Natalia

“Mine,” Garrett snarls, the word vibrating right through your sternum.

He grips the waistband of your soaked sweatpants and tears them down your legs in one brutal, efficient motion, taking your underwear with them. You are completely bare in the center of the nest, slick with your own heat, your skin flushed a feverish, mottled red.

You let out a desperate, keening whine, your hips bucking up off the blankets. “Please. Garrett, please.”

“I know, baby,” Garrett growls, his voice a harsh rasp. “I know.”

He sheds his own clothes in seconds. The sight of his massive, heavy erection makes your mouth go dry. The base is thick, the distinct ridge of his knot already starting to form under the skin from the sheer force of his arousal.

He crawls over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He doesn’t bother with foreplay. Your body has been prepping for this for days, and the slick pooling beneath you on the blankets is evidence enough. Garrett grips your hips, his thumbs pressing hard into your pelvic bones to hold you absolutely still.

“Take it all,” Garrett commands.

He thrusts forward.

You scream as he stretches you open, tearing a ragged gasp from his own throat. He is massive, thick and impossibly hot, filling the hollow, aching void inside you that has been driving you insane. He doesn’t stop. He drives in completely to the hilt, burying himself inside your wet heat.

“Fuck,” Dean curses from the edge of the nest, his voice thick with lust. He’s already completely naked, his own cock fully hard as he watches Garrett stretch you. Logan and Tucker are stripping down, the heavy scents of cedar, mint, and leather spiking into a chaotic frenzy of alpha arousal.

“Garrett,” you sob, your nails digging violently into his broad shoulders. “It’s so full.”

“You’re perfect,” Garrett groans, gritting his teeth as he forces himself to hold still for five agonizing seconds, letting your body adjust to the invasion. “You feel so fucking good, Y/N. So tight.”

He pulls back almost entirely, the slick sound of his retreat echoing in the quiet room, and then he slams back into you.

The sensation is blinding. You throw your head back into the pillows, a continuous, breathless cry tumbling from your lips. Garrett sets a brutal, punishing pace. He isn’t making love to you; he is claiming you. His hips snap against yours with a heavy, wet smack, every thrust driving deeper, hitting exactly the spot that makes your vision white out.

“That’s it,” Logan murmurs, crawling up to your head. He grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His dark eyes are blown wide. “Take his knot, baby. Let him fill you.”

You are lost in the friction, the overwhelming smell of pine, and the heavy weight of Garrett’s body. The ache is finally, blissfully being met.

“I’m close,” Garrett snarls, his thrusts turning choppy and erratic. “I’m knotting you. I’m claiming you right now.”

He reaches under your neck, tilting your head to the side, exposing your scent gland.

“Do it,” you beg, your hips rising to meet him. “Bite me.”

Garrett sinks his teeth into the crook of your neck exactly as he drives his hips forward one final, brutal time.

You scream as his teeth break the skin, the sharp pain instantly flooded by the euphoric, blinding rush of the mate bond sealing. At the exact same moment, the base of his cock violently swells inside you. The knot expands, locking him deep inside your canal.

Garrett lets out a deafening, guttural roar against your neck. Hot, thick semen jets directly into your womb, wave after wave of it filling you entirely.

The sensory overload triggers a violent orgasm. You convulse around his knot, sobbing uncontrollably, your hands gripping his hair. Pure instinct takes over. You twist your head, finding the thick muscle of Garrett’s shoulder, right over his own scent gland.

You open your mouth and bite down as hard as you can.

Garrett groans loudly, his hands tightening on your hips as your teeth break his skin, marking him back. The bond snaps completely into place — a two-way street of absolute, unyielding devotion.

You collapse onto the blankets, gasping for air, locked together. Garrett crushes you against his chest, his nose buried in your hair, purring violently as his knot slowly begins to recede.

“One,” Dean whispers from your side, his voice a dark, rough promise.

As soon as Garrett’s knot softens enough, he pulls out with a wet, heavy sound. Your slick, mixed with his semen, spills out onto your thighs. The heat instantly flares back up. The moment Garrett is gone, the hollow ache returns with a vengeance.

“More,” you whine, reaching out blindly.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Dean says.

He slides into Garrett’s place, positioning himself between your legs. Dean is relentless. He grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders, and buries his face directly between your legs.

You shriek as his hot, wet tongue laps at your swollen clit, lapping up Garrett’s mess and your slick without a second thought. Dean groans into your folds, his fingers sliding inside you, stretching you for his own width.

“God, you taste incredible,” Dean mutters, his lips slick. He pulls back, his blue eyes blazing. He wastes no time. He slides his cock home in one long, smooth thrust.

“Dean!” You cry out, arching off the bed.

“Yeah, baby,” Dean praises, his voice a filthy, decadent purr. He begins to move, his thrusts shallower but impossibly fast, rubbing directly against your g-spot over and over again. “Look at you taking my cock. You are the prettiest fucking thing I have ever seen. You’re my omega.”

The praise breaks you. You shatter into another orgasm within minutes, sobbing Dean’s name as he bites down hard on your collarbone, his teeth sinking in to lay his claim. His knot swells, locking him inside you, his hot seed flooding your core. You bite him back, marking the side of his neck, tasting his blood and sweat.

The hours blur into a feverish, chaotic haze of skin, sweat, and pheromones.

Logan takes you from behind. He flips you onto your hands and knees in the center of the nest, pulling your hips back against his thighs. He is the quietest of the four, his dominance expressed entirely through the bruising grip of his large hands on your waist and the deep, relentless power of his thrusts.

“Logan, please,” you sob, your face pressed into a pillow as he completely wrecks you.

“I’m here,” Logan rumbles. He leans over your back, his broad chest pressing you down into the mattress. He bites the back of your neck, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin just below your hairline. He knots you with a violent shudder, claiming you with absolute, possessive certainty. You twist your head back, sinking your teeth into his jaw, sealing the bond.

By the time Tucker takes you, you are a boneless, exhausted, completely delirious mess.

Tucker is slow. He rolls you onto your back, holding your face in both hands. His dark eyes are full of an intense, reverent love that makes your

heart physically ache. He kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans as he sinks into your wet, overused cunt.

“My beautiful girl,” Tucker whispers, his thrusts deep, agonizingly slow, and completely devastating. He makes love to you in the middle of a feral heat, his control slipping only when you wrap your legs around his waist and beg for his knot. He bites you right over your racing pulse point, filling you with his seed, and you bite his shoulder in return, completing the circle.

Four bites. Four marks. Four mates.

You fall asleep locked around Tucker’s softening knot, completely dead to the world.

***

You wake up to the feeling of a cold, wet cloth wiping down your face.

You pry your eyes open. The living room is dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside the large windows. Tucker is kneeling beside you, holding a damp towel.

“Hey,” Tucker murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your swollen lips. “Drink this.”

He lifts your head, pressing a straw to your mouth. You suck greedily, the cold Gatorade hitting your dry throat like liquid heaven.

“How long was I asleep?” You croak, your voice completely hoarse from screaming.

“Three hours,” Garrett says. He’s sitting on the edge of the nest, wearing only a pair of sweatpants. He has a massive plate of pasta in his hands. “It’s Thursday night. Day two of the heat.”

Day two.

You try to sit up, but every single muscle in your body screams in protest. You are completely sore, your core throbbing with a heavy, residual ache.

“Don’t move,” Logan says, appearing on your other side. He slides his arm under your back, propping you up against his chest.

Garrett feeds you the pasta. You eat mechanically, your body desperate for the calories. But with every bite you swallow, you feel your core temperature begin to rise again. The Gatorade and food are doing exactly what they are supposed to do: fueling your body for the next wave.

By the time the plate is empty, the itching heat beneath your skin is back.

You let out a soft whine, shifting your hips against Logan’s thigh. The friction sends a jolt of arousal straight to your clit.

“Already?” Dean asks, walking into the room with a fresh towel. He drops it when he sees the feverish glaze returning to your eyes.

“The first heat is always the most violent,” Tucker says, his own scent of fresh mint instantly spiking to match your rising pheromones. “Her body has two years of suppressed biology to burn through.”

You don’t care about the biology. You only care about the ache.

“Garrett,” you whimper, reaching for him.

“I’m right here, baby,” Garrett growls, setting the empty plate on the coffee table.

The second wave is less about the formal claiming and entirely about the feral, unbridled need. The pack dynamic shifts from structured turns into an absolute, chaotic free-for-all.

Time loses all meaning. It is just a cycle of fucking, sleeping, eating, and fucking again.

On Friday, Dean and Logan take you together. You are lying on your back, your legs spread wide. Logan is inside you, driving his thick cock deep into your cunt, his hands bruising your hips. Dean is kneeling over your face, his hard length pressed against your lips.

“Open up, sweetheart,” Dean commands, his fingers threading through your hair.

You take him into your mouth, sucking fiercely while Logan pounds into you from below. The sensory overload is maddening. You are completely stretched, filled on both ends, choking on Dean’s thick cock while Logan hits your cervix over and over again.

“Good girl,” Dean praises, thrusting his hips forward, fucking your mouth in tandem with Logan’s rhythm. “Take it. Take your pack.”

Logan groans loudly, his hips snapping forward. “I’m knotting.”

“Swallow it,” Dean orders, his own climax hitting.

Dean ruins the back of your throat with his hot seed exactly as Logan’s knot swells inside you, flooding your womb for the second time. You gag, tears streaming down your face, but you swallow every drop, your body convulsing around Logan’s knot in a violent, world-shattering orgasm.

On Saturday, the fever peaks. You are practically delirious, your skin burning hot to the touch.

Garrett and Tucker have you pinned against the armrest of the couch. You are completely exhausted, your body barely able to support its own weight, but the biological drive refuses to let you rest.

Tucker is holding you up, his arm wrapped securely around your chest, while Garrett takes you from behind. Garrett’s thrusts are brutal, unforgiving, driven by the pure, possessive need of a captain protecting his center.

“Garrett, it hurts,” you sob, the sensitivity turning into a sharp ache.

“I know, I know,” Garrett murmurs, biting the back of your neck to release a flood of soothing alpha pheromones into your bloodstream. “Just let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

Tucker kisses you, swallowing your cries, his thumb rubbing rhythmic, soothing circles into your clit while Garrett pounds into you.

“Focus on me,” Tucker whispers against your lips. “Just breathe with me.”

You shatter in Tucker’s arms as Garrett’s knot locks inside you, the force of his climax making your vision go completely black for a few terrifying, blissful seconds.

By Sunday afternoon, the house smells like a warzone. The air is so thick with the mingled scents of sex, sweat, vanilla, and alpha musk that it is almost hard to breathe.

You are in the final wave. The crescendo.

You are on your hands and knees, completely wrecked. Your inner thighs are trembling so badly you can barely hold yourself up. Dean is behind you, his cock sliding in and out of your swollen, slick-drenched cunt.

But it isn’t enough. The heat demands more.

“Please,” you sob, looking blindly over your shoulder. “I need … I need …”

“I know,” Garrett says.

Garrett steps up in front of you. He grabs your hips, lifting you slightly, and positions himself at your second, tighter entrance. He presses his thick head against your slick-covered rim.

You gasp, your eyes flying open. “Garrett-”

“Relax,” Garrett orders softly, his hands moving to massage your thighs. “You can take us both. We’ll be slow.”

Dean slows his thrusting, pulling almost entirely out to give Garrett room. Garrett pushes forward.

You scream as the blunt, thick head stretches you open. The pain is sharp for a fraction of a second before the immense, overwhelming fullness drowns it out. Garrett slides all the way in, locking you entirely onto his length.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, seeing Garrett buried inside you right next to him.

Dean pushes forward, sliding back into your cunt.

The feeling of being entirely, completely filled by two alphas at once breaks your brain. You collapse forward onto the pillows, unable to support yourself, completely surrendering to them.

“That’s it,” Garrett groans, his chest pressing against your back. He sets a slow, agonizing rhythm.

Dean catches the rhythm perfectly. They move in tandem. As Garrett pulls back, Dean thrusts deep. As Dean retreats, Garrett slams forward.

It is a completely synchronized, devastating assault on your senses.

Logan is at your head, kissing you deeply, his tongue mimicking the brutal rhythm of his packmates. Tucker is beside him, his hands roaming over your flushed, sweaty skin, pressing firm, grounding touches to your shoulders and arms to keep you from flying apart.

“You are so fucking good,” Dean praises, his voice tight with approaching climax. “Taking both of us. Best omega.”

“Mine,” Garrett snarls, his control completely snapping.

He drives his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, and holds it. Dean slams into you a second later, completely bottoming out.

Both of their knots swell simultaneously.

You let out a shattered, breathless scream. Your body cannot physically handle the stretch. You convulse violently, a full-body climax ripping through you with the force of a hurricane. The pleasure is so intense it hurts.

Garrett and Dean roar in unison, their hot seed flooding both of your canals simultaneously.

Your eyes roll back in your head.

The heat finally, mercifully breaks. The fever drops. The frantic, biological push vanishes, leaving behind a completely empty, thoroughly wrecked shell.

You pass out before Garrett and Dean even pull out.

***

When you finally, fully regain consciousness, the world is quiet.

You are lying on your stomach in the center of the nest. The ruined blankets have been swapped out for fresh, clean ones, though they still smell heavily of the pack.

Your body feels like it was hit by a freight train, but the burning, frantic itch beneath your skin is gone. You feel heavy, grounded, and entirely sated.

You turn your head slowly.

Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Tucker are all in the living room. They are dressed in sweatpants, looking incredibly exhausted but thoroughly at peace. The feral, aggressive edge to their pheromones is gone, replaced by a warm, protective, and overwhelmingly contented hum.

Logan notices you are awake first. He drops his phone on the coffee table and immediately moves to the edge of the nest.

“Hey,” Logan says softly, his voice a deep rumble. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

You let out a hoarse hum, too tired to speak.

Garrett, Dean, and Tucker immediately abandon what they were doing and crowd around the nest.

You look down at yourself. You are naked, but you feel sticky.

You lift your arm. Your skin is covered in a slick, fragrant sheen.

“We didn’t wash you,” Tucker explains, his voice entirely devoid of shame. He sits on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to gently stroke your hair. “The heat broke, but your body was leaking heavily. Slick, semen. It’s the most concentrated form of our mingled scents.”

Dean kneels beside Tucker, a smug, incredibly satisfied smirk on his face. “In the wild, a pack rubs the excess into the omega’s skin. It seals the scent. It acts as a biological warning to any other alpha who comes near you that you are thoroughly claimed, marked, and bred.”

You blush furiously, the heat rising to your cheeks. “You rubbed it into my skin?”

“Every inch of you,” Garrett confirms, his eyes dropping to your bare shoulders. He looks incredibly proud of himself. “You smell like us. You smell like mine.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillows, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips. It’s feral. It’s disgusting. It’s the most beautifully possessive thing you have ever heard.

“I’m so tired,” you whisper, closing your eyes.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” Logan murmurs, sliding into the nest and pulling the heavy duvet over your body. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the juncture of your neck, directly over the four distinct, healing bite marks. “We’re right here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Dean crawls in on your other side, throwing his arm over your waist. Garrett settles at your feet, his heavy hands resting on your calves. Tucker sits at your head, keeping watch.

