Chapter Seven
Theo
P eople think being an alpha is all brooding dominance and responsibility.
Not me.
I’m here for chaos .
Thighs out, charm on, scent spiking slightly inappropriate levels of pheromone-based distress. I like to make people laugh, squirm, blush—or ideally, all three.
Which is why I’m currently glistening (not sweating, glistening ) in the early morning sun and about to charm an omega into unconsciousness, again .
See, there are a few moments in life that stick with a man.
Your first kiss.
Your first try at knotting.
And the exact second you lay eyes on an omega in dark yoga pants and a cropped pink t-shirt that says BE KIND while clearly trying to commit war crimes with her tits.
Look, in my defense: she’s really cute. Warm blond hair, perfect curves, and these big dark eyes that go wide every time I so much as flex near her. Her shirt clings to her chest like a love letter to every hormone I’ve ever had, and her legs looks like they’ve been fucking painted into those yoga pants.
She’s standing at the side of the pitch, fiddling with her phone and a tripod and muttering under her breath about lighting angles—
And I am absolutely going to flirt my way into a scent-triggered spiral and a government-mandated omega safety warning today.
“Need a hand, sweetheart?” I say as I approach.
She looks up from her phone, and bam , there it is—that same look she gave me in the hallway of the training facility. The one right before she dropped to the floor.
This time, she manages to stay upright. Progress .
“Oh god,” she groans. “ You again.”
“That’s right: only the alpha who’s in all of your dreams.”
I stretch casually against one of the side railings as my training shirt pulls tight across my chest and my thighs do truly unspeakable things to the fabric of my compression shorts. I know full well what I’m doing as I adjust my grip, causing my biceps to flex, my abs on tasteful display through the shirt’s thin material.
“You ready for the shoot?” she says, trying for professional, adjusting her little pink tee like it might protect her.
We both know it won’t.
“Born ready.” I wink. “So, how do you want me: shirtless and fast, or slow-mo and glistening?”
“Neither.”
“Bold choice. Wrong, but bold.”
She exhales through her nose, but I spot the way her dark eyes wander to my legs and linger for a beat.
“At least you’ve stayed vertical this time,” I smirk, all faux concern and zero shame. “I’m proud of you.”
Her eyes narrow. “Theo. I swear, I will launch this phone so hard at your head that it’ll get a data plan in space.”
“Hey,” I shrug, “I’m just saying: last time you saw me in compression shorts, you ended up in the team medical room.”
“I tripped .”
“On what?” I laugh. “The sheer force of my thighs?”
She makes a sound that might be a growl, but she doesn’t deny it, and her ears turn a truly criminal shade of pink.
God, I love mornings.
“You could at least pretend to take this seriously,” she sighs.
“I am taking it seriously,” I reply, hand on chest. “I brushed my teeth, styled my hair, and even put on some tinted moisturizer. That’s elite-level commitment.”
She looks furious, and I grin.
Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
People underestimate me all the time. I let them. It’s fun—and safe .
Because behind the winks and water-pouring antics is the son of a career politician with a permanent stick up his ass and a reputation to protect.
My dad’s a government liaison for Pack Regulation Policy. He’s super fun at parties, of course.
(Translation: all regulation, no joy.)
My mother is long gone. Not dead or anything—no, she just spontaneously moved to France with her tennis coach when I was seventeen and hasn’t looked back since. She sends postcards sometimes, though there’s no return address.
I don’t have any siblings. It’s just me: the only heir to a surname that comes with expectations, scandal mitigation training, and mandatory annual haircuts at a Members-Only salon.
Rugby, though? Rugby saved me. Gave me something that wasn’t performative, polished, or pre-approved by a family aide. Just bruises, strategy, found family, and the only three men on earth I’d willingly take a yellow card for.
Rory, with his spreadsheet soul and repressed dominance.
Jax, with his silent loyalty and tendency to whittle furniture out of raw emotion.
Finn, who once cried over a baby hedgehog and has a scent like chamomile and hope.
They’re my brothers. My pack .
But now this omega is in our space and making little irritated huffs every time I flex near her thighs; and if she thinks I’m not going to dedicate the entire day to flustering her into a heat spiral, she clearly doesn’t know anything about me.
Rory’s stomping around the pitch in his full training gear; jaw tight, sleeves tight— everything tight. He’s probably mad at the sky again.
Frankie glances at him. Then at me.
Then does a double take so aggressive I’m surprised her neck doesn’t pop.
“Look at you,” I prod, going in for the kill now just to see how she reacts. “Two sets of rugby player thighs and you’re still upright. That’s not just progress, that’s pure growth, sweetheart.”
“I swear, I’m going to need industrial-strength suppressants and a support group to deal with you.”
I lean closer, arms flexing as I keep hold of the railing. “Think you’ll survive all four of us in shorts?”
She makes a strangled noise and points a warning finger at me.
“One more word and I’m putting glitter in your protein powder.”
“Worth it,” I mutter.
Rory scowls as he comes to stand beside me. “Can we focus?”
“ Frankie ,” I say, dropping my voice an octave just to tease and test her. I can’t help it—she’s so fucking cute when she’s trying to maintain composure.
Her name tastes good on my tongue. Warm and sweet, like something I want to whisper directly into her skin.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Whatever you’re doing with your face and your… shoulders and… your entire upper body.”
“Existing?”
“Offensively,” she snaps.
God, I love her already.
I push off the railing and saunter a little closer, and she instinctively backs up straight into the railing. Her breath hitches as her eyes do a tragic little zig-zag— chest, abs, thighs, sky —as if hoping to summon divine intervention via eye contact with the clouds.
“You know,” I murmur, “if we were a match—”
“We’re not.”
“—you’d be this flustered forever. ”
“Not happening.”
