chapter TWENTY-FIVE
Reese
R ain falls in a fine mist as we glide toward the starting blocks, drops catching in my eyelashes, beading on my skin.
The water's surface dances with tiny impacts, millions of miniature explosions that create a haze over the course.
The weather has turned just as predicted, transforming this final race into exactly the kind of challenge my crew has trained for.
I should feel confident. We qualified with the fastest time. Our morning practice was flawless. My rowers are the best-trained, most disciplined crew on the water.
Instead, I'm fighting a war against my own body, every cell betraying me minute by minute.
Tyler's emergency dose and my last regular suppressant should still be providing some coverage, but I can already feel them failing.
Heat simmers beneath my skin, pulse thudding too heavily in my veins, senses sharpening painfully.
The rain helps, its cooling touch providing momentary relief as we take position for the start.
"Attach to blocks," the official calls from the platform.
Cameron secures our bow to the starting mechanism, then turns his attention back to me.
To our immediate left, Westlake does the same.
Andrea sits ramrod straight in her coxswain seat, deliberately not looking my way.
But I catch her quick glance in my direction, followed by a satisfied smirk that makes my stomach clench.
She knows. She's been watching for this moment.
"Final adjustments," the official announces. "Lock on in ten seconds."
I check our position one last time. Despite the deteriorating conditions, we're perfectly aligned. The crew sits ready, bodies coiled with potential energy, waiting for my command.
Gray watches me, his calm, cold, and controlled energy laser focused. In front of me stretches two thousand meters of water between us and victory. Between me and whatever awaits when this race ends.
"Attention."
The stillness that follows is absolute. Eight bodies frozen in perfect preparation. Nine heartbeats synchronized in anticipation.
The horn blasts, sharp and sudden through the rain.
"Row!"
My crew responds with explosive power, oars digging deep, driving us forward from the blocks. The initial surge nearly throws me back, but I brace against the foot stretcher, maintaining my position.
"Power ten in three," I call, voice cutting through the rain. "One, two, three—now!"
The shell explodes forward, eating up water with each synchronized pull. Bayside and Ridgemont fall behind immediately, but Westlake matches us stroke for stroke.
"Quick off the start," I warn. "Westlake pushing hard. Stay clean, stay long."
We settle into race pace, finding the sweet spot between maximum power and sustainable effort. The rain intensifies slightly, droplets stinging my face as we cut through the water at racing speed.
Through the corner of my eye, I see Andrea in the Westlake boat, her profile tight with concentration.
She's calling something to her crew, pushing them to match our pace.
Between our shells, one lane of water separates two entirely different worlds, past and present coexisting in parallel trajectories.
"Coming up on the crosscurrent," I announce. "Ready to adjust in five, four, three, two, one—"
The boat hits the disturbance right on cue. This time, having experienced it in heats, the crew anticipates the adjustment perfectly. We power through without losing momentum.
"Beautiful work," I approve. "Half a length on Westlake now. Maintaining advantage."
The 500-meter mark passes beneath us. Quarter distance complete. My body temperature rises despite the rain, a flush spreading across my chest that has nothing to do with exertion. The medications are failing faster than expected.
Keep it together. Focus on the race. Nothing else exists.
"First marker confirmed," I call. "Seven seconds under record pace. Looking strong."
Gray's stroke is metronomic, perfectly calibrated for the conditions. Behind him, the crew matches his rhythm with skill born of countless hours training together. The shell cuts through choppy water with minimal resistance, our line true despite the crosswind tugging at us.
"Westlake making a push," I warn, spotting their increased tempo. "They're trying to close the gap before the turn. Hold form. Trust the training."
Ahead, the course stretches toward the critical turn at 1500 meters. Rain obscures the distant buoys, giving the impression we're racing into an undefined horizon, boundaries bleeding into gray.
Another wave of heat washes through me, stronger this time. My grip momentarily slips on the wet rudder lines before I correct it. The scent suppressant is definitely failing, biological reality asserting itself against chemical constraints.
Jackson feels it first despite me being downwind, his rhythm faltering almost imperceptibly before he locks back in. In the bow, Cameron's back stiffens slightly. They can sense me now, the first tendrils of Omega pheromones escaping the medications' control.