You are completely surrounded. Fully claimed. Thoroughly ruined in the best possible way.

The beta who thought she was destined to be alone is gone. In her place is the center of a pack.

And you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

***

The aftermath of a five-day heat doesn’t leave you glowing. It leaves you feeling like you were tossed in a dryer on the highest setting alongside a bag of bricks.

It’s Tuesday morning. You are sitting at the kitchen island, wearing nothing but one of Logan’s oversized grey t-shirts and a pair of fuzzy socks. You are staring blankly at a mug of Earl Grey tea.

“Drink,” Tucker says, walking past you to pull a carton of eggs from the fridge. He stops, taps the rim of your mug with his knuckle, and waits until you actually pick it up and take a sip. “Good girl.”

You let out a soft sigh, leaning your chin on your hand.

Your entire world has been flipped off its axis. You missed your first full week of college classes. You no longer live in a dorm. You share a house with four massive, ridiculously attractive hockey players who currently treat you like a delicate piece of blown glass.

And then there’s your neck.

Every time you turn your head, the dull, healing ache of four distinct bite marks pulls at your skin. They are perfectly spaced — Garrett’s over your scent gland, Dean’s on your collarbone, Logan’s just beneath your hairline, and Tucker’s right over your pulse point. You catch glimpses of them in the bathroom mirror and your breath still hitches.

You are marked. You are mated.

“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”

Dean slides onto the stool next to you. He’s fresh out of the shower, his blond hair damp and sticking up in every direction. He smells like expensive soap, rain, and absolute contentment. Without asking, he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side, and buries his face in the crook of your neck right over his bite mark.

He inhales deeply, letting out a low, vibrating hum of satisfaction.

“I need to call my parents,” you say, your voice quiet.

Dean freezes. Tucker stops whisking the eggs.

Logan and Garrett walk into the kitchen from the living room, instantly picking up on the shift in the air. Garrett’s eyes immediately lock onto you, assessing you for distress.

“Your parents,” Garrett repeats, leaning his hips against the counter across from you. “Right. It’s been over a week since you left New York.”

“My mom has texted me forty-two times,” you say, pulling your phone out of your pocket and setting it on the granite counter. “And Mae left six voicemails. They think I’m ignoring them because I’m depressed about being a beta surrounded by omegas at college.”

“You’re not a beta,” Logan states flatly, walking over to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“I know that. And you know that,” you say, dragging a hand down your face. “But they don’t. The last time they saw me, I was packing my beat-up sedan, entirely unbonded, without a drop of scent to my name. If I FaceTime them right now, the first thing they’re going to see are four massive bite marks on my neck.”

Dean lifts his head, his blue eyes crinkling with amusement. “And the problem is …”

“The problem, Dean, is that omegas don’t just magically present at eighteen and instantly find a four-alpha fated pack,” you groan. “It’s medically unheard of. My dad is going to have a heart attack. My mom is going to cry. And Mae is going to ask so many inappropriate questions I might actually die of embarrassment.”

Tucker sets a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of you. “They love you. They’ll be happy.”

“They’ll be shocked,” you correct, picking up your fork. “And they’re going to want to know everything. I can’t exactly tell them I got roofied at a frat party my first night here. My dad will drive to Massachusetts and burn the campus down.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens at the mention of the party. The feral, protective alpha in him is still violently angry about what happened, even if Brad the lacrosse player is currently nursing a shattered hand somewhere out of state.

“So don’t tell them about the drink,” Garrett says reasonably. “Tell them the stress of the move triggered a delayed presentation. It happens. Rare, but it happens. And the moment your pheromones hit the air, we smelled you from across campus and the bond snapped.”

“That makes us sound like bloodhounds, G,” Dean snorts.

“We basically are,” Logan points out, stealing a piece of toast off your plate. You smack his hand with your fork, and he just grins, chewing happily.

You look at the four of them. They are so relaxed, so entirely confident in their claim over you. There is no jealousy, no weird posturing. They operate as a single, cohesive unit built entirely around keeping you safe and happy.

“Okay,” you breathe out, pushing your plate away. “I’m going to do it. Right now. Before I lose my nerve.”

“Want us to leave the room?” Tucker asks, already reaching for a dish towel to dry his hands.

“No,” you say quickly. Your inner omega spikes with immediate, irrational panic at the thought of them leaving you to face this alone. “No. Stay. Just … maybe stay out of the camera frame for the first five minutes? Let me ease them into it.”

“We can do that,” Garrett says, crossing his arms over his chest. He leans back against the counter, giving you a clear sightline but staying out of the phone’s camera angle. Logan leans next to him. Tucker stays by the stove, and Dean smoothly slides his stool back a few feet.

You pick up your phone, unlock it, and take a deep breath.

You hit the FaceTime icon next to your mom’s name.

It rings exactly once before the screen connects.

Your mother’s face fills the screen. She’s in the kitchen of your childhood home, the familiar floral wallpaper visible in the background. Her eyes are wide, and she looks incredibly stressed.

“Y/N!” Your mom gasps, practically dropping the phone. “Oh my god, David! Mae! Get in here, she’s calling!”

“Mom, hi,” you say, offering a small, nervous smile.

“Honey, why haven’t you been answering my texts? Are you okay? Is the dorm awful? Are the classes too hard? You look …” Your mom leans closer to the screen, her brow furrowing. “You look different. Are you sick? Your cheeks are so flushed.”

“I’m not sick, Mom.”

There’s a scuffling sound, and suddenly your older sister Mae squeezes into the frame, shoving her face next to your mom’s.

“You’re alive!” Mae says dramatically. “We thought you got kidnapped by a cult.”

“Not a cult,” you say, glancing nervously off-screen at Logan, who is trying very hard not to laugh.

“Well, what is it?” Your mom asks, her tone shifting from panicked to strictly maternal. “You’ve been gone for over a week. We called the freshman dorm yesterday, and your roommate Brooke said you moved out! Y/N, where are you living?”

“Okay, Mom, take a breath,” you say, holding the phone steady. “I have a lot to tell you. But you have to promise not to freak out.”

Your dad’s face appears in the background, looking over your mom’s shoulder. “If you tell us you dropped out of college to join a band, I’m cutting off your credit card.”

“I didn’t drop out,” you roll your eyes. “I just … I’m not in the dorms anymore because I had a medical emergency.”

The color drains from your mother’s face entirely. “Medical emergency? What happened? Are you in the hospital?”

“No, I’m completely fine,” you assure her quickly. “I’m better than fine, actually. I’m … well.”

You pause. You look off-screen again. Garrett gives you a slow, encouraging nod, his eyes steady and warm.

You look back at the screen. You reach up and pull the collar of the oversized t-shirt to the side, exposing the left side of your neck, and take a deep breath.

“I’m an omega,” you say.

The silence on the other end of the phone is absolute. It is a thick, heavy silence.

Mae’s jaw actually drops open. Your dad blinks rapidly. Your mom just stares at you, her eyes darting from your face to the deep, unmistakable claiming bite resting right over your scent gland.

“You …” your mom stammers, her voice breaking. “You presented?”

“Last Friday,” you confirm. “It was sudden. The doctor said the stress of moving and being in a new environment must have triggered a delayed biological response. But I presented. I have a scent. It’s vanilla and rain.”

Tears instantly well up in your mom’s eyes. She covers her mouth with her hand, letting out a choked sob of pure, overwhelming relief. For two years, she had watched you suffer, watched you pull away from the family out of shame.

“Oh, my baby,” your mom cries, wiping her cheeks. “Oh, honey, I’m so happy for you. We were so worried. But wait … you presented last week? Alone? You went through your first heat alone?”

Your dad’s eyes narrow, his protective alpha instincts finally catching up to the shock. He leans closer to the screen, his gaze locking onto your neck.

“You didn’t go through it alone,” your dad says, his voice low and serious. “You have a bite mark, Y/N. Who bit you?”

Mae gasps. “Wait, you found your mate? Already?! You’ve been there for a week!”

“It happened really fast,” you say, a nervous laugh escaping you. You rub the back of your neck. “My pheromones hit the air, and the bond just … snapped. We couldn’t fight it.”

“Who is he?” Your dad demands. “Is he a student? An alpha? What’s his name?”

You bite your lower lip. This is it. This is the part that is going to break their brains.

“Dad, Mom,” you start slowly. “You know how sometimes, fated bonds can be … unique?”

“Unique how?” Your mom asks, wiping her nose with a tissue.

“Well. I didn’t just find a mate.” You clear your throat, feeling the intense heat of four gazes burning into the side of your head. “I found a pack.”

Mae’s eyes bug out of her head. “A pack? Like, an established pack adopted you?”

“No,” you say. “I mean … my fated bond. It tied me to four alphas.”

Complete, utter silence descends on the FaceTime call again.

“Four,” your dad repeats, his voice completely flat.

“Four,” you confirm softly.

“At the same time?” Mae asks, her voice pitching up an octave.

Before you can answer, Dean decides he has been patient long enough.

“Actually,” Dean’s smooth, charming voice cuts in as he rolls his stool right into the camera frame, popping his head over your shoulder. He flashes a blinding, million-dollar smile at your family. “We prefer to think of ourselves as a heavily coordinated unit. Hi! I’m Dean Di Laurentis. It is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you.”

Your mother lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeak.

Dean is shirtless, casually leaning his chin on your shoulder, looking like a literal underwear model. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, his thumb gently stroking your side. The physical intimacy is so casual, so deeply ingrained, it screams of a fully sealed bond.

“Dean,” you sigh, though you lean into his touch instantly.

“What? You said wait five minutes. It’s been six,” Dean reasons.

“He’s not wrong,” Garrett says, stepping into the frame from the left.

Garrett is wearing a tight black t-shirt that highlights every single inch of his heavily muscled chest and arms. He steps right behind you, placing his large, calloused hands heavily on your shoulders. The dominant, authoritative aura radiating off him is palpable even through a phone screen.

“Garrett Graham,” Garrett introduces himself smoothly, nodding at your dad. “Sir. Ma’am.”

Your dad is staring at the screen like he’s watching a hallucination. “Garrett Graham. The hockey player. My buddy watches Briar games. You’re the captain.”

“Yes, sir,” Garrett says. He leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, entirely unfazed by your father’s scrutinizing glare.

“Okay, move, you’re hogging the screen,” Logan mutters, shoving Garrett slightly to the side to squeeze in.

Logan leans down on the counter on your right side. His dark hair is messy, his arm flexing as he rests his weight on the granite. He offers your family a relaxed, easygoing smirk.

“John Logan,” Logan says. “Most people just call me Logan.”

Mae is practically vibrating out of her skin on the other end of the phone. “Are you all on the hockey team? Wait, is this a joke? Y/N, did you hire models to prank us?”

“I assure you, we are very real,” Tucker says, stepping into the background of the frame holding a fresh cup of tea. He walks up and swaps out your empty mug for the full one. He smiles warmly at the camera. “John Tucker. It’s wonderful to meet you all. Y/N has told us a lot about her family.”

Your mother is clutching the edge of her kitchen counter for dear life. She is staring at her youngest daughter, the girl they had pitied for two years as a scentless beta, who is now sitting in a massive, gorgeous kitchen surrounded by four hulking, intensely protective alpha athletes who are quite literally treating her like a queen.

“Four,” your dad says again, apparently stuck on a loop. “You are mated to four alphas. All of them.”

“Yes, sir,” Garrett says, his voice taking on a slightly harder, firmer edge. The captain asserting his claim. “We share the bond. She is the center of our pack. She’s safe with us.”

“And where is she living?” Your mom asks, her voice trembling slightly. “Because she’s not in the dorms.”

“She lives here,” Dean says cheerfully. “With us. In our off-campus house. We went and packed up her dorm last weekend. It wasn’t safe for a newly presented, unbonded omega to be in a freshman dorm anyway. The pheromones were too unpredictable.”

Your dad narrows his eyes. “You moved my eighteen-year-old daughter into a house with four college boys?”

“Four fated mates,” Logan corrects softly, though his dark eyes are entirely serious. “It’s different, sir. You know how the bond works.”

Your dad opens his mouth, likely to argue, but he stops. Because he does know how the bond works. You can see the realization dawning on his face.

He looks at the screen. He sees the way Garrett’s hands are anchored to your shoulders, a grounding, heavy weight. He sees the way Dean is leaning into your side, practically breathing your scent. He sees Tucker making sure you have hot tea, and Logan standing guard.

Most importantly, he sees you.

You aren’t shrinking into yourself. You aren’t forcing a tight, polite smile to hide your pain like you had for two years at every family dinner. You are relaxed, glowing, and completely at peace. You look utterly, thoroughly loved.

Your dad’s shoulders drop. The aggressive alpha posturing drains out of him.

“You’re taking care of her?” Your dad asks, his voice thick with emotion. It’s not a threat. It’s a genuine plea from a father who just wants his kid to be safe.

“With our lives, sir,” Garrett says without a single second of hesitation. The absolute, fierce devotion in his voice leaves absolutely no room for doubt.

Your mom bursts into fresh tears.

“Oh, my goodness,” she cries, waving a hand in front of her face. “I’m sorry, I’m just so overwhelmed. Y/N, honey, I’m so happy for you. We were so worried you would be lonely up there.”

“Definitely not lonely, Mom,” you laugh softly, leaning your head back against Garrett’s stomach.

“I’ll say,” Mae mutters, her eyes raking over the four massive athletes. “Jeez, Y/N. Talk about overcompensating for being a late bloomer. You hit the absolute jackpot.”

“Hey,” Dean points a finger at the camera, a charming grin on his face. “She’s the jackpot. We just got lucky.”

The compliment makes your heart flutter. You look up at Dean, and he winks at you.

“Well,” your dad clears his throat, recovering his composure. “If you’re going to be taking care of my daughter, we expect to meet you in person. Thanksgiving is in two months. I assume you all have a break in the hockey schedule?”

The four alphas freeze.

Meeting the parents over FaceTime is one thing. Walking into a house full of a generational pack to present themselves as the men who claimed the family’s youngest daughter is an entirely different level of terrifying.

“Absolutely, sir,” Tucker says smoothly, saving the rest of them from their panic. “We would be honored. We can drive down.”

“Good,” your dad nods. “We’ll have the guest rooms ready. Though I suppose you won’t be needing all of them.”

A dark blush floods your face. “Dad! Please.”

Your mom laughs, wiping her eyes. “We’ll let you go, honey. I know you missed a lot of classes, you probably have a lot to catch up on.”

“Actually, we handled the administration,” Logan says casually. “She’s got a medical exemption for the first two weeks, and Tucker picked up the syllabi for all her classes. We’re tutoring her.”

Your mom stares at Logan. “You guys … you already took care of all her classes?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Logan says, looking slightly confused as to why that was surprising. “It’s our job.”

Your mom lets out a long, shaky breath. “Well. It’s very nice to meet you boys. Take care of my girl.”

“Always,” Garrett promises.

“Love you, Mom. Love you, Dad. Bye, Mae,” you say, waving at the screen.

“Love you, Y/N! Tell Dean I said hi!” Mae yells right before your dad hangs up the phone.

