23. Rook
Chapter twenty-three
Rook
I’m watching the girl I love marry one of my best friends, and it feels…
…it feels right.
I stand there, the world a blur of cheers and howls, watching Gunnar and Aisling, their hands clasped tight. The officiant’s voice cuts through the din, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
It’s surreal, this moment, like we’re all knotted together in a bond that’s more than blood or pack—it’s soul deep.
Aisling beams up at Gunnar, and as his lips crash into hers, I feel something uncoil in my chest, a joy that’s foreign but welcome.
“Congrats,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her cheek as they break apart, and she’s grinning like the sun just rose for her alone.
“Thank you, Rook,” she whispers back, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears and something fierce. She turns then, hugging the rest of the pack, doling out kisses like blessings. When she wraps around Gunnar again, I sling my arm around her shoulder, a protective gesture that feels as natural as breathing.
Nero sidles up, his grin all shark and no innocence. “Dinner on me? To celebrate?”
But Aisling shakes her head, mischief sparking in her gaze. “Got a better idea,” she purrs, leaning into Gunnar’s ear. My keen ears don’t miss the hushed words, the hint of promise when she tells him about the secret she’s not hiding beneath her dress.
I know she’s not wearing anything underneath…I caught a glimpse of those perfect tits, a brief taste of that perfect pussy, before she walked down the aisle.
Gunnar’s eyes flash, a dark hunger there, and I know this night just took a turn into territory I’ve only skirted the edges of. Aisling looks over her shoulder, catching my eye, and damn if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing to us.
We’re about to step out into the chill of the evening when the attendant, a mousy beta with eyes too big for her face, scurries over. “Excuse me, the dress,” she stammers, wringing her hands.
Nero waves her off, already reaching for his wallet, the leather worn and familiar in his grip. “Put it on my tab.” He tosses the words casually, like he’s talking about a round of drinks rather than couture that probably costs more than the attendant’s monthly wage.
The Bellanova isn’t far, and we walk in a loose pack, Aisling tucked snug between Gunnar’s arm and mine. My heart’s hammering a beat so damn loud I swear they can hear it. The night air is thick with the musk of alphas and the sweet tang of omega—all Aisling, all intoxicating.
I’ve had my share of omegas, betas…but never alphas. Gunnar? Nero? Luka and Oberon…It’s a different game. And group shit? That’s leagues away from where I’ve played. As we near the Bellanova’s glowing fa?ade, doubt gnaws at me, a rat with sharp teeth. I’m no stranger to sex, to the tangle of bodies and the rush of release, but this…this is uncharted darkness, and I’m not sure I’m ready to dive in.
“Chill, Rook,” I mutter under my breath, but it feels like a lie because my palms are sweating and there’s a tremor in my knees that I can’t shake.
“Something on your mind?” Gunnar’s voice cuts through my internal panic, low and knowing.
I glance at him, at Aisling’s hand clasped in his, and force a smirk. “Just thinking about the after-party.”
“Best part of any wedding,” Nero chimes in, a wicked gleam in his brown eyes. He’s ready for this, hungry for it in a way that both scares and draws me in.
We’re at the Bellanova’s doors now, the opulence of it mocking my sudden bout of nerves. I swallow hard, pushing down the flutter in my chest. I’m pack. This is pack.
And when Aisling looks back at me with those stormy eyes, full of stars and sin, I know I’ll follow her into the fire or the feast—whichever this night turns out to be.
Outside the pack suite, our group forms a knot of anticipation and suppressed desire. Gunnar and Nero are almost one shadow, their lips meeting in brief, heated exchanges as they flank Aisling. Oberon’s fingers dance over the lock panel, his movements sure and swift. I catch the sound of Luka’s breath, hushed against Aisling’s neck, and I watch her eyes flutter closed for a split second, savoring the touch. It’s hard to know where each one of them begins and I end…but I’m just…here.
I linger on the fringes, my pulse hammering in my throat like it’s trying to escape. That’s when Aisling’s gaze finds mine, grey eyes locking onto me with an intensity that knots my insides. She’s a siren, beckoning me closer without saying a word.
“Maybe I should just…” I start, the words trailing off as I take a step back, ready to bolt. The thought of escape is sweet relief, but then she reaches out to me, her hand slicing through the space between us like a lifeline I didn’t know I was desperate for.
“Rook,” she says, her voice a command wrapped in velvet. Her fingers wrap around my wrist, and it’s like an electric current arcs between us. Her scent envelops me—sugar and heat—and it’s intoxicating, anchoring me to this moment, to her.
“Stay,” she tells me, and it’s not a request. “I want my pack with me tonight. All of you.”
Her words echo in my head, ricocheting off the walls of my skull. My throat feels tight, but I nod because what else can I do? As much as the fear claws at me, so does the need—the need to be part of this, part of her, part of them. I’m caught in her gravitational pull, and there’s no fighting it.
“Okay,” I hear myself say, a whisper of acquiescence that seals my fate. I’m hers tonight, whatever that might mean.
