Chapter 17 #2
Maybe she’s right and I do need to stop fighting this so much. I need to just let go and see what happens.
But even as I think it, my stomach tightens with anxiety.
Because I know exactly where letting go will lead—with me in their beds every second of the day and night, bonded and knotted and completely claimed. With my life intertwined with theirs in ways I can’t take back.
And as much as I want that—fuck, I desire it so badly it physically hurts—the anxiety is still there. Maybe if I can just get through tomorrow without anything going catastrophically wrong, perhaps then I can think about everything else.
The outdoor ice rink in the town square is packed tonight, and I’m trying desperately not to think about work.
Lily’s advice keeps echoing in my head—stop putting work before my personal needs. So for tonight, I’m attempting to do exactly that. No thinking about the parade tomorrow and what might go wrong.
Just me and my three Alphas, ice-skating under the stars with dozens of other people.
Easier said than done when the enormous Christmas tree looms in the distance, dark and waiting. That’s my responsibility next week—the tree lighting ceremony for the council celebrations.
Just looking at it tightens my chest.
So many things to coordinate.
“Hey,” Kane says, appearing at my elbow with a concerned look. “You’re doing that thing again where you’re physically here but mentally running through work checklists.” He taps my forehead gently. “Turn off the brain for a few hours. Doctor’s orders.”
Despite everything, I laugh. We’ve been skating for almost an hour now, and I’m continually amazed by how good all three of them are on the ice. They glide effortlessly, turning and stopping and moving backward like they’ve been doing this their entire lives.
Meanwhile, I’m clinging to whoever is nearest like a baby deer learning to walk.
The rink is alive with soft instrumental music playing over the speakers, fairy lights strung overhead, creating a canopy of twinkling stars, and the buzzy warmth of a winter crowd despite the freezing temperature.
Breath clouds the air in little white bursts with every exhale.
The cold bites my cheeks, turning them pink, and my nose is probably red, but I don’t care.
This is actually nice.
I’m between Chris and Noel at the rail, taking a rest, and I’m aware of how close they’re standing. Like they orbit instinctively around me, creating a protective bubble. Their scents wrap around me despite the cold air and thread beneath my skin, warming me from the inside out.
I shift slightly, trying to ease the pressure, and Chris’s eyes immediately track the movement.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Fine. Just cold.” It’s a lie, and from the way his nostrils flare slightly, he knows it.
Soon enough, we step back onto the ice again, and I try to laugh off my clumsiness, teasing them about how I haven’t skated since I was twelve and even then I was terrible.
I wobble almost immediately, my ankles refusing to cooperate.
Chris catches my waist with one large hand, his fingers firm and warm even through my jacket. “Easy,” he murmurs close to my ear, his breath ghosting across my skin. “Let me lead.”
The ache between my thighs intensifies, and I bite back a whimper. I try again to glide forward, pushing off with one foot like I’ve seen everyone else doing effortlessly. But my balance wavers dangerously, my arms windmilling, and for one terrifying second, I’m falling backward.
Before my ass hits the ice, Noel materializes on my other side, his large hands bracketing my elbows and hauling me upright. Chris slides in front of me, his chest brushing my shoulder, and suddenly all three of them are forming a tight, protective circle around me.
My breath stutters in my lungs while my pulse skitters wildly.
If they keep touching me like this, steady hands on my waist, my elbows, my back, I might actually melt right down into a puddle on this ice.
When I finally steady on my skates, I reach for sarcasm because it’s my favorite shield against overwhelming feelings. “Okay, so maybe I’m not going to be an Olympic figure skater. That dream is officially dead.”
“I’ve got you,” Chris murmurs, winking my way.
Kane tips his chin at Noel, mischief already written all over his face. “Race you around the rink.”
Noel huffs. “You will eat ice.”
“Big talk for someone who almost wiped out getting off the rail.”
“That kid ran into me.”
“He was five.”
Their bickering pulls a laugh out of me.
They push off at the same time, cutting across the rink in long, sure strokes, shoulders brushing as they pick up speed.
A couple of people whistle when Noel spins at the far end and glides backward.
Kane copies the move, adding a cocky little flourish that nearly sends him into the wall.
I snort, warmth curling in my chest as they circle each other, still arguing.
Chris stays beside me, one hand light on my waist as we move in a slow loop near the edge. “Ignore them,” he says. “They are genetically incapable of not showing off.”
