Chapter 23 #2
Atlas's expression doesn't change, but I see the flicker of irritation in his eyes. His grip on the wine glass tightens—just slightly, just enough that I notice. Richard just went over his head. In front of everyone.
"I think it sounds lovely," Margot says, squeezing Richard's arm. "We could rent a house somewhere. The coast, maybe. Or the mountains. Somewhere peaceful where we can all just... be together."
"Be together," Zero echoes. There's something dark in his voice. He tilts his head, exposing the sharp line of his jaw, the pale column of his throat. "Like a real family."
"Zero." Atlas's warning is quiet but clear. He shifts in his chair, and his knee bumps the table, making the silverware rattle.
"What? I'm just clarifying." Zero finally looks up, and his smile doesn't reach his eyes. His gaze slides to me—holds for one heartbeat, two—before returning to Richard. "Dad wants us to play happy family. I want to make sure I understand the assignment."
"That's enough," Richard says.
"Is it? Because I thought the point of these dinners was to 'iron out our differences.'" Zero makes air quotes, his long fingers cutting through the air. "Hard to do that if we're not allowed to talk about what's actually going on."
The table goes deadly silent.
Bane's hand has moved to his jaw, fingers rubbing absently at the stubble there.
Atlas is completely still, that predator stillness I've seen before, every muscle coiled.
Zero is practically vibrating with barely contained energy, his leg bouncing under the table hard enough that I can feel the vibration through the floor.
Richard's gaze sweeps across his sons, then lands on me for a long, uncomfortable moment. I feel pinned in place. Examined.
"And what," Richard says slowly, "is actually going on?"
Nobody answers.
Atlas's hand moves—slow, deliberate—to rest on the table. His fingers spread wide, as if he's bracing himself. Or holding himself back.
Margot's hand tightens on Richard's arm. "Maybe we should talk about the vacation details later. When everyone's had time to think about it."
"Margot—"
"The chicken is getting cold," she says firmly. "Let's just... let's just enjoy dinner. Please."
Richard exhales through his nose. But he picks up his fork. Returns to his food.
The conversation limps along after that.
Margot asks about the weather forecast for the week.
Richard mentions a golf game with a colleague.
Atlas offers a few words about a restaurant he tried recently, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my chest more than hear.
Bane pushes food around his plate, occasionally glancing up through his lashes in a way that makes my skin prickle.
Zero says nothing at all, but his presence is a weight, a pressure, his energy filling the room even in silence.
It's stilted and awkward, everyone dancing around the elephant in the room, but at least words are being exchanged.
I focus on breathing. On keeping my body under control. On not looking at the three pairs of eyes I can feel watching me whenever Margot and Richard aren't paying attention.
Then it hits.
A wave of heat rolls through me, sudden and intense, like someone's turned up a dial inside my body. My skin prickles. My vision blurs at the edges. The sizzle in my veins becomes a roar, rushing through me, pooling low in my belly.
I grip the edge of the table. Try to ride it out.
But I can smell myself now. That's the terrifying part. I can smell my own scent thickening in the air—honey and vanilla and something darker, smokier, needier. Leaking out of me like I'm a cracked vessel that can't hold anything in anymore.
Three heads snap toward me.
Atlas goes still. Completely, utterly still, like a predator that's just caught wind of prey. His fork hovers halfway to his mouth, forgotten.
Zero's nostrils flare. His jaw tightens. I watch his hands curl into fists on the table, knuckles going white.
Bane inhales sharply across the table. I hear it somehow, even over the ambient noise—the quick, stuttered breath, the way his whole body goes tense.
They can smell it. All of them. They can smell what's happening to me, what's been building for days, what I can't control no matter how hard I try.
Our eyes meet. Just for a second. Atlas's gray, Zero's ice-blue, Bane's hazel. Three different colors, three different men, but the same look in all of them.
Hunger.
"—and I thought we could bring that wine from the cellar, the one from our anniversary. Richard? Richard, are you listening?"
"Hmm?" Richard drags his attention back to Margot. "Yes, the wine. That sounds fine."
The moment breaks. The brothers look away—Atlas back to his plate, Zero to the window, Bane to his water glass. But the tension doesn't dissipate. It hangs in the air like humidity before a storm, thick and suffocating.