Whatever we might become.
Aisling’s grip is firm yet gentle as she pulls me through the threshold. The room is alive with a kind of raw energy that seems to pulse against my skin. Luka is there, his shirt already discarded, muscles shifting under his skin as he moves with predatory grace toward Aisling. He drops to his knees before her like some worshipper at an altar, his lips tracing a path up her thigh as his hands lead the way by hitching up her skirt, and I can’t help but feel a flicker of something dark and primal ignite within me. The glistening jewels on her dress catch the light, and she looks like…fuck, she looks like a goddess.
My eyes shift, catching Nero in the act of peeling Gunnar’s shirt off, his fingers deft as they expose Gunnar’s broad, inked chest. Gunnar’s lips are locked with Aisling’s, and it’s clear he’s drinking in her presence, lost in the taste of her. Nero’s hands roam over Gunnar’s torso, possessive, knowing, as if each touch reaffirms their bond. I didn’t even know they were like that…and it occurs to me that the pack has secrets I’ve barely even scratched the surface of.
A sudden warmth at my elbow startles me—it’s Oberon, standing close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his body. My breath hitches, not out of desire, but from the sheer intensity of the moment. He starts to undo the buttons on my shirt, his movements unhurried.
“Let go,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “This is how it should be—natural, unforced. You’re meant to be here, Rook.”
I swallow hard, my gaze flicking back to Aisling. There’s an undeniable truth in Oberon’s words that resonates deep in my bones. It’s like stepping off a ledge into the unknown, trusting that the fall won’t shatter me.
“Okay,” I manage to say, my voice a rough whisper that betrays the storm of emotions brewing inside me. “Okay.”
Aisling reaches for me from where she’s surrounded by her alphas—then her hand finds mine, her touch light but insistent. I glance at her, the grey in her eyes like storm clouds promising a tempest. As if she can read the hesitation still clinging to me, she draws my hand up and gently places one of my fingers between her lips.
I’m caught, suspended in a moment that’s both surreal and achingly real. The wet warmth of her mouth sends a jolt through me, rooting me to the spot. I suck in a breath, tasting the tang of desire heavy in the air as she lets my finger slip free, her gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that demands surrender.
“Trust us,” she whispers, her voice a silken thread weaving around my senses.
Oberon is grinning like he knows a secret, his stride confident as he strides over to the drink cart. He grabs a bottle of champagne, the golden liquid a promise of hedonism. His smile doesn’t fade as he deftly twists off the cork; it pops, the sound sharp and sudden in the charged silence.
Aisling’s laughter bubbles up, musical and mischievous. She whirls toward me, her movements fluid, and crashes her lips against mine. It’s a kiss that speaks of ownership and wild joy, and I’m drowning in it, my hands finding purchase on her hips.
Gunnar’s hands are deft as they pull her dress down just enough to reveal her tits, releasing her breasts to the hungry gazes surrounding her. Without thought, I lean down and claim one rosy peak with my lips, my tongue swirling around the hardened nipple. A shiver ripples through Aisling, and I feel a twisted sense of pride at being able to elicit such a response.
Luka mirrors my actions on her other side, his mouth closing over her flesh. Gunnar’s lips trace the column of her neck from behind, his touch reverent. Nero, ever the pleasure-seeker, fills the space behind Gunnar. His hand slinks around, lifting Aisling’s skirt, and I hear her gasp at the contact.
“Feel it, Rook?” Nero murmurs, his voice a dark melody. “This is living.”
And I do feel it—the raw, untamed energy of the pack, the magnetic pull of shared desire. Aisling’s laugh fades into a moan, and the world narrows down to this room, this moment, where nothing exists but us, the pack, bound by lust and something deeper—a feral need that claws at my insides, demanding release.
Aisling stands there, her wedding dress twisted around her figure in a way that screams debauchery. I watch with a hammering heart as Oberon takes his turn with the champagne bottle, tipping it back, his adam’s apple bobbing. He catches my gaze, grinning like the devil himself, and hands me the bottle. The bubbles tingle as they flow down my throat, a prelude to what’s coming.
“Let’s not keep the bride waiting,” Nero’s voice is a low drawl from somewhere behind me.
We shuffle towards the bedroom, a tangle of anticipation and lust. Gunnar’s large, rough hands guide Aisling, pressing against the small of her back, bending her forward with an ease that speaks of familiarity and raw power. Her hands brace on the bed, looking fucking delicious in that wedding dress, the sparkling skirt hitched around her hips…
Gunnar thrusts inside her, no hesitation.
This…fuck, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
I can’t recall when Gunnar stripped away his clothes, my vision a blur of flesh and movement as I take in the scene—Nero’s calculating eyes, Oberon’s predatory stance, Luka’s self-satisfied smirk. It’s enough to make anyone feel unsteady, and I’m no exception.