"Halfway point," I announce, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Still in the lead. Conditions worsening. Stay focused."
The rain falls harder now, drops striking the water's surface with enough force to create a constant hiss of white noise. Visibility deteriorates, the spectator stands reduced to vague shapes through the downpour.
Perfect cover for what's happening in our boat.
"Approaching the turn," I call. "Outside crew, prepare for increased pressure. Inside, ease off slightly on my mark."
We enter the long, sweeping turn that marks the beginning of the final stretch. I use minimal rudder, guiding the shell through the curve while maintaining maximum speed. The crew responds perfectly, port side pushing harder while starboard adjusts accordingly.
Westlake takes the turn too tight, their bow veering dangerously close to the buoy line. Andrea overcorrects, her rudder work causing a momentary check in their momentum.
"We've got them on the turn," I call. "Opening up the lead. Stay clean through the exit."
As we straighten out into the final stretch, another pulse of heat surges through me, stronger than before. Sweat breaks out across my forehead despite the rain, my heart racing beyond what exertion would explain.
I feel the change ripple through the boat as more of the crew picks up on my scent. Bo's powerful strokes briefly intensify before he regulates himself. Beckett's breathing pattern changes, becoming more deliberate, controlled. Even Eli, less reactive than most Alphas, shifts slightly in his seat.
"Final 500," I announce, pouring every ounce of command into my voice. "This is where champions are made. Ready for the sprint."
Gray hasn't reacted outwardly yet, despite being directly in front of me in stroke position, but his eyes are burning into mine. Whether that's the intensity of the race or what is happening right in his face is left to be said.
"Sprint in three, two, one—now!"
The boat surges forward as Gray cranks the stroke rate up, the crew responding with perfect synchronization. Every muscle straining, every breath burning, every stroke bringing us closer to the finish and closer to the moment when my careful deception crumbles completely.
The last 250 meters stretch before us, the finish line barely visible through the driving rain. Westlake pushes hard, trying to close our lead in a desperate final sprint. Their cox calls frantically, her voice carrying faintly across the water.
"They're making a move," I warn. "But they're too late. This is our race. Ten strokes to the line."
Another wave of heat, stronger than all the others combined. The medications break completely, my Omega scent flooding the immediate area around our shell. I watch it hit Gray like a tangible thing, his stroke faltering momentarily before he recovers with raw determination.
"Five strokes," I call, voice steady through sheer willpower. "Four. Three. Two. One—through the line!"
We cross the finish, the horn blasting to signal our victory. First place. Riverside Champions.
"Way enough," I command, allowing them to ease off.
The crew responds, bodies slumping as the race effort transitions to recovery. But beneath the exhaustion, I feel a new tension rippling through the boat. Eight Alphas suddenly, acutely aware of an unbonded Omega in pre-heat among them.
"Well done, gentlemen," I say, keeping my voice steady, professional. "Clean race, perfect execution."
No one responds. The air in our small vessel thickens with pheromones and rain and the complicated reality we now face. I feel their collective awareness like a weight. Eight pairs of eyes now fixed on me, eight bodies suddenly hyper-conscious of my presence.
"Officials confirm first position," I announce after the launch pulls alongside. "Riverside champions."
Still no celebration. No triumphant exclamations or relieved sighs. Just tense silence as we paddle back toward the dock, each stroke carrying us closer to the moment we'll have to acknowledge what's happening.
Gray sits rigidly in front of me, his scent sharp with tension. I can't look away from his tight jaw, the controlled fury at what he undoubtedly perceives as a betrayal.
The dock comes into view through the rain, coaches and teammates waiting to congratulate the victors.
Beyond them stands Andrea with the Westlake crew, her expression triumphant despite their loss as she watches our approach.
Beside her, Kinsley's smug smile suggests she knows exactly what's happening in our boat.
Of course she does. This was always their plan. Steal my emergency suppressants, force me to race until my medications failed, ensure maximum exposure when it happened. The timing is too perfect to be coincidental.
"Prepare to dock," I direct, voice clipped.
The crew responds, adjustments made with minimal communication. We glide alongside the dock in awkward silence.