Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
GRAYSON
I sit with my back against the wall, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the heat building beneath my skin. Kai and Noah’s pool game provides background noise—the click of balls, Kai’s running commentary, Noah’s occasional dry response—but my focus is elsewhere.
On the other side of this wall, Holly just entered full-blown heat.
Pressed to the wall like this, I hear every rustle of the sheets as she writhes on the bed, every quickened breath as she gasps and whimpers.
The sounds filter through the wall like whispers meant only for me, each one striking a primal chord deep in my chest. My fingers curl into fists on my thighs as I fight to remain still, to respect the boundaries we all promised to maintain.
“Eight ball, corner pocket,” Kai announces, leaning over the table with exaggerated concentration.
Noah snorts. “You’ve got no shot.”
“Watch and weep, BuzzKlink.”
“BuzzKlink?”
“It’s a play on words, BuzzKill…BuzzKlink. Get it?”
Noah sighs, clearly not offended. “You can really do better with the nicknames..”
“I know, I’m a perpetual disappointment.” Kai lines up, takes the shot, and misses spectacularly. The cue ball bounces off three rails before coming to rest in the middle of the table. “That was intentional. I’m just setting up my next move.”
“Your next move is watching me win,” Noah says, studying the table.
I tune them out again, my senses locked on the sounds from the other room. Holly’s breathing has changed, becoming more rapid, hitching slightly every few seconds. There’s a rhythmic quality to it now that makes my jaw clench and my blood run hot.
She’s touching herself.
I should move away from the wall. Give her privacy. But my body refuses to cooperate, every muscle locked in place as hints of her scent—sweet, spiced, so obviously omega even if it’s still more muted than it should be—seeps through the wall and wraps around me like invisible tendrils.
“You okay over there, Ghost?” Kai calls
I grunt in response, not trusting my voice. My bandana feels suddenly restrictive across my face, the air behind it too hot, too thick with her scent.
“You have next game after Noah inevitably scratches,” Kai continues, either oblivious to my state of mind or deliberately ignoring it.
Noah lines up his shot, sinks the eight ball cleanly, and straightens with a satisfied smirk. “You were saying?”
Kai throws up his hands in mock outrage. “Rigged! The table is clearly slanted.”
Their back-and-forth washes over me without registering. All I can focus on is the soft gasp from the other side of the wall, followed by a whimper so filled with need it makes my teeth ache with the effort of not responding.
I’ve had a omegas in heat before, difficult to avoid with so many of them in town. I’ve always been able to keep my head through the pheromones, the sounds of desperate need, felt the instinctive alpha response rise within me and been able to tamp it back down. I’ve always maintained control.
But this is different. She is different.
From the moment I first caught sight of her, something about Holly pulled at me in ways I couldn’t explain, before it even occurred to me that she could be an omega.
I’ve spent years carefully constructing walls between myself and the world.
One small woman shouldn’t be able to breach them so easily.
Yet here I am, every sense trained on her like a predator tracking prey, while my closest friends remain seemingly oblivious to my struggle.
“Another round?” Kai asks, already racking the balls.
Noah checks his watch. “One more. Then I should check on Holly again.”
The mention of her name coincides with another sound from beyond the wall—a soft, broken moan that sends a bolt of pure desire straight through me. My nails dig into my palms hard enough to draw blood.
“You sure you’re okay over there, man?” Noah asks, his clinical gaze assessing me from across the room. “Your pupils are dilated.”
I force myself to shrug. “Fine.”
“Right,” Noah says, clearly unconvinced. “Your turn to break.”
I push myself to my feet, intending to approach the pool table, when I hear it—a single word, breathed so softly that only someone with my hearing would catch it through the wall.
“Alpha.”
Everything in me goes still, then surges with a primitive response so powerful it nearly drives me to my knees. Before I can think, I’m moving toward the door, driven by an instinct older than civilization.
“Where are you going?” Noah asks, casually stepping into my path.
I stop, reality crashing back. What am I doing? We promised her safety. Autonomy. Respect.
“Beer,” I grunt, the word scraping past my tight throat. “Going to the garage fridge.”
Noah’s eyes narrow slightly. He knows me too well to be easily fooled, but after a moment, he steps aside. “Bring that Belgian ale if there’s any left.”