Margot stands, oblivious. "I almost forgot—I made dessert! Chocolate lava cakes. They're Max's favorite."
She disappears into the kitchen, and I want to cry. I want to tell her not to bother, that I can't eat anything, that I can barely sit upright. But she's already gone, and I can hear her humming as she plates the cakes, happy and unsuspecting.
She returns with a tray, setting a small ramekin in front of each of us. The chocolate is still molten in the center, steam rising from the cracks in the top. It smells rich and sweet and normally I would already be reaching for my spoon.
Tonight, the smell makes my stomach lurch.
"Go on, try it!" Margot settles back into her seat, watching us expectantly. "I tried a new recipe. There's a hint of espresso in the batter."
Richard takes a bite. Nods approvingly. "Excellent, darling."
Atlas murmurs something complimentary. Zero doesn't touch his. Bane takes a small bite, but I can see his attention isn't on the dessert.
Margot looks at me. "Max? What do you think?"
I pick up my spoon. Scoop up a tiny bite. Bring it to my mouth.
The chocolate hits my tongue and my stomach revolts.
I set the spoon down. Push back from the table. "I'm sorry, I—I don't feel well. I think I need to lie down."
"Max—" Margot's face creases with concern. She's half out of her chair before I can stop her.
"I'm fine, really. I think I'm just coming down with something." I'm already moving toward the door, desperate to escape before another wave hits. "I'll check the clinic tomorrow before class. It's probably just a bug."
"Do you want me to bring you some tea? Or soup? I can—"
"No, please. Stay. Enjoy dessert." I manage something that's probably supposed to be a smile. "I just need to sleep it off."
I don't wait for her response. Can't. The heat is building again, pressure mounting behind my eyes, in my chest, between my legs. If I don't get out of here in the next thirty seconds, something very bad is going to happen.
I take the stairs two at a time. Make it to my room. Lock the door.
Stand there, shaking, burning, barely holding on.
Bathroom. Cold water. Now.
I strip as I walk, leaving a trail of clothes across my floor—hoodie, t-shirt, jeans, boxers. By the time I reach the bathroom, I'm naked and trembling, my skin so hot it feels like it might actually catch fire.
The shower is cold. Freezing. I turn the knob all the way and step under the spray before it's even fully running.
The shock of it steals my breath. Ice water pounds against my overheated skin, and I gasp, brace my hands against the tile wall, let it wash over me.
It helps. A little. The roaring in my veins dims to a dull thunder. The pressure in my head eases slightly.
But it's not enough.
I was already half-hard before I even made it up the stairs—had been fighting it all through dinner, willing my body to behave while three alphas stared at me across the table.
Now, even with cold water sluicing down my body, I'm still hard.
Achingly, impossibly hard, my cock jutting out from my body like it has its own agenda.
And lower, deeper, there's that hollow ache that wants more.
That emptiness that demands to be filled.
I close my eyes. Try to think of nothing. Try to will my body into submission.
It doesn't work.
My cock throbs with every heartbeat, so hard it almost hurts. I can feel the slick gathering between my cheeks—that shameful omega wetness that no amount of cold water can stop. My hole clenches around nothing, desperate, empty, aching for something to fill it.
I've never felt this out of control. This needy. My whole body is screaming for relief, for touch, for more.
My hand drifts down without permission. Wraps around myself.
The sound that escapes me is embarrassing—a choked, desperate moan that echoes off the tile. I'm so sensitive it's almost painful, the lightest touch sending sparks up my spine. I squeeze my eyes shut and stroke myself once, twice, trying to take the edge off.
It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough.
My mind fills with images I don't want. Can't stop.
Atlas in the kitchen, his hands on my face, breathing with me. The steadiness of him. The control. What would those hands feel like wrapped around my cock? What would his voice sound like in my ear, low and commanding, telling me when I'm allowed to come?
I stroke faster. Rougher. My free hand braces against the shower wall, nails scraping tile. Precum leaks from my tip, mixing with the cold water, and I use it to slick my palm, twisting on the upstroke the way I like.
Zero in the basement. The weight of him pressing me into the workout bench. The way he took what he wanted without asking—rough and demanding and so fucking intense. The stretch and burn of him pushing inside me, filling me up, claiming me.