Chapter Twenty-Five
Finn
T he kitchen smells like vanilla extract and a nervous breakdown.
I’ve got two trays of different flavor muffins in the oven, some banana bread cooling on the windowsill, and there’s scone dough resting in the fridge— overworked , thank you very much—because apparently, I’ve decided that baking myself into carpal tunnel is a better coping mechanism than screaming into a pillow.
Stress baking would be an understatement right now. This is a full-blown meltdown patisserie.
I whisk harder, and the mixer bowl wobbles on the countertop.
“Easy, Gordon Ramsay,” Theo mutters from behind me.
I scoff, wanting to correct him that Gordon Ramsay is a chef, but I don’t. I don’t look up, either.
“Tell that to the Omega Safety Compliance Board who want to turn our house into a cautionary tale.”
He snorts and swipes one of the warm muffins from the tray. “These smell good.”
“I added cinnamon to those ones,” I say darkly. “To honor the flavour of betrayal.”
Theo bites into it and groans. “God, she’s ruined me. This is better than sex.”
“I hope it’s not,” I mutter. “I’m not knotting you over a traybake.”
He laughs, but my stomach still twists.
Because the truth is… I’m scared.
Not of bonding. Not of commitment. Not even of the headline-level chaos that seems to follow Frankie like an extremely hot personal raincloud. I’m scared of her getting hurt; of this whole thing spiralling beyond what any of us can fix.
Theo wanders off—probably to go pester Rory in the backyard—and I’m left alone again. Just me and the muffins and the echoing sound of government-issued doom.
The scent of Frankie and Jax’s bond is everywhere now. It's as though it’s sunk into the walls and the sheets and every pack instinct I have. I’m happy for them—really, I am—but it makes everything real . This isn’t casual, this isn’t theory—this is happening , and if the OSC decides to make an example of us? If someone from Denton Vale stirs up more trouble? If Frankie wakes up tomorrow and realizes she’s bonded to two emotionally unstable rugby players with a muffin budget bigger than their salaries?
Well—what if she decides she doesn’t want this? What if she decides that we’re too much?
I rub my hands down the front of my apron ( yes, I’m wearing an apron, and yes, it says “Bake It Till You Make It,” and no, I will not be accepting criticism at this time ) and stare out the window, where Rory is doing his usual emotionally constipated pacing and Theo is sitting down on the patio.
Jax had passed through earlier with a carved spoon and a face that said speak and I’ll remove your vocal cords, so. That’s where we’re at.
Then—
“Finn.”
I nearly jump out of my skin.
Frankie’s in the doorway, and for a second, I forget how to speak. Or move. Or exist.
Her hair’s a mess. She’s in an oversized cardigan that’s slipped off one shoulder, and a white dress that might be a nightgown or a declaration of war, I don’t know. All I know is she looks soft and sleepy and like something I want to protect and worship, which feels borderline rude when I’m already spiraling.
Before I can say anything, she walks straight up to me and wraps her arms around my waist. Her face presses to my chest without hesitation, and her scent sinks into my skin immediately.
Something inside me unclenches, and I hold her tighter without even thinking.
“You okay?” I ask, voice low.
She tilts her face up, cheek still against my shirt.
“I smelled cinnamon,” she says. “And emotional damage. Thought I’d check you weren’t baking yourself into a nervous collapse.”
I swallow. “Define collapse .”
She smiles, then glances at the tray. “Are those lemon and poppy seed?”
“Potentially.”
She reaches for one and takes a bite, then moans. Actually moans .
I forget how to stand.
She finishes it in four blissful bites, licks icing sugar off her thumb, and looks up at me through her lashes like she hasn’t just committed a crime.
I cough. “Do you—uh. Want me to walk you back up?”
She lifts a brow. “Back to my room?”
“Just to your door ,” I amend quickly. “Unless you wanted—unless you—”
She reaches out and laces her fingers through mine.
“I want.”
Well.
That short-circuits my brain.
Brain: fried. Body: toast. Dough: forgotten.
I squeeze her hand and lead her up the stairs. We stop outside her room, and she opens the door slowly, smirking as she looks over her shoulder.
“You coming in?”
I blink. “I—uh—are you sure?”
She rolls her eyes, but it’s fond. “ Finn .”
“Right. Yes. Coming in. Entering the omega zone.”
She shuts the door behind us, then toes off her slippers as I hover awkwardly.
“I meant what I said,” she murmurs. “Back there. About choosing you. All of you.”
I nod, steadying my voice. “And I meant what I said about not losing you. Not ever.”
