U Broke The Girl In Me But You Wont Break The Man

You smell Pope's sharp citrus rut on him as soon as he's in the house, the door slamming in the middle of the night as he returns from an out-of-town job with his brothers. You'd heard the roar of his motorcycle speeding toward home, heard him barking out orders to his brothers, and heard him stomping up toward the porch.

Your heat had started that afternoon and his body knew; after years of being mates, you were always synched up like this. He raced him from the job, Baz tailing him in annoyance the whole way. All he knew was that he had to get to you. He knew you were at home, boiling from the inside out, in a particular kind of arousal that started to hurt if you didn't have a knot, craving nothing but him. He had to go home. Nothing else mattered -- not cash, not jewelry. Nothing.

When he shoves into the bedroom, he flicks the light on and his eyes immediately train on you. Your hot red cheeks, swollen breasts, dark patch of slick on your sleep shorts. As he stalks toward you, intent on his mission, you breathe out in relief, "You're back early."

He grunts a simple answer as he rips off your pajama bottoms, "You need me."

You nod and whimper, "So scared without you. Hurts so much."

"I'm here, sweetheart," he soothes, moving to kiss your lips when he feels your need. Your vulnerability. He presses his lips to your silver-scarred mating bite and you keen up into his touch. "Your alpha's here now. No more worrying. No more fear. I've got you."

The agony of need in your body starts to lessen as he kisses and sucks your hips and waist, grabbing at your clothed tits and breathing in the warmth of your cinnamon scent. His rough hands go for your thin tee next; he smiles when he registers that it's his shirt, a sign of how much you miss him when he's away, grasping to get any of his scent in your nest without him there.

Pope shoves two fingers into your hole just to feel if you're ready for his cock. Undoubtedly, you are. Your cunt's begging, clenching hard around his fingers. The way you whine shows that you can't take any teasing. So he backs up and strips his clothes as fast as he can, ripping the last few buttons of his shirt. They ping onto the hardwood, discarded and forgotten once he's naked.

He joins you in bed again and grabs you close. His hand splays out on the small of your back and you start grinding on his thigh right away, desperate for any friction on your swollen clit. "Love you, Andrew. Need you. Knot. Need your knot."

"Get on top of me, baby," he orders, flipping back so that he can lean against the headboard and fisting his fat, over-hard rut cock. Precum drips down his shaft and you're not sure you've ever seen him so hard and so flushed. He reaches for your waist and urges, "Take exactly what you need."

You nod fervently and climb into his lap. You don't say a single thing as you drop onto his cock, crying out from the pleasure and the stretch and the raw need for him. Both of you shudder and pant for a few seconds as you finally feel the other again.

Then you're bouncing. Andrew's fingers grasp hard into your hips as he lets you set the pace -- which is brutal and demanding. He can't believe you've avoiding getting yourself off for the first six hours of your heat, holding it all in because nothing would satisfy you like his knot. You crash your lips into his as you work your body up and down over and over, craving the way he bottoms out deep against your womb and the way he grunts loud and primal for the milisecond he doesn't have you around him.

"Can't- Too-" Your hips stutter and falter as your first orgasm breaks through the surface, unexpected and hot as lightning. "Andrew."

He growls as he feels your walls clamp around him, "Good omega."

You try to keep working through the aftershocks, but your thighs are shaking and your body's going limp as your heat takes hold fully. So Andrew holds your waist and flips you. His cock never leaves your cunt. He can't leave your cunt. It's the one place made for him.

Watching your eyes go hazy from pleasure and lust, he touches his thumb to your lower lip, not really meaning anything by it, just wanting to touch you more somehow. Then your eyes darken as you wrap your lips around it and suck. Hard. Pope grins at your greedy mouth, biting and licking and sucking the salt from his skin.

He pulls his thumb back and offers his two middle fingers instead, checking, "More?"

You nod and part your lips.

Andrew slides his two largest and longest fingers over your tongue and to the back of your throat. Your eyes flutter shut when he plays with your gag reflex, curling his fingers against your uvula until tears burn at your eyes. He's spent hours training your throat and now it's basically a pleasure point.

You don't gag until he adds a third finger. Then you're crying and drooling around his fingers while his cock rams you. While you fuck your own throat with his fingers, he grabs your calf and wrenches your leg back up by your head. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your tits. Neither of you has to speak to feel the other's need.

Andrew's knot swells inside of you and your fingernails rake down his back as you join him in ecstasy. His cum coats you, roots you to reality, baptizes you. And you cry into his neck, against his tender scent gland, "Andrew. Alpha. My alpha."

You’re just finished restocking a new order of some celebrity’s perfume that you find absolutely vile when you see your manager (arguably even more vile) stalking across the store toward a girl, maybe 11 or 12, who definitely just pocketed an expensive lipstick. The maneuver is practiced, clearly, but awkward enough to catch the eyes of devil-incarnate Katie. If her free hand didn’t have a stuffed-full reusable shopping bag, she probably would’ve gotten away with sneaking it into her denim shorts.

As Katie begins to chew the poor kid out, you step in between the two of them with a wide, reassuring smile. “Katie, I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding. This is one of my friends’ daughters. I told her she could pick something out while she’s waiting for her ride and I’d buy it for her as a present.” Your eyes carefully scan her and you catch a necklace with her name on it. “Right, Lena?”

At a sign that you might actually know her, your manager’s posture eases up. The girl gives you an absolutely adoring look. Almost prayerful, like she sent up a bat signal to be rescued by a pretty girl with a full face of shiny makeup, a swinging babydoll dress, and the tallest chunky pink heels she’s ever seen with an oversized bow to boot. She swallows hard and lies, “Yeah, my uncle’s on his way to get me right now. I was supposed to wait here with her instead of outside.”

She even pulls the same move as you, noticing your name tag, and adds it as an extra detail. You’re almost impressed with the little shoplifter. Katie huffs, rolls her eyes, and says to the kid, “Just don’t go putting things in your pockets if you’re planning on paying for them, alright?”

“Yeah, of course, I’m sorry. Thank you.” Lena then pretends to check her phone and awkwardly announces, “My uncle’s here to get me now.”

You narrow your eyes at her and call her bluff. “C’mon, Lena, I’ll walk you out so I can say hi to him. It’s been a while. That okay, Katie? I’m due for my fifteen, anyway.”

Your manager sighs heavily but nods and waves her hand dismissively before clicking across the store to another customer. With a knowing look, you take the lipstick from Lena, ring it up at the counter, and then hand it back to her. She follows you out of the store and back into the mall, where you cross your arms, lean down closer to make eye contact, and say, “Now, how about you actually call your parents to get you and I talk to them with you?”

“Uncle Pope’s my, um, my guardian. I hate that word.” Still, Lena swallows hard and takes her phone out. This time, she dials, putting it on speaker to prove she’s actually doing it.

A man with a gravelly voice picks up not even halfway through the first ring. “Ready for me to get you, Bean?”

She puts on a brave face and tells him, “Yeah, all done. Kyra and Kylie got picked up by their mom a few minutes ago.”

On the other end, you hear him slide into a car, gun the loud engine, and peel out. He asks, “You got new shoes for gym class like I said?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Alright, good. I’m five minutes away. Just picked up some charcoal for the grill and shit.” Your eyebrows go up to your hairline at how easily he swears. “Meet you at the entrance by the Macy’s?”

“I’ll walk over there now. See you soon, Uncle Pope.”

You can hear the softness come through his dark voice as he confirms, “See you soon, kiddo.”

Once she’s hung up, you look pointedly at Lena and nod toward the Macy’s. “Let’s go.”

Clearly on the verge of tears, she gives you a wide-eyed begging expression and squeaks out, “Are you gonna get me in trouble?”

“Puppy-dog eyes aren’t gonna get you out of this one.” You start walking her toward the exit and nudge, “I’ve got a feeling this isn’t your first time going for the five-finger discount. Am I right?”