I nod once, sharply, and exit the game room. The hallway stretches before me, and I deliberately turn left, away from Holly’s room, toward the garage. Each step feels like moving through quicksand, my body fighting my mind’s commands.
I make it all the way to the garage door before I stop, my hand on the knob, listening. I hear Noah and Kai resume their game, their voices muffled by distance. No one is watching.
Before I can reconsider, I double back, moving silently down the hall toward Holly’s room. Just to check, I tell myself. Just to make sure she’s okay. If her door is locked—as it should be—I’ll walk away.
I reach her door and pause, listening. Her breathing is ragged now, punctuated by small sounds of frustration. She’s in distress. That’s why I’m here. To help. To protect.
The lies I tell myself are flimsy even to my own ears.
My hand closes around the doorknob. I’ll test it. If it’s locked, I’ll go. Simple.
But the knob turns easily under my grip.
Because she didn’t lock it.
A thousand possibilities flash through my mind. Maybe she forgot. Maybe the lock is broken.
But maybe—on some level that is so deep she doesn’t even know it’s there—she wants someone to come in.
Before I can decide what to do with this information, my body makes the choice for me. The door swings open, and I step into the room.
Her scent hits me first—still diluted by whatever chemical cocktail she drowned her true self with, but more than enough to make me stagger. Fresh linen hung in the mountain breeze.
My nostrils flare behind my bandana, drinking in her essence, cataloging every note of her unique chemical signature.
Mine.
The thought rises unbidden, primitive and possessive.
I’ve never experienced this before—this instant, bone-deep recognition.
I’ve heard of scent-matching, of course, but that’s the sort of thing no one actually believes in unless they’ve experienced it themselves.
That rare and instinctive compatibility between alpha and omega that transcends normal attraction.
I always assumed it was either a myth or at least grossly exaggerated.
It might not be.
My eyes find her on the bed, flushed and trembling, her dark hair a wild tangle around her face.
Blankets and pillows are mounded up around her in the most chaotic nest I’ve ever seen. Clearly not the result of someone who spent their childhood practicing the perfectly aesthetic creations that get featured on Instagram.
Her pants and underwear are in a pile on the floor, so I can only assume she isn’t wearing anything under the sheet twisted around her body.
The fabric clings to her sweat-dampened skin in ways that make my mouth go dry.
In her hand is a toy—omega-specific, high-end—and her eyes are wide with shock and something else.
Something that calls to the alpha in me like a siren song.
Need. Raw, desperate need.
For a moment, we simply stare at each other, frozen in a tableau of mutual recognition. Then Holly makes a small, distressed sound and hurls the toy across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud and falls to the carpet.
“It’s not enough,” she says, her voice breaking on the words. Tears glisten in her eyes, whether from frustration or embarrassment, I can’t tell. “I need—I need an alpha. Please. I need you.”
I need you.
The plea undoes me. Three words, and every shred of control I’ve maintained shatters like glass.
I take a step toward the bed, then another. Each movement deliberate, measured, giving her time to change her mind. To tell me to stop. To remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
She doesn’t. Instead, she reaches for me, her hands trembling.
“Please,” she says again, softer this time. “Grayson.”
My name on her lips is the final push I need. I close the distance between us in two strides, reaching for her as she reaches for me.
Our hands meet first, her small fingers closing around my larger ones with surprising strength. The contact sends a jolt through me, like touching a live wire. Her skin is fever-hot against mine, soft despite the calluses that mark her as someone who works with her hands.
I should say something. Ask if she’s sure. Remind her that heat decisions aren’t always rational. But words have never been my strong suit, and right now, any I might come up with seem entirely inadequate.
Instead, I reach up with my free hand and lift my bandanna, just enough to reveal the scar that mars the curve of my lower lip.
I just want to smell her without the cloth in the way.
This scar isn’t the worst of them, not by a long shot, but still enough of a test. If she pulls back, withdraws in horror or surprise, I won’t hold it against her.
If anything, that might be enough to provide some necessary suppression on the fire I have raging inside me.
But she only seems to take the move as an invitation.
Her arms lash around me with the speed of striking vipers, pulling me down hard enough that I have to catch myself with my palms on the mattress.
Without even a beat of hesitation, she captures my mouth in a searing kiss.