Chapter 24 #2
I put my bag down. Not near the door. In the corner, near the couch. Near the blanket. Where it lives now, where it’s been living, where it belongs.
My gaze finds Ryan. Weeks of held distance, of careful restraint, of the right amount of space at all times. I watch him make the decision to put it down. Not dramatically. Not with announcement. Just does.
He crosses the room.
He stops in front of me and he puts his hand to my face. Both hands, the way Jack did on the pier, except this is Ryan, which is different. His hands are large and warm and completely certain. He tilts my face up and looks at me for one more moment with the expression I’ve been failing to decode.
I’ve decoded it now.
“Ryan,” I say.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispers.
And then Ryan, who is controlled and strategic and acts from clarity rather than reaction, kisses me like he has been thinking about nothing else since the moment he saw me.
Which, I understand now, he has.
The kiss is Ryan’s version of everything.
Unhurried and completely certain. Deeper than I expected from a first kiss and exactly what I should have expected from him, because Ryan doesn’t do anything halfway and he’s been waiting long enough that the waiting is in it, the whole weight of it.
I lean into him and his hands at my face are gentle.
When we separate it’s gradual, and he rests his forehead against mine. I breathe him in. Cedar and snow, the warmth of the pack bond finding its center.
I turn my head.
Jack is leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed and the expression of someone watching something they’ve been anticipating with great personal investment. He raises an eyebrow.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi yourself,” he replies.
The partial bond hums. I hurry in his direction.
He unfolds his arms and I walk into them. The partial bond sings and I stop managing it. I let it run. The full thing, warm and entirely his. He makes a sound against my hair that is real and nothing like the surface-Jack, the playful-Jack.
This is the underneath Jack. The one I’ve been craving since the maze.
“Told you,” he says, into my hair. “You stayed.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Completely,” he agrees. “You stayed anyway.”
I pull back far enough to look at him. His eyes are focused entirely on me. This is what has been building since a bar called The River and a conversation that lasted until last call and a bite we didn’t choose that changed everything.
“Jack,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“The bond. I don’t want it undone.”
His lips quirk into a smile. “Me either,” he says quietly, intimately.
I turn.
Tristan is in the kitchen doorway, and he is looking at me with the expression I’ve been receiving across prep tables and café counters and midnight stalls for weeks.
I go to him.
He meets me halfway, which is also entirely Tristan. He doesn’t wait to be come to, he moves toward you, always, the generosity of someone who understands that meeting people halfway is its own kind of care.
His hands find my waist and mine find his chest. I feel his heartbeat under my palms the way I felt Ryan’s on the pier, and he looks at me with the honey-jar expression, the one from the midnight stall, the one that has never once required anything from me.
“Tristan,” I say.
“I know,” he replies.
“I know you know. I’m saying it anyway. Thank you. For all of it.”
“You don’t—”
“I know I don’t have to.” I meet his gaze. “I want to.”
He kisses me with his full attention, with care for every element, slowly and deliberately and with the patience of someone who has been waiting and considered the waiting worthwhile. He tastes like honey.
When I turn again, Archer is where he always is.
He’s present, positioned, watching with the expression that finished changing weeks ago and has stayed changed.
He has not moved toward me. He’s standing at the edge of the room with his arms at his sides and the look that says he has decided something and is waiting for the right moment to act on it.
I walk to him.
He watches me come.
I stop in front of him and remember the night of passion we shared. Of how he showed me a different side of him, one that is rarely exposed.
“Archer,” I say.
“Lola,” he replies.
“You’re not going to make me come to you every time.”
“No,” he says. And he reaches for me.
His hands are confident, with no hesitation, no performance, just directness that he has committed to completely. He pulls me in and I go. His mouth finds mine and it’s that night again.
This moment doesn’t need to stay small.
I let it be as large as it is.
* * *
Later, I am on the couch. My couch. The blanket is over me and the fireplace is winding down. I am in the middle of it, which is where I have been for two weeks and where I intend to remain.
Ryan is seated in the chair by the window. Tristan is somewhere in the house, I can hear the faint sounds of him being awake and quiet. Jack is slumped at the table, with his head on his arms, asleep. Archer is situated way down the couch.
My feet are near his leg.
He hasn’t moved away.