She averts her eyes, staring straight down at her shiny white sneakers, and nods.

“Look,” you sigh, “I was the same way when I was a teenager. I wanted to wear makeup and pretty jewelry and push-up bras, but my dad wouldn’t buy any girly stuff for me, so I stole it. I’d put my makeup on at school in the morning, change my clothes in the bathroom before first period and after last, and wipe off the makeup during the bus ride home. It was a great system until a mall security guard called the real police on me when I got too cocky.” You touch her shoulder briefly so she’ll look you in the eyes. “Trust me: It’ll be better to get in trouble with your uncle than with the cops. Cops really suck.”

She snickers under her breath. “My uncle says that, too.”

“Smart man,” you chuckle as you lead her through the big two-story department store and out to the curb. Leaning against the wall with her, you ask, “Now tell me honestly: Is your uncle an asshole? Or is he nice? I don’t want you to get in too much trouble if he sucks.”

Lena grins and laughs. “He’s nice. My grandma says he’s too nice to me.” Then, getting somber fast, she tells you, “He’s kind of weird, though, so go easy on him.”

You hold back your own laugh at her frankness. “Who told you he’s weird?”

She shrugs happily, paying the idea no mind. “He did. My parents did. My friends did. Even my favorite teacher Miss Margaret says he’s weird. You’ll see.”

And then a massive matte black G-Wagon pulls up to the curb, the windows tinted illegally dark and the whole rig jacked up an extra foot to make it even bigger and more intimidating. The front window rolls down, revealing a handsome guy with dark sunglasses and auburn curls. Taking in the two of you, he yanks the sunglasses off and gives you a cold look before asking Lena, “Who’s your friend?”

Lena starts to mumble out an introduction on your behalf, but you stand up straight and ask, “Are you Lena’s uncle?”

“Yeah. Call me Pope.” His voice is harsh and protective, “Now who the fuck are you?”

You can tell right away that he’s only brusque because he wants to make sure Lena’s safe. So you’re simple and honest, “I work at Ocean Beauty, the makeup boutique inside. I caught Lena trying to steal a lipstick. Can we talk for a minute?”

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. He puts the car in park, shoves the door open, and hops out. You can’t help noticing the way his biceps strain against his dark short-sleeve button-down and the way his clenched jaw is razor sharp. He shuts the car door so softly, stopping it from making almost any noise, then he opens his arms for Lena to step into. With a sheepish expression, she accepts his warm, tight hug, standing up on her tiptoes as he bends down. Then, with a heavy sigh, he turns back to you and says in a much softer tone, “Tell me what happened.”

“I was just working on the floor and saw her trying to get away with the old palm-to-pocket routine. I would’ve just told her to put it back, but my manager – Katie, she’s the worst – always calls security on shoplifters and then tells them to call the cops if they repeat-offend. Owner’s orders, I guess, but she’s a little too gleeful carrying them out, if you ask me.” As you stop yourself with a nervous laugh, his lips tick up into a smirk. You swallow hard and tell him quickly, “Anyway, I didn’t want that to happen. So I thought I’d come out and tell you directly. Have her learn the lesson the much-less-hard way.”

Pope nods slowly for a moment, eyebrows pinched together. His hazel eyes catch the sun, gold and green hues coming to the forefront. “Thanks. She’s too young to get in that kind of trouble. Gets good grades, does her chores. She’s not like- She’s not a bad kid.” Then he turns his attention to Lena. Drops down almost to his knees to look her in the eyes, treating her less like a kid and more like an equal. “Why would you want to steal, Lena? I gave you plenty of cash. You know you can get whatever you want as long as you’re not hurting anyone.”

“I didn’t want to spend too much,” she says softly. Ashamed of herself. You look on in curiosity; you’ve never heard a parent talk to their kid like that or vice versa. “Grandma Smurf says that store is for rich kids.”

With his hands on her shoulders, Pope gives her a small smile and presses, “And what exactly do you think you are?”

She gives him a bashful giggle; you get the sense they’ve had this debate before. Then she pokes him in the chest and says, “Okay, but I shouldn’t be in trouble because you and Dad used to steal all the time. He told me.”

Pope’s face turns cloudy. Like he wishes he could erase her memories – maybe his own, too. “Yeah, and you know what happened to both of us, right?”

“Dad didn’t die because he stole,” she scoffs with an impressive level of teenage angst for how young she is.

“Not…directly, no.” Then his eyes flicker ever so briefly up to yours before he reminds her, “But I went to prison for stealing. You remember what I told you about prison, right?”

She gives him a solemn nod and repeats, “That I never, ever want to go there and you’re never, ever going back.”

“And stealing can get you sent to prison,” he explains. “Even at your age, you can go to a special kind of prison for kids. That happened to your Uncle Deran; he stole something, and he went to jail for five months. That’s a whole summer vacation and then some.”

Her eyes widen like such a horror had never occurred to her. “I didn’t know they had jail for kids.”

“Yeah, they do.” Pope explains in a tone that makes it clear he’s dead serious, “In there, they make you eat vegetables at every single meal, you never get to watch Beat Bobby Flay, and you wouldn’t get to take Mr. Snuggles.”

She smacks him on the shoulder, nods toward you, and hisses, “I told you not to mention him in public anymore.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, suppressing a laugh. Then he tells her, “Look, Bean, prison isn’t the only reason you shouldn’t take stuff. When you take something, someone else still has to pay for it. Whoever picked out that pretty lipstick and decided to sell it loses money for you to have it. That’s less money they have for their own family. That’s not very fair, is it?”

“But Grandma Smurf says-”

“We don’t talk to Grandma Smurf anymore, though, and that’s a big part of why.” His voice cracks a touch as he says, “Grandma Smurf says lots and lots of stuff that isn’t true or good or nice. Trust me, you don’t wanna be like her.”

After a minute, Lena nods. She seems genuinely apologetic as she looks up at you. “I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Your heart breaks – not because of the apology but because you can see all the brokenness that Lena’s uncle is trying to protect her from. Their family history must be incredibly dark, considering the few snippets he’s given away. You gently touch Lena on the shoulder and tell her, “I forgive you. I can tell you have a good heart and that’s really important.”

Pope stands up straight again and murmurs, “Thank you. I appreciate it.” After another sigh – the sigh of a parent who has no idea what he’s doing; you’ve heard it before countless times in the makeup store – he tells Lena, “And if you wanna try out makeup, I’ll get you whatever you want, alright? I don’t know anything about this stuff, but I’ll figure it out.”

Your ears perk up and you cut in, “I’d be happy to help, if you want. With the makeup. I do some tutorials on TikTok and I could teach you how to get started with some drugstore stuff or-”

“No, no,” Pope cuts you off with a shake of his head, voice confused at the prospect but gentle and supportive, “she can get the good stuff. Whatever she wants. But that would be- Lena, would you like that? Would that be…helpful?”

Lena looks at you with huge excited eyes. “You make TikToks about makeup? What’s your account? Can I see?”

A little sheepish, you take your phone from your pocket, open up your TikTok, and show her the page where you create makeup tutorials, lookbooks, and other cute, girly content for nearly half a million followers.

Her eyes get even wider. “Holy shit, you have, like, a billion followers!”

“It’s not that many,” you reply with an unintentional glance at Pope. It’s weird. This isn’t something you’re ever ashamed to talk about – Why should you be hesitant to talk about your success and your passion? – but his presence makes you…nervous. You don’t think he’s judging you. If anything, he’s studying you especially carefully, checking your every interaction with his niece. But his eyes are intense. Really intense. You feel them creeping over every inch of you, creating a thorough 3D model.

Lena pulls you back to the present by pointing to one of your videos where you have a sparkly, dramatic eye look on. “Woah. Could you show me how to do that?”

