Chapter Four
“I think this is the last of it,” Trick says as he comes into my new room. The box in his hands is so full that it’s bulging at both ends and the corners are rounded. Through the bathroom door, I nod to the bed so he’ll drop it there.
He takes his keys to split the tape, but at the last second, I realize it’s labeled as “kitchen stuff.”
“Actually,” is all I get out before the box explodes in a rain of thongs and bras. They land strewn around the bed and floor.
Shit.
Trick slaps his hand over his eyes and coughs awkwardly. I scramble into the room and do my level best—which is pathetic—to collect the items quickly.
He pivots to hide in the bathroom and runs into the doorjamb in his escape.
“Sorry!” I call out. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t even think—”
“Don’t apologize,” he replies. “I shouldn’t have opened it without asking. I assumed kitchen stuff went downstairs.”
I frantically shove everything under the bed. There’s no dresser in here. The closet is massive with built-ins but too far away to hide my unmentionables quickly.
“It’s my fault for trying to disguise it. I should’ve known better,” I reassure him.
When everything is tucked underneath, he still has his hand over his eyes. He’s so tense that his bicep bulges and his back muscles are clearly defined under the crisp black tee. I tap him on the shoulder so he’ll know it’s safe to look. He warily lowers his hand and a grimace escapes.
“Don’t make fun of me,” I mutter.
“I didn’t say a single word.”
“You were thinking very loudly.”
“So you can hear my thoughts now, Isabelle? I don’t think you want to be in my head. Even I don’t want to be in my head.”
“Is the big, strong alpha telling the little ole’ beta he’s scawy?” I coo.
I expect at least a diffusing chuckle for that, he seems to like it when I push him, but his face droops.
Before I can get a word out to apologize, he replies, “Don’t worry about our designations. Worry about living in close proximity to Mason’s sleepwalking. He may decide he likes coming into your room, beta.”
“For the thousandth time,” I tell him. “I can sleep in the living room or in your office. I don’t need much and I’m imposing as it is.”
“And risk red lace to the face during an advertisers’ call? No chance in hell.”
I mirror his smile and let some relief creep in that the chill is receding.
“Is there something wrong with my closet?” he asks.
“I’ll move it all in when you’re gone.”
He grunts but motions me to the double half-doors on the other side of the room.
Lights automatically illuminate the long, narrow closet. There’s way more drawers, shelves, and hanging rods than I need to store my outfits and shoes. I don’t even do pajamas. It never made sense to buy special clothes to sleep in when shirts and underwear are already required daily.
“I need to show you something,” he says.
Trick reaches into the hanging area for long dresses and taps a square embossed into the wood surface. The back of the cabinet splits in half, a door slides to the side into the wall, and yet more lights click on.
“If this is the kidnap and torture room, I’m fine without the extra space.”
“Very funny. I don’t expect you to go in. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. But you should know it’s here since it’s in your room.”
Peering into the space, I find an area no bigger than ten feet square with a sunken soft zone in the center. Around the perimeter, cabinets, cushion blocks in every shape, and a fridge serve the space.
Anxiety and embarrassment flood my body with a traumatizing mix of hormones.
This is a nest.
I was not prepared to be living in a pack house with a nest.
Or in what’s obviously the omega’s room.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“It’s so... well... organized,” I say, but my voice is too shaky and he has to hear it.
I can’t let on how uncomfortable this makes me. A beta wouldn’t care. Hell, a beta like me would probably relish living in a player’s omega room.
But for me, real me, it’s fucking terrifying.
“I think I should sleep on the couch,” I repeat, as if I’ll be able to convince him.
This is too much. I shouldn’t be here. I back away but bump into him during my hasty retreat.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome. I thought you should know there’s an extra room here. I’d rather you didn’t go in. It’s for... well, you know who it’s for. Whoever she is, she wouldn’t like someone else in her space.”
A gritty growl vibrates from my chest before I can smother it.
I would not want another omega in my nest.
It’s mine. My pack is mine. My nest is mine. The whole fucking house is mine.
“I’m sorry, Izzy. I shouldn’t have shown you.”
“It’s fine,” I grumble. “I’m glad to know it’s there. I’m just epically uncomfortable sleeping in an omega’s room in a pack house. Please let me stay somewhere else.”
He tilts his head at me.
“You’ll sleep where I put you,” he says, the alpha intonation clear. It’s not really a command, and there’s no compulsion to follow it, but it’s obvious he’s tired of arguing.
“Yes, alpha,” I whisper and drop my gaze to break the eye contact.
