Prologue Knots and Ice #2
"Back off, Captain Naked." I lift my chin, bickering instincts kicking in despite the way my body is staging a full-scale rebellion.
Slick gathering between my thighs—traitor—cheeks flushing with heat that has nothing to do with embarrassment.
Omega hindbrain screaming MATE MATE MATE like a deranged parrot on a loop.
I swear I’m a fucking mess and school hasn’t even started…
"Some psycho drenched me in slushie because apparently you're the hottest commodity on campus, and one of your teammates was decent enough to loan me something dry. Unlike some people, who clearly don't know how to put on pants. Or a towel. Or basic human decency!"
His eyes darken to midnight.
A low growl vibrates through him, and the sound goes straight to places it has no business visiting—low in my belly, between my legs, into the marrow of my bones.
"You're wearing Laurent's scent." He takes another step, close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off his ridiculous body, can count the water droplets still clinging to his collarbone.
His fingers brush the collar of the jersey, and electricity crackles where his skin nearly touches mine.
"In my locker room. Looking like—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscle tick beneath his skin.
"Like what?" I challenge, because apparently I've developed a death wish in the last fifteen minutes. "Like a drowned rat? Like a walking disaster? Like someone who didn't ask for any of this?"
"Like you belong to someone else."
The words hang between us, heavy with implications I refuse to examine.
Something tightens in my chest—not quite fear, not quite anticipation.
Should I dare think this Alpha wants me?
Laughable. I’m really cracking myself up here with these daring assumptions for my normally boring life. I guess this is the most entertainment I’ve had happen in a hot minute, but damn.
It really would have been better if it was with complete strangers and not men who made it their life purpose to make my childhood a living hell.
"I don't belong to anyone." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Least of all, some arrogant puck-head who probably doesn't remember making my life a living hell back in sixth grade."
I meet his eyes, refusing to look away even as my heart threatens to beat out of my chest.
"Nerdy MaeBell, go to hell—ring any bells, Captain?"
The color drains from his face like someone pulled a plug.
For one perfect, petty second, I savor it.
The way recognition slams into him like a blindside hit. How his confident smirk crumbles into something raw, horrified, and guilty.
Then add how his whole body goes rigid, like he's bracing for impact.
"MaeBell?" His voice cracks. "You're—holy shit. You're her."
Uh…what’s that supposed to mean?
"Surprise." I give a little jazz-hands wave, channeling every bit of sarcasm I've honed over thirteen years of therapy and self-preservation. "The nerdy girl you tormented? All grown up. Glow-up achieved. And not interested in whatever Alpha-possessive bullshit you're selling."
But he doesn't back off.
If anything, he steps closer, and now I can feel the heat radiating off his ridiculous body like a furnace, can smell the guilt threading through his scent like copper wire—sharp and metallic and unmistakable.
"I didn't—I was a stupid kid. I didn't know—"
"Save it." I duck under his arm, my heart hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears. "I need to get my stuff and get out of here. Preferably before any more of your teammates decide to assault me with frozen beverages."
The door rattles behind me, and a new voice calls out:
"Rafe? You decent?"
The door swings open before anyone can answer, and in walks another wall of Alpha muscle—broad shoulders, warm brown skin, amber eyes that crinkle at the corners like he's always on the verge of a smile.
His scent hits me like a warm hug: fresh-baked cinnamon rolls and oak.
Cozy and comforting and devastatingly attractive.
Callahan 'Cal' Graham Knox.
Graduate teaching assistant.
Volunteer tutor.
Known across campus for his patience and his dimples and his tendency to make every Omega within a mile radius swoon.
Also, apparently, my second childhood bully.
Why, when I read up there bio’s and got glimpses of their faraway professional team photos, did it not click in sooner? Maybe because I buried it so deep in my mind that it only now surfaced and says, ‘remember me’.
Fuck my life…
His gaze lands on me, and he freezes.
Like someone hit pause on reality. His nostrils flare, his pupils dilate, and a sound escapes him that's somewhere between a growl and a whimper—primal and raw and achingly vulnerable.
"Holy..."
"Cal." Rafe's voice is strangled. "This is—"
"I know who she is." Cal's amber eyes haven't left my face. They trace over my features like he's memorizing them, cataloguing every detail. "Mabeline Mae Rose. Our new roommate."
Wait. What?
"Your—" I look between them, horror dawning like a bad sitcom reveal. Wait. Did they say THEY were gonna be my roommates? Alphas? No…wait…they did…mention that, didn’t they? Fuck! Why is my brain so frazzled that I’m not sure?
I bet its the damn Alpha pheromones or some shit.
"No. No…The housing office said I'd be rooming with three other students—"
What do you do in situations that you’re begging to run to the hills from?
Deny. Deny. Deny.
"Three Alphas." Cal's dimples appear, but they look more like an apology than a charm. "Pack integration trial housing. They didn't tell you?"
Fuck.
Double Fuck.
All the fucks!