“I could show you whatever you wanted to learn,” you confirm, stealing a glance at Pope, “as long as your uncle’s okay with it.”

When Pope meets your eyes, you can see relief settling on his handsome features, turning them softer and sweeter. You realize he must be a single parent. If he had a girlfriend or a wife, this would be her job. “That would be amazing. Really.”

“Okay, great!” You push your phone in his direction and almost squeal, “Give me your number. I’ll text you my work schedule; you could bring her at the end of my shift so I could help her pick things out and then I could hang out with her a while? My niece is about your age, Lena, and I watch her sometimes for my sister.”

Lena gives Pope a big, shiny smile and tugs on his shirt sleeve while he puts his number into your phone. “Please, Uncle Pope, that would be so cool.”

He laughs and puts his hands up. “I already said yes, Bean.” Handing your phone back, he offers gently, “We’ll, ah, we’ll figure it out, alright?”

You send him a text from your phone – just your name and a pink heart – and reply, “Yeah, definitely. I need to get back to my shift, but you’ll hear from me after.”

Lena very seriously raises her pinky to you. “Promise?”

You link up. “Promise.”

While you turn around and walk back into the mall, you hear the last few seconds of their interaction. Lena tells him, sounding all bubbly and gossipy, “She’s really pretty, Pope, you should totally ask her out.”

He laughs as he slings an arm over her shoulder, guiding her around to the front seat of the Mercedes, “Let’s stick to you learning how to do your eyeliner or whatever first, alright?”

“Okay, fine,” she concedes, “but I still want a new aunt whenever you’re ready and it would be awesome if she also had a bajillion TikTok followers and lots of pretty dresses and stuff.”

“I’m glad your priorities are in order, kiddo.”

After work, you head home to your small but very cute and homey two-bedroom apartment and start up a TikTok live like you do most nights. About a hundred people hop on in the first few minutes as you start your ‘get unready with me’ routine, phone propped on its stand inside its ring light on your bathroom counter. While you remove your fake eyelashes and begin to wipe off your makeup, you tell them about your day, starting with another bitch-fest about Katie and ending with the story about the adorable shoplifter with the hunky uncle.

“Yes, I swear it was a G-Wagon,” you laugh as you try to keep track of the chat while more and more people join. You waggle your eyebrows, one still darkened with product and the other bare. “I’d recognize those sexy headlights anywhere.”

kellyistalking: so uncle biceps is loaded?? callmedana: poke a hole in that condom babe

“Jesus!” You laugh as you rinse out your reusable makeup wipe and start to unclip your jewelry. “I literally just met the guy. I think he’s looking for more of a cool babysitter for his niece.”

callmedana: you know we just wanna see you finally get man dumbforlorde: yeah it’s getting kinda sad

With a mock pout, you pick up your phone to bring them into the kitchen. Setting your phone down on another stand that lives on your kitchen island, you chastise, “You guys are mean tonight.”

kellyistalking: only because we want you to be happy!!! https.freckle: yeah ur too pretty and nice to be single all this time you deserve a good man callmedana: or at least some dick

Before you can respond, your phone dings. “That’s him, guys,” you laugh, tabbing over to the next app. Then you read off from your messages, “‘How’s Friday afternoon work for you? P.S. Do you really think my car has sexy headlights?’”

You half-shriek and nearly throw your phone across the room as the chat explodes.

kellyistalking: HE’S WATCHING I REPEAT UNCLE BICEPS IS WATCHING THE STREAM callmedana: SHOW YOURSELF DADDY callmedana: SHOW HIM YOUR BOOBS SPARKLE

You read a few more texts from Pope, this time checking them yourself before showing your hand to the whole world. Then you tell the chat, “His niece pulled up my page. I guess he’s making sure I’m not a psycho, which is totally fair.”

callmedana: okay okay everyone calm down we have to make a good impression https.freckle: yeah we have to lock this down for sparkle be cool

Another text lights up your screen while you just about die from laughter. “‘Why do they call you sparkle?’ It’s kind of my whole brand, uncle biceps.” You take a step back from the camera and gesture broadly to your apartment, which is absolutely decked out with glittery elements that throw the evening light around in rainbows and patterns. “I like to be sparkly. Keeps life fun.” When he texts you back this time, you just smile and tell chat, “Alright, everyone, I need to actually make my dinner.”

kellyistalking: we heard that ding!! what did he say??? callmedana: pretty sure that was the ding of wedding bells guys

You shake your head at the screen and grin. “Goodnight, everyone!”

I think I could use some more fun in my life.

Gotta go put Lena to bed. She still likes having story time. Don't tell her I told you.

See you Friday, sparkle.

“I’m so sorry for putting you through that, Andrew,” you sigh for the fifth time this morning as you dish up his third helping of bacon and eggs. “I can’t believe you were able to handle yourself like that. Keep me safe. You’re a fucking superhero.”

He takes the plate and lies, “Not exactly the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

The truth? Resisting your advances and being around you at the same time during your heat had left him a shivering, whimpering mess unable to stop jacking off with you at the forefront of his mind. Not quite in rut – his body hadn’t reached that point yet and he wasn’t sure if it ever would after so long on the drugs – but still utterly, pathetically consumed with the thought of you. He’d never hated himself or loved you more. But that’s an inside thought, not one to share with you. 

Pope clears his throat and shifts the conversation so that you won’t start being nice to him again. Ever since your heat, he can hardly tolerate his love for you. He sighs heavily, runs a hand through his hair, and tells you carefully, “I think I know who number four is.”

Eyes widening, you set down your empty breakfast plate, lower your voice, and ask, “You do? How?”

“While we were, y’know, in it together there, I noticed something.”

“What?”

“The bites on your chest. They’re different from the other ones,” he tells you carefully, not wanting to upset you or make you self conscious about the scars. “There was this guy I did time with. He was in for bank robbery, too, but he’d done some other shit. Absolutely covered in tattoos, all over his face and everything, but he had these…these teeth.” Pope shudders slightly, which surprises you a bit. He still doesn’t talk much about his time in prison, but you know he had it rough because he wouldn’t join up with any of the gangs and the guards were all over him. Andrew goes on, almost under his breath, “The fucker had his teeth filed into points and plated in silver. A whole mouth of knives. Those bite marks – they’re just points. Like shark teeth.”

Your hand instinctively goes to your chest, feeling the raised pinprick lines of scars through your thin tank top.

Pope goes on, “Everyone called him Razor Face because he wouldn’t give his name. Even the guards called him that. But I met him again on the outside during a job and he told me his name’s Trevor. Case got thrown out because of a mistrial.” He shakes his head in annoyance. “I didn’t get his last name, but I doubt it’s hard to track down a guy like that. Bet I’d just have to call on one of my Folsom contacts.”

You nod slowly, imagining the sneer that goes along with the scars. You’d never gotten a look at his mouth during the attack, but those marks definitely weren’t made by a normal set of teeth. “A guy you know from prison. With shark teeth. Sounds kinda scary.”

He grimaces and admits, “I’m not crazy about it myself. Maybe you should let me handle this one.”

You shake your head and insist, “I need to be there.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Andrew gives you a knowing look and squeezes your hand. “I get it. I’ll track him down. But we should lie low for a while. After Mateo jumped you, I don’t want to raise any alarm bells so soon. Need to make sure you’re safe.”

Your eyes flick up to his for a moment. “I know you do.”

The details of how you got here are blurry now. It’s late, everything is handled, and you’re still fully clothed as Andrew gingerly cleans the blood from your face and neck, methodical and thorough. You haven’t stopped shaking. Your nerves are shot. He insisted on helping you clean yourself up because your legs are so weak he’s not sure you’ll be able to stay upright on your own.

