Chapter Twenty-Two
Finn
S ome people cope with stress by yelling. Some punch walls. Some—like Rory—glare at dish soap like it owes them money.
Me?
I make picnic sandwiches.
Because things are… a lot right now.
Jax claimed her. Bit her. Knotted her. Bonded her.
No one’s said it out loud yet, but we all felt it. Something shifted, and the scent in the house is different now; sharper, more charged.
For what it’s worth, Jax has seemed… almost calmer since it happened. Not withdrawn—just settled , like something inside him finally clicked into place.
I’m happy for him. Jax and I have been through hell and then some, and he deserves to be happy, he deserves to have this.
And Frankie? She chose him. She didn’t flinch, didn’t question it—she crawled into his bed and came out smiling the next morning.
But… that doesn’t mean the rest of us are calm. Theo’s been vibrating with leftover pheromones and revenge fantasies for a week, Rory’s snapped two forks in half just loading the dishwasher, and I reorganized the spice rack by emotional relevance at 1 a.m. on Tuesday.
The thing is: it’s not just us right now—it’s everything.
Frankie’s still getting hate online. Every post, every upload—most of the feedback is positive, but there are still comments like—
“Must be nice, living rent-free with four Alphas.” “Wonder how many of them she had to fuck to get the job.” “This club used to be about sport, not smut.”
She doesn’t say much about it, but I see how fast she scrolls through the comment sections, and I also see the tension in her jaw when she thinks no one’s looking.
And then there was the article. The one that hinted—not even subtly—that she’d slept her way into a job no one else even applied for. It made out that she’s just an omega in a house full of alphas, as if that discredits her qualifications and experience—as if she hasn’t tripled our engagement and somehow gotten Theo to stop posting shirtless mirror selfies with motivational captions.
(Okay, she didn’t stop him, necessarily, but now they’re branded content. There’s a caption strategy—that’s progress.)
Thankfully, the heat from the article is starting to cool down, but if that wasn’t enough, there’s also Denton Vale.
The match is next weekend, and tensions are running high. They’re undefeated so far, just like us, but they’re arrogant as hell. Their captain is a smug, privately educated, aggressively scented prick who’s been gunning for a spot on the regional team for years, and who’s father is out for Theo’s dad’s position.
We’re also ninety-nine percent sure he’s behind that article, one way or another.
Theo’s already got contacts digging into IP addresses, and Rory wanted to confront the Vale team manager directly, but Evie shot that right down. Jax said he’ll “handle it” and hasn’t elaborated—which, of course, is terrifying.
So. We obviously are in dire need of a reset. We need something calm, something light, something fun.
We need… a packnic.
Yes: a picnic for the pack. I made the pun, and I’m standing by it.
“I brought hummus,” I announce, unfolding the blanket with a flourish that absolutely no one appreciates.
Theo stares at it like it’s planning a crime. “That’s not a snack. That’s a cry for help.”
“It’s high-protein, omega-safe, and gut-positive.”
“ I’m high-protein and gut-positive,” Theo mutters, immediately reaching for the chocolate-chip muffins instead. “And I taste better.”
Rory scowls and grips his thermos. “Are we really doing this?”
“We are packnicking,” I say proudly. “It’s a bonding experience. Very emotionally mature of me, actually.”
“Emotionally concerning ,” Rory mutters.
He sits down so stiffly you’d think the blanket had betrayed him personally as Jax appears behind him, silent as ever and carrying a small Tupperware of cut fruit. I didn’t ask him to bring it—it’s just who he is. Reliable, slightly terrifying, and weirdly gifted at melon.
She’s wearing a white sundress. It’s soft, floaty, and knee-length, with little buttons down the front and a pair of oversized sunglasses perched on her nose. Her honey blond hair is loose around her shoulders, and she’s got a woven tote bag in one hand and a Tupperware container in the other.
Theo sees her first and mutters, “Well, shit .”
