Chapter Four
Rory
S he’s been in that room for four hours, twenty-three minutes, and seventeen seconds.
Not that I’m counting.
I’m just checking. For safety.
That’s my job, after all. As captain. As the adult in this chaos-soaked testosterone den we call a team house.
Not because I’m unaffected, but because I’m holding the fucking line.
Theo’s been vibrating with mate-energy since the moment she purred, Finn’s already rewritten their love story in his head three times, and Jax is quietly carving a spoon. Meanwhile, I’ve spent the last four hours pacing the hallway like a dad waiting outside a delivery room, except the delivery is a scent-sensitive omega in a nest full of semi-clean gym towels.
I’m not fine.
But I don’t do messy.
I’ve spent each of my twenty-four years living in Alderbridge, and I swear, I’ve never come this close to losing my composure. I learned early on that the only way to be heard was to shut up and perform, so that’s what I did.
I always loved sport, but nothing ever fit quite right. I was too broad for soccer, too heavy-footed for hockey, and too impatient for anything racket-related. I joined the rugby team at twelve, and by senior year, I was running drills in the rain while other kids were sneaking out to drink and dry-hump in the back of their cars.
By the time I turned twenty, I’d stopped asking what came next and decided I’d make this—this field, this club, and what turned into this goddamn pack —into something that mattered.
I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the hallway wall like it might hold me upright while the rest of me tries not to tear the guest room door off its hinges. Her scent’s leaking out from under it in warm, soft waves—cinnamon and heat and want —and I can hardly stand it.
She’s not bonded. She’s not part of our pack. She’s not even officially on the club’s payroll yet.
I should be sanitizing my kettlebells and re-reading the Omega Health Code like the emotionally constipated alpha I aspire to be; but I’m still here, breathing her in, and wishing—just for a second—that I could be someone else.
Someone selfish. Someone soft .
But I’m not.
I’m Rory James, Alderbridge Rugby Club’s team captain, and I never want what I can’t have.
She claims that she’s not going into heat, but I’m not so sure. I’m not exactly an expert when it comes to omegas in this kind of state—that’s always been more Theo’s arena—but even I know this doesn’t look stable. Suppressants or not, something’s off.
And if that is what’s going on, then she should be in a proper nest. Temperature regulated, fully stabilized, and supervised by a certified bond partner who’s trained to handle early-cycle onset. Not curled up with shitty towels, Theo’s hoodie, and a dreamcatcher Finn made out of socks and unmedicated optimism.
If Frankie is in heat, and if the board ever found out, we’d be blacklisted faster than you can say improper heat management protocol. Honestly, it’s only Theo’s dad’s political pull that might save our asses if any of this ever comes to light.
Which is rich, considering his son currently smells like gym sex and recklessness.
Speak of the pheromone-fueled devil—
“You checking on her too?” Theo rounds the corner barefoot, grinning. He’s shirtless, obviously, and his gray sweat shorts hang low on his hips.
“No,” I deadpan.
“Just leaning against her door like a wallpaper sample with boundary issues, then?”
I don’t answer.
“Did she just sigh?” he smirks, tilting his head toward the door.
“She’s breathing, ” I snap. “That’s what matters.”
Theo laughs, then stretches his arms behind his head. His abs do a thing, and I stare at a framed photo of our 2018 championship team. The radiator. Anything .
I grit my teeth. “Go to bed, Theo.”
“You know what I think?” he asks, ignoring me completely. “I think someone’s got it bad.”
“I know you’re not talking about me.”
“Of course not,” he nods. “You definitely didn’t growl at Finn for offering her water.”
“That was a tactical vocalization.”
“That was a tantrum with base notes of possessive dysfunction.”
“I will kill you.”
Theo smirks. “Maybe. But first you’d have to stop sniffing her door like a teenage alpha who just found his dad’s stash of vintage Omega Heat mags.”
I give him a look so sharp it should qualify as an edged weapon, but he just laughs, bold and loud and unbothered.
“It’s always the repressed ones. You know that, right? The ones who read the Health Code for fun and then accidentally imprint while installing scent blockers.”
“Fuck. Off .”
“Alright, alright.” He backs away, hands up. “But if you’re gonna keep standing there, at least moisturize. You’re two hours away from full grumpy alpha in a suppressants commercial.”
He laughs to himself again as he disappears to his room. My hand stays braced against the doorframe, my knuckles white as I watch the door close behind him.
*
It’s hours later when I hear the soft pad of feet down the hall—quiet and careful, like someone trying not to wake a feral cat ( or, in this case, a dangerously repressed alpha having an emotional breakdown in a hallway ). Finn appears around the corner, hoodie-clad and glowing with that particular brand of cinnamon-scented, chamomile-steeped sincerity that makes you want to both hug him and shove him in a cupboard.
He’s holding a thermos in one hand and what appears to be a… knitted… lizard ?
Finn follows my gaze. “It’s a stress gecko,” he explains. “I made it for her.”
Of course he did.
“I can take over,” he says gently. “Let you get some sleep.”
Every instinct in me tells me to stay, but I can’t deny it: I am tired. Besides, Finn’s calm in a way I can’t be right now.
I nod as I step back, and he gives me a small, understanding look—the kind that says I know you’re hanging on by a thread, and that thread is currently wrapped around her —and settles himself cross-legged by the door.
I watch as he unscrews the thermos. Steam curls upward, and his scent rises too—clean, comforting, vaguely like oat biscuits and weighted blankets.
And underneath it all?
Her .
That same warm, aching thread of temptation that’s been leaking under the door for hours now; soft and syrupy, sharp enough to make my canines ache. I watch Finn sip his tea before he pulls his hood up and tucks the gecko under one arm, and I turn and I walk away, making it one step at a time.
Down the hall.
Through the scent. Through the ache.
Trying not to look back. Trying not to go feral.
Trying—
Failing —
To forget that I’ve never wanted anything like I want her.