The screen goes black.

You set the phone down on the counter and let out a massive, explosive breath, slumping forward onto the granite.

“That was incredibly stressful,” you groan into your arms.

Garrett chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest. His hands slide off your shoulders and down your back, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades. “You did great, baby. They took it well.”

“My dad invited you to Thanksgiving,” you point out, turning your head to look at him. “He’s going to corner you all in the garage and interrogate you about your intentions.”

“Let him,” Logan says, picking up his piece of toast again. “My intentions are to marry you, buy a house in the suburbs, and never let anyone look at you ever again. He can interrogate me all he wants.”

You blink, completely stunned by the casual drop of the ‘M’ word.

Dean bursts out laughing at the look on your face. He wraps both arms around you and pulls you out of your chair, spinning you around until you are caged against his chest.

“Logan’s not subtle, sweetheart,” Dean grins, kissing the tip of your nose. “But he’s not wrong. You’re stuck with us. Forever. Might as well get used to the Thanksgiving interrogations now.”

“I think I can handle it,” you smile, wrapping your arms around Dean’s neck.

Tucker walks over, wrapping his arms around both you and Dean, pulling you into a tight, warm hug. Logan steps in a second later, wrapping his arms around the group. Garrett completes the circle, his massive frame enveloping all of you.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, entirely surrounded by the physical weight and the heavy, intoxicating scents of pine, cedar, mint, and leather.

You are a long way from the scared, lonely girl packing a suitcase in New York. You are exactly where you are supposed to be.

“Now,” Garrett says, his voice a low, commanding rumble against the top of your head. “Who’s helping her study for History 101, and who is helping me scrub the nesting blankets before practice?”

“I call history,” Dean says immediately.

“Coward,” Logan scoffs.

You just laugh, burying your face in Dean’s chest, letting the sounds of your pack wash over you. Life at Briar University is going to be incredibly, wildly complicated.

But you have never felt safer.

***

“Absolutely not.”

You stand in front of the full-length mirror in the upstairs hallway, holding a tiny wand of liquid concealer. You haven’t even uncapped it yet, and the veto is already unanimous.

“Garrett, be reasonable,” you sigh, looking at the hockey captain through the reflection. He is leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, his arms crossed over a tight grey t-shirt, looking like a brick wall of stubborn alpha instinct. “I can’t just walk into a freshman seminar looking like I survived a vampire attack.”

“They’re bite marks, sweetheart, not hickeys,” Dean points out, walking past Garrett to stand directly behind you. He plucks the concealer out of your hand and tosses it casually into an open bathroom drawer. “And you didn’t survive a vampire attack. You survived a heat with four fated mates. There’s a difference. A very proud, very biological difference.”

You touch your neck. The four claiming bites have healed from open wounds into neat, silver-pink scars. They form a ring around your collar, an undeniable, permanent collar of ownership.

“I’m going to get stared at,” you grumble, though you lean back against Dean’s chest when he wraps his arms around your waist.

“Let them stare,” Logan calls out from the bottom of the stairs. “If anyone stares too long, I’ll gouge their eyes out. Simple.”

“Please don’t gouge anyone’s eyes out on my first day of college,” you call back. “I’m already a week behind on the syllabus. I don’t need to be an accessory to assault.”

Tucker walks up the stairs, carrying a travel mug of coffee. He hands it to you, his dark eyes scanning your outfit. You are wearing a simple pair of fitted jeans and a white tank top.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wear one of our jackets?” Tucker asks gently.

You take a sip of the coffee. “It’s seventy degrees outside, Tuck. If I wear a team jacket, I’ll sweat to death before I make it to the quad.”

“She’s right,” Garrett concedes, pushing off the doorframe. He steps up to your side, his eyes dropping to your exposed neck. A deep, satisfied rumble vibrates in his chest at the sight of his mark resting right over your scent gland. “The bites are visible. And she smells like us. Anyone with half a working nose will know exactly who she belongs to.”

You roll your eyes, but your omega preens at the possessiveness.

It has been four days since your heat ended. The transition from the hazy, sex-drenched bubble of the off-campus house back to reality has been jarring. You are officially an enrolled freshman at Briar University, and today is your first actual day of classes. The university administration, thanks to a very aggressive phone call from Garrett and some smooth talking from Tucker, excused your first-week absences due to a “medical emergency.”

But you can’t hide in this house forever.

“Alright,” Garrett says, checking his watch. “Pack up. Logan has the truck running. We’re dropping you at the humanities building.”

“You guys don’t all have to walk me to class,” you say, grabbing your backpack from the floor. “Don’t you have your own schedules?”

“We are upperclassmen, baby,” Dean smirks, grabbing his keys. “We schedule our classes for the afternoon so we can sleep in. Which means our mornings are entirely free to escort our beautiful new mate across campus.”

You don’t bother arguing. You’ve quickly learned that arguing with four fated alphas about your personal safety is a completely useless endeavor.

You follow them down the stairs and out the front door. The crisp September air hits your face, a welcome shock to your system. You climb into the middle of the truck’s backseat, sandwiched between Garrett and Dean, while Tucker takes shotgun and Logan drives.

The ride to campus is short. Logan pulls the massive truck right up to the curb of the main quad, illegally parking in a loading zone.

“Logan, you’re going to get a ticket,” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.

“I’ll pay it,” Logan shrugs, putting the truck in park. He kills the engine. “Let’s go, boys.”

All four of them get out of the truck.

The second your sneakers hit the pavement of the Briar University quad, the atmosphere completely shifts.

The quad is packed with students rushing to their 9 AM classes. Alphas, betas, and omegas are everywhere, laughing, drinking coffee, reading on benches. But as the five of you begin to walk up the main paved path, a strange, rippling silence begins to spread through the crowd.

It starts with the scent.

Your vanilla and rain pheromones are sweet and undeniably omega, but they are heavily, aggressively smothered in the dark, dominant musk of pine, cedar, mint, and leather. To any alpha on campus, the scent profile is a massive, blaring stop sign.

Then comes the visual.

Garrett Graham, Dean Di Laurentis, John Logan, and John Tucker are practically campus royalty. They are the star players of a championship hockey team, notoriously single, and completely out of reach.

And they are currently walking in a tight, protective diamond formation around a tiny, dark-haired freshman.

Logan is walking a step ahead of you, his broad shoulders clearing a path through the crowd. Dean is practically glued to your right side, his hand resting casually but firmly on the small of your back. Garrett is on your left, his expression carved out of absolute stone, his eyes tracking every single male student within a fifty-yard radius. Tucker guards your rear, his calm, imposing presence preventing anyone from walking up behind you.

“They’re staring,” you whisper, ducking your head slightly.

“Keep your chin up, sweetheart,” Garrett orders softly, his hand sliding off his hip to intertwine his fingers with yours. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You have nothing to hide.”

You force yourself to look up.

A group of upperclassman alphas leaning against a brick wall stop talking entirely as you pass. One of them, a guy wearing a lacrosse hoodie, takes a subtle breath in, trying to catch your scent.

Garrett doesn’t break stride. He just turns his head, his eyes locking onto the lacrosse player with a look of such pure, unadulterated murder that the guy actually takes a physical step backward, dropping his gaze to the pavement in immediate submission.

“Easy, G,” Tucker murmurs from behind you.

“Just establishing boundaries,” Garrett mutters.

You reach the heavy oak doors of the humanities building. Logan pulls the door open, holding it as the pack files inside. The hallway is lined with classrooms.

“Room 104,” you say, checking your schedule on your phone. “It’s right here. Intro to European History.”

“Perfect,” Dean says, leaning down to press a quick, hard kiss to your lips right in the middle of the hallway. Several passing students actively trip over their own feet watching the legendary Dean Di Laurentis kiss a freshman. “Have a good class, baby. Learn about … whatever it is Europeans do.”

“Thanks, Dean,” you smile, your cheeks burning.

“We’ll meet you at the student union for lunch at noon,” Tucker says, smoothing down a stray piece of your hair. “Text if you need anything. Seriously. Anything.”

“I will,” you promise.

You turn to Logan, who bumps his fist gently against your shoulder, and then to Garrett. Garrett pulls you in for a deep kiss, entirely uncaring of the audience, before stepping back.

“See you at lunch,” Garrett says.

You wave to them, take a deep breath, and walk into Room 104.

The lecture hall is huge, tiered with rows of long desks. It’s mostly full of other freshmen. You find an empty seat in the middle row, sliding into the desk and dropping your backpack on the floor.

You pull out your laptop, trying to ignore the blatant staring from the girls sitting a few seats away from you. You know exactly what they are whispering about. The silver-pink bite marks on your neck are on full display under the fluorescent lights.

“Is this seat taken?”

You look to your right. A guy with sandy blonde hair and a friendly, open smile is standing there. He smells faintly of citrus. A beta.

“No, it’s open,” you say politely.

He slides into the seat, dropping his notebook on the desk. “I’m Mark. First day?”

“Yeah. Medical stuff kept me out last week,” you say, opening your laptop. “I’m Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Mark leans back in his chair, tapping his pen against his notebook. He glances at your neck, his eyes widening slightly before he quickly looks away, trying to be polite. “So, uh, you’re a little late to the party, but the professor is pretty chill. He posts all his slides online.”

“That’s a relief,” you sigh. “I have a lot of catching up to do.”

“I can share my notes with you,” Mark offers, offering a genuinely helpful smile. “If you want. We could study-”

Mark doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

The heavy wooden door at the back of the lecture hall swings open. The professor, a short, balding man in a tweed jacket, is already at the podium setting up his microphone. He looks up, frowning.

“Class has begun, young man,” the professor says.

Logan ignores him.

Logan walks down the tiered steps of the lecture hall, his dark eyes scanning the rows until he finds exactly what he’s looking for. He walks straight down your row.

Your jaw drops. “Logan? What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” Logan says completely deadpan.

He stops right next to Mark. Logan is towering over the seated beta, his arms crossed over his chest. Logan’s scent — sharp, aggressive cedar — floods the immediate area, a heavy, dominant warning.

Mark pales instantly. He looks up at Logan, then looks at you, then looks at the bite marks on your neck. The math clicks in his head in record time.

“I … I think I left my water bottle in the back,” Mark stammers, frantically grabbing his notebook and practically scrambling out of the seat. He relocates to the absolute farthest corner of the lecture hall.

Logan doesn’t even watch him go. He just slides into the seat Mark vacated, stretching his long legs out under the desk.

“Excuse me!” The professor calls out from the podium, pointing a laser pointer at Logan. “Are you enrolled in this course? I don’t recognize you.”

“Auditing, sir,” Logan calls back, entirely unbothered. He leans back in the chair, pulling a single, crumpled piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket. “Just really passionate about the French Revolution.”

The professor squints at him, recognizes the star defenseman of the Briar hockey team, and apparently decides he isn’t paid enough to argue. “Very well. Let’s begin with the fall of the Bastille.”

You turn your head to glare at Logan. “You’re an upperclassman. You have a business major. What are you doing?”

“Garrett told me to go back to the house,” Logan whispers, clicking his pen. “But I didn’t want to. So I decided to further my education.”

“You scared that poor kid half to death,” you hiss.

Logan glances at the empty seat on your left, and then casually drapes his heavy arm over the back of your chair, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck. “He was flirting with you.”

“He was offering me notes!”

“Notes are a gateway drug to flirting, sweetheart,” Logan says smoothly. He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Besides, I like sitting next to you. Pay attention to the board. We’re learning.”

You let out a huff of exasperated laughter, shaking your head, but you don’t push his arm away.

For the next hour, Logan sits through an entirely useless freshman history lecture just to act as your personal bodyguard. He doesn’t take a single note. He spends the entire time playing with the ends of your hair, casually scent-marking you in front of a room full of two hundred students.

When the bell finally rings, you pack up your laptop.

“Lunchtime,” Logan announces, standing up and stretching. “Come on, baby. The animals are waiting.”

***

The student union is the social epicenter of Briar University. It is a massive, two-story cafeteria packed with different food vendors, long tables, and thousands of gossiping students.

When you and Logan walk through the double doors, the noise level in the room actually dips.

“I feel like an exhibit at the zoo,” you mutter, sticking close to Logan’s side.

“They’re just jealous,” Logan says effortlessly. He points toward the back corner of the cafeteria. “There they are.”

Garrett, Dean, and Tucker have commandeered an entire circular booth near the floor-to-ceiling windows. The table is covered in food — pizza, salads, sandwiches, and fries.

Dean spots you and immediately slides out of the booth, gesturing grandly. “The queen has arrived!”

You laugh, walking over. You slide into the booth. Dean slides in right next to you, pinning you against the window, while Garrett and Tucker take the opposite side. Logan grabs a chair and pulls it up to the end of the table.

“How was history?” Tucker asks, pushing a salad and a slice of pizza toward you.

“It was fine,” you say, shooting a pointed look at Logan. “Until a certain hockey player crashed the lecture and terrorized a friendly beta into switching seats.”

Garrett pauses mid-bite of his sandwich, raising an eyebrow at Logan. “You stayed in the classroom?”

“He was going to give her his notes, G,” Logan defends himself, reaching for a handful of fries. “I was doing my civic duty.”

Garrett looks at you. “Did this guy make you uncomfortable?”

“No, Garrett,” you sigh. “He was literally just saying hi.”

“Good,” Garrett says, though his eyes sweep the cafeteria with a cold, predatory warning. “But Logan’s right. No notes from strange guys. You need notes, you tell Tucker.”

“I don’t know European History,” Tucker points out mildly.

“Then you’ll learn it, Tuck,” Garrett deadpans.

You roll your eyes, taking a bite of your pizza. The sheer, ridiculous alpha hovering would be annoying if it wasn’t so incredibly endearing. They are entirely incapable of turning off their protective instincts.

“Well, well, well.”

You look up. Brooke is standing next to the booth, holding a plastic tray with a sad-looking sandwich on it. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun.

“Brooke!” You say, your face lighting up. You haven’t seen her since the night of the party.

“I was wondering when you were going to emerge from the alpha fortress,” Brooke says, popping a piece of gum in her mouth. She looks around the table at the four massive hockey players, completely unfazed. “Dean. You owe me a coffee.”

Dean grins, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. He holds it out to her. “For your silence, Brooke. You kept the secret well.”

Brooke snatches the bill, tucking it into her bra. “Pleasure doing business with you. Can I sit? The usual tables are full, and I’m not sitting near the lacrosse team today, they smell like cheap body spray and depression.”

“Sit,” you invite her eagerly.

Logan kicks out a chair for her, and Brooke sits down.

“So,” Brooke leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, looking at your neck. “The rumors are true. The entire campus is losing their minds, by the way. I had three different girls in my lit class ask me if you used a love potion.”

“No potions,” Garrett says smoothly, leaning his arm on the back of the booth. “Just fate.”

“It’s insane,” Brooke shakes her head. “I literally helped you carry your boxes up the stairs because you were a beta. And now you’re wearing four claiming marks. You know there’s a betting pool on whether or not you’re going to survive the semester without dropping out from sheer exhaustion?”

You choke on your pizza.

Dean bursts into laughter, slapping the table. “They think we’re going to tire her out?”