Jax straightens slightly, Rory stops talking mid-sentence, and I literally forget how to breathe for a second.
“Hi,” Frankie says, like she hasn’t just derailed all of our higher brain function. “I brought brownies. They’re… average. But they exist.”
She sits down gracefully on the blanket next to me, adjusting the skirt of her dress over her thighs as she side-eyes the hummus, then me.
“You still trying to make people like that?”
“It’s good for you!” I say, scandalized.
“Depression is good for no one, Finn.”
Theo snorts. “You’re being too kind.”
But her tone is light, less sharp-edged than it was even a few weeks back. She snatches some fruit from Jax’s container and leans back on her elbows with a sigh that sounds slightly less full of existential despair than usual.
Progress .
We settle in, passing food back and forth. Rory critiques the thermos coffee despite the fact that he brought it. I bring out a speaker, and we argue about the playlist for ten full minutes before settling on Frankie’s mix of indie rock, bad pop, and that one ten-minute long song that makes me want to cry in a field.
We eat. We talk.
And we lie to ourselves and each other about how chill we are about… well, everything .
No one mentions the article, or the fact that Frankie’s still getting targeted with anonymous comments under every post—comments that Evie’s now personally tracking with the tenacity of a digital bounty hunter.
Instead, we talk about everything else.
Frankie asks why Theo’s banned from the gas station on the other side of town (answer: “ vibes ”). Rory complains that the bakery down the street changed their cinnamon roll recipe (“ it’s a federal offense ”). I challenge Jax to a fruit-carving contest and lose instantly. He doesn’t even gloat—just hands me a perfectly sculpted pineapple rose and goes back to slicing watermelon with the calm focus of a polite serial killer.
I comment on it, and Frankie laughs—a full-body snort-laugh that makes her choke on a strawberry and whack Theo’s chest like it’s his fault—and my heart does that thing where it skips and flails and whispers, Oh no.
And then, because it’s us, someone produces a rugby ball.
“Don’t look at me,” I say. “It’s not mine.”
Theo twirls it in one hand. “Time for full-contact therapy?”
“No,” Rory deadpans. “It’s a public park.”
Theo immediately starts warming up.
Jax rises next, then Rory; and soon the three of them are on their feet, hurling the ball across the green with a combination of alarming accuracy and very little respect for local bystanders.
Frankie and I stay on the blanket. She stretches her legs out in front of her, toes painted soft pink. The sun catches the gold in her hair, her sunglasses slip down her nose, and I watch as she nudges them back into place with her pinkie.
A comfortable silence settles between us as her fingers find mine, and I smile like an idiot.
“They’re chaos,” she murmurs, nodding at the others.
“They’re your chaos,” I reply. “You’re stuck with us now.”
Her lips twitch. “I’m not stuck. I chose it.”
And god , she doesn’t even know it, but that means everything .
I run my thumb over the back of her hand. She turns slightly, shifting to lie down, and rests her head in my lap with a contented little sigh. Her dress rides up just enough to show the curve of her thigh, but her expression is peaceful, her body loose and relaxed.
“You comfortable?” I ask, brushing a piece of hair from her cheek.
“Perfect,” she mumbles, eyes already fluttering closed.
Theo whoops in the distance as Rory shouts something back at him. I look up just in time to spot Jax catching the ball one-handed before throwing it like he’s launching a missile. My instincts are thoroughly torn between staying put with my omega or running off to the rugby ball, but I remain put. I keep watching them for a minute, this chaotic little unit we’ve become —fractured and weird and built around this one incredible woman who showed up and made it all make sense.
She’s not marked by all of us yet. She hasn’t been fully claimed.
But she’s part of the pack.
And no matter what’s waiting around the corner—articles, haters, rival teams with sharp teeth and sharp tongues—I think we’ll be alright.
Because this ? This is more than alright.
This is her, curled up in my lap in a sundress, sleeping in the sun while our pack throws a rugby ball around badly and yells like children.
This is home.