The fire’s dying glow casts flickering shadows across the room, warming my skin even under the blanket. I’m cocooned here on the couch, my body heavy with the exhaustion of the past weeks. But tonight, the air feels different. Charged. The pack’s presence is a constant hum in my veins.
Archer’s thigh brushes against my foot, a deliberate press that sends a spark up my leg.
I don’t pull away. Ryan’s eyes meet mine from the window chair, steady and assessing, like he’s reading every flicker of emotion on my face.
Jack stirs at the table, his breathing even in sleep, but I know he’s not fully out, Alphas like him snap awake at the slightest shift.
And I hear Tristan approaching from the hallway, his footsteps soft, carrying a tray that smells of herbal tea and something sweet, like fresh-baked cupcakes.
He sets it down on the coffee table, his soft voice cutting through the quiet. “Thought you might need this, Lola. To settle your nerves.” His eyes are kind, that caretaker instinct shining through, but there’s heat there too, unspoken.
I sit up a little, the blanket slipping to my waist. I’m in loose pajamas—borrowed from one of them, oversized and comfortable—but suddenly, they feel too confining. “Nerves? Who says I’m nervous?”
Tristan smiles, kneeling beside the couch to pour a cup.
The steam rises, carrying notes of chamomile and honey, mixing with his scent: warm vanilla and cinnamon, like a cozy kitchen on a rainy day.
It’s soothing, but tonight it stirs something else in me, making my Omega core clench with unexpected want.
“We all are, a bit. This… us… it’s new.”
Ryan shifts in his chair, his strategic mind always a step ahead. “Lola, we’ve talked about this. The bond with Jack opened the door, but we won’t push. This is your call.”
I glance around at them. Archer’s intense gaze, now softened with something vulnerable. Jack lifting his head, blinking awake with that playful grin. Tristan offering the tea like it’s a lifeline. Ryan, the anchor, waiting for my word.
They’ve been supportive through everything, never demanding more than I give. But the pull is definitely there, the Omega in me craving the pack’s claim, even as my bold, furious side wants to seize it on my terms.
“Damn talking,” I say, my voice low but steady. I set the tea aside and reach for Tristan’s hand, pulling him closer. “I want this. All of you. Tonight.”
The room stills, then erupts in subtle motion. Jack’s grin widens, chaotic energy sparking. “About damn time, chaos queen.” But his tone is gentle, eyes checking mine for any hesitation.
Archer slides closer on the couch, his hand resting on my ankle. “We’re here for you, Lola. Whatever you need.”
Ryan stands, moving to the couch with purposeful grace.
“If this is what you want, we’ll go slow.
” His words are a promise, and the way they all nod, aligning around me, makes my heart race, not with fear, but anticipation.
This isn’t like with Jack, all wild banter and impulsiveness, or Archer’s controlled intensity.
This is shared, supportive, a symphony of touches and scents building around me.
“You’re not in heat, are you?” Archer asks.
I shake my head. “No. I’m on suppressants. I haven’t had a heat in a long time.”
Ryan glares at me, letting his Alpha show through in his bark. “No more suppressants. After tonight, that’s it. Pack bonded Omegas don’t need them. Throw them away.”
“Of course,” I reply. Honestly, I’ll be glad to be rid of the tablets and the side effects that come with them. When I go into heat, I know these men will take care of me.
Tristan is the first to lean in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that’s soft at first, exploratory. His hands cup my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks, and I melt into it, tasting the sweetness of honey on his tongue from whatever he was baking earlier.
The fire’s warmth dances on my skin as he deepens the kiss, his body pressing gently against mine.
I feel the others watching, their Alpha scents intensifying—Jack’s spicy wildfire, Archer’s stormy leather, Ryan’s crisp command—all blending with my blooming Omega perfume, floral and needy, filling the room like an aphrodisiac.
“Beautiful,” Tristan murmurs against my lips, his voice a soothing rumble. He pulls back slightly, eyes locked on mine. “Tell us if it’s too much.”
I nod my head. “More.” My hands tug at his shirt, and he obliges, stripping it off to reveal a lean, toned chest. He’s not as bulky as the others, but there’s strength there, caregiver’s hands that know how to nurture.
He helps me out of my top, then my pants, leaving me bare on the couch.
The blanket pools around my hips, and the cool air pebbles my nipples, but their gazes warm me. All appreciative, focused solely on me.