His chest rises and falls, betraying how his breathing speeds. His smoky, umami scent fills the confined space until there’s nothing else for me to inhale.
Words perch on my lips to demand he stop breathing in all the clean air.
In a better circumstance, he might step away. He might insist on the distance. He might let me run or, hell, even agree to my request for another room.
But Patrick Wyatt does none of those things.
He steps forward, his chest so close it brushes against me when he breathes in.
Fire burns in my belly, and I fight to remain calm and clearheaded. My slick immediately soaks my panties. I’m desensitized to Brad doing this, but I’m not sure I’ll survive it if Trick and the others assert their natures around me. Even the suppressants might not be enough for a daily barrage.
“Is there something wrong with my home, beta?”
“No, alpha,” I reply.
He uses a knuckle to lift my face to him. “Is the room not to your liking?”
Prickles of anxious energy burst in my chest. On the one hand, he can’t know why it upsets me, but on the other, I don’t know if my poker face is good enough from 18 inches away.
“It’s very nice,” I manage.
“But?”
“I can’t sleep in your omega’s room. I’m not your omega.”
His eyelids droop, but the expression is inscrutable. “No, you’re not. But you aren’t here to be my omega either. You can’t fill that role. Right, beta?”
The repeated reminders send my instincts keening. It’s like he knows and wants me to unzip my mind and let him dig through the contents.
There’s no way he could have figured it out. We’ve barely spent any time together outside of texts. I’m not perfuming; the suppressants assure that. The pads aren’t practical for heavy physical activity, but unless he touches me between my legs, he’ll never know.
Any other omega would be a puddle on the floor right now in the face of Patrick fucking Wyatt wielding that voice, scent, body like a fucking flame thrower.
Every gene in my being demands I submit to him. If it hadn’t been for years of concealing who and what I am, I’d have broken down and admitted everything.
I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t deepen the hole I’ve already dug myself. I can’t keep looking into those insistent mossy-green eyes and not spill my secrets.
By the time I’m centered enough to face them, Trick’s watching me with a quiet challenge. It’s expectant and firm, and I like it entirely too much. I’d worried about Mason charming me or Vin making me slip, but I wasn’t expecting this.
Instead, I force out a weak, “No, alpha.”
He grunts. “I’ll leave you to it, Isabelle. Put your things away. This is your room.”
“Yes, alpha.”
He grins and steps away with that pleased expression fixed on his face.
And then the alpha who’s housing me runs away from me in his own home. There’s no other way to explain it than that. Trick wheels and jogs for the door.
Message received.I’m not his omega, and don’t fuck it up for whoever she ends up being.
* * *
The next day. Mason informs me that the boys are home from practice by 6, so I plan a “thank you” dinner for them.
Most wouldn’t invite a girl to live with them, and especially not pro athletes. Sure, we all get something out of the pact, but they could have easily still told me no.
The kitchen of this house is a chef’s dream. Smooth, white marble and wide oak planks make for a subtle, comforting space.
Compound butter chills in the fridge, and I’m drumming my fingers on the countertop while waiting for the rice to boil in the stock. Thick, hearty steaks come to room temp on the L-shaped counter. They’re already patted dry and waiting for more seasoning. Like the polite cook that I am, the island in the middle of the room is already clear of dishes and wiped down.
I had to dip into my savings for cuts the size they’ll need to eat and the quality ingredients they’ll expect.
Trick’s promised to get me a card for house expenses, but this is a gift from me. It’s not much of a thank-you without some sacrifice.
The garage doorbell dings, and I hustle to finish the last of the prep before they come in the door. I hastily wipe my hands off on the towel over my shoulder and straighten the “be happy you’re fed” apron from the pantry. It’s 100% made for alphas because instead of having strings to wrap around a body, it uses elastics clipped together with buckles. The stretchy fabric is great for beefy, big boys.
“Bunny?” Mason calls. “I smell Brussels sprouts. Are you trying to feed a hungry alpha vegetation?”
Rolling my eyes, I carry on my cooking. He does actually need nutrients and the Brussels sprout, carrot, and parsnip “chips” roasting in the oven are pure magic.
The man in question floats into the kitchen like he’s on top of the world. Vin stalks in behind him, his shaggy hair still combed back on the top of his head with hair clips. The two are in slacks and polos to fit management’s requirements that players come and go in business casual.
“Aren’t you two handsome,” I comment but only spare a glance at them so I can concentrate. “You’re just in time to tell me how you like your steaks.”
Vin takes one of the stools on the other side of the countertop’s “L” shape, but Mason disappears into the adjacent bathroom.