“I mean, look at you guys,” Brooke gestures vaguely at their massive, heavily muscled frames. “And look at her. It’s a valid concern.”

“I am perfectly fine, thank you,” you wheeze, your face burning scarlet.

“She is very well taken care of,” Tucker says, offering you a napkin with a polite, completely unbothered smile.

“I can see that,” Brooke says, taking a bite of her sandwich. She looks at you, her expression turning genuine. “But seriously, I’m glad you’re okay. You vanished at that party, and I felt bad for leaving you by the kitchen.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you say quickly. “I’m okay. Really.”

The comfortable banter at the table is suddenly interrupted by a sharp, sour scent cutting through the air.

You look up. A group of three girls are walking past the booth. They are all omegas, dressed in expensive clothes, and they are staring directly at you with pure, unfiltered hostility.

“Is that her?” One of the girls, a blonde with a harsh, overpowering scent of lilies, sneers loudly. “The freshman who trapped them?”

The table goes dead silent.

Brooke rolls her eyes. “Ignore them, Y/N. That’s Jessica. She’s a puck bunny. She’s been trying to get Garrett’s attention since sophomore year.”

You shrink back slightly into the booth, your inner omega flinching at the aggressive hostility from another of your dynamic.

Before you can even process the insult, Garrett moves.

He doesn’t stand up. He doesn’t yell. He simply turns his head, locking his eyes onto Jessica. He drops his casual, relaxed posture, and his alpha violently surges to the surface. He floods the immediate area around the booth with a dark, suffocating wave of dominant pheromones — a clear, territorial warning.

“Keep walking, Jessica,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously quiet, but it carries easily. “And keep my mate’s name out of your mouth.”

Jessica freezes, her face draining of color. The sheer force of Garrett’s alpha command physically pushes her back a step. She whimpers, her scent turning sour with fear, and practically sprints away, dragging her friends with her.

Garrett turns back to the table, his pheromones instantly smoothing out into the comforting, protective pine scent you love. He picks up his sandwich as if nothing happened.

You stare at him, entirely awestruck.

“That was incredibly hot,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

Dean groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “G, you can’t just do the alpha voice in the cafeteria. She’s going to jump you in the middle of the food court.”

Logan smirks, finishing his fries. “She can try. I’ve got next.”

Brooke watches the entire exchange, completely deadpan. “I’m going to go get my coffee before I witness something that violates the student code of conduct. See you in the dorms, Y/N. Oh, wait. No, I won’t.”

You laugh as Brooke waves and walks away.

The rest of lunch passes without incident. Garrett’s display of dominance has clearly sent a message across the cafeteria. No one else dares to approach the table, and the whispers become a lot more hushed.

***

“You don’t have to stay,” Garrett says, adjusting his helmet as he steps off the rubber matting and onto the ice.

The Briar University ice rink is freezing. You are sitting in the front row of the bleachers, wrapped in a massive, heavy Briar Hockey fleece blanket that Tucker pulled out of the equipment room for you.

“I have two hours before my next class,” you say, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “And Dean said if I didn’t watch him do a slap shot, his ego would permanently deflate.”

“It’s true,” Dean shouts from the ice, skating backward in a flawless, fluid circle. “I require constant validation, sweetheart! Watch this!”

Dean winds up and fires a puck at the empty net. It pings off the crossbar with a loud clatter.

“Missed!” Logan chirps, skating past him and casually knocking Dean’s stick out of his hands.

“You’re a menace to society,!” Dean yells, scrambling to pick up his stick.

You laugh, watching them mess around during the warm-ups. It’s entirely different seeing them in their element. In the house, they are your fiercely protective, attentive mates. On the ice, they are lethal, aggressive athletes. The speed and power they possess is terrifying and incredibly impressive.

Coach Jensen blows the whistle, and the team lines up for drills.

You sit quietly in the stands, watching Garrett lead the team. He is a commanding presence, barking out plays, his strides powerful and effortless. Every time he skates past the glass where you are sitting, he shoots you a quick, heated glance, completely unable to ignore you.

About thirty minutes into practice, the doors to the rink open.

A group of girls walk in, giggling and holding coffees. They climb into the stands, sitting a few sections away from you. The puck bunnies.

They don’t say anything to you, but their presence is a clear, annoying buzz. They are watching your alphas.

Your omega bristles.

Without thinking, you pull the heavy fleece blanket down slightly, exposing your neck. You shift on the bleacher, letting your own scent — sweet, claiming vanilla and rain — drift into the cold air of the rink. It’s a subtle, deeply biological display of ownership.

Down on the ice, Garrett feels the shift instantly.

He stops mid-stride. He turns his head, his eyes locking onto you in the stands. He takes a deep breath, his chest expanding as he catches the spike in your pheromones. He looks at the group of girls sitting a few sections away, puts two and two together, and a slow, devastatingly wicked smirk spreads across his face.

“Logan,” Garrett calls out, tapping his stick on the ice.

Logan skates over. Garrett whispers something to him, pointing at the net.

Logan grins, showing his teeth. He skates back to the blue line.

Garrett takes the puck. He explodes forward with terrifying speed, deking past two defensemen who look completely lost. Logan trails him perfectly. Garrett fakes a shot, completely fooling the goalie, and passes the puck backward between his own legs.

Logan catches it perfectly and roofs it into the back of the net.

The whistle blows.

Garrett and Logan don’t celebrate with the team. Instead, they skate directly to the glass right in front of where you are sitting. Dean and Tucker join them a second later.

All four massive, sweating, incredibly dominant alphas line up on the other side of the plexiglass.

Garrett taps his stick against the glass, right in front of your face. He pulls his mouthpiece out, grinning up at you.

“Did you see that, baby?” Garrett asks, his voice carrying perfectly through the small gap between the glass panes.

“I saw it,” you smile, leaning forward.

“Good,” Dean winks, resting his gloves on the top of the glass. “Because we only show off for our girl. Nobody else.”

The group of puck bunnies in the stands are dead silent. The message is painfully, visually clear. The star players of the Briar hockey team aren’t looking at anyone in the stands except the tiny, marked freshman in the front row.

Coach Jensen blows the whistle again, yelling for them to get back to the center circle.

“Gotta go,” Tucker smiles, blowing you a quick kiss through his cage. “Wait for us after practice. We’ll walk you to your afternoon class.”

“I’ll be right here,” you promise.

They skate away, leaving you sitting in the freezing rink, wrapped in their blanket and their heavy, suffocating devotion.

You look over at the group of girls. They are already standing up, their expressions sour as they grab their coffees and walk out of the rink.

You smile, pulling the blanket back up to your chin.

Your first day of college wasn’t exactly what you pictured when you packed your bags in New York. You didn’t expect to have four bodyguards, a reputation as campus royalty, or a permanent set of claiming marks on your neck.

But as you watch Garrett snap another shot into the net, entirely for your benefit, you realize you wouldn’t change a single thing.

***

The “Welcome to Oakville” sign flashes past the tinted windows of Dean’s massive, matte-black SUV.

You shift in the passenger seat, your knee bouncing with a nervous, frantic energy. The familiar sights of your small New York hometown are rolling by — the local bakery, the hardware store, the single-screen movie theater. It all looks exactly the same as it did two months ago when you left.

But you are entirely different.

“Stop bouncing, sweetheart. You’re going to shake the car off the road,” Dean murmurs from the driver’s seat. He reaches over the center console, capturing your knee with his large, warm hand. The grounding weight of his palm instantly soothes the frantic buzzing under your skin.

“I can’t help it,” you exhale, leaning your head back against the leather headrest. “The whole town is going to be watching.”

“Let them watch,” Garrett says from the seat directly behind you. He leans forward, his massive chest brushing the back of your seat, and buries his nose in your hair, taking a deep drag of your vanilla and rain scent. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mutter. “You’re not the one who spent her entire high school career being treated like a fragile, scentless ghost. Everyone here knows my business. My aunt Carol is probably standing on the front porch with binoculars right now.”

Logan snorts from the other side of the backseat. “If Aunt Carol gets out of line, I’ll put her in a snowbank.”

“No putting relatives in snowbanks, Logan. That’s a ground rule,” Tucker chimes in from the very back row of the extended SUV.

Dean turns the steering wheel, turning onto your childhood street. The neighborhood is quintessentially suburban, lined with neat houses, manicured lawns, and minivans. Dean’s Range Rover, packed with four massive, elite athletes who smell like a literal alpha strike team, sticks out like a sore thumb.

As the car rolls slowly down the street, you see exactly what you feared. Mrs. Gable from next door is “watering her lawn” in thirty-degree weather, her eyes glued to the incoming vehicle. Mr. Henderson is lingering aggressively by his mailbox.

Dean pulls the SUV into your parents’ driveway, the tires crunching against the pavement.

Your mom and dad are already on the porch. Your older sister, Mae, and her mate, a perfectly nice but entirely average alpha named Ben, are standing behind them.

“Okay,” you whisper, taking a shaky breath. “Showtime.”

Dean cuts the engine. The four alphas move with terrifying, coordinated precision. They are out of the car before you even unbuckle your seatbelt. Logan opens your door, offering his hand to help you down. You take it, stepping out into the crisp November air.

The moment your sneakers hit the driveway, your dad’s posture changes.

He stiffens, his chest puffing out slightly, his own alpha instincts flaring as four massive, unknown dominant males step onto his territory.

It’s entirely biological, a primal reaction to the sheer, suffocating wall of pine, cedar, mint, and leather pheromones rolling off your mates.

Ben, Mae’s mate, actually takes a physical step backward on the porch, completely overwhelmed by the proximity of the Briar pack.

“Mom. Dad,” you say, walking up the front steps.

“Oh, my baby!” Your mom bursts into tears the second she sees you, rushing forward to pull you into a bone-crushing hug. She buries her face in your neck, taking a deep breath, and lets out a watery laugh. “Oh, you smell so beautiful. My sweet omega.”

You hug her back tightly, a lump forming in your throat. “I missed you, Mom.”

She pulls back, cupping your cheeks, her eyes immediately darting to the four silver-pink scars ringing your collar. The claiming marks. Her eyes widen slightly, but she offers a warm, teary smile.

Your dad steps forward. He looks past you, his gaze landing squarely on the four men standing at the bottom of the porch steps.

Garrett takes the lead. He walks up the steps, his eyes steady and respectful, but his posture radiating absolute authority. He doesn’t shrink under your father’s scrutiny. He stops just out of your dad’s personal space, offering a large, calloused hand.

“Mr. Y/L/N,” Garrett says, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. “I’m Garrett Graham. It’s a privilege to finally meet you in person.”

Your dad looks at Garrett’s hand for a long, tense second before taking it. The handshake is firm, a silent, alpha-to-alpha test of strength. Garrett doesn’t flinch.

“Garrett,” your dad says, his voice tight. He looks over Garrett’s shoulder. “And the rest of you?”

Dean saunters up the steps next, flashing his trademark dimpled smile. He shakes your dad’s hand with easy confidence. “Dean Di Laurentis, sir. Your house is beautiful.”

Logan and Tucker follow, introducing themselves with firm handshakes and polite nods.

“Come inside, it’s freezing,” your mom insists, ushering everyone through the front door.

The moment all five of you are inside the house, the hallway feels instantly claustrophobic. Your childhood home isn’t small, but it wasn’t built to contain four men who all stand over six-foot-two and possess shoulders broad enough to block doorways.

Mae practically tackles you, squealing. “I can’t believe it! Look at you! And look at them!” She lowers her voice to a completely unsubtle whisper. “Y/N, they are huge. Ben looks like a child standing next to them.”

You smack her arm, your face burning as you glance back to see Logan smirking, having clearly heard her. “Be quiet, Mae.”

“Alright, boys,” your dad says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Put your bags in the guest room. Boys … why don’t you two come out to the garage with me. Let me show you the vintage Mustang I’m restoring.”

It’s the universal dad code for an interrogation.

Garrett catches your panicked eye and gives you a slow, reassuring wink. “We’d love to, sir.”

***

Dinner is a beautifully chaotic spectacle.

Your mom went all out, the dining room table groaning under the weight of a massive turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pies. The pack seamlessly integrates themselves into the flow of the house. Tucker spends an hour in the kitchen helping your mom make gravy, entirely charming her to the point where she is giggling like a schoolgirl. Dean helps Mae set the table, casually dodging her rapid-fire, invasive questions about pack dynamics with smooth, political answers.

When you all finally sit down, the seating arrangement is incredibly telling.

You are seated near the middle. Garrett takes the chair immediately to your left, Logan to your right. Dean and Tucker take the seats across from you. They naturally box you in, creating a physical barrier of protection.

Everything is going perfectly until Aunt Carol, who arrived twenty minutes late smelling strongly of cheap perfume and gossip, decides to open her mouth.

“So, Y/N,” Aunt Carol says loudly, her fork poised over her turkey. “I was just telling the girls at the salon about your … situation. Four alphas! My goodness. I suppose when you wait that long to present, you just take whatever the universe throws at you, huh?”

The entire table goes dead silent.

Your dad’s fork clatters against his plate. Mae’s jaw drops.

A sharp, violent spike of aggression floods the dining room. It’s a bitter, terrifying scent, heavy with the promise of violence. You don’t even have to look to know it’s Logan. His hand, resting on his knee beneath the table, balls into a fist so tight his knuckles pop.

Before you can even formulate a response to the backhanded pity, Garrett speaks.

“Actually, Carol,” Garrett says. His tone is conversational, polite, and entirely lethal. He rests his forearms on the table, fixing your aunt with a cold stare that makes the woman physically shrink back in her chair. “She didn’t ‘take whatever the universe threw at her’. We fought for her. We scented her the night she presented, and the bond snapped because she is perfect.”

Garrett leans back, swirling his wine glass, completely owning the room. “We consider ourselves the luckiest men alive to have been chosen by her biology. But if anyone in this town thinks they need to pity our mate because she was a late bloomer … well. I suggest they keep those thoughts to themselves. Before my pack takes it personally.”

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Aunt Carol swallows hard, her face draining of color. “I … I just meant-”

“Pass the potatoes, would you, Ben?” Dean interrupts cheerfully, completely shattering the tension with a blinding smile.

Ben practically throws the bowl of potatoes across the table.

You look at Garrett, your heart swelling with so much affection it physically aches. Under the table, Logan’s rigid hand relaxes. He slips his hand over your thigh, giving you a warm, reassuring squeeze.

Your dad clears his throat, picking up his fork again. He looks at Garrett, a new level of profound respect settling in his eyes.

“The potatoes are excellent,” your dad says to your mom.

The dinner resumes, but the dynamic has irrevocably shifted. Your alphas have drawn a hard, violent line in the sand regarding your respect in this town. You are theirs. And nobody speaks down to their center.

***

By 11 PM, the house is finally quiet.

Your parents offered the pack the two spare guest rooms, but everyone knew that was a formality. You are currently lying in your childhood bedroom, the space drastically altered by the massive bodies occupying it.

The full-size bed is pushed against the wall. Garrett is lying on his back, his arm wrapped tightly around you, pulling you flush against his chest. Dean is spooning you from behind, his face buried in your neck. Logan is stretched out on a thick air mattress on the floor right next to the bed, one of his hands resting possessively on your dangling ankle. Tucker is in the corner, quietly shucking off his jeans.