Luka peels off his slacks, muscles flexing under smooth skin as his cock springs free, and then he’s on the bed, kneeling like a man about to worship at the altar of Aisling’s lips. He shuffles forward and she takes him into her mouth, his cock gliding down her throat. His groan vibrates through the room as she welcomes him, her mouth working him with a fervor that borders on religious.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, transfixed by the tableau unfolding before me. It’s like being caught in the eye of a storm—chaotic, wild, and undeniably exhilarating.
And then I’m undressing myself, wanting to be part of this. Shirt hits the floor, pants follow—gravity’s mercy. I’m shedding more than clothes; it’s restraint peeling away with every fiber that tumbles down my legs. The pack’s scent wraps around me, thick as the tension in the air, a mix of musk and something wilder. Aisling’s moans are a siren call, and like a moth to flame, I’m pulled in, helpless but not unwilling.
My hand moves to my cock to jerk myself off in front of all these alphas, a reflex born of raw need. I grip, I stroke—a poor substitute for the warmth I crave but it’s all I’ve got as I watch them, the tableau of pleasure before me. It’s madness, this craving to bite, to mingle my essence with hers on a night meant for unbridled passion.
Aisling’s lips break free from Luka with an audible pop, the sound ricocheting in my chest. Her eyes beckon me, grey pools of stormy lust, and I’m lost to their depths. Suddenly, a firm shove at my back propels me forward—I stumble, catch a glimpse of Oberon’s smug grin or maybe it’s concern, hard to tell—and then it’s her mouth on me, hot and insistent.
“Fuck,” I groan, almost losing my footing as my knees go weak, unable to feel anything but the wet heat of Aisling’s mouth.
“Steady,” comes a whisper at my ear, and I realize Oberon’s beside me, supporting me as Aisling takes me deeper. One hand finds purchase on Luka’s shoulder, rock solid under my palm. They’re both there, part of this dance, and the room spins with the heat of it all.
“Bloody hell,” escapes my lips, barely above a grunt, as the sensation swallows me whole. My knees nearly buckle, but I’m held upright, suspended in a web of hands and lips and shared breaths. This is the edge, the precipice of something monumental, and I’m teetering, ready to fall.
I thrust into Aisling’s welcoming mouth, the slick heat enveloping me as Gunnar drives into her from behind. She’s a vision of debauched beauty—her moans vibrating against me with every move Gunnar makes. Her fingers curl around Luka’s length, her strokes rhythmic and sure.
“Shit,” I grunt, my gaze caught on Nero. He’s got his lips pressed to Gunnar’s neck, the two alphas moving in a synchronized dance of raw desire. Nero’s hips roll in a silent cadence, seeking friction against Gunnar’s back.
And Oberon…his hand is dancing along my spine as he keeps drinking champagne, keeps watching.
Is this what he wanted? Why he urged me to act on my feelings for Aisling?
Was he thinking about inviting me in all those nights when I heard him fucking Aisling senseless?
I realize I like him touching me…like feeling Luka’s skin beneath my hand, like watching Nero drag his tongue up Gunnar’s neck as we all worship Aisling the only way we know how. This is new territory for me—never thought I’d find myself caught up in the gravity of another man’s touch. Yet, Nero’s boldness and Oberon’s touch stir something within me, an unnamed longing that demands contact, any contact. I want hands on me, mouths, the press of skin against mine.
“More,” I rasp out, unsure if I’m speaking to Aisling or the void of craving that’s opened up inside me. This isn’t just lust; it’s a maelstrom of need, pulling me under.
I’m caught in the eye of a storm, a wild tempest of flesh and desire that churns around me. As Gunnar’s rhythm drives Aisling’s cries into the thick air, I realize this isn’t just about her anymore—it’s chaos, it’s madness.
“God, yes,” she gasps, and her voice is the spark that ignites something feral within us all.
It hits me then—this fever pitch isn’t reverence; it’s pandemonium, pure and untamed. We’re not just pack members, we’re elemental forces colliding, and Aisling is the epicenter of our shared hunger.
Nero’s groan is low and guttural as he clings to Gunnar, their bodies slick with the fervor of our collective heat. The sight is savage, beautiful, and my mind reels with the intensity of it all.
“Fuck,” Luka grunts, his voice tight with restraint—or maybe it’s anticipation. One of his hands covers mine, tangling with my fingers. I need to touch someone, and Aisling…there’s only so much of her alabaster skin to caress, only so many erogenous zones to play with. My hand strays down from Oberon’s shoulder, down his torso, finding his cock.
All I want is to move with them, to dive into this sensation.
This is insanity—the kind that sears through your veins, leaving behind a trail of ashes from which something new can rise. I’m not just a participant; I’m an integral thread in this tapestry of lust and connection, woven together by primal bonds stronger than the ruin outside our door.
And as I lose myself to the delirium, I understand what it means to truly belong. This is being a pack: love, ferocity, and an embrace of the wildness within. It’s not just worship of Aisling.
It’s insanity, and it’s exactly where I’m meant to be.