Chapter Twenty
Frankie
Y ou know what’s a terrible combination?
Four possessive alphas, a viral article basically accusing you of sleeping your way into a job, and a live-streamed rugby match.
Add in a rival team full of cologne-drenched meatheads with the collective IQ of a damp sponge, and I’m one snide comment away from throwing myself into traffic.
I’m supposed to be filming pre-game content—wholesome, sponsor-friendly stuff. Think: #TryMe, not #TryMe Bitch .
Instead, I’m crouched behind a training dummy, clutching my phone like it’s a cross between a shield and a panic button and trying not to hyperventilate while Rory and Jax stare down a forward from the opposing team like they’re trying to set him on fire with their minds.
It started with a dumb joke—some comment from their winger, a bulky slab of Axe body spray and testosterone, about how generous Alderbridge RFC must be to let the whole front line share an omega.
Then he winked.
At me.
“Big mistake,” Finn growls.
“Dead man walking,” Theo adds. “Should we livestream the funeral?”
If I’d only been watching them—the loud ones, the showmen—I’d miss it. The slight shift of movement, the way Jax inches forward with barely a breath of warning.
It’s subtle. Easy to overlook if you don’t know to look for it.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? This is why they work, why this whole chaotic, growly, ridiculous setup somehow holds together. Theo and Finn make noise, Jax moves in silence, and Rory anchors it all without saying much of anything.
They balance each other. They fit .
“Don’t,” I hiss, snapping to attention and grabbing Jax’s arm. Which, side note, feels a lot like trying to stop a brick wall that lifts for fun. “He’s baiting you. Don’t bite.”
Jax doesn’t blink. “Not biting.”
And then he punches him. Hard.
The winger goes down clutching his face and whimpering something about sportsmanship while the ref comes running over. Cue absolute chaos : whistles, coaches shouting, and Theo whooping and hollering in support from the sideline while Rory sighs like a man who had aged ten years in ten seconds.
“THAT’S OUR MAN!” Finn bellows, throwing his water bottle in the air.
Rory doesn’t say anything directly to them, but I don’t miss the way he pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something that’s probably not family (or social media) friendly.
Jax turns back to me, his expression worryingly calm. “You okay?”
Me ? Oh, I’m fine. Absolutely fine.
Just overheating in my branded polo and considering the pros and cons of fainting for dramatic effect.
Eventually, everything sort of… resumes. Jax is benched for five minutes, Rory receives a warning for ‘intimidating energy’ ( who knew that was even a thing ), and Theo—now apparently powered by blind rage and spiteful grace—scores two tries back-to-back within the first fifteen minutes of the match. Finn sprints like the ghost of every disrespected omega is pushing him forward—
And, obviously, they win.
The final whistle blows, and I shove my panic deep into my bag with the tripod and get back to work. The crowd has gone absolutely feral —parents cheering, teens screaming, and I watch ( and record ) in horror as someone throws a foam finger directly at the ref.
I capture it all: Theo’s sweaty, feral grin; Rory bleeding from the lip and still in full captain mode; Finn pointing into the stands and yelling, “ SHE’S OURS !” like we were doing a weirdly romantic hostage negotiation; and Jax…
Well. He remains calm through it all, still cracking his knuckles like he’s picking his next target.
And I can’t help but think of how they didn’t just look like a team, but how they look like a pack.
My pack.
I finish packing up—mic cords rolled, the camera the club provided me with now switched off, battery safely back in its little case—and stand there for a second, letting it all settle. The match. The chaos. The fact that I’d survived it without crying on a livestream or stabbing a winger with a lens cap.
Which is when Rory appears beside me, tall and brooding, blocking the sun and any sense of personal space.
“If you ask if I’m okay—” I begin.
“I was going to,” he said flatly.
I look up at him, squinting slightly at the sun. “Then yes. I’m okay. Wonderful, even. Only mildly traumatized.”
He gave the world’s smallest nod. “You did good.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I laugh. “But, for what it’s worth, you too. You were very… leadership-y. Bleeding and everything.”
“...Leadership-y?”
I groan, and he almost laughs. “Post-match debrief. You heading back to the hotel?”
“Soon. Just want to make sure I haven’t lost a mic or my sanity.”
He lingers like he wants to say more, but doesn’t, which is classic Rory. I watch as he jogs back to the tunnel, shoulders stiff, already shifting into captain mode again.