Once you’re clean, he dries you off and helps you change just like he did during your heat. Now, though, there’s a certain something to his touch. It’s still not domineering, not overtly sexual, not unsafe, but it’s confident. Andrew touches you like he’s allowed to now – because he is – and he knows it. There’s no question of trust. 

Not after tonight.

Not after what you did.

Trevor – Razor Face, #4 – was prepared. Tipped off. After a full month of you and Andrew trying not to draw attention to yourself, he still knew. He’d been waiting for the two of you in his own house, sitting in the dark, changing up his schedule so he’d catch you coming in instead of falling into your ambush.

His brass knuckles collide with Andrew’s cheek before you can even think, barely inside the door, knocking him hard enough to send him tumbling down to the floor from the shock and impact. Trevor hasn’t noticed your smaller presence yet and it would be to your advantage.

Seeing Andrew curled around himself as Trevor’s boot makes unrelenting contact with his body does something strange to you. Time freezes. The lights get brighter and your hairs stand on end and every sound turns into a high buzzing. Your heart rate lowers and the world moves in slow motion and your vision narrows down to Andrew.

Your Andrew.

Yours.

That word rings around your brain in a steady beat.

Andrew belongs to you. 

Nobody is allowed to hurt him.

He’s yours. He’s yours. He’s yours.

Everything goes white. Your body animates on its own. To anyone else, you’re moving faster than you ever have, fast enough that your body blurs and almost no time passes. For you, it feels stop-motion, every breath long and exaggerated. Your limbs are light as air and floating toward Trevor, eyes trained forward. Your pupils blow wide, uncontrolled, dangerous.

You barely register the impact of your entire unbridled body weight jamming Trevor onto his side on the floor. He’s so shocked by it that he takes a single second to process, but that’s all you need. You’re thinking, moving, fighting twice as fast as he can. You vaguely notice Andrew getting up, his mouth opening to speak, his expression tightening, but you’re too focused. You jam your fingers straight into Trevor’s eyes as you slam his head down into the concrete.

Unthinking, operating entirely under the all-consuming need to keep Andrew safe, your teeth make contact with the center of Trevor’s salty neck and your head thrashes from side to side, flesh shredding between your teeth. The rich taste of metal and fat floods your mouth and you know it’s his blood, his life draining, but you don’t stop. There’s the snapping of tendons when you claw them out and the hissing of air into his trachea when you bite through it and he’s twitching underneath you and gurgling until it’s silent.

You’re still growling and tearing him to pieces, burning and righteous and vile, chunks of flesh flying in every direction, when you feel Andrew grab you from behind. His arms wrap around your waist and you thrash against his grip. He physically drags you away from the body to the other side of the room where you can’t see it, holds your face between his hands, and rushes out, urgent but firm, “Hey, hey, pup, it’s me, I’m okay, it’s okay.”

Your teeth gnash and your stomach rolls and you strain against his strong arm, trying to lunge back toward the body because there’s still so much energetic hatred boiling in your veins. Pope just holds you tighter, forces you to make eye contact, and urges, “Try to breathe, baby, just try for me. I’ve got you. He’s dead. He’s dead, angel. You killed him. You protected me. It’s okay. I’m okay.” Then, operating on his own intuition, Andrew lifts his wrist with its flowing scent to your nose and quietly orders, “Breathe.”

That’s what begins to snap you out of it. Calming, bright citrus. Andrew. Sweet and sharp. Your eyes scan every inch of him for signs of distress. There’s a bruise blooming over his shoulder and his lip is split, but otherwise he seems okay. His cheeks are flush with life and his brow shines with sweat and he’s okay.

Gradually, your breaths even out and slow down. The adrenaline drains out and you start to feel dizzy and dazed instead, vision swimming and head spinning. You hold Andrew’s arm tight, still needing the comfort of his steady scent, and ask him hazily, “What- what happened?”

Andrew brushes your cheek softly with his thumb, the touch grounding you further. Voice soothing and adoring, he explains, “You went feral, sunshine. To save me. Burned up all your energy at once. But you’re okay now. We’re both safe. Just breathe. Let me take care of this and then I’ll get you home. Why don’t you go sit in the car and try to relax?”

“No, I- I c-can help,” you reply unconvincingly, teeth beginning to chatter.

Pope shakes his head. “You need to rest, sweetheart.”

Meekly, you admit, “I don’t wanna be alone right now.”

“Just sit in here with me then, alright? I’ve got this.”

You nod slowly, head made of molasses and dumbbells.

Andrew touches your cheek and adds, “Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“I know your brain’s pretty foggy, but you saved my life back there.”

“Of course I did.” You offer a lopsided, sleepy smile. “I love you.”

It’s the very first time you realize you’re saying it in a new way. You don’t just love Pope, your best friend, your childhood companion, your confidante, your favorite. You love Andrew, your solar system’s star, your anchor, your person. You don’t have the energy or the words to process it, but you feel it down to your exhausted bones.

He gives you one more tight squeeze before helping you into a nearby chair. “I love you, too.”

You only hope he means it the way you do.

After the longest, heaviest sleep of your life, you wake to an empty bed and a quiet house. You can hear Andrew carefully moving around the kitchen, trying to keep the noise down to let you sleep as much as you need.

After scrubbing your face hard, brushing your teeth, and tugging on one of Andrew’s discarded crew necks, you pad over to him by the countertop, swallow hard to gather your courage, and ask, “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Yeah, of course.” He turns around and guides you to the couch in the living room, reading the anxiety all over your face. Before letting you speak, he tugs you into a hug, cradling the back of your head. “You okay, sunshine? I know last night was a lot.”

You hold your breath for a few seconds and let it out slow in an attempt to calm your racing heart, but it doesn’t work. So you just whisper the sacred, vulnerable admission into the crook of his neck, “I want your bite, Andrew.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, tilting your chin forward and holding your jaw in his big hand. The soft disbelief of his voice is holy. “What?”

Your whole body trembles – not from the lingering ferality but from the importance of the moment and the fear of ruining it – but you know you have to say it and you have to say it now. Mustering as much certainty as you feel in your gut, you insist, “I want to be your mate. I want you to choose me.”

“You don’t mean that,” he breathes and stands, almost staggering backwards like you’ve shoved him. “How could you mean- You don’t want me. You shouldn’t want me.” It sounds like he’s in agony and you’re not completely sure you understand why. There’s a deep, lifelong battle raging in his pounding heart. A war between want and self-hatred. Between who he’s always thought of himself as and who you could allow him to be. He stammers out the only objection he can think of as his heart screams for him to give in: “We’ve- we’ve never even been together. You can’t know for sure if-”

“Is that what being bonded means?” You cut him off with urgent eyes, grabbing his hand in yours and tugging him back to the couch. Then, after a beat of silence, you nuzzle his palm and implore, “Is it really about knotting me and claiming me or is it about everything else? Those men claimed me and bit me. Some of them knotted me.” Your voice is breaking from the raw honesty as you explain, “But you protect me. You love me like nobody else ever has or ever will. You’ve killed for me and I know you would die for me. I would kill and die for you. I know that now. You’re home. If that’s not what a real mate is, then I don’t want one.” You layer your hand over his and lean forward, close enough to kiss him but not ready to be the one to make that final step. “I don’t want anyone but you, Andrew.”

He can tell the truth of it in the sweet vanilla innocence that breezes from the strongest scent gland of your neck. He leans forward to let his nose gently nudge that silver scar and, for the first time, he lets himself unabashedly breathe in your aroma. When you shiver with pleasure at the lightest contact to your skin, tears spring up at his waterline. You know he’s pushing up against a cracking dam Smurf built deep inside of him, a wall that’s kept him from being who he is for a lifetime.

Then, so soft you’d miss it if he weren’t this close to you, he whispers the two words you’ve needed from him for solong without realizing: “My omega.”

You bare your neck more deeply to him and whimper out in agreement, “My alpha. Mine.”

