Chapter 15
arlo
The auction hall is packed and buzzing with the kind of chaotic energy that only Knotlocke can pull off.
Lights are draped from the rafters, gold and white tablecloths cover every surface, and the scent of too many Alphas, Omegas, and Betas all crammed together in one room makes my nose twitch. But none of that matters right now.
All I can focus on is Parker. She’s sitting beside me in the third row, white-knuckling her bidding paddle like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
Her scent is a storm of peach and warm vanilla spiked with sharp, nervous citrus that keeps peaking every few seconds.
I slide my arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to her temple, trying to steady her.
“You’ve got this, baby,” I murmur against her hair. “We’ve got this.”
She nods, but her grip on the paddle doesn’t loosen. We pooled everything we could scrape together, $5,500 between her bit, my savings, and a few desperate favors from classmates. It’s going to a good cause. The team needs that money. But right now, the only thing that matters is winning Fox.
Behind the stage curtain, I know he’s wearing the dark gray pinstripe suit I bought him two years ago for some formal event he never ended up attending.
Parker spent all last night making him try on every single suit he owns, then every tie, until she found the perfect combination.
She stood there in nothing but one of my shirts, adjusting his collar and smoothing the lapels like it was the most important decision of her life.
He looked hot as fuck in it. I’ve been half-hard all day just thinking about peeling that suit off him later. Or watching Parker do it. Preferably both.
The lights dim, and the announcer steps up to the podium. “And now, one of our most requested Alphas of the night… Fox Martinez, catcher for the Knotlocke baseball team!”
The curtain parts and Fox steps out under the spotlight, the entire room seeming to inhale at once.
The dark gray pinstripe fits him like it was made for him, tailored shoulders, crisp lines hugging his broad chest, and those long legs.
The white shirt underneath is open at the collar just enough to show a hint of the matching tattoo on his left pec.
His hair is styled back, tattoos peeking from his cuffs.
He looks dangerous. Untouchable. Mine. Ours.
Parker makes a soft, wounded sound beside me. Her scent explodes so thick it cuts through the entire hall. I tighten my arm around her, pride and possessiveness slamming into me so hard I have to breathe through it.
Fox’s eyes find us immediately in the crowd. His gaze locks on Parker, softens for half a second, then hardens again with that quiet intensity he only ever shows us. He stands tall, hands clasped in front of him, the picture of controlled power.
Bidding starts at five hundred.
Paddles shoot up everywhere.
It climbs fast, eight hundred, twelve hundred, then fifteen hundred. Parker’s paddle is up every single time, her arm steady even though I can feel her trembling against me. We hit three thousand. Then four. My stomach twists. We only have fifty-five hundred total. This is going to be close.
Then I see her.
Carolina.
She’s standing near the front, blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail, veins standing out on her forehead as she thrusts her paddle up again and again.
I forgot about her after last summer, after we very politely but very firmly told her we weren’t interested in anything she was offering.
She’s been gunning for us ever since, apparently.
“Six thousand!” she yells, her voice echoing across the gym.
The room murmurs. Parker’s hand falters for half a second. We don’t have six thousand.
“Six thousand five hundred!” Carolina shouts, standing fully now, eyes locked on Fox like she’s won already.
Parker’s paddle stays down, her whole body trembling against my side. For the first time in Knotlocke auction history, someone has bid higher any other auction. And it just so happened to happen with our man.
I tighten my grip on Parker, pressing my lips to her forehead when I catch a flurry of baseball uniforms popping up around the gym.
Our team must have snuck in at some point, Harlow and Theo a few seats over, the rest behind us and on my left.
They shrug off their jackets, each holding their own paddle to up the price.
Jamal raises his paddle from the back. “Six seven fifty!”
Theo follows immediately. “Six eight hundred!”
One by one, our teammates start throwing ridiculously small bids, twenty here, fifty there, like they’re daring Carolina to keep up. The crowd starts laughing. The organizer looks bewildered but keeps calling the numbers.
“Seven thousand two hundred fifty-nine!” someone yells from the baseball section.
Harlow stands up near the front, paddle high, calm as ever. “Let’s make it an even eight thousand, shall we?”
The entire hall erupts into more laughter. Parker makes a broken sound and buries her face in my chest, shoulders shaking. Tears soak through my shirt. I hold her tighter, kissing the top of her head as the organizer calls it.
“Eight thousand dollars—sold to paddle forty-two!”
The cheering is deafening. Parker lifts her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Harlow turns around immediately, pushing through people to reach us.
She pulls Parker into a crushing hug. “We couldn’t let someone else get him,” Harlow says fiercely, voice thick.
“Not when we all know he belongs to you two.”
Parker sobs once, then laughs through it, clinging to Harlow like she’s the only thing keeping her upright. The whole baseball section is on their feet, whooping and hollering. From somewhere in the chaos, I hear Milo’s unmistakable voice cut through the noise.
“Suck that, you nasty bitch!”
Quentin’s hand immediately clamps over his brother’s mouth, eyes wide with secondhand embarrassment, but the damage is done. The entire room loses it.
I pull Parker back to me, wrapping my arms around her, relief pouring through me. “Alright,” I say, voice rough with everything I’m feeling, “so where is he taking us to dinner?”
Parker glares up at me, tears still clinging to her lashes, but there’s fire in her eyes now. She grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me down until our foreheads touch.
“Fuck dinner,” she growls. “I want a mating bond.”