The room smells overwhelmingly of them, completely drowning out the lingering scent of your teenage years.

“I can’t believe you threatened my Aunt Carol at Thanksgiving dinner,” you whisper, though there is no heat in your voice. You drag your fingers through the hair on Garrett’s chest.

“I didn’t threaten her,” Garrett rumbles, his voice a low vibration against your ear. “I just clarified her misconceptions.”

“You terrified her, G,” Dean chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your claiming mark. “Her scent smelled like burnt hair for the rest of the night.”

“She deserved it,” Logan mutters from the floor.

Tucker walks over, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. The moonlight filtering through your old lace curtains highlights the heavy, defined musculature of his chest and abdomen. He kneels on the edge of the bed, leaning over Garrett to press a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips.

“Are you okay?” Tucker asks softly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “It was a long day. Being back here, dealing with the town gossip.”

“I’m more than okay,” you smile, looking around the small room at your mates. “I used to sit in this room and cry because I thought I was broken. I thought I would never have this.”

Garrett’s grip on you tightens possessively. “You were never broken, baby.”

Dean shifts behind you, his hand sliding under the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. His large, warm palm flattens against your bare stomach, his thumb tracing the dip of your navel. The casual touch sends an immediate, sharp jolt of heat straight down to your core.

“We need to be quiet,” you gasp softly, clamping your hand over Dean’s wrist. “My parents are literally down the hall.”

“We’ll be quiet,” Dean purrs, his hand trailing lower, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. His fingers brush against your slick, swollen center, and a soft, filthy groan escapes his lips. “Fuck, you’re already wet for us. So responsive.”

“Dean,” you whine, biting your lower lip as he strokes you.

Garrett rolls you onto your back, pinning you beneath his heavy frame. His eyes are dark, completely consumed by the feral, predatory instinct that your scent triggers in all of them. He rests his forearms on either side of your head, boxing you in.

“Your dad spent two hours in the garage telling us exactly what he’d do to us if we ever broke your heart,” Garrett whispers, his nose brushing against yours. “He’s a good alpha. Protective. But I need to scent you. I need to claim you in this house. I need every corner of this room to smell like what we do to you.”

“Yes,” you breathe, your omega completely surrendering to his dominance.

Logan rises from the floor like a dark shadow. He climbs onto the foot of the bed, his dark eyes fixed on you. He grabs your ankles, gently but firmly pulling your legs apart, throwing them over his shoulders.

The bed creaks ominously under the combined weight of three massive athletes.

“Shh,” Logan commands softly, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not a sound, sweetheart.”

Tucker moves to the head of the bed, kneeling behind the pillows. He lifts your head, pulling you flush against his chest so you are half-sitting,

half-lying against him. He covers your mouth with his large, warm hand, a physical barrier against the screams he knows are coming.

The sensory overload is absolute.

Garrett sheds his sweatpants in one fluid motion. His thick, heavy erection is fully hard, the ridge of his knot already painfully visible under the skin. He settles between your thighs, replacing Logan, who moves to your side, his hands exploring your breasts through your shirt.

“Look at me,” Garrett orders.

You look up, your eyes wide, your breathing ragged against Tucker’s palm.

Garrett doesn’t bother with preparation, Dean’s fingers have already left you completely slick and ready. Garrett grips your hips, his thumbs pressing bruisingly into your hip bones, and drives forward.

A muffled, broken scream tears from your throat, entirely swallowed by Tucker’s hand.

Garrett fills you completely in one brutal, agonizingly perfect thrust. The stretch is massive, hitting your cervix with a heavy, wet smack. Your nails dig into Tucker’s forearms as your body reflexively arches into the invasion.

“That’s it, baby,” Tucker praises, his lips brushing against your ear. “Take him. Be quiet and take your captain.”

Garrett sets a slow, punishing pace. Because they have to be quiet, there are no loud, slapping thrusts. Instead, he grinds his hips in deep, rolling circles, keeping the thickest part of his shaft buried deep inside you, maximizing the friction against your most sensitive nerves.

“God, you’re so tight,” Garrett groans, his jaw clenched, sweat beading on his forehead. “You feel so good, Y/N.”

Dean is on his knees beside the bed, his face buried in your neck. He bites down exactly over his claiming scar, his teeth pressing into the healed tissue, sending a fresh, euphoric spike of the mate bond directly into your bloodstream. His hand is relentless between your legs, his thumb finding your clit and pressing hard, rhythmic circles into the swollen nub.

“Dean,” you try to sob, but it comes out as a wet, muffled whimper against Tucker’s hand.

You are completely overstimulated. The heat of their bodies, the overwhelming, heavy scents of pine, cedar, mint, and leather completely choking the air in the small bedroom. Logan’s mouth replaces Dean’s at your neck, his tongue swirling over your pulse point, his rough hands squeezing your breasts.

“I’m knotting,” Garrett snarls quietly, his thrusts stuttering, becoming frantic and shallow. “I’m knotting you in your childhood bed, mine, you’re all fucking mine.”

The base of his cock violently swells inside you.

You thrash wildly as the knot locks into place, stretching you to your absolute limit. The intense, searing pressure triggers a catastrophic orgasm. You convulse around him, your hips bucking helplessly off the mattress, tears of pure bliss streaming down your face into Tucker’s palm.

Garrett shudders violently, a guttural, silenced groan ripping from his throat as he pumps wave after wave of his hot, thick seed deep into your womb.

You ride out the climax trembling, completely wrecked, your body slick with sweat.

Tucker slowly removes his hand from your mouth, replacing it with his lips, kissing you deeply, swallowing your exhausted pants.

“My turn,” Logan whispers darkly from your side.

The night blurs into a silent, desperate marathon of claiming. By the time the sun begins to rise, all four of them have knotted you. The small bedroom smells like an absolute den of sin — a heavy, unmistakable cocktail of alpha musk, vanilla, slick, and sex.

You are deeply, comfortably pinned beneath Dean’s heavy arm, completely exhausted, and absolutely glowing.

***

The next morning, Black Friday, is a town tradition. The Oakville Diner is packed with locals grabbing breakfast before hitting the local shops.

When you push through the glass doors of the diner, the bell jingling overhead, the entire restaurant seems to pause.

You are wearing one of Logan’s flannel shirts over your leggings, the sleeves rolled up. Your neck is bare, the claiming marks on full display. And flanking you on all sides are the four most terrifyingly gorgeous men this town has ever seen.

“Table for five?” The hostess asks, her eyes practically bugging out of her head as she looks at your alphas.

“Booth in the back, please,” Tucker requests smoothly.

You follow the hostess through the crowded diner. You can feel the eyes on you. You can hear the hushed whispers.

*Isn’t that the Y/L/N girl? The beta?*

*Look at her neck.*

*Who are they?*

You slide into the large, red leather booth. Once again, you are boxed in. Garrett on your left, Dean on your right. Logan and Tucker take the opposite side.

“I want pancakes,” Dean announces, picking up the laminated menu. “With extra syrup. Knotting takes a lot out of a guy.”

“Dean!” You hiss, kicking him under the table, your face turning scarlet.

Logan laughs, a deep, rumbling sound. “Don’t be shy, baby. You smell like us. Everyone in this diner knows exactly what we spent the last eight hours doing.”

Before you can argue, a shadow falls over the table.

“Y/N?”

You look up. Standing by the booth is Brittani Weston. She was the head cheerleader in your high school, an omega who presented perfectly at sixteen and spent the next two years looking at you with a mixture of pity and smug superiority.

“Hi, Brittani,” you say, keeping your voice even.

Brittani is staring at you, completely bewildered. Her eyes dart to your neck, lingering on the four distinct bites, and then she looks at the four men sitting with you. The unfiltered shock on her face is almost comical.

“I … I didn’t know you were back in town,” Brittani stammers. “And I … you presented.”

“I did,” you smile, a genuine, relaxed expression.

“And these are …” Brittani trails off, her gaze landing heavily on Garrett. She takes a subtle breath, trying to catch his scent, an unconscious, flirty omega response to a dominant alpha.

Garrett’s reaction is instantaneous.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t introduce himself. He simply shifts his weight, leaning his body entirely into yours. He drapes his arm over the back of the booth behind your shoulders, his hand coming to rest possessively on the curve of your neck, his thumb resting directly over his own claiming mark.

He unleashes a wave of dark, territorial pine scent that is so aggressive it makes the air feel thick.

“We’re her mates,” Garrett says, his voice cold and flat. It leaves absolutely no room for conversation.

Brittani physically recoils, her face flushing bright red with embarrassment as she is completely shut down. “Oh. Wow. Well. Congratulations. It was nice to see you, Y/N.”

She practically sprints away from the table.

You look at Garrett, shaking your head, though a huge smile breaks across your face. “You really have zero chill, do you?”

“Zero,” Garrett confirms, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You’re ours. The whole damn town is going to know it before we leave.”

Tucker picks up his coffee mug, taking a sip. “What can we say, sweetheart? We like to make an impression.”

You lean your head against Garrett’s shoulder, your hand finding Dean’s under the table. You look at Logan’s easy smirk and Tucker’s warm eyes. The town of Oak Creek might never recover from the Briar pack’s visit, but as far as you are concerned, it is the best Thanksgiving you have ever had.

***

The morning sun filters through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom, falling gently over the tangled mess of limbs and expensive sheets.

You stretch with a soft groan, your toes brushing against a thick, heavily muscled calf. The custom-built, California-king-and-a-half bed was a ridiculous purchase, but an absolute necessity.

“Don’t get up,” a sleep-rough voice mumbles into your ear.

Dean wraps his arm tighter around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He smells like sleep, expensive cologne, and the sharp, underlying stress of a Harvard Law student during midterms.

“I have a 9 AM seminar, Dean,” you whisper, though you lean back into his warmth.

“Skip it,” Dean argues, burying his face in your hair. “I have to read three hundred pages on tort law today. I need emotional support. I need my omega.”

“You’re a menace to my GPA,” you laugh, finally prying his arm off and sitting up.

You look around the room. Two years changes a lot of things. You aren’t in a cramped off-campus hockey house anymore. When the boys graduated last spring, they passed the Briar house down to the incoming seniors and bought a massive, sprawling estate in an affluent Boston suburb. It sits perfectly nestled between Boston, where the guys work, and Hastings, so you can commute to Briar for your junior year.

It is a literal fortress, equipped with a state-of-the-art security system and surrounded by high walls — because four alphas with a young omega mate do not take chances.

You slide out of bed and pad downstairs to the kitchen.

The domestic chaos of your pack is in full swing.

Tucker is standing at the marble island, dressed in a sharp, tailored navy suit, looking every inch the ruthless, successful businessman he has become. He’s typing rapidly on his phone while simultaneously flipping a perfectly golden pancake on the stove.

“Morning, beautiful,” Tucker says, not looking up from his phone. “Coffee is hot. Pancakes will be done in two minutes.”

“You’re a superhero, Tuck,” you sigh, grabbing a mug.

The back door swings open, and Garrett and Logan walk in. The blast of cold October air follows them, mingling with the heavy scents of pine, cedar, and sweat. They just got back from their morning run.

Garrett looks absolutely massive. Turning pro for the Boston Bruins had only broadened his shoulders and sharpened his lethal edge. When he signed as an undrafted free agent — a move that shocked the sports world but allowed him to dictate his own terms and stay in Boston — the Bruins knew they were getting a generational talent.

Logan is right beside him, wearing a Providence Bruins hoodie. He’s starting his pro career in the AHL, working his way up the Bruins system. And thanks to a chunk of his signing bonus, Logan & Sons mechanic shop back in New York is fully staffed with a manager, freeing Logan to finally live his own life.

Garrett catches sight of you and doesn’t even hesitate. He crosses the kitchen, his sweaty chest pressing against your silk pajama top as he hauls you in for a deep, breathless kiss.

“Morning, baby,” Garrett rumbles, his eyes warm and entirely devoted. He presses a kiss to the ring of silver-pink bite scars on your neck.

“You’re sweaty,” you complain, though you don’t push him away.

Logan walks over, grabbing a piece of bacon off a plate. He bumps his hip against yours. “We have practice at the Garden at eleven. Dean has class. Tucker has a board meeting. Who is driving you to campus?”

“I have my own car, Logan. I can drive myself,” you remind him.

Logan scoffs. “Right. And let you walk from the parking lot to the humanities building alone? Funny.”

“I’ll drive her,” Dean announces, shuffling into the kitchen wearing Harvard sweatpants and a t-shirt. He looks exhausted, but his eyes brighten the second he looks at you. “My first lecture isn’t until 11. I’ll drop you at the quad.”

“Perfect,” Garrett nods, stealing Tucker’s coffee. “We’ll all meet you at the Briar student union for lunch at one-thirty. It’s been a few weeks since we reminded the student body who you belong to.”

“They know who I belong to,” you roll your eyes, taking a bite of the pancake Tucker slides onto your plate. “I literally smell like a pine forest mixed with a humidor. Nobody comes within ten feet of me.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” Tucker smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead before grabbing his briefcase. “See you at lunch, sweetheart. Don’t let these animals make you late.”

***

The Briar University quad is bustling with autumn energy.

You walk out of your European Literature class, pulling the strap of your backpack higher on your shoulder. You are twenty years old now, a junior, and fully settled into your skin. The agonizing insecurity of your late presentation is a distant memory, replaced by the deep, unshakable confidence of an omega who is thoroughly loved, protected, and completely satisfied.

You walk toward the student union, checking your phone. Garrett texted you five minutes ago saying they were pulling into the visitor parking lot.

You stop near the bronze statue in the center of the quad to wait for them.

“Hey. You’re Y/N, right?”

You look up. A guy you have never seen before is standing a few feet away. He is tall, built like a tank, wearing a Briar Hockey jacket. His scent hits you a second later — a sharp, overly aggressive mix of cheap cologne and sour citrus. An alpha. And a very poorly mannered one, based on how he is actively pushing his pheromones into your space.

“I am,” you say, taking a subtle step back, crossing your arms. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Caleb,” he says, flashing a cocky, uneven smile. “I just transferred here from Minnesota. I’ve heard a lot of rumors about you.”

Your internal alarm bells start ringing. Transfer students never know the unwritten rules of Briar University. They don’t know the legend of the Graham-Di Laurentis-Logan-Tucker pack.

“Rumors are usually boring,” you say smoothly, looking past him to scan the quad for your mates.

Caleb steps closer, invading your personal bubble. He takes a loud, entirely inappropriate sniff of the air. You physically flinch, your upper lip curling in disgust.

“They said you were an omega, but you smell … crowded,” Caleb sneers slightly, his eyes dropping to the scars on your neck. “Four bites. That’s a lot of real estate for a pack of washed-up grads. I mean, they aren’t even on campus anymore to protect you.”

“They aren’t washed up,” you say, your voice dropping into a cold, dangerous octave. Your inner omega bristles with immediate, violent offense on behalf of your pack. “And you need to back up. Now.”

Caleb laughs, reaching out to lazily twirl a piece of your hair around his finger. You smack his hand away instantly.

