Chapter 1 #2
Our pack isn’t exactly a secret around the club, but it’s ours.
We keep it close. Quiet touches when no one is looking.
Stolen kisses behind closed doors. Moments hidden in dark storage rooms where the only sounds are Holden’s soft, needy whimpers between us and the quiet praise Dom murmurs into his skin.
As usual, the room reeks. Pheromones saturate every inch of the place, dozens of scents mingling together until the air feels thick enough to chew. You’d think after years of management throwing scent neutralizing spray cans at them, the boys would get the fucking hint. They never do.
Clive Roberts, the assistant manager, walks through the door, quieting the room almost immediately. His expression is surprisingly cheerful considering the mood around the team this past week.
“Good evening, everyone. Firstly, management and I want to apologize for keeping you all in the dark since Patrick’s passing.
We had to finalize a few things after the lawyers discussed the Will with us, and to say it has been a difficult week for all of us would be an understatement,” he says, his face solemn for a moment.
I have to force myself not to chuckle. Difficult for whom? I don’t feel any pity for the asshole.
“Patrick was an incredible man, both on and off the ice. He led the Cardinals to five Stanley Cup wins as a player, saw our 2014 and 2015 seasons win back to back cups as a coach, and oversaw much of the success we’ve enjoyed in the years since.”
Cry me a fucking river.
Someone sniffs behind me, and irrational anger burns through my veins.
He doesn’t deserve tears. Doesn’t deserve to be mourned.
No one shed a single fucking tear for me when I showed up to school with bruises hidden beneath long sleeves.
Nobody mourned the boy with split, fractured ribs. Nobody gave a fuck.
“Alas,” Clive continues, “while we still have heavy hearts, management is pleased to announce that Patrick’s shoes have finally been filled.” Finally? The guy only just croaked. The door to the locker room swings open, and I swear to fuck, nothing in this world matters anymore.
Standing at a little over five feet five, barely half the size of the doorway built big enough for men like me, the Omega graces us all with a smile.
Her dark chocolate brown hair falls in thick waves down her back, bouncing with each measured step she takes.
There’s something effortless about her beauty.
No heavy make-up. No flashy jewelry. Nothing forced like the puck bunnies we have sniffing around.
She’s heart-stopping.
The dead kind.
A fitted black dress clings to every dangerous curve, and the heels she wears give her just enough height to square her shoulders. She doesn’t have to say a damn fucking thing to command the room. No. All she has to do is walk into it. And every Alpha here notices. Including me.
Blood rushes south painfully, my cock straining against the sweats I’d thrown on in my rush not to be late.
Something I’m already regretting. Fear hangs in the air around her.
Not overwhelming. Subtle. Sweet. The little Omega’s scent is cracked around the edges, carrying enough anxiety to have something beneath my skin scratching to life.
I can’t name it. I can't understand it. But I can taste it. And it tastes fucking sweet.
Be still, my beating heart.
Licking my lips, I savor the scent, committing it to memory and tucking it into my spank bank for later.
I give the Omega back my full attention, not wanting to miss a single second of anything that comes from her lips.
“Good afternoon, everyone.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Her voice. I swear I almost came in my pants then and there. Like some inexperienced Alpha who has just come into their designation.
But her voice is… Fuck. The sound alone is enough to make me forget who I am.
Not because it’s soft. Not because it carries that sweet, submissive edge most Omegas have.
No. This Omega has the voice of an angel, and her brand of heaven isn’t meant for devils like me.
There’s a sharp edge to her voice that commands the room, commands me, and fuck it, I like it.
Half the Alphas in this room would choke on their own pride before admitting a woman like her belongs at the head of the table.
The other half would be desperate to drag her from it, just to claim her as their own.
I settle deeper into my seat, not bothering to hide the fact that I haven’t looked away.
I fold my arms across my chest, already imagining how beautiful she’d look on her knees, submitting for me.
I can see it now. The way she forces herself to stand tall, even though I can smell the nerves beneath all that confidence.
The way she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, daring this room to underestimate her.
It’s all just armor. A pretty little illusion designed to make powerful men question themselves before they dare to question her.
If she thinks she’ll have any kind of sway over me, she’ll be sadly mistaken.
Because little does she know, it’ll be me who makes her break.
Not all at once. Women like her never do.
They crack slowly. Quietly. Until they’re begging me to call them mine.
I might even be willing to share her with Dominic and Holden.
Who am I kidding? The more the merrier.
I want us to make her scream. To watch the tears fall down her flushed cheeks as she takes thrust after thrust of my cock, owning her slippery heat.
I want to feel her cunt squeeze around me as she bellows my name to the fucking gods in heaven. Letting them know who’s responsible for rocking her fucking world.
I want it to be me who makes her bleed.
My cock twitches again, reminding me that he is also begging for a taste, forcing me to straighten in my seat and adjust before someone notices.
The moment I move, it hits me. Sweet honey.
Jasmine. And something softer beneath its intoxicating scent.
Something warm and inviting. Like roses left beneath the moonlight, their petals drenched in midnight rain.
The aroma crashes into me with all the subtlety of a freight train.
My lungs seize. My heart forgets how to beat.
Every sound in the room disappears beneath the rush of blood pounding in my ears.
The realization doesn’t whisper. Doesn’t ask. It tears through me, sinking its claws into bone and sinew and every broken piece of my soul.
This Omega is mine.
The one person in this entire universe made for me. The one that calls to the darkest parts of my soul, and to something buried deep inside my chest. The only person I will ever truly love.
My scent match.
Mine.