The team gather near the far end of the pitch. I use my phone to film these moments for some post-win footage as Theo flings his towel at Finn, who ducks and flips him off with a grin. Rory’s already got his arms crossed and is nodding intensely at whatever one of the Coach’s is saying to him, well and truly locked in listening mode.
But it’s Jax who catches my eye.
Another coach claps a hand on his shoulder—the gesture both firm and familiar. They fall slightly behind the others, walking slower as Coach leans in, speaking directly into Jax’s ear. Jax listens. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t speak—just absorbs whatever’s being said.
Something about the way they move together—measured, quiet and steady—sticks in my chest. It’s different from how the coaches are with the others. This seems so much less tactical, and much more… personal .
And for once, Jax doesn’t flinch, doesn’t brush it off or shut down. No, he walks beside him, calm and quiet while the rest of the team disappears down the tunnel in a chorus of chatter and muddy footsteps.
There are so many layers to that man. So many things I still don’t know. Who taught him to stay so still? And why does he always watch first, move second? What is it that he carves in his spare time, and why does Coach treat him like someone worth speaking to in whispers?
I can’t even think of how many times he’s saved me a seat without saying a word, and I can’t help it—
I wonder what it would feel like to have all of that silence turned inward—toward me .
I swallow hard and zip my bag up all the way, trying not to dwell on it. After all, there’s plenty of time to learn.
This was an away match, which meant team bus, energy drinks, and a whole lot of sweat trapped in polyester. The club had rented out a handful of rooms at a local hotel—nothing fancy, just cheap and cheerful with questionable carpets and surprisingly decent pillows.
The players were doubling up at two to a room, which they’d grumbled about for all of ten seconds before descending into roommate-style bickering over who snored and who took forever in the shower.
Meanwhile, I had a room to myself—one of the very few perks of being one of the only women in a male-dominated environment. Harper couldn’t make the trip this weekend, and Evie had—allegedly—booked her own suite elsewhere. According to the guys, she refuses to sleep anywhere under five stars, and honestly? That tracks. I’d believe it if they also said she keeps spare eye masks in a velvet-lined safe.
So, technically , I have my own room. A little hotel-issued solitude. Peace. Privacy. My own bed.
But if I happen to wake up with Finn curled up next to me, warm and solid and smug as hell—if his arm slides around my waist and stays there, and if I fall asleep with the scent of him seeping into my sheets, and something new and quiet and potentially bond-shaped beginning to hum under my skin…
Well. That’s nobody else’s business.
Not even the winger with the broken nose.
*
It’s been four days since the match, three since the buzz of gossip from the article started to die down, two since I stopped obsessively refreshing the comments, and one very satisfying day since Evie told me Alderbridge RFC’s engagement stats are up 400%.
Which is wild, considering most of our content involves Theo shirtless, Rory glaring, Finn grinning, and Jax pretending the camera doesn’t exist.
Life in Alderbridge has officially calmed down.
Well. Almost.
Because tonight, we’re having a game night.
Theo suggested it, Finn made snacks, Rory threatened to take everyone’s phone if we didn’t behave, and Jax walked in with a bottle of whiskey and zero explanation.
“If we’re going to be a real pack, then we need to properly bond,” Theo declared, laying out a stack of cards on the living room coffee table with full alpha ceremony.
I didn’t point out that they’ve already been bonded for years and probably don’t need a team-building exercise to figure each other out. But sure. Bonding .
“Team building. Emotional vulnerability,” The explained. “Also… I want to win.”
The game starts simple. A few rounds of Never Have I Ever, which quickly derails when Jax raises his glass after “ Never have I ever been tackled so hard I forgot my own name ,” and Theo hisses, “ You didn’t forget, you just pretended your name was Knife .”
Then it escalates.
We move on to “Who’s Most Likely To,” which includes questions like:
Who’s most likely to cry at a rom-com? ( Finn . Duh. )
Who’s most likely to start a bar fight? ( Jax. No hesitation .)
Who’s most likely to fake a faint to avoid confrontation? ( Me. And yes, Theo brings it up. Loudly. )
Then comes that card.
Theo draws it, and grins wickedly.
“Who’s most likely,” he reads, pausing for full dramatic effect, “to absolutely ruin a perfectly innocent omega without even taking their clothes off?”
Jax leans back, sipping his drink as Rory groans and rubs a hand over his face. “That’s not a real card. You made that up.”
“It’s laminated,” Theo replies, though he keeps the card hidden from everyone’s view. “It’s definitely real.”
Finn clears his throat. “Too soon, man.”