“Feisty,” Caleb smirks. “Look, a pretty little omega like you shouldn’t be tied down to guys who are too busy working to even walk you to class. Four mates? Sounds to me like none of them are man enough to handle you on their own. You need a real alpha. A present alpha. Drop the dead weight and let me show you-”

“Caleb.”

The voice comes from ten yards away.

You look over Caleb’s shoulder. Two seniors, Mike and Dave, who were freshmen on the hockey team when Garrett was captain, are standing frozen on the pavement. They are both staring at Caleb with expressions of sheer, unadulterated horror.

“What?” Caleb snaps, looking over his shoulder.

“Dude,” Mike says, his voice actually trembling. He takes a physical step backward, raising his hands in surrender. “Back away from her. Right now.”

Caleb scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Relax, Mike. I’m just introducing myself. Showing the omega what a real-”

“Caleb, shut up,” Dave hisses, looking wildly around the quad as if anticipating a sniper. “You are soooo dead. Worse than dead, really. You don’t know who she is.”

“She’s some junior who got knocked up with bites by guys who don’t even go here,” Caleb argues, turning back to you.

“You’re right. We don’t go here,” a voice rumbles.

The temperature around you drops ten degrees. The sour citrus scent of Caleb’s alpha is instantly, violently obliterated by a suffocating, lethal wave of pine, cedar, mint, and leather.

You exhale a shaky breath, a massive smile breaking across your face.

Caleb freezes. The biological urge to submit hits him so hard his knees actually buckle slightly. He turns around slowly.

Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Tucker are standing in a line directly behind him.

They are no longer college boys. They are grown, elite, incredibly successful men.

Tucker is in his bespoke navy suit, his arms crossed, looking at Caleb like the transfer student is a bug he is debating crushing under his Oxford shoe. Dean is wearing a tailored cashmere coat over a black turtleneck, his charming smile entirely absent, replaced by a cold, patrician glare.

Logan is wearing a Providence Bruins quarter-zip, his hands shoved into his pockets, though his jaw is locked so tight a muscle ticks visibly in his cheek.

And Garrett.

Garrett is wearing a Boston Bruins team jacket, his broad shoulders practically blocking out the sun. His eyes are pitch black. The absolute, unhinged feral rage rolling off him is so intense that students walking thirty feet away are actively changing directions to avoid the blast radius.

“We don’t go here,” Garrett repeats, his voice a low, terrifying rasp that vibrates the pavement. He takes one slow, deliberate step forward. “But we still own this campus.”

Caleb swallows audibly, his face draining of every drop of color. He realizes, entirely too late, exactly who he is looking at. “G-Graham. I … I didn’t-”

“You didn’t know?” Dean cuts in, his voice dripping with icy condescension. “You didn’t know she was our mate? Because the four bite marks on her neck didn’t give it away?”

“You touched her hair,” Logan states. It isn’t a question. It is a death sentence. Logan pulls his hands out of his pockets, cracking his knuckles. “I saw you touch her hair from across the quad.”

Caleb looks at Mike and Dave for help, but the two seniors have literally turned their backs and are briskly walking away, entirely unwilling to be caught in the crossfire of the Briar pack’s wrath.

“I was just … we were just talking,” Caleb stammers, his alpha instincts completely crumbling under the sheer weight of four vastly superior, enraged dominants.

Tucker steps forward, smoothly bypassing Caleb to stand right beside you. He places a warm, grounding hand on your lower back. “Did he touch you anywhere else, sweetheart?”

“No,” you say, leaning into Tucker’s touch. You look at Caleb, your eyes narrowing. “He just told me my mates were washed up and not man enough to handle me.”

A collective, deadly silence falls over the five men.

Logan lets out a dark, humorless laugh.

Garrett closes the distance. He doesn’t throw a punch. He doesn’t have to. The sheer physical intimidation of a 6’3“, 220-pound NHL center closing in on you is enough. Garrett stops inches from Caleb’s face, staring down at the trembling transfer student.

“You play right wing, right?” Garrett asks softly.

Caleb nods frantically.

“If you ever speak to my mate again,” Garrett says, his voice perfectly level, “If you ever look at her, if you ever breathe in her general direction … I won’t just break your legs. I will make a phone call to every single scout in the NHL, the AHL, and Europe, and I will make sure you never lace up a pair of skates professionally as long as you live. Do you understand me?”

Caleb is trembling so badly his teeth are chattering. “Yes, sir.”

“Get out of my sight,” Logan snaps.

Caleb turns and practically sprints across the quad, abandoning any shred of dignity he had left.

Garrett watches him go for exactly three seconds before he completely drops the terrifying alpha persona. His shoulders relax, the heavy, suffocating pheromones instantly smoothing out into the warm, comforting pine scent you adore.

He turns to you, his eyes softening completely. “You okay, baby?”

“I’m fine,” you laugh, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around his waist. “You guys have a real flair for the dramatic, you know that?”

Garrett wraps his massive arms around you, burying his face in your hair. “I was fully prepared to go to jail today.”

“I have my law textbook in the car,” Dean says, walking up and wrapping his arms around you from behind, sandwiching you between him and Garrett. He kisses your cheek. “I could have represented him. It would have been great practice.”

“You’re not licensed yet, idiot,” Logan snorts, walking over and ruffling your hair. “Come on. I’m starving. Let’s go get food.”

The five of you walk toward the student union, falling effortlessly into your natural formation. Logan clears the path, Dean and Garrett flank your sides, and Tucker guards your back.

The stares from the students on the quad are different this time. There is no gossip. There is only absolute, unadulterated awe and respect. The legend of the Briar pack has just been violently, definitively reinforced for a whole new generation.

***

Lunch is a loud, chaotic affair.

You sit in the center of a massive circular booth in the student union, eating off everyone else’s plates while they bicker over hockey stats, Harvard professors, and stock portfolios.

It is entirely surreal to sit here and realize how perfectly your lives have woven together.

Two years ago, you walked onto this campus as a broken, terrified beta who thought she would never have a place in the world. You thought you were biologically defective.

Now, you are the center of gravity for four of the most successful, fiercely devoted alphas on the eastern seaboard.

“Are you even listening to me?” Dean asks, nudging your shoulder.

You blink, pulling yourself out of your thoughts. “Sorry. What?”

“I said, Logan owes me fifty bucks because he bet me the Bruins wouldn’t make the playoffs this year,” Dean complains, stealing a fry off your plate.

“I didn’t say they wouldn’t make it, I said they’d get knocked out in the second round,” Logan argues, pointing a fry at Dean. “There’s a difference.”

“Garrett is literally the starting center,” you point out, looking at Logan. “Why would you bet against your own packmate?”

“Because Logan is a cynic,” Garrett smirks, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. “And because he knows I’m going to win the Cup before he does.”

“I’m in the AHL, G, give me a minute to get called up,” Logan groans, rubbing his face.

Tucker smiles into his coffee cup, watching the banter with fond amusement. He meets your eyes across the table, his dark gaze incredibly warm. He reaches under the table, his hand finding your knee and giving it a gentle, grounding squeeze.

You smile back at him, your heart swelling.

“We need to get going,” Tucker says, checking his watch. “Garrett and Logan have afternoon practice, and I have a conference call at three.”

“And I have to go read about personal injury lawsuits,” Dean sighs dramatically, sliding out of the booth. “My life is a tragic, boring shell of what it once was.”

“You love Harvard, Dean, shut up,” Logan laughs, standing up and grabbing his duffel bag.

You all walk out of the student union and across the quad toward the visitor parking lot. The crisp autumn wind whips the red and orange leaves around your feet.

When you reach the massive SUV, the goodbyes are exactly as intense as the hellos.

Tucker pulls you in first, wrapping his arms securely around your waist and pressing a deep, lingering kiss to your lips. “Have a good afternoon, sweetheart. Text me when your last class is over.”

“I will,” you promise.

Dean is next, dramatically dipping you backward over his arm for a cinematic, breath-stealing kiss that makes a group of passing freshmen giggle and blush. “Don’t miss me too much, beautiful.”

Logan grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in firmly. His kiss is rougher, demanding, and tastes like cedar and possessive warmth. “Be safe. Call if anyone even looks at you wrong.”

“I can handle myself, Logan,” you roll your eyes, but you smile against his mouth.

Finally, Garrett steps up. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just frames your face with his large hands, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones. His eyes are incredibly soft, completely stripping away the hardened NHL captain.

“I love you,” Garrett murmurs, leaning down to press a soft, slow kiss to your mouth.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, opening your eyes to look at him. You look past his shoulder, meeting the eyes of Dean, Logan, and Tucker. “I love all of you.”

“We know,” Dean winks.

“Get in the car, you animals,” Garrett says, swatting the back of Dean’s head.

You stand in the parking lot, wrapping your cardigan tighter around yourself against the autumn chill, and watch as the four of them pile into the SUV. Logan rolls the window down, shooting you one last smirk before pulling out of the parking lot.

You watch the taillights disappear down the street.

The hollow, agonizing ache in your chest that you carried for two years before coming to Briar is a distant, almost unimaginable memory. Your biology didn’t make a mistake. It didn’t forget about you. It was simply waiting.

It was waiting for the perfect moment, for the perfect scent of pine, cedar, mint, and leather. It was waiting for a pack that wouldn’t just claim you, but would build an entire world around keeping you safe.

You touch the silver-pink scars on your neck one last time, a soft, involuntary purr vibrating in your chest.

You turn around and walk back toward the quad.

“You don’t have to go,” Mae says. Her voice drops into that soft, placating tone that makes your back teeth grind together. The Pity Tone. “Mom and Dad are worried. Being so far away from the family … from the pack. It’s going to be hard for you.”

“I’m eighteen. I’m going to college. People do it every day.”

“But Briar?” Mae crosses her arms, her scent souring slightly with anxiety. “You don’t know anyone there. And you’re … well.”

“A beta,” you finish for her. You turn to face her, grabbing your duffel bag. “You can say the word, Mae. It’s not a dirty word. I’m a beta. I have no scent, I have no fated mate waiting in the wings to bite my neck, and I don’t need a pack to keep me safe. I just want to play intramural sports, get a degree, and not get looked at like a tragic charity case every Sunday at family dinner.”

“We don’t look at you like a charity case.”

“Right. Which is why Mom left a pamphlet for ‘Finding Fulfillment Outside the Bond’ on my pillow last Tuesday.” You sling the strap over your shoulder. “I’m going to Briar. I need a change of scenery. I need to be somewhere where nobody knows my medical history.”

Mae sighs, stepping aside as you move into the hallway. “Just … call us when you get there. Please?”

“I will.”

You walk down the stairs of the only house you’ve ever known, surrounded by the heavy, mingled scents of three generations of alphas and omegas. It’s overwhelming. It’s suffocating. For the past two years, ever since you turned sixteen and didn’t present, the waiting game had been agonizing. When eighteen came and went without a single heat, a single scent drop, the verdict was final. You’re a beta.

You push out the front door, the crisp morning air a welcome relief against your skin. You toss your bags into the trunk of your beat-up sedan. No mate. No destiny. Just you, the highway, and a desperate need to breathe.

***

Two states away, the kitchen of the off-campus hockey house smells like burnt toast, stale beer, and the distinct, woodsy musk of four agitated alphas.

“I’m telling you, the girl is a menace,” Dean complains, leaning back against the kitchen island with a mug of black coffee. He’s wearing nothing but sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. “She texted me six times before 8 AM. Who does that?”

Logan snorts from the kitchen table, not looking up from his phone. “Maybe she actually likes you, Di Laurentis. Terrifying concept, I know.”

“She likes the idea of me,” Dean corrects, taking a sip of his coffee. “She likes the trust fund and the fact that my parents own half of Manhattan. And the jawline. Mostly the jawline.”

“Your humility is truly a gift to us all,” Tucker says mildly. He’s at the stove, patiently scraping Dean’s ruined attempt at breakfast into the trash and starting fresh with a carton of eggs. Tucker is the only one in the house who actually knows how to use a spatula without setting the smoke alarm off. “You could just tell her you’re not interested.”

“And break her heart? Tuck, I’m a lover. I can’t be cruel.”

“You’re a whore,” Logan corrects, finally setting his phone face down.

There’s a tight set to Logan’s jaw that wasn’t there five minutes ago. Dean notices it. Tucker notices it. As alphas in a pack, the shift in pheromones is impossible to miss — a sharp, bitter spike of stress cutting through Logan’s usual easygoing cedar scent.

“Everything good?” Tucker asks, keeping his eyes on the eggs.

“Fine,” Logan clips out. He taps his fingers against the wooden table. “Just … my brother. Texted about the shop. The old man went on a bender last night, didn’t lock up. Some kids spray-painted the garage doors.”

Dean frowns, setting his mug down. “Do you need to go back? I can wire you cash if they need to cover damages-”

“No, Dean. Keep your money,” Logan says, rubbing a hand over his face. The irritation softens into exhaustion. “My brother handled it. That’s the deal. He holds down the fort with Logan & Sons while I’m here. Once I graduate, I take the shop, take the old man, and he gets his life back. I just hate … I hate that he’s dealing with it alone.”

“He’s not alone,” a new voice cuts in.

Garrett steps into the kitchen. He’s already in his workout gear, a towel draped around his neck. The house immediately shifts. The tension in the air doesn’t vanish, but it stabilizes. Garrett is the captain, on and off the ice.

“Your brother knows what he signed up for, and you’re keeping your end of the bargain by staying here and finishing your degree,” Garrett says, walking over to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. He looks at Logan. “If it gets to be too much, the pack steps in. You know that. We’ll drive down there this weekend and paint the damn doors ourselves if we have to.”

Logan looks up, offering a tired but genuine smirk. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, G.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m bagging you on the ice today for being late to the kitchen.” Garrett unscrews the cap of his water. “Where are we on groceries? Because if I have to eat another one of Tucker’s healthy kale things, I’m going to start chewing on the drywall.”

“Hey, my cooking keeps you animals in peak physical condition,” Tucker defends, flipping an omelet. “And we’re out of everything. Someone needs to do a run.”

“Not it,” Dean says immediately.

“Not it,” Logan echoes.

Garrett sighs. “Fine. I’ll go after practice.”

He turns around, gripping the edge of the counter. His knuckles are white. Dean catches Logan’s eye, a silent conversation passing between them. Garrett’s phone had been buzzing all morning. Every time it rang, the caller ID flashing a New York area code, Garrett’s scent turned dark, heavy, and bruised.

His father.

Nobody says a word. The pack doesn’t push when Garrett gets like this. They just close ranks. Tucker slides a plate of eggs toward him.

“Eat,” Tucker says softly. “We’ve got drills in an hour.”

Garrett nods, his grip loosening on the counter. “Yeah. Let’s eat.”

***

The drive up I-95 is a blur of highway signs and bad radio stations. You keep the windows cracked, letting the wind whip your hair around your face. You’ve been driving for hours, alone with your thoughts.

You think about your parents. You know they love you. You know their pity comes from a place of genuine concern. In a world dictated by biology — by alphas protecting and omegas nurturing — being a beta feels like being a ghost. You don’t trigger instincts. You don’t fit the grand, biological design.

