Chapter Eighteen
Lennon
Idon’t remember the drive here. To be honest, I don’t remember much past my interaction with Dominic.
But here I am. Sitting out front of Holden, Dominic, and Sasha’s penthouse.
The three Alphas that have been tormenting me from the moment I was named as the next Head Coach of the Cardinals.
Someone who lives in the building was gracious enough to let me in and guided me to the elevators and all the way up to the top floor.
Because, of course, they live in a place like this.
I need answers.
I need to know what they know. The only way I could think of to get that, aside from speaking to the men directly, was to go straight to their home.
I’ve never broken into someone's house before.
I had never had a reason to. Until now, apparently.
I stare blankly at the numbers on the lockpad of their front door.
Like if I stare at it long enough, it will somehow give me the code.
Chewing on my lip, I decide to go for it using the first numbers that come to mind when I think of the pack. Surely they can’t be stupid enough to use their jersey numbers, but stranger things have happened.
Four-Four-Six-Three.
Huh. I suppose they are that stupid. The keypad lights up green, granting me entry into the devil's lair.
The moment the door opens, my knees buckle as three combined scents hit me.
Forest pine and cold air—smoke, spice, and snow. A whimper escapes my throat as I fall back into the now closed front door.
Mine.
They are mine.
My scent matches.
The three souls that have been put on this earth to balance me perfectly.
The same three people who have lied to me for weeks, maybe even months, about who I really am. Three men who knew I was their scent match never once said anything.
They tormented me. Claimed me in the most animalistic way possible. Made me so fuckign exhausted as I tried to navigate the absolute clusterfuck that was them.
They knew.
And they didn’t say anything.
They may not have lied, but keeping the truth from me, not only about my family history but about our bond, is the greatest betrayal.
I had been eating myself alive for weeks, wondering why I couldn’t stop thinking about these men. Why wasn't the contract that I had signed enough for me to walk away from them and to set clear boundaries?
It’s because of this. The bond that thumps in my chest now that I can smell them.
I feel my heart crack in my chest, something in my soul fracturing as I ask myself why. Why wasn’t I enough? Why did they hide this from me? Why wouldn’t they just tell me?
Why, why, why?
I could torture myself with wondering with the barrage of questions rolling in one after another.
With a scream, I launch off the door, finding a glass vase at the entry table.
Picking it up, I bring it behind my head before throwing it at the wall.
It explodes, sending tiny pieces of ceramic around the room.
That felt good. Catharic.
Turning back to the hall table, I grab that, using a strength I didn’t know I possessed, to throw it against the wall. With a clatter, it breaks into a few pieces, making a small part of me feel better.
This time, when I come to, I am far more shocked by my whereabouts.
Holden, Dominic, and Sasha’s scents aren’t as strong here, but I know that I am still in their house.
Looking around, I gasp, noting that I am in a nest. It's not an Omega’s nest though. Or at least not for an Omega that has ever been in here before. It doesn't have that comfort to it. The kind that can only be made by my designation.
So, the Alphas. They made this nest. But for whom?
Looking down in my lap, I find a stack of paperwork, along with a mobile phone.
Leaving the device for now, I begin flicking through the paperwork.
Document after document of information with random names, and the last name Welsh flashed before my eyes.
I see the name Cameron more than once on bonding documents filed with the government and on pack registrations that list my mother's name.
Coming to the last page, I pause. It's a birth certificate. My birth certificate.
Lennon Welsh. Not Lennon Gilmore, like I had been led to believe all of these years.
Brett was right. Patrick Gilmore was never my father.
I had thought that seeing the documents clearly would have given me some relief. It's only given me more questions, though.
Tucking them away for later, knowing that flicking through these kinds of documents while I am so upset, I pick up the phone. Surprisingly, it's unlocked.
I don’t know what drew me to it, but obviously, something in my subconscious knew I needed to see what was on it.
When I open the messages app, I see only one name. Mine.
I feel my stomach drop.
No.
No.
They can’t have done this.
My stomach rolls violently as I click into the message thread, finding exactly what I had dreaded.
It wasn’t just some fucked up coincidence that had seen my name and only mine in their message app.
No, the truth is far more sinister than that.
Because the three men who are not only players on my team, my fucking colleague and my scent matches, they are also my stalker.
They broke into my house. Took pictures of me naked. Had me terrified of my own godsdamned fucking shadow.
“Fucking hell.”
My eyes snap to the door, finding the three men I didn’t want to see, especially not now.
Their eyes are wide as they stare at me in shock.
Their hair is disheveled, like they have been combing their hands through it a million times since they got out of what I am guessing was a very quick shower, based on the scent of sweat and their strong scents still clinging to them.
“Bit of a change when it is your Omega that is the one doing the break and entering. Thank you for the dead bird by the way.”
“Lennon,” Holden begins, taking a single step into the room before I stop him.
“No, Holden. I don’t want to fucking hear anything you have to say. I can’t trust your words. You three have lied to me from the get-go.”
I snort sarcastically, “It had already sucked that I was being treated like shit by the three of you for months with no clear reasoning. But then to not only find out that you had been keeping incredibly important family history from me, along with stalking me and sending me these vile fucking messages,” I say, holding up the offending phone that Sasha at least has the decency to grimace at.