Something flickers in her eyes, then she steps closer. Close enough that I feel the warmth of her body before she even touches me, that I can see the freckles on her nose and the way her lashes flutter when she blinks.
My hands lift and settle at her waist. Her breath catches, and then her fingers slide into my hair, gentle but sure.
Her nose brushes mine, and I close the distance.
The kiss is soft, slow, and deliberate. We take our time with it, like neither of us wants to rush, but then she makes this sound—a small, needy thing in the back of her throat—and I lose whatever restraint I was pretending to have.
She gasps as I press her back toward the bed. Her fingers move from my hair to my shoulders as she sits down on the edge, pulling me down with her. My hands move to her thighs, thumbs dragging up the smooth skin there as she shivers and parts her lips.
“ Finn .”
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “Always.”
I kiss her with everything I’ve been holding back—all that heat and devotion and the way she’s been living rent-free in my skull. Her hands are under my shirt now, roaming up my stomach, fingers splayed like she’s memorising every inch. I groan into her mouth, then pull back just enough to yank the shirt off over my head and toss it aside.
Her eyes go wide, then hungry.
“Off,” I murmur, tugging at her cardigan.
She doesn’t hesitate.
The dress beneath is soft, and I swear, my brain short-circuits when I see how perfectly it hugs her body. I slide the straps off her shoulders, slow and purposeful, not breaking eye contact. She shivers again—and this time it’s not from the cold.
“You’re gorgeous,” I say, voice low and rough. “Completely unfair, actually.”
She blushes. “You’re literally sculpted. That’s not a fight you’ll win.”
“Oh, I’m not here to win,” I say, pressing her back onto the mattress as I crawl over her. “I’m here to ruin you.”
Her breath catches.
My mouth drags down the column of her throat, slow and hot. I nip at the edge of her collarbone, then soothe the sting with my tongue. Her hands find my shoulders, my arms, clinging like she’s trying to keep herself grounded, like I’m the only solid thing in the room.
She lifts her hips as I slip a hand under her dress and drag it up, baring her inch by inch.
“Finn,” she whispers again, voice shaky. “I—”
“I know,” I murmur, kissing the edge of her jaw. “You don’t have to say it. I’ve got you.”
I hook my fingers into her underwear and pull them down, slow enough to make her squirm. Then I settle between her thighs, spreading them gently with my hands and pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, then higher still.
“You’ve been driving me insane,” I say, brushing my thumb over the crease where her thigh meets her hip. “Every time you laugh. Every time you walk into a room wearing one of our shirts. Every time you say my name like that.”
She lets out a breathy moan, hips shifting toward me.
“Say it again,” I murmur, kissing the spot just above her hipbone.
“Finn,” she breathes.
“ Fuck. ”
And then I kiss her perfect cunt—long and slow and deep, with tongue and intention and enough heat to set her alight. She gasps and arches and moans, and I don’t stop. I keep going until her thighs are trembling around my head and she’s panting my name like it’s the only word she knows.
And when she finally breaks—when her whole body tenses and then collapses under the weight of her orgasm—I crawl back up her body, settle my mouth against hers, and whisper, “You’re mine. You hear me?”
“Yours,” she nods. “God, Finn—I’m yours .”
I barely have time to catch my breath before she flips us. One second I’m braced above her, dizzy on her taste, and the next I’m flat on my back with a lap full of the most determined omega in Alderbridge.
She straddles me with deliberate ease, her toned thighs bracketing mine, palms pressed to my chest, her dress bunched at her waist and her hair a wild halo.
“Frankie,” I breathe.
“Thought you said you had me?” she smirks down at me, rocking forward just enough to make my whole body twitch. “Because I feel like I’ve got you .”
“Oh, sweetheart,” I rasp, hands locking onto her hips. “You’ve always had me.”
Her nails scrape lightly down my chest, dragging a shudder out of me that I do not try to hide. She leans forward, teasing, hair falling around us as she kisses me—slower now, coaxing, claiming.
“I want to make you feel good,” she whispers. “Let me?”
“You don’t need permission,” I groan. “Take what you want.”
And she does.
Her fingers slide between us, tugging at my waistband, eyes never leaving mine as she pulls me free and shifts her hips just enough to rub the entire length of her slick cunt along my cock. I swear under my breath, hips jerking up as her body moves—grinding, slow and filthy, dragging moans out of both of us.
“You’ve been teasing me,” she says, voice soft but edged with heat. “Kissing me, looking at me, being obnoxiously good with your hands.”
“Not my fault you keep wearing tiny dresses and making sex noises every time you eat my banana bread.”