Your mom had cried when you packed the car. Your dad had awkwardly patted your shoulder and told you to keep your pepper spray on your keychain. Because you don’t have an alpha to protect you.

“I don’t need one,” you say aloud to the empty car. Your voice sounds small against the rush of the wind.

You grip the steering wheel tighter. Briar University is a fresh start. A massive campus filled with thousands of students. You can just be a face in the crowd. A girl getting a degree in history, or maybe English. You haven’t decided yet. The point is, you get to decide. Not your biology. Not a fated mate. Just you.

You pull into a rest stop somewhere in Connecticut to get gas and stretch your legs. The air here is different. Colder. Sharper. You walk into the convenience store to buy a coffee, stepping aside as a couple walks out. The guy is massive, clearly an alpha, with his arm wrapped protectively around a smaller omega who smells strongly of peaches and contentment.

You feel the familiar pang in your chest — a sharp, stabbing ache that you quickly push down. It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s grief. Grief for an experience you were told you would have, a promise the universe broke.

You pay for your black coffee, ignore the cashier’s bored expression, and walk back out to your car.

“No more feeling sorry for yourself,” you mutter, climbing into the driver’s seat. “You’re done with that.”

You put the car in drive and merge back onto the highway. Briar is waiting.

***

The ice is where it all makes sense.

For Garrett, the rink is the only place where the noise stops. The ringing in his ears from his father’s screaming voicemails — calling him a disappointment, a failure, telling him he’ll never be half the player his old man was before he wrecked his knee. The memories of his mother, fading away in a hospital bed, the only person who ever looked at him with something other than expectation or rage.

Out here, the cold bites his lungs, and all that matters is the puck.

“Pass it, G!” Logan yells, his skates carving a sharp turn near the boards.

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He snaps a perfect, blind pass right to Logan’s stick. Logan catches it, dekes past a freshman defenseman who looks like he’s about to pee his pants, and roofs the puck over the goalie’s shoulder.

The net bulges.

“Yeah, baby!” Dean howls, slamming his stick against the ice in approval.

Coach Jensen blows the whistle. “Alright, that’s it! Bring it in!”

The team gathers around the bench, chest-heaving, sweat dripping from their helmets. The alpha pheromones rolling off the squad are intense — a chaotic mix of adrenaline, aggression, and dominance. But Garrett’s scent cuts through it all, a grounding, authoritative winter-pine that forces the younger guys to straighten up and pay attention.

“Good hustle today,” Coach barks. “Graham, you and the seniors keep the rookies in line. First game is in three weeks. We don’t slack off.”

“Yes, Coach,” Garrett says.

As the team filters into the locker room, the banter starts up immediately. Towels are snapped, chirps are thrown. Dean is already talking about a party off-campus tonight.

“Delta house on frat row,” Dean says, unlacing his skates. “I hear it’s an open invite. We should make an appearance.”

“I have a paper due,” Tucker says, pulling his jersey over his head.

“Tuck, it’s the first week of classes. You don’t have a paper due.”

“I like to get ahead of the syllabus.”

Logan laughs, tossing a roll of tape at Dean’s head. “He’s not going, man. And I’m exhausted. Count me out.”

Dean looks at Garrett, a desperate plea in his eyes. “G. Come on. Captain. Leader. Wingman. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Garrett pulls his skates off, staring at the concrete floor. His phone is in his locker. He knows if he checks it, there will be another message. Another reminder of the man waiting for him back in New York, the man who owns him until Garrett signs an NHL contract and can finally cut him off for good.

“Fine,” Garrett says, standing up. “We’ll go. For an hour. But if you start making out with someone in the kitchen again and leave me standing around holding a red solo cup, I’m walking home.”

Dean grins, a triumphant, blinding smile. “You’re the best, G. Truly a man of the people.”

Logan shakes his head, leaning over to bump his shoulder against Garrett’s. “You don’t have to babysit him, you know.”

“If I don’t, he’ll end up accidentally pledging a sorority,” Garrett deadpans.

Logan laughs, the tight stress from this morning fully melted away. They walk toward the showers, a unified front. The four of them against the world. They don’t need anyone else.

***

You drag your second suitcase up three flights of stairs because the elevator in the freshman dorm is broken. Of course it is.

By the time you find Room 382, you’re sweating, out of breath, and seriously questioning your life choices. You unlock the door and push it open.

The room is tiny. Two twin beds, two desks, one microscopic window looking out over the quad. It smells like industrial cleaner and old dust. But it’s yours.

Your roommate hasn’t arrived yet. The bed on the left is bare. You claim the one by the window, dropping your suitcase onto the mattress with a heavy thud.

You sit down next to it, resting your head against the cool drywall. You can hear the sounds of campus outside — shouting, laughter, the rolling wheels of luggage. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath.

There’s no scent of vanilla. No scent of pine. No pack.

For the first time in your life, you are completely, totally alone.

You smile.

“Okay,” you whisper to the empty room. “Let’s do this.”

You open your suitcase and start unpacking your sweaters. You hang them up one by one in the tiny closet, organizing them by color. You set your books on the desk. You make the bed with the plain grey sheets you bought at Target.

You don’t put up any photos of your family. Not yet. It hurts too much to look at them — to see your parents holding hands, the bond mark on your mother’s neck clearly visible. To see Mae and her mate. To see what you can’t have.

Someone knocks on the open door.

You turn around. A girl with chunky highlights and a nose ring is standing there, holding a massive cardboard box. She smells faintly of cinnamon. An omega.

“Hey,” she says, blowing a bubble with her gum. “You’re Y/N, right? I’m Brooke. Your roommate.”

“Hi,” you say, standing up. “Need help with that?”

“God, yes. This box weighs more than my will to live.”

You walk over and grab the other end of the box, helping her haul it onto the bare bed.

“Thanks,” Brooke pants, wiping her forehead. She looks at you, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tilts her head. She takes a subtle breath in. You stiffen, bracing yourself for the inevitable question. The confusion.

“You’re a beta?” Brooke asks, her tone completely casual.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice tight. “I am.”

Brooke just shrugs, digging into the box. “Cool. Means I don’t have to worry about you going into a rut and destroying our room. My last roommate was an alpha, and she punched a hole in the door over a bad grade. So. Big win for me.”

You blink. “That’s … it? You don’t care?”

Brooke pauses, looking back at you with an amused expression. “Should I? Are you going to steal my clothes?”

“No.”

“Then we’re good.” She pulls out a stack of posters. “Hey, there’s a huge party off-campus tonight. Some guys on the hockey team are hosting, or showing up, I don’t know. You want to go? I hate walking into these things alone.”

A party. Loud music. Sweaty bodies. Alphas and omegas pairing off. Everything you came here to escape.

But you look at Brooke, who isn’t looking at you with pity. She’s just looking at you like you’re a normal eighteen-year-old girl.

“Yeah,” you say, a genuine smile breaking across your face. “Yeah, I’d love to go.”

***

The party is exactly what you expected, and somehow ten times worse.

The Delta house is a massive, sprawling colonial packed wall-to-wall with sweating, dancing, drinking college students. The bass from the speakers rattles your teeth in your skull. Brooke disappeared into the crowd roughly five minutes after you walked through the front door, leaving you standing awkwardly near a sticky kitchen counter.

You grip your red Solo cup like a lifeline. You haven’t actually taken a sip yet. You’re just using it as a prop so you don’t look like a total loser.

“First time?”

You blink, turning to your right. A guy is leaning against the fridge. He’s tall, wearing a backward baseball cap, and he smells like cheap beer and an overwhelming wave of alpha musk. It’s cloying, too sweet and too aggressive all at once.

“Is it that obvious?” You ask, shifting your weight.

“A little.” He flashes a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He steps closer, invading your personal space. “I’m Brad. I haven’t seen you around before.”

“I’m a freshman. I just moved in today.”

“Ah. Fresh meat.” He chuckles at his own joke. You don’t laugh. “Look, you look a little stiff. Here. Let me top that off for you. It’s jungle juice. Best on campus.”

Before you can protest, he takes your cup, dips it into a massive orange cooler on the island, and hands it back.

“Drink up,” Brad says. “It’ll help you loosen up.”

You take a small sip, mostly just to get him to stop staring at your mouth. It tastes like Hawaiian Punch and rubbing alcohol.

“Thanks,” you mutter. “I’m going to go find my roommate.”

You turn your back on him, slipping into the throng of bodies in the living room. You take another sip of the drink as you navigate the crowd, trying to scan the sea of faces for Brooke’s bright pink hair.

Five minutes pass. Then ten.

And then, the floor drops out from under you.

It starts as a bizarre lightness in your head, a dizzying spin that makes the room tilt sideways. You stumble, your shoulder slamming into a girl dancing next to you.

“Hey, watch it!” She snaps.

You try to apologize, but your tongue feels thick. Heavy. You look down at your hand. You’ve dropped your cup. It’s rolling across the floor, splashing red liquid on the scuffed hardwood.

Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

A cold sweat breaks out across your forehead. Your legs feel like lead, and your vision is tunneling, the edges blurring into a fuzzy grey. The noise of the party suddenly sounds like it’s underwater.

I need to get out of here. I need to sit down. You push past a group of guys, ignoring their annoyed grunts. You need a bathroom. A quiet place. You stumble down a hallway, dragging your hand along the wall to keep yourself upright.

You find a door at the end of the hall, twist the knob, and fall inside. You kick the door shut and lock it, collapsing onto the cold tile floor.

The moment your knees hit the ground, the cold numbness in your limbs vanishes, replaced by an agonizing, explosive heat.

A scream tears from your throat, but it sounds weak, mangled. It feels like someone struck a match inside your veins. Your chest tightens, a violent, crushing pressure seizing your lungs.

This isn’t just whatever was in that drink. This is something else.

You clutch your stomach, curling into a tight ball on the floor. Your skin is on fire. Your bones feel like they are melting, restructuring, breaking apart from the inside.

I’m dying, you think, terror clawing at your fading consciousness. The drug. It’s killing me.

But beneath the terrifying, paralyzing lethargy of the roofie, there is a frantic, biological desperate push. Your body is fighting the sedative. Your biology, dormant for years, is violently ripping itself awake to purge the poison.

You’re presenting.

You’re presenting right now, pumped full of a predatory drug, your body tearing itself apart to force the transition. You sob, but your muscles are too weak from the drug to even thrash. You just lie there, trapped in a paralyzed, burning hell.

***

Two rooms over, Dean is holding court.

He’s currently charming three omegas by the fireplace, flashing his trademark dimples and expertly dodging their subtle attempts to scent him.

Garrett is leaning against the wall beside him, nursing a beer he hasn’t drank from in twenty minutes. His jaw is tight. He hates these parties. The mingled scents of desperate alphas and eager omegas give him a headache.

“So, Dean,” one of the omegas purrs, stepping closer. “Are you guys sticking around for the after-party?”

“Depends,” Dean says smoothly. “Are you going to be-”

Dean stops.

He freezes mid-sentence. His posture completely shifts, the casual, relaxed slouch vanishing, replaced by something rigid and terrifyingly still.

Garrett feels it a split second later.

It hits them like a physical blow to the chest. A scent cuts through the stale beer, the sweat, the cheap perfume. It’s the most intoxicating thing Garrett has ever breathed in. It smells like rain on hot asphalt. Like crushed vanilla beans and something dark, sweet, and entirely consuming.

It’s the scent of an omega.

But not just an omega.

Mate. The word echoes in Garrett’s skull, primal and undeniable. His alpha roars to the surface, violent and possessive. He drops his beer bottle. It shatters on the floor.

He looks at Dean. Dean’s eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated until almost the entire iris is black.

“Garrett,” Dean chokes out, his voice a ragged whisper.

“I know,” Garrett growls.

But the euphoria of the bond is instantly obliterated by what’s laced underneath the scent.

Terror. Pain. Sickening, chemical distress.

Their mate is in agony.

“Move!” Garrett roars, shoving past the omegas.

He and Dean tear through the living room. They aren’t humans anymore; they are predators tracking a wounded center. People scream and dive out of the way as the two massive hockey players barrel through the crowd, completely feral.

“Where?” Dean snarls, his head snapping back and forth.

“Hallway,” Garrett barks. “End of the hall.”

They hit the hallway at a sprint. The scent is overpowering here, thick and suffocating with distress. Garrett grabs the handle of the locked bathroom door. He doesn’t bother asking who is inside. He doesn’t bother knocking.

He takes one step back, raises his boot, and kicks the door right off its hinges.

Wood splinters. The door crashes inward.

Garrett and Dean freeze in the doorway.

You are curled on the floor, trembling violently. Your skin is flushed a feverish red, covered in a sheen of sweat. You’re making a weak, whimpering sound, your eyes rolling back in your head.

“No,” Dean breathes out, dropping to his knees instantly.

Garrett is right beside him. He reaches out, his large hands hovering over you for a fraction of a second before he gently, carefully rolls you onto your back.

The moment his skin touches yours, a jolt of electricity violently shocks through both of you. You gasp, your eyes snapping open for a second. They are hazy, unfocused, but you stare right up at him.

“Hurts,” you manage to slur, your voice barely a rasp. “Burning.”

“I know, baby, I know. I’ve got you,” Garrett says, his voice thick with an emotion he’s never felt before.

He pulls you into his lap, ignoring the way you flinch. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. He releases a heavy, concentrated wave of soothing alpha pheromones, trying to blanket your pain.

Dean grabs your hand, his thumb desperately rubbing circles into your palm. “Garrett. G. Her scent. It’s … it’s mine. She’s my mate.”

Garrett looks up, his eyes flashing a dangerous, possessive. “She’s mine, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. The two alphas stare at each other over your trembling body, the air between them turning volatile, lethal. A fight over a mate is a bloodbath.

But then Dean takes a sharp breath, his eyes widening. He looks from Garrett to you, and back to Garrett.

“You feel it too,” Dean whispers. “The pull. It’s … it’s anchoring to both of us.”

Garrett swallows hard, the aggressive spike in his chest leveling out into something infinitely more complex. He looks down at you. You belong to him. He knows that down to his marrow. But the bond isn’t fighting Dean’s presence. It’s welcoming it.

They share her.

“We’ll figure that out later,” Garrett says harshly, forcing his focus back to the immediate crisis. He presses two fingers to the pulse point on your neck. It’s erratic, fluttering dangerously fast. “Something is wrong with her, Dean. This isn’t just a bad presentation.”

Dean leans closer, sniffing your hair, your mouth. His face twists into a snarl of pure, unfiltered rage.

“Chemicals,” Dean spits out. “Sedative. Somebody roofied her, G. She’s been drugged.”

Garrett’s blood runs entirely cold. “A late presentation triggered by a roofie? The drug is telling her nervous system to shut down, and the presentation is trying to jumpstart it. Her body is tearing itself apart.”

“We need to get her to a hospital.”

“No,” Garrett says immediately. “You take an unbonded omega in the middle of a traumatic presentation into a crowded ER full of strange alphas, she’ll go into shock and her heart will give out. We need to get her to the house. It’s safe. We can scent her, ground her.”

“She needs a doctor, Garrett!”