“You’d be sleeping in my hoodie.”
“Gross.”
“You’d be using my toothbrush and pretending it’s cute.”
“ Ew .”
“And you’d never walk straight again.”
Her mouth actually drops open, and Rory makes a guttural sound like he’s trying to murder me with his thoughts alone.
“I’m going to drown myself in the birdbath.”
“Aw,” I coo. “Make sure it’s filtered.”
“Do you ever not say the worst possible thing?” Frankie sighs.
“Not when you look this pink,” I say cheerfully, nodding at her rapidly heating face. “You’re one fluster away from spontaneous combustion. I’m doing a public service.”
Rory stomps past us and back toward the main pitch. I lean a little closer to Frankie and stage-whisper.
“He’s like… three steps away from a rut,” I tell her. “You smell that? That’s desperation and pine-scented restraint.”
“Stop it!” she hisses, though the corners of her lips are curving further upward by the millisecond. “He’s literally your packmate.”
“ Exactly ,” I say, eyes gleaming. “If he snaps, we can call it content.”
The door to the training facility opens, and Finn comes bounding toward us holding two bottles of water.
“Hi!” he says brightly. “Did I miss anything?”
“No,” Frankie snaps, spinning to face him. “Nothing. In fact, you’re just in time. You. Are. Perfect .”
She grabs a water bottle from him, and I loop my hands behind my head just as Jax appears; silent, shirtless, and terrifyingly carved. He’s carrying a tractor tire over one shoulder and his training shirt on the other.
He doesn’t say a word by way of explanation—he just sets the tire down near some cones and nods once, as if he summoned this activity from sheer willpower and disdain.
Finn beams.
“Oh, he’s in a good mood today!”
Jax just squints at the sun and mutters something about UV exposure.
I turn to Frankie. “That’s Jax for ‘ good morning .’”
She blinks. “I thought he was a hallucination.”
“Nope,” I say, popping the p . “Just emotionally silent and powered by vengeance and black coffee.”
“Ok-ay,” Frankie shakes her head. “Let’s just… start filming.”
Rory jogs back into frame. “We’re ruining the club’s legacy one slow-motion video at a time,” he mutters, tugging his training shirt down.
This is classic Rory. He’s been like this since we were kids—stiff and serious, all sharp elbows and scowls while the rest of us were daring each other to eat glue and fake a concussion to skip math. You put him in front of a crowd and he looks like someone just handed him a baby and a live grenade and asked him to juggle, but give him a job to do—give him a pack, a match, a crisis—and he’s unshakeable.
He’s not the alpha you watch, he’s the alpha who does while you’re distracted watching someone flashier.
Which, to be clear, is me .
And right now, he’s about two seconds from hurling his water bottle at my head and logging a formal complaint with the Ministry of Sultry Shenanigans.
Beautiful .
I clear my throat and nod toward Frankie, who is trying to aim her phone somewhere not illegal.
“Let me know my angles, sweetheart,” I purr, stretching slowly—arms up, abs flexed, legs stretched, thighs tense.
She lowers the phone an inch. “Oh for the love of slicked thighs, can you not ?”
“Evie said thighs,” I remind her solemnly, taking a gratuitously slow swig from my water bottle. I might purposefully let a trickle run down my neck. “Sponsor-safe thirst, that’s the brief. I’m just doing my job.”
“Stop saying sponsor-safe thirst . And stop dripping . You’re not a hydration tutorial.”
“Say it with me, Frankie: slo-mo thigh shot, little water pour, suggestive wink…”
“I swear to god, I will lunge at you with this tripod.”
I take one careful step forward. “Please do.”
She groans, recoiling like my pheromones just physically slapped her across the face.
“Can you just - do a lunge or something? For content. That isn’t OnlyFans adjacent.”
I tilt my head. “Define adjacent.”
“The kind that doesn’t end in a formal complaint and a fire hazard.”
“Copy that.”
I smirk and step forward, just enough to watch her eyes drop directly to my compression shorts.
Bingo .
Her pupils dilate. She tries to blink it off and fails miserably.
“Right,” she says, voice about four octaves too high. “Lunge. Yes. Now.”
“How low do you want me to go?” I ask, already sinking deliberately and dramatically slowly.
I stay there, thigh flexed, shorts clinging for dear life, glancing up at her with the most innocent smile I can conjure.
“Lower?” I offer helpfully.
She makes a sound. Not a word—just a strangled, deeply unstable sound.
“You’re sweating, Frankie,” I comment. “Need a break? Or just overwhelmed by the raw, sponsor-friendly masculinity?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—I’m fine . Never better.”
I inhale, and her scent greets me immediately.
Sweet cinnamon. Vanilla. And something else—something sharp and sparkling that makes my instincts stretch and hum with interest.
“You’re spiraling again, sweetheart,” I grin. “Want me to lunge deeper ?”
She opens her mouth—no doubt to fire a quick retort—but then Jax materializes at her elbow and silently repositions the reflector board she set up next to the tripod with perfect angling before moving away again.
Frankie blinks. “Was that—did he just— help ?”
“Yeah,” I grin. “That’s his love language. Silent equipment handling. It’s very intimate.”
“I’m sick of this pack,” she grumbles under her breath.
“You love this pack,” I correct her. “You just haven’t licked anyone’s hoodie yet this morning.”
“That was an accident, ” she practically growls.
I bark out a laugh. “Wait, you actually did that?!”
I lunge an inch deeper on instinct, and I swear she almost drops the phone.
“ Great ,” she says, voice tight. “Now stay there. Forever. In fact, maybe next time, lunge underground.”
I laugh, and when I glance at her mid-shot, I immediately spot the way that her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are wide.
Perfect.
Let the content—and chaos—begin.