I take a sip of my own drink.
Then, because I’ve apparently lost my damn mind, I say:
“Well, I don’t know. Should we test it?”
The room flatlines .
Theo’s eyebrows shoot up. “Frankie.”
“What?” I shrug, playing coy. “We’re bonding, aren’t we?”
Rory stands up, paces exactly one step, and sits back down like his soul left his body. I laugh as Finn chokes, and though Jax doesn’t move, I can feel him watching me.
“You sure about that, sweetheart?” Theo smirks as he leans forward.
I meet his eyes. “You said you wanted me in the pack.”
He glances at the others, and I follow his gaze.
Rory’s gone full statue.
Finn’s gone pink.
Jax’s eyes drop to my legs, then drift back up, his face still unreadable—but his grip tightens slightly on the glass in his hand.
Theo exhales. “Say the word, omega.”
I don’t hesitate.
“ Okay .”
“Well then,” Theo grins as he taps the rim of his glass. “There’s only one way to do this right.”
Finn narrows his eyes. “Please don’t say strip poker.”
Theo leans forward, reaches for the coffee table, and grabs an empty soda bottle.
“Spin the bottle.”
Rory groans, loudly . “Are we twelve?”
“You wish you had this much game when you were twelve,” Theo shoots back.
Jax shrugs. “I like this game.”
“What?! You don’t even talk to anyone!” Finn says flatly.
Jax takes another sip of his drink and shrugs. “ Exactly .”
Theo looks at me. “Well, sweetheart?”
I arch a brow. “Are we doing the middle school version, or what?”
Theo licks his bottom lip. “Depends how brave you’re feeling.”
“Oh, please ,” I mutter, grabbing the bottle and placing it dead center on the rug. “Let’s just accept reality here.”
“Which is?” Rory asks, wary.
“You’re not spinning,” I give him an innocent smile. “None of you are. I am.”
Jax actually raises his eyebrows as Finn nearly drops his drink.
Theo leans back, looking far too pleased with himself. “Look at our little omega, making the rules.”
“I’m not little ,” I mutter, reaching for the bottle. “You’re all just huge. There’s a difference.”
The bottle spins.
Slows.
Stops.
And lands on…
Finn.
I don’t even pretend to be surprised. I just grin. “Well, well, well.”
Finn exhales through his nose, smiling but trying to look unaffected. “Guess we’re really committing to the bit, huh?”
“Oh, I’m committed,” I say, already rising onto my knees. “But this isn’t a bit.”
Finn doesn’t move—just watches, his pupils darkening, lips parting the closer I get. I shuffle toward him, slow and steady, my hands landing on his thighs like they belong there.
(They kind of do.)
“Hi,” I murmur, settled between his knees.
“Hi,” he replies, already breathless.
“I’m gonna kiss you now.”
“Thank god,” he mutters.
It starts soft and familiar, with a small smile against his lips. But then his large hands slide around my waist and his mouth opens under mine and— okay .
I forgot how sweet he tastes, how warm he always is, how he kisses like he’s making up for lost time and trying not to ruin me all at once.
One of his hands comes up, cradling the side of my face, fingers sliding into my hair as I shift forward, closer, straddling one thigh without really thinking about it. His breath catches, and mine does too.
His tongue brushes against mine, and I answer with a low hum in the back of my throat that makes his grip tighten.
When I finally pull back, I’m flushed, breathless, still straddling his lap. His pupils are huge .
“That… was not spin-the-bottle energy.” His voice is rough. “I thought you were gonna go to town on my thigh again.”
I laugh as I run a finger down the middle of his chest. “You complaining?”
“Not even a little,” he says, gaze dropping to my mouth again. “You sure you want to keep spinning?”
“For now,” I wink. “But don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m literally not moving,” he deadpans. “And if someone else kisses you better than that, then I’m throwing the bottle in the trash.”
“Deal.”
I keep myself seated in Finn’s lap and grin as I reach back to spin the bottle again, trying my best to remember how to breathe normally.
“One down,” I say as I flick the base of the bottle around.
This time, it lands on Rory.
The room shifts, and even the air seems to hesitate as he blinks over at me, caught in the crosshairs.
“Are we… actually doing this?”
I smile, slow. “You scared?”
“ No ,” he says too quickly.
I move toward him, not teasing now—just closing the space, soft and steady. He’s sitting up straight, back a little too rigid, huge hands flat on his thick thighs like he’s bracing for impact.