This is when listening to the information dump would have saved my ass…
"They told me I'd have roommates. They did not mention the roommates would be—" I gesture at Rafe, still gloriously naked except for the towel now dangling from one hand like an afterthought. "Well, naked possessive assholes.”
His laughter echoes around us as he dares give me the biggest grin, lighting up his eyes.
"Welcome to Casa del Chaos." Cal's voice is warm despite the chaos. "We have coffee. And regrets. Lots of regrets."
Behind me, the door opens again, and I don't even have to look to know who it is.
The scent of snow-dusted evergreens gives him away before he says a word.
"Oh." étienne's soft voice carries a note of wonder. "You're the girl from earlier. The one with the—" He gestures vaguely at his chest, miming the slushie situation with both hands. "I was worried. You ran away so fast."
Then his gaze catches on Rafe—still naked, still standing way too close to me—and his expression hardens into something I wouldn't have thought the shy goalie capable of.
"Mon Dieu, Rafe. Put some clothes on. You're scaring her."
Scared of what? His ding-a-ling-ling?
"I'm not scared," I snap automatically, because being underestimated has been the story of my life, and I refuse to play that role anymore. "I'm annoyed. There's a significant difference."
Cal huffs a laugh that sounds almost admiring.
étienne's lips twitch into something that might be a smile.
Rafe just stares at me like I've grown a second head—or maybe like I've sprouted wings and a halo and descended from Omega heaven specifically to torment him.
"Let me get this straight." I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache forming behind my eyes. "I'm going to be living with the three of you. In one house. For six weeks."
"One bathroom," Cal offers helpfully.
"Thin walls," étienne adds, and there's something in his tone that makes my cheeks burn.
"And a kitchen I will fight you for access to," Rafe mutters, finally—thank you to all the heavenly gods in the sky—wrapping the towel around his waist.
It does absolutely nothing to diminish the raw Alpha energy rolling off him in waves.
Damn him.
"You." I whirl on him, jabbing a finger at his stupidly sculpted chest. "You're one of them."
"I'm all of them." His voice is rough, scraped raw with something I don't want to examine too closely.
"Prime Alpha. Captain. And yeah—the asshole who made your life hell when we were kids.
" He takes a step toward me, and the air between us crackles with something that feels like fate and fury intertwined.
"But if you think I'm going to let you walk around this campus—my campus—smelling like that and covered in some other Alpha's colors without doing something about it, you've got another thing coming, Mae Rose. "
"It's Mabeline." I correct icily. "Or Ms. Rose. You haven't earned the right to use my middle name."
His lips curl into something that's half-smirk, half-promise. Something that makes my stomach flip and my Omega hindbrain whimper.
"Yet."
Yet?
Oh, hell no.
I grab my purse from the equipment manager's office—the guy barely looks up from his phone, completely unbothered by the drama unfolding around him—and storm toward the exit, my sneakers squeaking on the damp tile.
Three sets of heavy footsteps follow me like oversized, muscular shadows.
"The house is this way," Cal calls, amusement threading through his voice like warm honey.
I stop.
Turn.
Glare.
All three of them are watching me with varying degrees of intensity.
Rafe, now wearing sweats slung low on his hips—still no shirt, because apparently he's allergic to fabric—looks like he's already planning my corruption. Cal has that gentle-giant thing going on that makes my traitorous Omega hindbrain want to curl up in his lap and never leave.
And étienne...
étienne is clutching a worn paperback to his chest, storm-blue eyes soft with something that looks dangerously like understanding.
Like recognition.
As if he sees past the armor I've spent thirteen years building and finds something worth protecting underneath.
"Fine." I hike my purse higher on my shoulder and square my shoulders like I'm heading into battle—which, let's be honest, I probably am.
"Lead the way. But I want it on the record that this is temporary.
Six weeks. I'm here for the ice, not the—" I gesture vaguely at all of them, at the steam and muscle and concentrated Alpha pheromones making my head spin. "This."
"Noted." Rafe falls into step beside me, close enough that his scent wraps around me like a claiming.
His voice drops low enough that only I can hear, rough and intimate and devastatingly sincere: "But just so you know, MaeBell—I've been waiting thirteen years to prove I'm not that kid anymore. Six weeks? That's plenty of time."
My heart stutters.
What is there to fucking prove? That you were an asshole? The only difference now is you're older, hotter, six fucking pack with those traitorous V-lines pointing to that thick, veiny…
UGH!
My body betrays me with a fresh wave of slick. And my brain—the only part of me with any sense left—screams a warning I should probably heed:
You're in so much trouble.
Six weeks just got a whole lot knottier.
And Valentine's Day? Right around the corner, covered in roses, chocolates, and heart-shaped promises—plus the small matter of my twenty-fifth birthday and a deadline that's ticking down like a bomb strapped to my future.
Three Alphas.
One tiny house.
Zero escape routes.
No pressure or anything.
Happy Knotty Valentine's Day to me.