Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rory
I ’ve never felt anything like this.
Not in a match. Not in a fight. Not even in the quiet moments before a final whistle when everything in the world stops and waits.
This is different.
This is peace .
Frankie is soft and flushed and pressed beneath me, her breath still coming in shallow little waves. My knot is locked tight inside her, and I’m trying to remember how to breathe, how to think, how to exist now that I’ve touched her like this, marked her like this.
My bond to her is thrumming in my chest like a second heartbeat, and I lift my head just enough to look down at her. She’s blinking slowly, lips parted, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. She looks completely undone.
“Hey,” I say, voice hoarse. “You alright?”
She smiles. It’s lazy and content and a little dazed. “Pretty sure I just blacked out.”
“Same,” Theo snorts, already lying beside us with one arm draped over his forehead. “I’m gonna start charging you for the performance fee next time.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.
Frankie giggles— giggles , which should be illegal considering I’m still buried inside her—and reaches for Theo’s hand without lifting her face from the pillow.
“Still alive?” she asks.
“Barely,” Theo says. “You drained me. Emotionally. Physically. Sexually. I should be in a museum. Displayed next to a caution sign.”
I groan, pressing my lips to the back of Frankie’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m perfect , and I just got edged for twenty minutes watching your emotionally repressed ass discover the meaning of life in her vagina.”
Frankie bursts into laughter. It shakes her whole body beneath mine, and I swear I feel it down to where we’re still joined.
“I hate that I’m not even mad at that sentence,” she says, voice muffled.
“You loved it,” Theo says smugly, scooting closer. “I give it thirty seconds before you start purring again.”
“She doesn’t purr ,” I argue, indignant on her behalf.
Frankie snorts. “I one hundred percent do.”
“Thank you.” Theo pats her hip. “See? Honesty. That’s how healthy packs work.”
We go quiet for a few long, soft moments.
The room is warm, sticky with sweat and slick and scent. My body’s still knotted tight inside her, and yet the silence isn't awkward, it's settled . Theo’s hand traces lazy, spiralling shapes across Frankie’s thigh while my nose stays buried in the crook of her shoulder, breathing her in.
There’s a throb in my chest. It’s not pain, not pressure: just something too big to fit. My hand slides over her ribs and comes to rest just below her breast. Her skin is damp, and warm—
And mine.
That’s the part I still can’t wrap my head around.
This… wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to me. I’ve spent most of my life doing what was expected: being Captain of the rugby team, looking out for my younger siblings, keeping things together .
There’s no doubt about it: my dad’s a traditional alpha. The thought of a bonded pack is something he’d scoff at without hesitation.
“It’s chaos. Diluted . No alpha worth his salt chooses a life of halves.”
For a good while, I’d believed him. Enough that I never questioned why I always felt like something was missing, why every girl I touched felt like a box being ticked, why I could play protector, play provider, but never really be with someone.
Until Frankie.
She’s chaos, sure—but she’s not diluted .
She’s sharp edges and soft skin. She makes you want to be hers; and not because you have to, but because she sees you.
Because she makes you want to show up, even when you don’t know how.
I didn’t think I had room for this kind of bond. I didn’t think I deserved to want it. But then she smiled at me like I’d already said yes, and now—
Well, now I’m in her. Knotted, bonded, and home .
I shift slightly, careful not to jostle her too much, and press a kiss to her jaw.
“I mean it, you know,” I murmur. “I’d never hurt you.”
Frankie tilts her face just enough to look at me, eyes half-lidded and a little hazy. She’s glowing; all flushed skin and bite marks and love.
“I know,” she whispers. “I feel it.”
Theo—because he can’t help himself —groans dramatically beside us.
“Oh my god ,” he mutters. “I’m going to cry and throw up at the same time. You’re both disgusting.”
“You could leave,” I offer, deadpan.
(Even as I lift one arm to pull him closer.)
Theo flops over both of us with theatrical flair, his head landing on Frankie’s thigh like he’s been struck down by emotion.
“Absolutely not,” he sighs. “I earned this sandwich. I contributed. I demand post-coital praise and at least two hours of uninterrupted omega cuddles.”
Frankie hums sleepily, a soft smile pulling at her lips. She nuzzles into my chest, her fingers lazily stroking the back of Theo’s head.
“You did,” she says, eyes fluttering closed. “You both did.”
Theo lifts a finger without opening his eyes. “I’d like that on record.”
“Noted,” I murmur.
And then we just… stay like that.
Tangled, breathing, scent-wrapped and ruined.
Theo's arm drapes over my waist without comment. Frankie's leg slides over mine like she belongs there. My knot is still firm, still locking us together in that raw, undeniable way—and I don’t feel trapped. I feel anchored .
For once, I don’t feel like I have to lead, or fix, or figure anything out.
I just get to be here, with them.