“What are you making?” Vin asks. His face is smooth and relaxed, but his eyes dart from the bathroom door to me.
Not suspicious at all.
“Steaks. Veggie chips. Garlic and herb rice. I’ll make a peppercorn pan sauce while the steaks rest. No cream, of course.”
“Damn. You normally cook like that?”
“Jolie—my best friend—she and I traded nights making dinner. I grew up cooking for my family too, although that was for eight. I haven’t made very many steaks, but I’ve watched approximately two hours of tutorials so I’ll be fine. So, how do you like your meat, tendy?”
The bathroom door swings open and Mason groans comically loud. “Use more hockey terms and I won’t be able to control myself.”
“Crease, biscuit, apple. And if you make even one more chirp about my lovingly cooked meal, then you can eat alone in the sin bin.”
He gargles the air and comes to peer over my shoulder. I’m still drumming my fingers on the countertop and focused on the rice, but when I glance up at him, my world narrows to an angry red line headed straight for his face.
I whirl and intercept him, grab him by the chin, and force his head to the side to better see the split lip and vibrant bruise spread across his cheekbone.
“Mason Martin LaMille, what the fuck is on your face?” I ask.
Vin’s smirking in the corner of my eye but is smart enough not to intervene.
“Like my shiner? Does it turn you on, bunny? You can sleep in my room tonight if so.”
I shove him away by his chin and cross my arms.
“Start talking,” I demand.
“Brad is officially aware that you’re living with us.”
“Uh-huh. And I suppose you told him in the worst way possible?”
“No, Trick told him while pretending it was a goodwill gesture to avoid drama. I, however, understand the purpose of our pact and did my best to goad him about how spicy and sweet you taste—everywhere.”
“You really do have a death wish.”
“Nah, I can take him. It was worth it to prove you love me.”
I silently glare at him.
“Go ahead, ask me how I know you love me.”
When I only scoff, his smile spreads.
“It’s cute when you pretend not to be aroused.”
“Mason, I swear to fuck—”
“I mean that you care I got hurt. Here you are, in my kitchen—”
“Trick’s kitchen,” Vin interrupts. “Also mine. Not yours.”
“—in our kitchen, getting all riled up over my boo-boos. Wanna kiss and make it better?”
Rolling my eyes as hard as I can, I swing back to the rice simmering on the cooktop. The timer’s about to go off, and then I’ll need to quickly fluff it and blend in the butter to make a sauce.
“Ah, ah. Not so fast, bunny,” Mason says, and it’s the only warning I have before he snatches an elbow and hauls me against him.
Sweet and tart lemony goodness wraps around me as I sink into his embrace.
My frustration fades in an instant. I’d always thought that scenting was one of those physical pheromone things. Perhaps the week of texting with him did something to prime my senses to be so attached to his scent.
That’s it. It’s purely autonomic. A learned response at most.
Vin clears his throat. “I’d like my steak mid-rare, please. Trick too.”
“Same for me,” Mason rumbles, and the growl in it goes right between my legs. I don’t know how I’m going to survive in a house with him—with them all really—and not overdose on the suppressants.
“Where is our intrepid captain?” I ask.
“Held back for some meeting,” Vin informs me. “Probably about little league’s poor sportsmanship that got him the shiner.”
“I was a great sportsman. Didn’t even fight back. The dick got in his sucker punch before I started dodging.”
“The goal is to make him jealous enough he comes crawling back and straightens up for the team. Try not to get yourself unalived while you’re at it.”
“Yes, my sexy kitchen bunny.”
I release an aggrieved sigh but then ignore him to finish making their dinner. I cook off the boys’ hefty cuts of meat, but leave Trick’s on the counter to make fresh when he gets home.
The steaks are resting, the rice is in the warming drawer, and the veggies have another 10 minutes in the oven. I’m gently simmering down the sauce in the pan I used to make the steaks when the boys emerge from the living room.
“It smells amazing, Izzy,” Vin says with a smile and resumes his place on the bar stool on the other side of the counter.
Mason, of course, will not give me peace. He swoops into the main kitchen area and circles me in his arms from behind. The salacious fool slides his hand into the apron, resting it low on my belly to tease me. He leans in to whisper in my ear.
“I like you caring for me, bunny. I’m pretty sure I’ve had this dream a time or twelve. Friends and steaks made by the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. It’s a good thing you aren’t an omega or I’d be unable to control my bite.”
I swallow hard but keep myself in check.
Except that Mason’s hand sinks lower and cups my core.
“Mason,” I stutter, reproach in my tone.
“What?”
“Actually, turn this way,” Vin interrupts. “I have an idea.”