His chest puffs up with pride at the word. At you wanting him. You start to feel lighter, now, the weight in your gut dissolving as he pulls you back in his warm arms, this time shifting you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His arms around you is the only thing you need.

You bury yourself in his chest and breathe him in. The pure safety of him. “My Andrew. Just let me be yours and I’ll be everything you’ve ever wanted.”

He squeezes you close and assures, “You already are.” Then he draws your hand to his mouth and kisses your fingers, each one like playing a piano’s keys with the way you sing out sweet breaths. “You’re perfect. I’ve wanted you my whole life.”

“Why haven’t you ever said anything?”

“Because you’re…you. You’re everything. And I’m just me. Nothing worthwhile.”

You give him a morning glory smile, half sarcastic, and chastise, “Don’t talk like that about my alpha.”

“Your alpha.” Andrew grins from ear to ear like you’ve never seen before. He hops to his feet because he can’t contain all of the love that’s finally allowed to break the surface, tugging you up with him, legs around his waist, and swinging you around off your feet until you’re giggling for him the way he loves. As you smile adoringly at him, he carefully deposits you back to your feet, makes a slightly more serious face, and tells you, “But I’m not going to bite you when you aren’t in heat, sunshine. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not actually a monster.”

You avert your eyes and cover the side of your neck with your free hand. “I just want this scar gone so bad. I don’t want to think about anything but you when I see my mating bite.”

“You don’t have a mating bite yet,” Pope replies, safe and sure, lowering his face to make you look at him. He takes your hand from the scar and looks at it more closely. “You have a scar like any other scar.” He leans forward slightly to kiss the thickened flesh in question, so gentle it leaves you breathless. “I’ll bite you when your body can handle it, when it’s going to feel good. I’m never going to hurt you, angel. I couldn’t handle hurting you.”

“Then how about a kiss?”

“That much I can do.”

But he hesitates. Cups your face and studies it.

You tease him with a smirk. “You sure about that?”

“You’re just-” He shakes his head and presses his forehead to yours. He’s completely awestruck by your cheek beneath his palm. His breathy voice nearly breaks. “You’re real. You’re mine now.”

You promise, “For good.”

And you tug his lips to yours, fingers twisted in his shirt.

You’re washing your hands in the Home Depot omega bathroom when you hear the door swing open and shut again. And you know right away from the smell that it’s not another omega joining you. When you turn, the hairs on your arms already standing up, you see a large man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark smile as he devours you.

Immediately, you know.

The man steps closer into the bathroom, blocking the door with his broad body, and sneers out, “Good to see you again.”

You swallow hard, fingers twitching at your side, wondering if you can grab the gun from your lower back waistband before he can lunge at you. “Mateo.”

“That’s right, sweetheart.” Smelling your distress and guessing your next move, he touches the inside of his jacket and pulls it aside just enough to show you that he’s got a piece of his own, trying to deter you. “I heard through the grapevine that you and His Holiness have been looking for me. Thought I’d save you some time and make the connection myself.”

“Who told you?”

“Please. You think I don’t keep in touch with the guys I pull jobs for? Some cute piece of ass mega and Pope Cody go out hunting, word gets around.”

There’s a loud sound nearby and it steals his attention for a split second. You don’t miss your chance, trying to spring forward and slip around him. He’s too fast though, snatching your waist and tugging you back, your ass flush against his hips.

You manage to scream out, loud as you can muster, echoing around the small space, “Andrew! Help me!”

“I don’t think so,” Mateo admonishes. He clamps his hand over your mouth until you stop trying to move. “There she is,” Mateo coos, cloyingly sweet and revolting, against your ear as he holds you against his body. You can feel his cock twitching against you. One hand around your neck, wrenching your head back, the other holding his gun right against your waist. “You smell just as good as the last time I saw you. Such a pretty little omega, aren’t you?”

You squeak out something like ‘let me go,’ but your throat is pressed down too tightly by his strong hand. You’d try to thrash, but he’s got you completely at his mercy. Your only hope is Pope. He said he’d wait for you near the bathrooms; maybe he heard. Maybe he’ll save you.

No.

No, your mind provides, Pope will save you.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, princess,” Mateo goes on, his breath hot and moist on your ear. “I’m gonna walk you out to my car through the back exit, I’m gonna drive you home – yeah, I’ve got your address; don’t worry – and then you’re gonna show me a good time so I forget all about this little incident.” He presses his neck to your scent gland and inhales deeply. “You’re smelling real good, too, so I bet you’ll enjoy it.”

That’s when you realize. The warmth in your cheeks. The buzzing in your limbs. (Your focus on Andrew.)

You’re going into heat.

Shit shit shit fuck.

Your breaths start to speed up, going panicky and shallow, as Mateo pushes you out of the bathroom, gun pressed into your spine, and leads you toward the hidden emergency exit. You don’t see Andrew, but your extra sensitive nose can smell him. The citrus that goes almost cedar when he’s enraged. Nearby. Around a corner. Waiting. Watching. Biding his time.

When Mateo pushes you through the industrial doors and into the attached parking garage, you lose Andrew’s scent and, with it, any semblance of safety you might’ve been able to cobble together. You try to stay calm, but with the growing charge inside your body it’s hard. Even if you get away from Mateo, you’re still terrified of another spoiled heat – days of pure agony and fever and-

A blur of colors slams by. Andrew knocks Mateo to the ground, running so fast and so quietly there isn’t any time to think. He kicks the gun across the parking garage and tackles him behind a truck. The alarm starts going off, blaring through the echoey structure.

Jarred by the suddenness, you topple to the ground, only barely catching yourself by scratching up your palms. For a few moments, all you hear is snarling, gnashing teeth, flesh and bone. Ripping, tearing, bleeding. They’re shrouded behind a truck and you’re too scared to move.

When the sound goes quiet, thick red blood seeps from beneath the truck, spilling outward and dripping down to the level below with too-loud splatters. Andrew – relief – launches out from behind the truck and toward you with dark eyes. He drops onto his knees over you, his expression so intense, so intimate, so dominant, so protective. The strength in his eyes is the only assurance you’ll ever need.

Caging your heavy-breathing body between his arms, both of you on the concrete ground, Andrew rapidly checks over you. His hands traverse up your arms and over your exposed abdomen beneath your crop top, searching for any injuries and reminding himself you’re safe now. You’ve never seen his eyes so deep and rich and adoring. He cups your face in one hand and asks urgently, “Are you okay? What hurts?”

“I’m okay,” you reply breathlessly. His knee is unintentionally positioned directly between your thighs and you feel the slight pressure to your sex turning your brain to absolute mush. Looking at Andrew’s frankly ridiculous biceps, you know without a doubt that this is the start of your heat. You swallow hard and ask him, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He grins, cocky and preening, with speckles of blood all over him. “Not a scratch.”

“Course not. Big bad Pope Cody.” You poke him in the arm and suggest, “Mind moving? You’re kind of pinning me down here, beefcake.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Andrew shakes his head to clear his thoughts and then helps you to your feet. When you’re upright, he feels the warmth coming off your body, sees the darkness in your pupils, smells the absolutely radiant vanilla cinnamon scent from your neck. He keeps one hand on your shoulder and says, laden with unspoken understanding, “I think we need to get you home, pup.”

You bite your lower lip and fight down unwarranted shame. “You can smell it on me?”

He nods, takes your hand to lead you to his truck, and confirms, “For a few days now. But I can tell you’re about to be in it for real. Sit. Breathe. I’ll take care of our friend back there.”

You cover your face with embarrassment, letting go of his hand because you can’t bear his kindness. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he tells you urgently, opening the truck’s door and helping you up the way he always does. His hand on your lower back, he goes on, “I did some reading after the attack. You going into heat is a sign your body’s fully recovered from the trauma. This is good.”

You force a tight-lipped nod and wave him off to go handle business. When you’re behind the locked door, your head falls between your knees and you let out a long, shaky breath.