“But I also found out that you three fuck heads are also my scent matches. Yet another thing you have been withholding from me.”
I feel the first tear begin to trickle down my cheek. I don’t want to cry. Not for them. But I am just so exhausted. So tired of having to be strong. To keep my shoulders back and my head high. I don’t want to fight.
“We…” Holden begins, but Sasha stops him with a hand on his chest.
“No, this is my mess. I dragged you two into it. I need to explain myself.”
With a nod, Holden steps back. It's funny to see an emotion like nerves on the face of a man who has been nothing but stoic and bitter since the moment I met him.
“My father was Matvey Volkov. He played as a right wing alongside Patrick Gilmore during the early two-thousands.”
I nod, having vague memories of the Alpha.
“During one of the games, there was a nasty collision between another player, my father, and Patrick. At the last minute, Patrick moved out of the way, causing my father to be hit directly by the other player. He was knocked completely unconscious. When he finally came too, it was found that he had post-concussion syndrome.”
Sasha swallows roughly, his eyes dropping from mine like he can’t bear to look at me.
Pathetic.
“The injury brought on a severe depression episode, one that he numbed with alcohol. When that wasn’t enough, he turned on his wife and son. He used us as punching bags.”
My breath hitches, my mouth dropping. I have heard the stories about post-concussion syndrome and just how dangerous they are when players are not properly looked after after serious head injuries.
“For years, I blamed Patrick. If he hadn’t moved, my father wouldn’t have been injured. He wouldn’t have turned into a monster who pushed his wife to suicide and his son to become bitter.”
I hate that I feel sympathy for Sasha. Because even after all that he has done, no child deserves to be treated that way. Not a single one.
“So you what, joined the team to get back at my father?”
He nods.
“And when he died, that need for vengeance suddenly turned to me?”
Another nod.
Unbelievable.
“Did it ever occur to you that the supposed daughter of the man you were really after wasn’t the one that deserved your ire? I did nothing to you apart from existing in whatever shitshow all of this bullshit is.”
I throw the documents I had been holding in my hand at Sasha’s feet. Coming to a stand, I close the distance between us.
“Not once did you ever consider the person that you had not only been stalking,” I throw the phone at his feet, delighting when I hear the screen crack, “But lying to with matters that not only affect them, but the entire team!”
Sasha’s head snaps up, that moment of “oh fuck” evident in those ice blue eyes that I could have once fallen into.
“Because that’s what those documents can do, Sasha. If I am not who I had thought I was, my fathers Will can be contested. I can fucking lose everything. Every single person employed under the Cardinals can lose their jobs because of your need for vengeance.”
I stab a finger into his chest, “Not once did you ever consider the lives around you.
You are selfish. So caught up in your own plans that you dragged not only your pack mates and me with you, but an entire team.
Parents with young children at home who need the money their parents' jobs provide them to survive. Borderline retirees who are counting on the bonus they will receive if we win that Stanley Cup.”
“I…” he begins, but I refuse to hear it.
“There you go proving my fucking point, Sasha. It is always “I” with you. You are a self-centered piece of shit who can’t let go of the demons in his past.”
I push past the Alpha, needing to get the fuck out of here so I can breathe air that isn’t mixed with the scent of them.
I don’t look at Dominic or Holden. I don’t think I could stand to see the expression on their faces.
“Sasha, we’re done.”
“No.” His voice cracks behind me. “I fucking can’t.”
I don’t turn around.
“You’ve become…” His laugh is hollow. “You’re like a habit I can’t fucking shake.”
I squeeze the handle tighter.
“You’ll survive.”
“No, I won’t.”
“When I don’t see you… I spend the whole day fucking looking for you anyway.
Somehow, you got under my skin. I breathe you in like fucking nicotine, burning my lungs with every breath until I’m left suffocating.
I realize that now, and I know it’s too late, but it doesn’t have to be.
This doesn’t have to be how our story ends. ”
“You don’t get to decide how this ends anymore,” I bite back, the words hitting harder than I expected as a dead silence floods around the room, because I recognize those words from one of the anonymous messages.
One more fucking lie wrapped in familiarity.
One more reminder that every step toward them had been built on nothing more than deception.
Sasha says nothing, no doubt finally realizing that I’ve caught onto their sick fucking game. There’s no way in God's fresh hell that I’m sticking around to give them a chance to try to hurt me again. It’s psychological warfare.
“You poison me, Lennon.”
I close my eyes to stop the tears from stinging them.
“You burn every goddamn part of me.”
Every word wedges beneath my ribs. They’re everything I spent weeks waiting to hear.
Everything I hoped he would never say for the sake of my position as their coach, but wanting so desperately for him to say them anyway.
For this to be more than just a cry for fucking help. A mistake on all our parts.
They’re dangerous. Ars Mortis is fucking dangerous, and I can’t do this.
“Baby…” Sasha murmurs, making me stop dead in my tracks.
Turning, I sneer at the man who has my blood boiling, at the pack I should have felt safe with, who should have given me love and a life.
The men I thought I was beginning to understand, and started, against every instinct for self-preservation, to trust.
“I’m not your fucking baby, Sasha Volkov.”