“I noticed,” I reply, smiling. “It is a little impressive, though.”
“They will be insufferable if you tell them that.”
Chris’s fingers suddenly tighten at my waist, just enough that I feel it. His shoulders roll back. His head lifts. His gaze is locked on something over my shoulder, jaw grinding. I follow his line of sight.
Two beefy men have just stepped onto the ice, at the far exit.
Heavy jackets. Beanies. Gloves. They appear like everyone else here. Except they have no skates on. They cut through the entry crowd without even pretending to adjust. Skaters yank themselves out of the way as the pair strides forward, eyes fixed ahead.
On us.
On Chris.
I feel him curse more than I hear it, a low vibration through his chest and arm. “Stay behind me, Hannah.” The words are calm. The tone is not.
“Who are they?” My voice comes out thinner than I want.
“Couple of assholes we brought in about six months ago.” His jaw is tight, his weight shifting, ready to move in any direction. “Guess the system decided to give them another chance.”
The men are closer now, shoving past a teenage couple, ignoring the glare they get in return. One of them lifts his chin in a small, ugly greeting. The other points, lips curling when he sees me standing with Chris.
He adjusts his stance, skating backward a few smooth inches so that his body is fully between me and them. His hand spreads wider at my waist, pulling me in until I can feel the hard line of his spine through his jacket. “Do not move from behind me,” he says, low and steady. “Understand?”
I nod even though he can’t see it and bunch my fingers into the fabric at his back, hanging on as the ice between us and the two men grows shorter with every breath.
The stockier man with a scraggly beard and mean eyes finds Chris immediately. His mouth twists into something nasty, and then his gaze slides over Chris’s shoulder, looking for me. When he finds even the hint of my outline behind Chris’s body, his grin widens.
“Well, look at that,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you’d upgraded your company.”
My stomach drops. Ice pools low in my spine.
Chris doesn’t move, but something in him sharpens. His stance shifts by inches, but the air around him changes completely.
The second man, tall, wiry, scar splitting his eyebrow, lets out a low whistle as he drifts a little closer. “Cute,” he says, tone lined with something oily. “Didn’t think you were the type to bring an Omega out in public. Brave of you.” His eyes cut toward me again, deliberate. “Or stupid.”
Heat flares in my chest, fear tangled with white-hot anger, but Chris speaks before I can get a word out.
“Don’t look at her.” His voice is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes right before a door breaks or a bone snaps.
Scar-Eyebrow ignores him, steps closer, voice dropping. “Maybe she wants to be looked at. Plenty of Omegas do.” His gaze lingers on my shoulder. “Bet she’s sweet as honey when—”
Chris moves.
He doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t shout. He just steps back, placing more of his body between me and them, guiding me behind him with one smooth, controlled sweep of his arm.
His shoulders square, legs bracing wide on the ice, the calm precision of someone who’s taken down men like these a hundred times before.
“You’re going to rethink everything you just said,” Chris murmurs, low and lethal. “Right now.”
Beard laughs, a harsh bark that grates on the air. “What? Touch a nerve?”
Chris’s head tilts just a fraction. “I am going to give you one chance to walk away,” he says quietly. “You should take it.”
Scar taps his gloved fingers against his thigh, amused. “There it is. The lecture voice.” His gaze drifts past Chris again, trying to find me. “Come on, man. Share a little holiday spirit. Let the Omega be with someone who knows how to treat her.”
Beard laughs under his breath. “Yeah. We could show her a real good time.”
My pulse spikes so hard I feel it in my throat. Heat flashes through my chest, sharp and furious, but my feet might as well be nailed to the ice.
“Last warning,” he growls. “Walk away.”
They don’t. Beard reaches, trying to get around him, fingers brushing the air close to my arm.
The rink lights flicker.
Once.
Twice.
Then the world snaps into darkness.
Music dies. Voices rise. Skates scrape in sudden stops. Shadows stretch and twist in my peripheral vision.
Chris’s hand clamps on my hip, dragging me tight against his back. “Hannah?”
“I’m here,” I manage.
“Don’t move.”
Then the stockier man lunges, arm swinging toward Chris’s head in a wild arc. I see the punch coming, sharp against the dim glow of the distant streetlights. Dread consumes me.
Chris intercepts the punch mid-swing, forearm snapping up to block with a force that jolts through his body and into mine. The impact cracks through the air like a snapped branch. Beard jerks at the collision, pain twisting his face.