“Rory,” I say gently, nudging one hand off his leg so I can slide into his space, knee brushing his.
“Yeah?”
“It’s just a kiss.”
His throat bobs. “That’s the problem.”
“Okay,” I laugh. “You want me to go easy?”
His eyes flick to mine. “No. I want you to mean it.”
That shuts me up.
I lean in slow and press my lips to his. He’s still and unmoving at first, like his entire body’s debating between fight-or-fluster. I stay there, though; allowing him time to adjust, letting him feel the weight of it.
Then, after a beat or two, his mouth opens under mine.
Just a little.
Just enough.
And I learn the way Rory James kisses.
It’s carefully and controlled, which is no real surprise, given his personality, but it has this undercurrent of hunger that starts to catch fire the second I push closer. My hand settles on his chest right as his finds my hip—tentative at first, then firmer, more confident.
His fingers tighten when I tilt my head and deepen it.
That’s when he groans—low and rough into my mouth—and suddenly, the kiss is no longer polite, it’s real , and full of all the tension he never says out loud. His mouth is warm—a little clumsy in the sweetest way—but growing bolder with every second.
When we finally pull apart, his eyes are locked on mine, all wide and dark.
“You’re… good at that,” he exhales.
I can’t help but smirk, pleased. “So are you.”
He huffs, trying not to smile. “Still a menace.”
I giggle as I reach back to spin the bottle again—my heart thudding, lips tingling, body buzzing.
Because if that’s how Rory kisses on round one, then heaven knows I’m in big trouble.
The bottle spins again, and this time, it lands on Theo.
He grins immediately, already leaning back against the couch like he’d rigged the damn thing and looking far too pleased with himself.
I shift off Rory’s lap, about to walk across the room—
But Theo holds up a finger.
“Ah-ah.”
I pause.
“I don’t think so, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, voice low and filthy. “You think you’re just going to saunter over here and sit yourself down in my lap after kissing two other alphas in front of me?”
I narrow me eyes at him, not quite sure what it is that he’s expecting.
“ Crawl to me .”
A shocked laugh escapes my lips, and from the corner of my eye, I catch Rory mutter something that sounds suspiciously like Jesus Christ . Finn snorts, and though Jax typically doesn’t react, his eyes are definitely locked on me.
I take a slow breath, then do as my alpha says:
I drop to my hands and knees, and the room goes silent.
I crawl—deliberate, slow, and absolutely shameless —toward the cocky alpha lounging on the floor with his arms spread over the back of the couch like he’s already won. His eyes darken with every inch I close between us, his lips curving up impossibly further.
“Good girl,” he murmurs as I reach him.
Bastard.
I make a show of straddling his lap, my knees pressing into the floor on either side of his enormous, muscular thighs. He smells unfair —sweat, body wash, and something sharp and alpha that goes straight to my already-ruined brain. His hands settle low on my hips, and I can feel the heat pouring off both of us.
“This a bad idea?” I murmur, already breathless.
Theo smirks. “Baby, this is the idea.”
Then he kisses me, and even though I don’t mean to, I forget about everyone else.
His mouth slants over mine, hot and hungry, like we’ve been waiting all week to get back here. I groan as his tongue pushes into my mouth, and I meet him with the same filthy energy, grinding down on him with a quiet whimper as his hands snake around my hips and tighten on my ass, right in full view of the others.
There’s nothing slow about it. This kiss is all teeth and tongue and messy heat—like foreplay and flashback all rolled into one.
“ Fuck ,” he groans against my mouth, breaking just enough to speak. “Missed this mouth.”
“You’ve had it,” I pant back.
“Not enough.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his fingers digging into my ass, then into my thighs. The air’s thick with scent now—mine and his, mixing into something heady and want-soaked. I roll my hips, and his growl is immediate.
“Careful,” he mutters, biting my bottom lip. “You keep that up and I won’t stop at kissing.”
“You say that like it’s a threat.”
He laughs into my neck, then nips at my jaw, breath hot against my skin. “Just giving the others a show. You gonna let the bottle spin again, sweetheart?”
“Eventually,” I whisper, grinding just once more for good measure. “But I’m busy right now.”
And judging by the way Theo licks into my mouth again like he owns it, so is he.
Eventually, I pull myself off Theo—still a little dizzy, still tasting him on my tongue. My body is flushed and buzzing, scent all over the room, and I know it.
The others do, too.
Rory won’t meet my eye, Finn is openly flushed, and Theo’s smirking like he’s just won a gold medal in oral warfare.