She laughs, and then gasps when I buck up against her. Her hands land on my chest again for balance, and then she sinks down.
Slowly. Torturously slowly.
I feel every inch as her body stretches around mine—wet, tight, and perfect. She’s panting, while I’m dying.
“You okay?” I manage, barely.
She nods, mouth open, eyes half-lidded. “So full. You feel…”
“Say it.”
“Good. So fucking good , Finn.”
She starts to move; slow at first, then deeper, then dirtier. Her hips rolling and grinding, thighs flexing, her body claiming mine with every drag and thrust and whimper. My hands grip her hips, guiding, grounding, because if I don’t hold on, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.
She leans down and kisses me again, all teeth and heat and hunger, moaning against my mouth as I thrust up into her in time with her rhythm.
“Fuck,” I gasp. “You’re gonna kill me.”
She smiles. “But what a way to go.”
I don't know how long we move together like this—grinding, gasping, chasing the edge with no shame and no space between us. She rides me harder and faster as her slick clings to me, coats me, lets me slide in deep and stay there, her body gripping mine with every thrust.
My voice is raw as I shower her with praise. "You feel... Christ , you're perfect ."
She bites her lip, her hips faltering as I thrust up again—slow and hard and deep enough that she whines .
“I want more,” she pants. “I want all of it.”
My whole body locking under hers as I groan, teetering on the edge. “ Frankie ,” I hiss, staring up at her. “Are you sure?”
“ Yes ,” she nods. “I want you to claim me, Finn. I’ve wanted it since day one.”
My heart pounds so hard I swear she can feel it. It echoes in my ribs, my throat, my fingertips pressed against her skin. The bond I’ve been aching to thread with her—the one that’s hovered just out of reach since the moment she curled up in my lap, laughing at something stupid I said—is right there, waiting.
She’s blinks down at me like I’m something worth choosing, and I push up on my elbows and sit back against the headboard, hands steady even though nothing inside me is. One hand slips to her hip, holding her there. The other comes up to cup her jaw, slow and careful.
“I won’t hurt you,” I say, and it’s a vow. A promise wrapped in breath.
“You won’t,” she whispers in agreement.
“I’ll be yours,” I breathe. “Always.”
Her forehead presses against mine.
“Then do it,” she says.
That’s it. That’s all I need.
My mouth drops to her neck, and I feel her shiver. She’s so soft under me, so open. Her body tenses with anticipation, breath catching, hands digging into my shoulders.
And then I bite.
She gasps—high and wrecked and gorgeous—and I feel everything snap into place. The bond flares, threading through me immediately, all heat and rightness and finally . I taste her pulse beneath my tongue, feel her body clench tight around me, feel her whole self come undone in my arms.
I’m inside her. Marking her. Claiming her.
And I’ve never felt anything this real.
“ Mine ,” I growl, licking over the mark as her hips jerk against mine. “You’re mine now.”
She moans my name—broken and beautiful—and I let myself fall with her. She rides me through it, her orgasm building then crashing. Her hips jerk against mine, hard and fast and uncoordinated—
And I let go.
I thrust up as deep as I can one last time as my knot begins to swell. She takes it all, every last inch of me. My knot swells, locking us together, sealing the moment in something deeper than instinct. I press deeper, pull her tighter, and let go completely.
I come hard, body bowed into hers, everything I am spilling into everything she is.
And she lets me .
We collapse back into her bed in a messy tangle of limbs and sheets and sweat, still knotted, still shaking. She’s curled into my chest, her cheek pressed over my heart like she belongs there.
I stroke her back in slow, even passes, grounding us both. Her scent is everywhere now—in the bed, in my lungs, in the blood still buzzing through me from the bond.
I’ve never felt so full. Or so still. Or so complete.
She hums against my skin, and through the new thread between us, I feel her happiness hit me like the softest wave. Warmth. Contentment. That delicious, post-storm kind of peace. And underneath it all— relief . Safety.
She’s happy ; and it kind of knocks me sideways, how much that matters. How much it means .
“Hey,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
She tilts her face up and smiles against my chest. “You finally stopped stress baking.”
I laugh, exhausted and and elated and completely gone for her. I press a kiss into her hair, holding her tighter.
“For you?” I murmur. “I’d give it all up. Every muffin. Every traybake. Every banana bread known to man.”
She giggles softly, and as her fingers find mine under the sheets, I swear to every god in existence—this is it. This is what it feels like to belong.
Knotted together. Bonded.
Home .
She’s mine, now; and I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure she knows I’m hers.