finish stressing over them.
Lawrence shifts beside me on the mattress. His brown eyes slowly open, warm and sleepy in the morning light. He pulls me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
"Morning." His morning voice sounds rough and deep against my skin.
I trace a finger over the smooth curve of his shoulder. "Morning. You stayed."
He presses a soft kiss to my collarbone. "I plan to stay a lot. Get used to it."
I let out a soft laugh, pushing the duvet off my legs. "I need coffee."
Lawrence rolls out of bed, grabbing a pair of gray sweatpants off the carpet.
I pull one of his oversized t-shirts over my shoulders, letting the dark fabric hang down to my mid-thigh. We walk down the quiet corridor together, our bare feet padding against the hardwood floors as we head toward the kitchen.
The sprawling kitchen smells like rich coffee and sizzling bacon. Finn stands by the stove flipping pancakes with a relaxed grin. Malcolm sits at the marble island reading a tablet, his long dark braid hanging over his broad shoulder.
Lawrence walks right up to the coffee pot, pouring two mugs. He sets one in front of an empty barstool for me and leans against the counter next to Finn.
I stop in the arched doorway, watching the three of them move around the room with an easy, seamless rhythm.
The reality hits me like a freight train.
I'm not just giving in to them because my anatomy demands a pack.
I'm not just surviving a hormonal hijacking.
I'm falling in love with these ridiculous hockey players.
They tore my predictable, organized life to shreds, and somehow, I don't want to go back. I want right here.
Malcolm looks up from his tablet. His dark eyes lock onto mine, softening as he catches the flush on my cheeks and the scent of Lawrence lingering on my skin.
He offers a slow, welcoming nod. Finn turns around from the stove and flashes a warm, dimpled smile that makes my stomach flip.
Lawrence winks from across the room, raising his coffee mug in a silent toast.
Warmth spreads through my chest. I belong here. My body knows it, and now my stubborn brain finally admits it.
I walk across the tile floor and pull out a barstool next to Malcolm. Finn slides a plate stacked with eggs, bacon, and pancakes onto the marble counter in front of me.
Finn leans his forearms against the counter. "Morning, Liv. Sleep okay?"
I pick up a fork. "Like the dead. I think I passed out the second my head hit the pillow last night."
Lawrence takes a slow sip of his coffee. A wicked smirk touches his lips. "I certainly kept you up late enough to wear you out. You definitely earned a solid crash."
Warmth travels from my chest to my cheeks as a smile tugs at my lips.
I take a bite of the eggs, letting the rich flavor settle my stomach.
Sitting here surrounded by three of my Alphas, the contrast to my old life feels staggering.
A week and a half ago, I ate cereal alone in my beige apartment, worrying about hospital schedules.
Now, I live in a million-dollar mansion with professional hockey players who treat me like a queen.
I look at Malcolm. He watches me eat with quiet, steady intensity, making sure I take care of myself. I look at Lawrence, who leans against the counter with his effortless charm, and then at Finn, who bustles around the stove like a golden retriever.
Then my gaze shifts past them, scanning the edges of the room and the dark hallway leading to the west wing.
The warmth in my chest curdles into an aching, hollow void.
Despite the domestic perfection of breakfast, a gaping hole sits right in the middle of the dynamic. My inner Omega demands a complete pack. Every instinct in my blood hums knowing that one piece of our puzzle is missing.
Victor is walled off from me.
He isn't in the kitchen. He isn't sitting at the island. Even when he's in the house, he keeps miles of distance between us, treating me like fragile glass that might shatter if he breathes too hard.
I chew a piece of bacon slowly, losing my appetite. The silence stretches over the counter, tense and complicated.
Malcolm sets his tablet down on the marble surface. "Something on your mind?"
I set my fork down, staring at the half-eaten breakfast. "Victor."
Finn stops flipping pancakes, the spatula freezing in mid-air. Lawrence’s easy smile flattens out. The lighthearted morning vibe in the kitchen evaporates, replaced by the tense, complicated shadow Victor casts over this entire pack.
Finn turns back to the stove. "He's staying out of your way. We told him to give you space."
A flash of irritation hits me. "Space is one thing. He acts like I'm a live grenade. I know he fucked up in the parking lot and at the hospital, but we share this house."
Lawrence drops his playful demeanor. "He's punishing himself. He thinks he ruined any chance with you before we even started."
I grab my coffee mug and take a sip, letting the hot liquid burn my tongue.
"He's not the only one dealing with a mess.
I didn't ask for any of this. I didn't ask to present as an Omega, and I didn't ask to have my life blown up.
But I'm here. I'm trying to figure out how to live in this new reality with you guys. And he won't even look me in the eye."
Malcolm studies my face, his dark eyes reading every micro-expression. "He has a lot of demons, Olive. But he's working on them."
I trace the rim of my ceramic mug, my voice dropping low. "I saw the books. Lawrence mentioned him reading self-help stuff. But reading a book doesn't fix being a coward when it counts."
Finn sets the spatula down and wipes his hands on a dish towel. He walks over, leaning against the counter across from me. "Give him time, Liv. He's trying to become a man who won't hurt you. That takes longer than a week."
I stare down at the marble counter. Three devoted Alphas stand in this room offering me everything I could ever need, but the one who insulted me in a hospital hallway and tried to command me in a parking lot is the one my traitorous mind can't stop thinking about.
Later in the afternoon, I sit on one of the plush leather couches in the main living room, trying to read a medical journal. My eyes keep drifting away from the text, wandering across the expansive room.
The sunlight pours through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long golden beams across the hardwood floor and the expensive Persian rugs. The mansion is too quiet today. Finn and Lawrence went out to run errands, and Malcolm remains locked away in his home office handling business.
Footsteps echo from the arched entryway.
Victor enters the room.
He wears a tailored black t-shirt that highlights his broad chest and dark jeans, his white-blond hair neatly styled.
He looks every bit the arrogant, untouchable center forward for the Iron Wolves.
But he moves with careful restraint. He keeps his distance, giving me a wide, respectful berth as he walks toward the built-in bookshelf by the window.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye, pretending to turn a page in my journal.
He pulls a thick paperback off the shelf. I catch a glimpse of the cover title. Trauma Recovery and the Rewiring Brain. He shoves it into his back pocket and grabs another one on anger management.
The cold, snobby hockey star spends his free time trying to fix his broken edges. He's unlearning the toxic habits that made him lash out at me. He works on his damage because he knows he fucked up, and he knows he lost control.
My body aches for even a glance from him.
Even across the large room, his juniper scent drifts over to me, mixing with the baseline citrus of the pack.
My skin prickles. My slick starts to pool between my thighs, an automatic response to his proximity.
My inner Omega pulls toward him like a compass needle finding north, begging me to close the gap and demand his attention.
I want to stand up. I want to march over there, grab the front of his shirt, and tell him I see the work he's putting in. I want to shake him out of his miserable little self-imposed exile.
Then my pride takes over, locking my jaw.
I remember the way he stood in that parking lot and tried to bark a weak Command at me, expecting me to drop to my knees just because he flashed some Alpha authority.
I remember the sting of his words in the hospital hallway, when he complained about the smell of bleach and treated a dying child like an inconvenience.
I'm too stubborn and too scared to make the first move, waiting for him to cross the line because I refuse to get burned twice by someone who treats me like a threat.
Victor turns around, holding his stack of paperbacks against his thigh. He catches me staring right at him over the top of my journal.
The room goes dead silent.