It’s hours later when the truck, now empty and clean, rolls into the house’s driveway with you and Andrew inside. You haven’t stopped crying since you returned to Oceanside city limits after dumping the body, too overwhelmed with guilt and confusion and grief to even think.

With your muffled sobs agonizing his ears, Andrew parks the car at last and turns to you with affection written all over his face. “What is it?”

You scooch toward him on the bench seat, nestle into his neck like you belong there, and wrap your fists up in his blood-stained tee. With a tiny, fearful voice, you whimper, “I’m scared.”

Andrew sighs and kisses the top of your head. Even if he doesn’t understand, he understands. “I’ve got you, pup, I promise. You’re safe with me.”

Your lower lip wobbles as you try to take in his comfort. The words are stilted and anxious. “Just- my last- my last heat-”

“I know.” He rubs your back and holds you tight, applying pressure that manages to slow your racing heart slightly. “I know. But you’re safe now. We’ll get through it together.”

You gaze up at him through lashes heavy with tears; the total trust and love in your eyes melts him to the wick. “Promise?”

He pulls away from you just enough to draw his first finger in an X over his chest. “Cross my heart.”

Over the next few hours as your heat climbs to the forefront of everything, Andrew makes you a large protein-heavy dinner, ensures you eat a full plate, preps more meals and snacks for the next few days, and tries to make you as comfortable as possible. He collects pillows and blankets so you can nest in his bedroom, promising to go to your apartment later on to get your personal stuffies and comfort items.

By sunset, you’re overwhelmed. Your body must still be working on something because you’re not aroused, just hot. There’s slick running between your legs but no desire behind it. Not yet. You cling to Andrew for comfort and he holds onto you exactly as you need.

Trembling in his arms as some movie you hadn’t been paying attention to ends, you weep, “It hurts, Andrew.”

“I know it does.” He kisses the side of your head over and over and soothes into your hair, “I wish I could take it away. Take it for you. I’m so sorry this has to happen right now with everything going on. What’s the worst right now?”

“I’m hot,” you whimper, “so hot.”

“Let me give you a bath,” he offers, stroking your cheek with his brows furrowed in concern. “Ice bath with good smelling soaps. It’ll help.”

“Don’t- don’t-” Your voice breaks as you struggle to catch your breath among the shivers. “You can’t. Too- too hard.”

He knows what you’re trying to say. Being this close to an omega in heat would be enough to make most alphas lose control. Pope’s been around you in heat enough times to handle the proximity, but seeing you naked? Touching you? Taking on the role of a mate in every way but the one his biology would beg him for? The idea scares you. You’ve never seen Pope lose control and you trust him with your life, but, after what you’ve been through, any alpha being around you at your most vulnerable is scary.

Low and deep and rumbling, Andrew assures you, “I can control myself.”

Teeth chattering, you ask, “H-how do you know?”

Andrew takes your hand – burning hot and clammy to the touch – and presses it to his chest. You feel his heartbeat: Not elevated, not racing. Smooth and steady. “I will never hurt you. I know that the same way I know the sun’s coming up tomorrow. I can’t explain how, but I do.” He touches your chin and tilts your face to his. “Right now, I’m touching you while you’re in heat. I’m smelling every single note of you. And I’m not going to pretend that doesn’t affect me on the basic level it would any alpha.” You glance down and see that his cock is hard and straining against his sweats, but he doesn’t give any sign he’s even noticed, much less that it’s bothering him. He squeezes your hand. “But you- you’re not just some omega. I would – I will – do anything in my power to help you.” When he touches his forehead to yours, a dam cracks inside your ribcage. “Let me take care of you. Please.”

Tears slip down your cheeks; your face is so hot they feel freezing cold.

And you nod.

As soon as you do, Andrew slides his strong arms beneath your knees and your back, gingerly lifting your body like you weigh nothing. He brings you to the bathroom and settles you on the countertop as he draws a cool bath, taking a minute to collect some ice from the freezer and the silky bath oil he’d bought for this purpose when he realized you were in preheat a few days ago even before you did. His sense of smell has been much more sensitive. He’d tried to prepare as best he could, scouring internet articles for tips because he was too embarrassed to ask you directly, afraid of scaring you off with his need to keep you safe and comfortable.

When he returns to the bathroom, it’s with full arms and bashful eyes. He offers gently, “I can turn around while you-”

You shake your heavy, cloudy head and admit, “Can’t lift my arms.”

“That bad already?” Andrew sighs sympathetically, closes the space between you, hovers his hands above your clothes, and asks, “Can I touch you?”

More tears fall as you nod. Andrew understands these ones, he thinks. They’re flowing because he’s asking. Not taking, not demanding, not pushing. Even – especially – in this state where you couldn’t resist him if you wanted to and tried, Andrew cares enough to take the time to check in with you and go at your pace.

With your permission, he lifts each of your arms enough to free them from the tee’s sleeves and then tugs the whole thing over your head. He helps you stand and guides your shorts down your legs, helping you step out of them. Then he touches the front clasp of your bra and meets your eyes once more. “Still doing okay?”

Another nod. Your whole body shakes from heat. He can tell how exhausted you are, how feverish, how pained. And how relieved to be cared for.

Andrew unhooks your bra, careful not to touch your chest prematurely, and slinks the straps down your arms, chuckling a bit at himself as he fights to free your fingers against the elastic. Agony punches him in the stomach when he sees your breasts. One of your attackers clearly had a ruthless affinity for them. They’re your meanest, most obvious scars by far. Trying not to let you catch him noticing, Pope clears his throat and helps you out of your underwear, too. There’s no reprieve from the signs of violence, though. Your sensitive inner thighs are littered with the same bites, a few going up and along your hip.

Andrew has to focus hard to stop the anger from rising up and taking over him. He’s never hated anyone like the men who hurt you. Killing them doesn’t even feel like enough to absorb how much he hates them. Carefully, Andrew picks you up again to guide you toward the bath, pushing himself not to think about how much of your blessed bare skin he’s touching.

You can feel the hardness of his cock against your hip as he kneels down and then settles you in the cold tub, but still he does nothing to draw attention to it. There are no wandering hungry eyes, no shaky wanting breaths, no hands that threaten to break the trust you’re showing him. The water immediately starts to lower your internal temperature and you’re able to take a deep breath for the first time in hours.

Andrew takes a washcloth, wrings it with cold water, and lightly wipes the sweat from your face. He presses the cloth to each of your cheeks for a few moments at a time. Your skin cools down beneath it. Your lower lip stops wobbling and the shivers calm.

“There we go,” Andrew murmurs as he watches your expression relax. He takes a cup from the countertop and fills it with cold water. “Lean your head back for me.”

You do as he says. Your eyes flutter shut when he gingerly pours water over your hair, wetting it thoroughly while covering your forehead with his other hand to stop the water from getting in your eyes. He lathers a gentle shampoo through your hair, focusing on working the tension from your scalp, and then rinses it with equal care. By the time he has you cleaned and cooled down, you’re purring gently and sleep is threatening your eyes.

“Stay here and rest a while,” Andrew murmurs, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “I’m going to turn down the temperature, get some snacks together, change the sheets, and grab you some light clothes to put on. I’ll try not to be too long.”

With much clearer eyes than you had an hour ago while you were still boiling, you give him a tired smile. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you.”

And he means it.

At least, he thinks he does.

But once he’s done everything he promised, he dries you off and begins to dress you when he sees the darkness overtaking your pupils. He feels the heat rise in your cheeks when he applies your moisturizer. He watches the way your eyes linger on his mouth, his flexing arms, his perpetually hard cock that’s been buzzing for attention at the back of his brain.

You reach for the waistband of his sweats and begin to tug him forward, imagining the perfect stretch of his knot making you whole.