The bottle sits discarded in the middle, no longer needed. I’ve kissed three of the four, and we all know who’s left.
I glance across the room to where Jax sits, his toned legs spread wide, his hands loose over his thighs. His eyes don’t move—not once. They stay locked on mine with that quiet intensity that says more than words ever could, and my pulse skitters.
I shift off Theo’s lap slowly, one leg at a time, limbs still humming, mouth still kiss-bitten and hot. I flash him a grin over my shoulder.
He lifts a brow. “Where you going, sweetheart?”
“Where do you think?”
His smirk is filthy. “You know the rules. Crawl .”
“What is this, a heat fanfiction?” I snort.
“Don’t pretend you’re not into it,” he grins.
I hesitate only for a beat, then drop to my hands and knees again. I start to move across the room, then glance back over my shoulder, just in time for Theo to swat my ass.
I smirk even as I squeak. “ Ow .”
“You’ll live.”
I roll my eyes and keep moving.
Every step closer to Jax makes the air feel heavier. By the time I reach him, I’m breathless; resting between his knees, my whole body tuned to his.
He looks down at me. He doesn’t seem surprised, not even greedy, just… patient .
“You okay?” I whisper. “I mean, this game’s gone full unhinged at this point.”
He blinks once. “You’re scenting like you want me to rip your clothes off.”
My heart stutters.
“ Jax .”
“Don’t ask me if I’m okay, Frankie,” he breathes. “I haven’t been okay since you walked in this house.”
I can’t wait for another moment longer. I scramble up into his lap, my knees bracketing his thighs, arms looping around his shoulders as his big hands settle on my waist.
“Then what are you waiting for?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
Just grabs the back of my neck and kisses me.
And everything else disappears.
The moment his mouth hits mine, my whole body jolts. Sparks, electricity, a drop straight into something primal. His lips are firm, hungry, and all-consuming, and I moan as hands tighten. He pulls me closer, pressing me firmly against him, and I open for him without hesitation.
And he takes it. Deepens it.
His tongue strokes mine, slow and confident. He drags me hard against him—and fuck , I feel him already hard beneath me, thick and solid through the layers of our clothing. My fingers clutch his broad shoulders, trying to ground myself in the moment as his mouth eagerly dominantes mine.
It’s overwhelming. Instinctive. Raw .
This isn’t play—this is chemistry.
This is—dare I even think it— bond-deep .
He breaks the kiss, his plump mouth brushing mine as I pant against his lips. My skin’s flushed, my slick is rising, and my heart is pounding in my throat as he looks down at me.
“You feel that?” he growls.
I nod, rocking my hips instinctively against the outline of his cock. Shit —he’s huge. “Yes.”
“You weren’t ready before.”
I’m not sure I’m ready now—but I want it. I want him .
“I am now,” I whisper. “I want you.”
He pulls me in again and devours me, and heaven help me: I let him.
We kiss long enough that my legs go numb, long enough that my scent floods the room again, cloying and sweet, slick rising thick between my thighs. And when Jax finally pulls back, his chest is heaving .
His lips are wet, and his hands—still heavy on my waist—tremble like he’s hanging on by a thread.
I’m not doing much better.
Across the room, Theo’s sitting forward, elbows on his knees, jaw tight and gaze sharp. Finn’s standing, now; his arms crossed, his chest flushed and his breathing short. Rory’s shifted, his legs spread wider, his fists clenched on his thighs like he’s fighting every instinct to stand and do something .
My eyes flick between them all. Between my pack .
Fuck .
I press my forehead to Jax’s shoulder, trying to remember how to breathe. He exhales slow, and one of his hands lifts to cradle the back of my head.
“We should stop,” he mutters, voice rough. “Or I’m not stopping.”
I nod into his neck. “Yeah. Okay.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Theo clears his throat.
“So… same time next week?”
Finn groans and flops back onto the rug as Rory mutters, “Someone get the omega a cold drink before we all combust.”
I laugh—breathy, flushed, still half-straddling Jax.
“Remind me again what game this was?” I ask, finally peeling myself off him and wobbling back toward the couch.
Theo smirks. “Spin the bottle: group therapy edition.”
Finn tosses a throw pillow at him.
I fall back into the cushions, heart pounding, skin tingling, and the weight of four alpha gazes still burning across my body.
We might not have bonded yet, but after tonight, I know it’s only a matter of time.
And god help me—I cannot wait.