It’s the part I didn’t know I was waiting for, but now that it’s here, I’m never letting go.
*
The gym’s quiet when we get there.
Frankie’s still asleep—curled up in the middle of a blanket pile that now smells like four alphas and a war crime—and I think we all needed to get out before one of us accidentally bonded with the kitchen table.
So here we are: bleary-eyed, sore, and back to our regular programming.
Except it’s anything but normal, since it’s our first morning as a real, actual, official pack.
The gym already smells like rubber mats, steel, and testosterone.
“Only a few more days ‘til the semi,” I say, grabbing the clipboard off the wall. “We’re running pace drills, contact drills, and I want clean finishers. Denton Vale won’t give us space.”
Theo groans as he drops his bag. “You sound like Coach.”
“Coach likes winning,” I shoot back, strapping on my wrist wraps.
Finn’s halfway through rolling his neck out, still blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Coach also likes not knowing we’ve been illegally bonding in the middle of heat week. Pretty sure we just hit the compliance gray zone and the morality one.”
“Yeah, well, to hell with it all. I don’t regret a thing,” Theo shrugs, bending to stretch. “We’re bonded, she’s safe and happy, and that’s what matters. We’ll deal with the OSC, we’ll smash Denton Vale, and then we’ll buy matching jackets.”
Jax doesn’t even look up from where he’s stacking plates. “We’re not buying jackets.”
“That’s the attitude of someone who’s not ready for regional press coverage,” Theo waves him off.
Finn grins and grabs a kettlebell. “Can mine say ‘ omega collector ’ in rhinestones?”
“Yours would say ‘ caution: breaks things when aroused, ’” Jax deadpans.
Theo roars with laughter as he nods in agreement toward Jax. “And yours would just say ‘knife .’”
I shake my head, trying not to smile at these idiots fooling around as I adjust the incline bench. My muscles are sore as hell, but my chest feels looser than it has in weeks, like someone finally let the air back in.
My whole life, I’ve been the one holding the line. The glue. The spine. The guy you put in front when everything’s going sideways.
But today, I’m not holding us together. We’re holding each other .
Jax steps in to spot Finn as he benches. He doesn’t speak, just positions his hands silently above the bar, present and solid. Finn grunts through a set, pushing with clean form. Theo paces nearby, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s checking out his reflection in the mirror.
“You realize this isn’t a public-facing event, right?” I call.
He flashes me that shit-eating grin before slapping his stomach. “You’re just mad you can’t pull off abs like these.”
“I could,” I mutter. “If I didn’t have to do your paperwork.”
Finn racks the bar with a groan, then flops backwards onto the mat, arms spread wide. “Okay, semi-final strategy check-in. Can we please agree not to let Theo tackle the opposition while flirting this time?”
Theo picks up a 10kg plate and casually flips it into the air. “It’s called mental disruption , Finn. Ever seen a winger fumble because he’s questioning his sexuality mid-run? It’s effective .”
“I’ve seen Coach question your position mid-game,” I say under my breath, but I’m smiling now. We all are.
Because this is what it’s like now.
No more circling, no more territorial undercurrents, no more wondering if we’re all pulling in the same direction.
She bonded us. All of us. And for the first time, we’re in sync.
“ Jesus ,” comes a voice from the door. “Did someone set off a pack bomb in here?”
We all turn as Ben walks in, cringing theatrically and flapping his hand in front of his face.
Theo spreads his arms wide. “That’s the smell of commitment, Benny boy. Get used to it.”
Ben pauses, sniffs the air again, then eyes us all warily. “I feel like I just walked into the middle of a pack-bonded ritual sacrifice. You bastards smell like sex, alpha ego, and… cinnamon?”
“That’s me.” Finn raises his hand, cheerful. “I made muffins.”
Ben shakes his head. “ Fuck .”
“You’re welcome,” I say mildly.
“I’m just gonna… do intervals and try not to get imprinted by accident,” Ben says as he backs toward the cardio machines.
“If you faint, we’re not untying you!” Theo calls after him.
Ben flips him off without looking back as Finn laughs loudly.
“Poor bastard,” Jax mutters.
He adjusts the bar for his next lift as Theo flops down beside me on the mat and lets out a dramatic sigh.
“He’s just jealous he doesn’t get to be the little spoon.”
“ I am the little spoon,” Finn announces from the floor. “And I regret nothing .”
There’s a moment of silence.
Then Jax, deadpan as ever: “You’re six foot two.”
“Yeah, well, emotionally , I’m five three.”
We fall into rhythm after that—weights, reps, quiet spots and chaotic jokes—and somewhere between the third set and Theo trying to convince Jax to let him film a “ Pack Gym Thirst Trap ” series, I glance at the water bottles lined up in the corner.
Four bottles. Four names.
One pack.
For once, I’m not the anchor—I’m just one of the four.
And I’ve never felt stronger.