He catches your wrist with fingers that hold so much affection. He stills your movements and takes a long, slow breath that rattles slightly. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not?” Your voice is deep and breathy and needy. “Need a knot, Andrew. You can help me. Need it.”

“I won’t,” he whispers, holding his hands behind his head like the cops are about to start shooting. “Anything but that.”

You whimper and nuzzle at his neck, unable to stop yourself from breathing in the citrusy brilliance. “Please. Please. Need it so bad. It hurts. Take me, Andrew. I want you. Please.”

He shakes his head, rests a heavy hand on your shoulder, meets your eyes, and insists, “No. I can’t.”

Firm.

Final.

He’s never used his alpha tone with you before – maybe he couldn’t – and it makes you shiver. You shrink back on the bed, unafraid but handled, and look up at him with questions in your wide eyes. He grabs the light tank top and shorts he picked out for you and unceremoniously guides your limbs into them; there’s nothing you can do but obey the total dominance of his presence.

With the silky fabric grounding you ever so slightly, you reach toward Andrew and tug his wrist. Your eyes are urgent and desperate. “Why not?”

He finishes dressing you, smoothes out the fabric, and touches your chin with his thumb. Tilting your face up so you’ll meet his hazel eyes, Andrew tells you simply, “Because I love you.” He cups your cheek in his hand and asks, “Do you have toys back at your apartment?”

The feeling of his hand on your skin intoxicates you. Your eyelids feel heavy and you turn your face into his hand, soothed and warmed by the scent gland at his wrist. You start to feel dizzy with it as you nod and kiss his palm.

Andrew’s head hurts. His cock throbs. His veins are full of lava. Resisting you is herculean. Sisyphean. But he pulls his hand back and steps away. Your whine only makes him move further. “I’ll be back in half an hour. Stay put for me, sweet girl.”

When he returns, arms full of things to make you more comfortable, he finds you sleeping in your makeshift nest, shivering from fever but content.

You’re wearing nothing but a pair of his boxers, curled up on your side.

One of his tees is twisted up in your fists, pressed close to your nose.

Oh.

“Sooo,” J drawls as he twirls spaghetti around with his fork, “you two are, like, a thing now?”

Your eyes widen and dart to Pope, who seems to have frozen into stone under his nephew’s gaze. He tries, “Um, no, I’m just helping her out right now.”

“Why’s she staying here then? You could put her up somewhere.”

“I, ah- Well, she’s safer with me here.”

“Right, yeah.” He cuts a conspiratorial glance at his girlfriend, Mia, and mutters, “Definitely not a thing.”

Mia snickers. “Yeah, I kinda thought this was supposed to be, like, a double date thing.”

Pope scoffs and unconsciously hands you another slice of garlic bread, noticing that you're taking the last bite of your first one. “Why would we go on a double date with two eighteen-year-olds?”

Mia raises her eyebrow. “Well, why else would you invite your nephew and his girlfriend over for dinner?”

You laugh under your breath.

Pope sighs, “I can’t just want to see my nephew? I’m not around Smurf’s much anymore. Maybe I missed you.”

“Ew,” J says pointedly. Then he glances at you and prods, “Did you put him up to this? Give him some guilt-inducing speech about how Mom would’ve wanted him to have me over?”

You giggle and lie, “Caught red-handed.” Then you go on lying through your teeth, “It’s just been a while since we’ve gotten to talk; I’ve been kind of a shut-in since the attack.”

The truth breaks your heart a little: Smurf got his claws into J so hard and so fast that you don’t know if he can be saved. Julia wouldn't like the man he's becoming. So you don't really want to be around, especially not at her house and especially now that Pope's off the meds Smurf made him take.

Mia takes the bait you’d been hoping for; from what J’s told you, she has a deep sense of righteousness and vengeance. And a lack of loyalty. She scowls and says, “J mentioned that. They still breathing?”

You look at her with darkness in your gaze. “Some of them.”

She grins at that. “Pope’s taking care of it for you?”

“I’m taking care of it,” you correct. Dead serious.

“Good for you,” she commends in earnest. “Fuckers like that don’t deserve to keep living.”

J nods and you can tell he means it. “Agreed. Wish I could go back and take out all the guys who hurt Mom.”

Andrew’s knuckles to white around his glass. “Me too, kid.” Then he looks over at you with a question in his eyes. You’d been planning on slowly and casually working the Trujillo guy’s name out of Mia so she wouldn’t even realize she was the one who gave him up, but Pope’s wondering if you even need to be subtle. You give him a little nod and shrug, so he says, testing the waters, “I’d kill my own blood if I found out he did that to your mom, I swear. Or any omega.”

Mia nods in approval, twirling herself another mouthful of spaghetti. “My dad’s the same way. He always told my brothers that if he caught them messing around hurting omegas, they’d be done for.”

“Really?” Pope feigns disinterest, musing, “I know I’ve only worked with Pete, but he keeps some shady characters around.”

“He’s not like my dad; he has blind spots for family,” she huffs, clearly annoyed as she thinks about it. “Let his own daughter take the fall for this stupid hit and run so his brother wouldn’t do time.”

Pope’s eyes flick over to yours for a quarter of a second. “I didn’t know your dad and Pete had another brother.”

“Two of them,” she clarifies. “One’s an accountant out in LA. Other one’s sucking on Pete’s tit. Useless lowlife. He’s on this whole power trip right now because he ran some job on his own so now he’s got money.” On a role about it now, she stabs down into a meatball and rants, “I can’t fucking stand him. Y’know when people say they have a ‘funny uncle’ and they mean a good-for-nothing creep? That’s Mateo. Pinches my ass like we aren’t related and now he’s started calling himself ‘Master’ because he’s pulling his own shit. Fucking asshole.”

Well, that was easier than you’d thought it would be. Pope was right when he suggested what you figured was a stupid plan; Mia’s so angry and perpetually ready to snap she’ll bad-mouth anyone without regard for the consequences. Even Smurf thinks she’s a psychopath, which is saying something.

“Sounds like Pete would be better off without him,” Pope says bluntly. “It’s bad business covering up for guys like that all the time. Huge liability.”

J points his fork at Pope and chuckles, “You have Craig.”

“Fair point.” Andrew laughs just to let the topic shift. “But if Craig grabbed my daughter’s ass, he’d lose his hand.”

You’re still cleaning up dinner side by side with Andrew when you hear a big growling car pulling up to the house. Pope drops what he’s doing and sighs, “That’s Baz’s Jeep.”

You gesture vaguely toward the bedroom door. “Should I…?”

“Yeah, go hang out a while. I flaked on a job because of the med withdrawals. Dodged his calls about it. Should’ve expected him to show up pissed.” He places the last pot on the drying rack and washes his hands as you hear the Jeep’s door slam, the engine still running. “The spanking shouldn’t last more than a couple minutes; he’s gotta get Lena from soccer.”

You quickly duck out of the kitchen, hiding yourself just around the corner where you still have a view of the front.

“What the fuck, Pope?” Baz storms into the house without knocking or announcing himself, slamming the door behind him. He immediately shoves Pope’s chest and it’s clear he’s surprised when Pope barely moves from the force. He grabs his brother by the collar of his shirt and demands, “What the actual, living fuck is wrong with you?”

Pope shakes him off and shoves him back, lighter, just enough to push him away. You know that, with his new strength, he could have Baz on his ass with ease. “I could probably answer that better if I knew what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Can we not do that? Please?” Baz gets himself a beer from the fridge, popping it open on the countertop, and starts rambling the way he does when he’s already a few drinks deep: “Look, I knew she’d killed Tyson as soon as Craig said he was dead a couple weeks back because, yeah, of course that little weasel’s a rapist. But, hey, he’s a skinny guy, right? And always high. And stupid. So I figure maybe she got him on her own. What do I care? I’ll just keep an eye on her, make sure the situation’s under control.” Your heart climbs up into your throat as he goes on, “But then I hear through the grapevine this morning that Les Fedoruk is dead, too, and I realize that you have to be involved because him? He’s a fucking truck of an alpha. No way an omega could take him out. And who the hell would help out little miss I Spit on Your Grave besides my whipped beta simp of a brother? So I return to my original question: What the fuck, Pope?”

