Chapter thirty-seven
Lily
Miles is mad at me. Like, really mad. He’s not even pretending he isn’t, and I guess I can’t blame him, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
It starts before the alphas are even out of the driveway. The trucks are barely past the mailbox when he’s suddenly there, filling the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, looking like he’s already chewed through every word he wants to say and decided to spit out orders instead.
“Kitchen floor. On your knees. Scrub it,” he says, all clipped and cold.
I look at him. “I mopped it yesterday.”
“And today you’re scrubbing it. On your knees. Use the brush under the sink.”
I know this routine. I woke up and he was already gone from the nest, already dressed. Tight, coiled, vibrating with cold deliberate energy. A look on his face that meant someone was about to have a really bad day. Me, obviously.
He’s pissed about yesterday.
All he knows is I came home last night reeking of Jeremy’s pack, he saw the kiss and he’s been stewing about it ever since.
He’s the one who pushed me out the door in the first place.
Told me to find a pack. Called Jeremy a prude and still sent me on the date anyway. But none of that seems to matter now.
So I get on my knees and I scrub. He stands in the archway, arms still locked, watching me. He doesn’t say anything.
When I finish, he steps in, inspects my work, and points at the bathroom.
“Toilets. All three.”
I clean them. Then the sinks. Then the mirrors.
Then the shower doors. He follows me from room to room, sketchbook always tucked under his arm like he might start drawing at any second, but he never does.
He’s not here to draw. He’s here to watch me work.
That’s the punishment, I think. Not the chores or the watching.
It’s making me obey with none of the reward that usually comes after. Making sure I still will.
By eleven I’ve cleaned everything that can be cleaned.
My hands are raw. My knees ache. He tells me to fold the laundry.
All of it. Every last towel and shirt. So I fold.
And he watches. No reward. No “good girl.” No quick kiss.
Not even a look that goes soft. All I get is an omega so jealous he’d rather have me scrubbed raw than admit how he feels.
By noon, I’m boiling mad.
I make lunch. He eats it without a word. I clean up. He tells me to organize the pantry and I do it. He tells me the cans aren’t facing the right way. I turn every can so the labels line up like little soldiers and bite my cheek so hard it stings.
Two o’clock. He’s on the couch, sketchbook finally open, pencil moving in short, angry strokes. He hasn’t spoken to me for an hour except to tell me the guest bath still smells like cleaner and I should open the window. So I open the window. He doesn’t say thanks.
Four o’clock. He tells me to reorganize the linen closet.
I do. I fold every sheet, every pillowcase, every spare blanket. I stack them by size and color, close the door, and wait.
He opens it. Looks inside, then at me. “The sheets are uneven. Do it again.”
He casually walks back to the couch and sits.
I stare in amazement for a second, then I finally snap.
“No,” I say.
He actually looks up from his sketchbook, pencil hovering midair. “What?”
“I’m not reorganizing the closet again. The sheets are fine. They were fine the first time.”
“They’re uneven.”
“They’re sheets, Miles. No one on earth cares if sheets are uneven.”
He gives me the look. The warning that usually flips a switch in me and drops me right back into line. Not today. Today it bounces off.
“You’ve had me on my hands and knees all day,” I say, louder than I mean to. “Scrubbing floors, cleaning toilets, folding everything in this house. And you haven’t said one nice thing to me. No good job, Lily. No kiss. Nothing. You’re punishing me for going on a date you told me to go on.”
“I’m not punishing you,” he says, but it’s a lie.
“You are. You’re pissed about the Carrs. You’re pissed I kissed Jeremy. But you don’t get to be pissed, Miles, because this is what you wanted. You can’t have it both ways. You can’t shove me out the door and then be mad when I walk through it.”
The air goes dense and charged between us. He stares at me, face tight, teeth grinding, pencil still frozen. He looks furious and also… scared? Maybe.
“You want me to go,” I say. It comes out shaky but I keep going. “You’ve said it a hundred times. So why are you angry that I’m doing what you asked? Why are you giving me a hard time for trying to find the pack you keep telling me to find?”
He doesn’t answer. Just sits there, breathing hard.
“Maybe I don’t want you to fucking go.”
He says it so quietly, I almost miss it. Like he had to drag it out of himself.
I pause, holding my breath.
“What are you saying, Miles?”
He gets up and crosses the room. In three steps he’s in front of me, and his hand is in my hair, tugging at the roots, pulling my head back just enough to make me gasp. Then his mouth is on mine. Teeth, tongue and desperation.
Slick rushes out of me. I moan into his mouth, clutch his shirt, kiss him back like I’ve been starving for him. Because that’s what this is. The answer he couldn’t say out loud.
