CHAPTER TEN
Cameron
I didn't sleep.
I'd tried to ignore it at first. Pulled a pillow over my head. Counted backwards from one thousand. Recited poetry in my head - Neruda, Bukowski, anyone dark enough to kill an erection.
But then I'd heard her say Zane's name, breathless and desperate, and my hand was in my boxers before I could stop myself.
I came embarrassingly fast, biting my fist to stay silent while she cried out downstairs. Then lay there in the dark, cum cooling on my stomach, hating myself for it.
The shame sits heavy in my chest now, mixed with something else. Curiosity. Want. The memory of her voice breaking on Zane's name.
I've watched her since she joined the team.
How could I not? She commands attention without trying, this tiny force of nature who makes eight Alphas bend to her will with just her voice.
But it's more than that. It's the way she never backs down from Gray's challenges.
The way she sees through Beckett's charm.
The way she treats Jackson's silence as valid communication rather than something to fix.
She sees us. Really sees us. And that's... dangerous.
Now it's 5:45 AM and I'm at the boathouse early, trying to outrun the shame and the lingering arousal that won't quite fade. The lake is shrouded in mist, the air thick with humidity that promises another hot day.
I sit on the dock, feet dangling over the edge, watching the water. This is where I make sense of things. The patterns in the current, the way morning light fractures on the surface. Water doesn't lie. Doesn't pretend. It just is.
Unlike people. Unlike me, sitting here pretending I didn't get off to my teammate and our coxswain. Pretending I don't want to know what she tastes like, what sounds she'd make for me.
Maybe that's why I've always rowed bow seat so well - the isolation suits me.
One man alone at the front of the boat, setting the rhythm for starts but otherwise following the pack.
It's safe back there. Clean. No eye contact with the coxswain, no pressure to be the stroke's mirror.
Just technique and water and the comfortable distance I've perfected.
But distance has costs. In bow seat, you miss things. Subtle cues between teammates. The way chemistry builds or fractures. You're part of the boat but separate from its heart.
Coach Torres arrives at 5:50, parking her sedan with military precision.
She gets out with economical movements - every gesture purposeful, calculated.
Former Navy, I'd guess. Maybe Marines. She has that look, like she's cataloging exits and calculating threats even while checking her clipboard.
Younger than I expected - maybe early thirties - with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that miss nothing.
"Blake," she says as I approach. "Cameron, right? Bow seat?"
I nod.
"Good. Help me understand your team dynamics before the others arrive."
It's not a request. I set down my water bottle, trying to figure out what she's fishing for. She wants information, but giving too much could hurt us. Giving too little makes us look like we're hiding something. Which we are.
"We row," I say simply.
She smirks. "Cute. Try again. Eight Alpha rowers and a female coxswain. That's unprecedented at this level. How's it working?"
I think about last night. About Reese's voice echoing through the house. About the way we all turned toward her this morning like plants seeking sun. About the fact that I can still smell her on my skin despite two showers.
"Fine," I say.
"Your performance metrics suggest otherwise. You've been inconsistent since Callahan joined. Some practices brilliant, others barely functional. Why?"
I shrug. "Adjustment period."
"Or designation complications." Her gaze sharpens, and I realize she's not just observant - she's hunting. "I'm not here to cause problems, Blake. I'm here to keep your team eligible to compete. But if there are dynamics at play that could violate university policy, I need to know."
She's giving me an out. A chance to confess before she discovers it herself. But confession would end everything. Reese would be gone. The team would be investigated. We'd probably lose our season.
"No complications," I lie smoothly. "Just eight guys learning to take commands from someone new."
She studies me for a long moment. I keep my expression neutral, a skill I've perfected over years of hiding my own shit.
"You don't talk much, do you?" she observes.
"No ma'am."
"But you see everything."
I don't respond. She's not wrong.
Before I can answer, voices carry across the parking lot. The rest of the team arriving together, which is unusual. We typically trickle in. But this morning they're moving as a unit, with Reese in the center like they're unconsciously shielding her.
I study them as they approach. Gray leads, because of course he does, his body angled slightly toward Reese even while talking to Bo.