“They raped her,” Pope replies in a harsh whisper, gesturing for Baz to keep his voice down. He knows you’re nearby, unaware that you’re actively listening and watching but still wanting to protect you from Baz’s sharpness. He leans in closer and reminds him, “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve helped someone get revenge, would it?”

You know what he’s talking about; Baz has sicced him on countless rivals through the years, weaponizing his instincts and treating him like a personal hit man more than a few times.

“This isn’t the same, Pope. You’ve only ever killed to protect this family and only when we’ve all agreed it was the right move. But Craig knew Tyson. We’ve all worked with the Fedoruks. Means we’ve probably run in the same circles as the others, too, if she’s continuing on her little rampage. Eyes are gonna be right on you, man. Right on all of us. They’re gonna expect it.” Baz shakes his head and slams the empty beer bottle on the counter. “Your girlfriend is going to get you sent back to prison or worse, dumbass. Get her under control. It’s fucking pathetic that you can be manipulated so easily by some pissed off puppymill bitch who thinks she can-”

“Don’t,” Pope growls. A real, proper growl. An alpha’s growl. You smell his scent flaring, weakening your knees. You have to suppress the whimper that your instincts want to release at the sound. Now that he’s stopped the unnecessary medication, that smell intoxicates you. It’s earthy and mean and protective. To you, it smells safe. Like you could curl up inside of it and never be afraid again. “Don’t ever talk about her like that or I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Baz scoffs and squares up against Pope, chest to chest, eye to eye. A challenge. You can smell them warring and it makes you feel like a wilting flower, eyes darting around for somewhere to curl up so they won’t find you. “Gonna try to fight me when-”

Baz’s nostrils flare and he falls into a harsh silence.

You realize with fear coiling sharp and cold in your stomach that he’s smelling you. The distress you can’t control anymore blooming in response to Pope’s emotions, your biology reaching out for his. Needing his comfort, his strength. Fuck. Baz hits Pope hard in the chest with both hands and his broad frame thuds into the cabinets behind him. “She’s here? You fucking idiot. What if the others come looking for her? What if-”

“That’s why she’s here,” Pope retorts with a scoff. This time when he pushes Baz, it’s with full force. Baz staggers backwards toward the front door, where Pope wants him. He vows, “I’m not gonna let any of those psychos hurt her again.”

“You need to grow up,” Baz hisses. “This isn’t middle school when you could push a guy around to impress her. It’s not like we’re talking about your mate or something here; this is just-”

“What if she is?” Pope’s voice is barely audible, but you definitely hear it. And it definitely sends your nervous system flying into the stratosphere. Something deep inside of you thrums at the idea; it feels warm and familiar instead of foreign and frightening. “What then?”

“That’s not possible and you know it,” Baz replies, pitying his brother, his tone demeaning and gross. Until a thought occurs to him that grips his throat. You hear him step back toward the front door. His face is obscured from your view now, but you can hear the fear in his voice even as he tries to disguise it with anger. “Are you off your meds? Is that why you’re doing this bullshit?”

Pope cocks his head to the side and smirks. “What if I am?”

Baz’s voice shrinks just enough to be vulnerable. “Don’t tell me you’re that stupid.”

“What?” Andrew sounds so confident it makes you melt. You know, in this moment, that Andrew will protect you. Not just can or could. Will.  “Scared of a little competition?”

Baz shoves him and grunts, “Scared of you going fucking feral at the drop of a hat and getting yourself killed.”

“Funny, I’ve been off them for a while now and I haven’t had any issues. In fact, I feel better than ever.” Pope shoves Baz again, then, and the strength of the blow makes Baz grunt hard. Pope cages him up against the front door, forearm on his neck, and sneers, “I’m starting to think maybe you and Smurf just want me on those drugs so you can be in charge. So I won’t start my own pack and take over our business like I’m supposed to as the alpha of this family.”

Baz spits, “Like Craig or Deran would ever follow you.”

“Wanna bet?” Pope’s so cocky and self-assured that slick threatens your panties. It’s beyond mortifying given the circumstances and you’re thankful to be out of his sight. But it only gets stronger when he peacocks more: “How about we have a family get together where I’ll tell them all about how mommy and her favorite toy have been chemically castrating the one person they should really rely on and see how that goes? While we’re at it, we can tell them you don’t care about the closest person they still have to a sister getting gang raped because you’re too much of a weak bitch-” the words are punctuated by Pope pressing harder on Baz’s windpipe “-to protect your own people. I’m free whenever you are.”

Pope releases his brother, who realizes for the first time they’re looking eye to eye, Pope meeting his height. He stands there in stunned silence for thirty seconds straight. You hear his hand on the front doorknob and its defeated squeak.

Baz grits his teeth and says, “You’re out of control, Pope, and I’m not cleaning up your mess when this is over.”

Pope tries to grab Baz’s keys but he doesn’t let go. He snarls, “And I’m not explaining it to your daughter when you die in a wreck picking her up from soccer drunk. Call Cath; I’ll drive your car to Smurf’s. Or I can pick up Lena. Just-”

“I don’t ever want you saying Lena’s name again,” Baz cuts. “You think you can be some hero acting like her dad just because-”

“I don’t want you to kill the kid!”

“-you know you’ll never be one.”

It hits like a slap.

Andrew deflates. It gives Baz a second to escape, so he does, off to drunk drive again like he does half the time.

When Andrew turns around, he’s hanging his head and sniffling hard, clearly trying not to cry. You debate if you should pretend you didn’t hear to save him from having to face it, but your urge to truly soothe him, not just placate, overtakes that train of thought.

You step out of the doorway and close the gap between you and Pope right away. Realizing you heard everything, he won’t look at you, so you just wrap your arms around him tight and hold on. It takes a few long shuddering breaths, but he eventually returns the hug.

He whispers into the top of your head, “I’m sorry.”

You’re not even sure what he’s apologizing for, but you decide it’s better not to argue. Instead, you pull only slightly away from the embrace and gently touch his cheek. “Baz is a moron.”

Pope shrugs and tries a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah, but he’s usually right.”

“Stop,” you order softly. You place your hand over his racing heart and his eyes slam up to yours. “Anyone would be lucky to be your mate and to carry your pups,” you tell him tentatively. He places his hand over yours and takes a deep breath as you say, even softer, “You’re going to have that, Andrew. You will.”

His expression aches as he searches your eyes for pity, finding none. “How do you know?”

Because I’ll give it to you.

“Because I know you. I know you better than Baz or Smurf or any of them ever have.” You give him a pointed but lighter, more teasing look. “I hate to pull this card, but, as an omega-”

He laughs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead.”

“-I can tell you that the one thing we really want in our mates is safety.” You take his hand and hold it tenderly in yours. “You’ve made me feel safe every day I’ve known you. Since we were little. You protect me all the time. If the way you treat me is any indication of how you’ll act as a mate and a father, then you’ll have everything you want. I promise.”

His eyes flicker down – almost imperceptibly – to your lips. Then he averts his eyes and gently takes his hand from yours like your touch was poisoning him from the inside out. He can't let himself hope for that. “Maybe someday.”

But you reach out and tuck a curl behind his ear, refusing to let him hide this precious softness from you. You tilt his face toward you, cupping his jaw, and add, “A few months ago you believed in ‘never,’ so I’d say ‘maybe someday’ is a pretty big improvement.” That makes his lip twitch into something close to a smile. He looks at you sideways, wondering, and admits, “Yeah, I guess it is.”