He doesn’t stop kissing me. Just backs me down the hallway, fingers gripping my hips, steering me toward the pack room.
I hit the doorframe with my shoulder and he doesn’t even slow down, pushing me toward the nest. He kicks the door closed and the scent inside nearly knocks me over—all four of them, layered thick.
He strips me fast. Shirt up, leggings down, underwear gone. His hands are rough and a little frantic. Like if he doesn’t have me now he might never get the chance.
He peels off his own clothes even faster—a trail from the door to the nest—and then: “Hands and knees. In the nest. Now.”
I climb in. The blankets are soft and the scent is so strong it’s dizzying. I’m shaking, waiting, all of me focused on what comes next.
He gets in behind me. He grabs the back of my neck and pushes my face into the mattress, spreads my knees wide, keeps my hips up. I’m open. Exposed. His.
He doesn’t waste time. He’s inside me in one brutal stroke, so deep I cry out, the sound muffled by the blankets. He sets a punishing pace. Deep. Fast. Relentless.
“Jeremy doesn’t know what you like,” he says, breath ragged. “He doesn’t know how to make you moan.”
He finds my clit and rubs it, fast and rough, no buildup, no teasing. I’m seeing colors.
“He doesn’t know you like it rough. That you want to be held down and used. He doesn’t know you need someone who can make you beg.” Every word is punctuated by a thrust, each one harder than the last. “I don’t need a knot to make you scream, Stray.”
I’m already close. The orgasm is building so fast I can barely keep up. I’m right there, right on the edge—
The door opens.
He goes still, buried inside me, muscles locked up. We both turn.
Gabriel’s in the doorway, still in work clothes, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He must’ve come home early. His nostrils flare when he smells us—slick, arousal, two omegas. His pupils blow wide.
Nobody moves. We barely breathe for a moment.
Then Miles grabs my hair and starts driving into me again. Slower now. Purposeful. His eyes locked on the alpha.
“You like watching me fuck your scent match?” Miles asks. He’s daring Gabriel to contradict him.
Gabriel’s throat bobs. “Yes.”
“You wish it was you fucking her? You wish you could stretch this pussy out with your knot?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. His cock is hard against his pants, scent thick in the air, hands curled into fists.
It’s too much. Miles inside me and Gabriel watching, his scent flooding the room until I’m drowning in it. My omega wants both.
“Take your cock out,” Miles says. “Show her how big and beautiful it is.”
He obeys. Belt, zipper, pants down, and then his hand is wrapped around himself.
I’ve never seen an alpha’s cock before. Never. And this one belongs to my scent match. It’s thick and dark and leaking, the base already swelling where his knot will be. My muscles clench just looking at it. Slick everywhere.
I lick my lips. I can’t help it.
Miles leans over me, still inside, his breath at my ear. “You like my alpha’s cock?”
I nod.
“I know you’ve never seen one before. Never had one. This is your first.” His voice drops, almost a threat. “Do you want to get closer?”
I whimper. It’s embarrassing how needy I sound.
He pulls out. I gasp. He flips me onto my back, pushes in again, and stares down. He looks wild. And underneath that—vulnerable. Like he knows he’s about to do something he can’t take back.
He starts moving again. Gabriel watches but doesn’t step forward. Miles feels his eyes and doesn’t stop. The room is wound tight. I don’t know who’s going to break first.
“Get undressed,” he tells Gabriel finally.
He strips. Shirt off. Pants gone. Everything. He’s all muscle and power, and my omega goes haywire. It’s the first time I’ve seen him like this. He doesn’t even go shirtless around the house. Corded arms, tight abs. I want my tongue on them.
“Do you like him?” Miles asks, watching my face.
I nod, desperate.
He stares at me, fighting it. Fear. Possessiveness. Every old wound. Then he decides.
“Get in the nest,” he says.
Gabriel doesn’t move right away. His eyes flick to mine, then back to Miles.
“Do it before I change my mind.”
He exhales and climbs in. The second his scent gets close—unfiltered, heavy with lust—my body goes haywire. Back arching. Fingers in the blankets. The sound I make is pure instinct.
Miles sees it. He doesn’t get mad. Doesn’t shut it down.
He kisses Gabriel. Hard. Deep. Like he’s claiming us both. He’s still buried in me, every thrust making me gasp, but now Gabriel is groaning into his mouth—and that’s what undoes me.
I’m almost there. So close.
“Not yet,” he says against Gabriel’s mouth. He can feel me clenching around his cock. “You don’t get to come until his knot is locked in me.”
I whine. He bites my lip in punishment. “I said not yet.”