Jackson and Eli bookend the group - not touching but moving in perfect synchronization like they're connected by invisible thread.
Zane walks just behind Reese's left shoulder, close enough that I can see how their spaces overlap, how she doesn't flinch away from his proximity like she did yesterday.
Tyler's in the middle, gesturing animatedly about something - probably stats or technique. Beckett lounges along like he doesn't have a care in the world, but his eyes track every movement Reese makes.
They look like a pack. Move like one. And they don't even realize it.
I've been watching packs form since middle school. My parents run a designation counseling center, so I grew up seeing the signs. The unconscious clustering. The synchronized movements. The way scents start to layer and blend until individual markers become secondary to the group signature.
We're exhibiting every classic indicator, and we've only been together with Reese for three weeks.
Something shifted last night. Not just Zane and Reese in the kitchen. The whole team feels different. More settled. Like puzzle pieces finally clicking together.
Or like biological imperatives overriding common sense.
"Gentlemen," Torres calls out. "And Ms. Callahan. Let's discuss expectations."
We gather in a semicircle, and I catalog more evidence.
The way Zane stands just behind Reese's left shoulder, not quite touching but close enough that their space overlaps.
How Jackson and Eli bookend the group, a unit within the unit.
Gray's position directly across from Reese, maintaining eye contact like he's checking she's okay.
And Reese herself - something's different. She looks... relaxed. For the first time since joining us, the constant tension in her shoulders is gone. The perpetual wariness in her eyes has softened into something like trust.
She got what she needed last night. Not just the orgasms - though from the sounds, those were spectacular - but the connection. The belonging. The thing we've all been dancing around since she arrived.
"I'm not here to babysit," Torres begins. "I'm here to ensure you can compete without violating university policies regarding mixed-designation teams. That means professional boundaries. Appropriate physical distance. No designation-based behaviors that could be construed as bonding activity."
"We understand," Gray says.
"Do you?" She looks at each of us in turn. "Because from what I observed walking up, you're already exhibiting pack protection patterns around Ms. Callahan."
Nobody responds. She's not wrong.
"Here's how this works," Torres continues. "I observe. I report. If I see anything that suggests inappropriate dynamics - scent marking, territorial behavior, bonding indicators - I'm obligated to file it. Three strikes and your season ends. Clear?"
"Crystal," Gray says tightly.
"Good. Let's see how you row."
We move through our usual preparation routine, but everything feels different under her scrutiny. I'm hyperaware of every interaction, every glance, every breath.
Gray barks orders with his usual efficiency, but there's something protective in how he positions himself between Torres and Reese whenever possible.
Bo helps Reese adjust the foot stretcher in the cox's seat, his hands lingering a moment longer than necessary.
Jackson actually makes eye contact with her - brief, but significant for someone who usually communicates through grunts and shoulder shrugs.
We're all orbiting around her now. Not obviously, not in ways Torres can document, but in a thousand small adjustments that add up to one truth: she's ours.
The thought should disturb me. I've spent three years keeping myself separate from the team's dynamics, maintaining distance even while living in the same house. It's safer that way. Cleaner. Less complicated.
But watching Reese settle into the cox's seat with newfound confidence, hearing the authority in her voice as she calls out commands, I understand why they're all falling into her gravity. She's not just commanding the boat. She's giving us permission to be what we are together.
As we carry the shell to the water, I catch Reese's scent. Or rather, scents. Plural. She smells like Zane - cinnamon and warmth. But underneath that, there's something else. The whole team's scents layered together in a way that shouldn't be possible unless...
No. We're not a pack. We're not bonding. That's not what this is.
Except I know what pack formation looks like. Watched my older sister go through it in college. The gradual scent integration. The unconscious synchronization. The way individual identities start to blur at the edges, creating something larger.
We're speedrunning through stages that usually take months or years. And we don't even realize it.
Except as we settle into the boat and push off from the dock, something clicks. For the first time in days, we move as one from the very first stroke. No hesitation, no fighting for rhythm. Just nine bodies and one voice creating perfect synchronization.