“Tucker’s mom is an ER nurse, he knows exactly what to do,” Garrett barks. “And we are not leaving her alone with strangers right now. Call Logan. Tell him to bring the truck to the back door. Now!”

Dean doesn’t argue. The feral edge in Garrett’s voice leaves no room for debate. Dean rips his phone out of his pocket, his hands shaking so badly he almost drops it. He hits Logan’s speed dial.

It rings twice.

“What?” Logan answers, sounding half-asleep.

“Logan, get the truck. Back alley of the Delta house on 4th. Now.”

“Dean? What the hell is going on? You sound-”

“Our mate,” Dean chokes out, tears of sheer panic pricking the corners of his eyes as he watches you seize slightly in Garrett’s arms. “We found our mate. And she’s dying. Get Tucker. Get here now.”

The line goes dead.

Dean drops the phone. He crowds in closer, wrapping his arms around your legs, needing to touch you, needing to flood your system with as much comfort as he can.

“Keep breathing, sweetheart,” Dean begs, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Just keep breathing for me. We’re getting you out of here.”

You can barely hear him. The roaring in your ears is deafening. But through the agonizing fire burning in your veins, through the heavy, suffocating fog of the drug, you feel them.

Pine and cedar. Mint and leather.

The scents are wrapping around you, anchoring you to the floor, fighting the darkness trying to pull you under. You lean your head against Garrett’s chest, completely helpless.

***

Logan breaks every single traffic law in the state of Massachusetts getting to the frat row.

He slams on the brakes, the truck fishtailing into the dark, trash-strewn alley behind the omega house. Tucker is in the passenger seat, already unbuckling his seatbelt before the truck even comes to a complete stop.

“Grab the blankets from the back,” Tucker orders, his voice eerily calm, though his jaw is locked so tight a muscle ticks furiously in his cheek.

Logan throws the truck into park and leaps out. They don’t even have to go inside.

The back door of the house bursts open. Garrett stalks down the stairs, carrying a small, limp figure in his arms. Dean is right on his heels, flanking him, his eyes scanning the alley like a predator looking for a threat.

Logan freezes.

The scent hits him from ten yards away.

Rain on hot asphalt. Vanilla.

Logan’s knees actually buckle for a fraction of a second. A raw, guttural sound rips from his throat. Mine. The instinct is absolute. It wipes away every rational thought in his head, replacing it with a singular, violent need to possess and protect.

He looks at Tucker. Tucker has stopped dead in his tracks, dropping the blankets onto the asphalt. Tucker, the calmest, most rational alpha in the pack, looks like he’s about to tear someone’s throat out with his teeth.

“Tucker?” Logan breathes.

“She’s ours,” Tucker says, his voice a dark, lethal rumble. “All of ours.”

There’s no time to process the impossibility of a four-alpha mate bond. Garrett reaches the truck, his face pale and terrifyingly desperate.

“Open the damn door, Logan!” Garrett roars.

Logan snaps out of his shock. He rips the backseat door open. Garrett carefully slides into the back, keeping you cradled in his lap. Dean shoves in right next to him, pressing his body along your side.

Tucker grabs the blankets from the ground, shakes off the dirt, and climbs into the front passenger seat. Logan jumps behind the wheel.

“Drive,” Garrett commands. “Fast.”

Logan hits the gas. The truck peels out of the alley, tires screaming against the pavement.

“What happened?” Tucker asks, twisting around in his seat to look into the back.

The moment Tucker’s eyes land on you, his breath hitches. You look incredibly small. Your face is ashen, save for the unnatural, feverish flush high on your cheeks. You’re barely conscious, your chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged gasps.

“Someone slipped something in her drink,” Dean says, his voice thick with rage. “A roofie. And it forced her to present.”

Logan grips the steering wheel so hard the leather groans. A low, vibrating growl fills the cab of the truck. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “But when I find out, I’m going to kill him. I’m going to actually kill him.”

“We’ll find him later,” Tucker says sharply, forcing his own murderous rage down. He needs to be the medic right now. “G, how hot is she?”

“She’s burning up, Tuck. Her pulse is everywhere,” Garrett says, running a trembling hand through your sweat-soaked hair.

“The drug is a depressant. It’s fighting her adrenaline and presentation hormones. If her fever gets too high, she’ll start seizing,” Tucker explains rapidly. “We need to get her in an ice bath the second we get home to regulate her temperature, and we need to flush her system.”

“Water?” Dean asks.

“Yes. And our scents. She needs all four of us. The bond is the only thing that’s going to guide her biology through the transition right now. We have to overpower the panic.”

Logan runs a red light, swerving around a slow-moving sedan. “Five minutes out.”

In the backseat, you let out a choked, wet sob.

The pain is shifting. The burning is spreading from your veins into your nerve endings. It feels like your skin is being peeled back. You don’t know these men. You don’t know whose truck you are in. But the scents surrounding you are the only things keeping you from completely shattering.

“Please,” you whimper, blindly grabbing a fistful of Garrett’s shirt. “Make it stop. Please.”

“Shh, I know, baby. I’m so sorry,” Garrett murmurs, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. “We’ve got you. We’re right here. Just hold on for us.”

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling the truck violently into the driveway of their off-campus house.

Before Logan even turns the engine off, Garrett is opening the door. He carries you out of the truck, moving with terrifying speed. Tucker has the front door unlocked and thrown open in seconds.

They bypass the living room, heading straight for the massive master bathroom on the first floor.

“Turn the shower on. Cold. All the way,” Tucker orders Dean.

Dean practically rips the shower knob off the wall, turning the water to freezing.

“Garrett, get her in there,” Tucker says. “Don’t bother taking her clothes off, it’ll take too much time.”

Garrett steps right into the massive walk-in shower with you, his sneakers and clothes immediately soaking through. He sits down on the tiled floor, pulling you into his chest as the freezing water rains down on both of you.

The shock of the cold water makes you gasp, your back arching violently.

“Hold her down, G!” Tucker says, dropping to his knees outside the shower stall.

Garrett wraps his arms tightly around you, holding you flush against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

Dean sits on the floor right outside the shower, reaching in to grip your ankle, desperately needing to maintain contact. Logan paces the bathroom like a caged tiger, the space filling with the overwhelming, frantic scents of four terrified alphas.

“Tuck, she’s shivering!” Garrett says, panic bleeding into his voice.

“She has to. It brings the fever down,” Tucker says, grabbing a towel and soaking it in the cold water. He reaches in and presses the wet towel to

the back of your neck. “Talk to her. All of you. Let her know her pack is here.”

You are thrashing now, the drug losing ground to the sheer, overwhelming force of the omega presentation. You are terrified, confused, and drowning in pain.

“Sweetheart,” Dean says loudly, his voice shaking. “Look at me. Can you open your eyes for me?”

You force your heavy eyelids open. You see Dean’s face, pale and streaked with water.

“That’s it,” Dean praises softly. “I’m Dean. This is Garrett holding you. That’s Tucker and Logan. You’re safe. We brought you home.”

“Don’t know you,” you slur, your teeth chattering violently.

“You do,” Logan says, kneeling down next to Dean. His voice is a deep, resonant rumble that vibrates right into your chest. “You just don’t realize it yet. You’re ours.”

“My pack,” you whisper, the word slipping out of you entirely on instinct.

“Yeah, baby,” Garrett breathes, tightening his hold on you. “Your pack.”

The presentation finally hits its peak. A massive, suffocating wave of heat surges out of your body, radiating outward, hitting the four men like a physical wall. Your scent — pure, sweet, unbridled omega — floods the bathroom, drowning out the sour notes of distress and the sharp tang of the chemicals.

It is the most beautiful thing any of them have ever experienced.

And then, just as quickly as it peaked, the energy leaves you. The drug’s last remnants are burned away by the biological shift, and your exhausted body finally gives out.

Your eyes roll back, and you go completely limp in Garrett’s arms.

“Y/N!” Dean shouts.

“She’s okay,” Tucker says quickly, reaching in to check your pulse. He lets out a massive, shaky breath, slumping back on his heels. “She’s okay. Her pulse is stabilizing. The fever broke. She passed out from exhaustion.”

Garrett rests his forehead against your wet hair, closing his eyes. His massive chest heaves as he tries to rein in his feral alpha instincts.

Logan slowly sinks to the floor, leaning back against the sink cabinet, burying his face in his hands.

For a long moment, the only sound in the bathroom is the rush of the freezing shower water and the ragged breathing of four men who just had their entire world permanently altered.

Garrett looks up, his eyes locking onto Dean, then Logan, then Tucker. The pack dynamic has irrevocably shifted. There is no jealousy. There is no competition.

There is only the pack, and the center they must now protect with their lives.

“Tomorrow,” Garrett says, his voice cold and terrifyingly calm over the noise of the water. “We find the guy who gave her that drink.”

Dean looks at your sleeping face, his jaw setting into a brutal line. “And we break every single bone in his hands.”

Logan lowers his hands from his face. “No. We break him entirely.”

***

You wake up to the sensation of being completely, entirely safe.

It’s a foreign feeling. For the past two years, your underlying state of being has been a low-grade, buzzing anxiety. But right now, as you slowly drag yourself out of a deep, dreamless sleep, your muscles are loose. The mattress beneath you is ridiculously soft, and the heavy duvet draped over your body feels like a weighted shield against the world.

You keep your eyes closed for another minute, just breathing.

That’s when you notice the smell.

Your childhood home smelled like vanilla, baking spices, and a chaotic, overwhelming mix of your parents and siblings. It always felt a little suffocating. But the scent wrapped around you right now — soaked into the pillows, the sheets, the very air in the room — is different.

It’s pine needles and crisp winter air. It’s warm cedar wood. It’s fresh mint, and dark, worn leather.

The combination shouldn’t work, but it does. It weaves together into a flawless, intoxicating tapestry that makes a low, rumbling purr start in the back of your throat.

Wait. A purr?

Your eyes snap open.

The panic hits you like a bucket of ice water. You sit up so fast your head spins. This isn’t your tiny dorm room. This is a massive bedroom with dark grey walls, a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, and hockey gear piled in the corner.

You look down at yourself. You aren’t wearing the jeans and t-shirt you wore to the party. You’re drowning in a black Briar University Hockey t-shirt that falls mid-thigh, and a pair of grey sweatpants with the drawstrings pulled as tight as they can go, the waist rolled down three times just to keep them on your hips.

The clothes swallow you whole, and they smell intensely of the four scents blanketing the room.

The memories hit you in broken, terrifying shards. The party. The red Solo cup. The sudden, agonizing heat tearing through your veins. The locked bathroom door crashing inward. Freezing water. The desperate voices.

I’m Dean. This is Garrett holding you. That’s Tucker and Logan.

My pack, you had whispered.

You press your hands to your face, your breathing hitching. You presented. The roofie forced your body into an aggressive, violent presentation. You’re an omega.

You drop your hands and look at your wrists, taking a deep, experimental breath. Beneath the heavy musk of the four alphas, you can smell it. Vanilla, rain, and hot asphalt. It’s yours. You have a scent. You have a dynamic.

And apparently, you have mates. Four of them.

“Okay. Okay, don’t freak out,” you whisper to the empty room. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your body feels slightly bruised, a lingering ache in your joints from the brutal biological shift, but your mind is strangely clear. Sharper, even.

You stand up. The sweatpants pool around your bare feet. You roll the cuffs up a few times so you don’t trip, take a deep breath, and open the bedroom door.

The hallway is quiet, lined with three other closed doors. You pad softly down the hardwood stairs, gripping the banister. You can hear low voices coming from the first floor, the clinking of silverware against ceramic.

You reach the bottom of the stairs and peek around the corner into a massive, open-concept kitchen and living room.

They are all there.

One of them — tall, blond, with a jawline that looks carved out of marble — is sitting on a barstool, nursing a mug of coffee. Another, with a mess of dark curls, is leaning against the fridge, scrolling through his phone. A third guy, built like a brick wall with soft, observant eyes, is at the stove flipping pancakes. And the last one, the one who had held you in the freezing shower, is wiping down the island counter, his broad shoulders shifting under a tight grey t-shirt.

You take a step forward, the floorboard creaking beneath your foot.

Every single one of them stops moving.

It’s instantaneous. The guy at the stove freezes with the spatula in mid-air. The blond guy lowers his mug. The curly guy’s head snaps up. The guy wiping the counter drops the rag.

Four sets of eyes lock onto you.

The silence in the kitchen is deafening. You stand near the edge of the living room, nervously twisting the hem of the massive hockey shirt. By all logical accounts, this should be the most awkward, terrifying moment of your life. You are in a strange house with four massive alphas you barely know, and you were completely incapacitated the last time you saw them. You should be running for the front door.

But your biology is singing.

The moment their eyes meet yours, a heavy, settling warmth floods your chest. The lingering anxiety from waking up vanishes entirely. Your inner omega doesn’t see strangers; she sees safety. She sees pack.

“You’re awake,” the one with the grey shirt says. His voice is a deep, gravelly baritone that sends a shiver straight down your spine. Garrett. You remember his name.

“I’m awake,” you confirm, your voice a little raspy.

Garrett takes a slow step toward you, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt. His eyes are sweeping over you, taking in the oversized clothes, the messy hair, the way you’re shifting on your feet.

“How do you feel?” He asks, his voice softening into a protective rumble. “The fever broke around 3 AM, but the transition … it was rough. Are you in pain?”

“A little achy,” you admit. “But … I’m okay. Mostly just confused.”

The blond guy practically vaults off his barstool. “I’m Dean. By the way. We sort of introduced ourselves last night while you were seizing, which wasn’t exactly ideal.”

“Dean,” you repeat. You look at the curly-haired guy. “And you’re Logan.”

Logan offers a small, tight smile, his dark eyes never leaving your face. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“And Tucker,” you say, looking at the guy with the spatula.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” Tucker says gently. “You must be starving. The presentation burns a massive amount of calories, and your body was fighting off a sedative at the same time. Come sit.”

They are trying so hard to give you space. You can see the rigid tension in their shoulders, the way they are forcing themselves to stay in their spots, fighting every single alpha instinct in their DNA that is screaming at them to rush forward, close the distance, and touch their newly presented mate.

The restraint is admirable. It lasts exactly thirty seconds.

You take three steps into the kitchen toward the island. That’s all it takes.

The invisible thread snaps.

Garrett is the first one to move. He crosses the kitchen in two massive strides, stopping right in front of you. Up close, he is a giant. He towers over you, his presence entirely consuming. He doesn’t ask. He just reaches out, his large, calloused hands gently cupping your face.

You gasp quietly, but you don’t pull away. You lean into his palms.

Garrett’s eyes darken, a raw, possessive sound vibrating in his chest. He tilts your head slightly, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw. “You’re perfect,” he breathes, his scent — pine and winter air — flaring with pride and relief. “You scared the absolute hell out of us, sweetheart. But you’re perfect.”

“Hey, don’t hog her, G,” Dean says, his voice entirely lacking its usual confident swagger. It sounds almost desperate.

Dean steps up right beside Garrett. He reaches out and wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you gently but firmly against his side. The contact is electric. You let out a soft sigh, your body naturally molding against his side. Dean buries his face in your hair, taking a massive, deep inhale of your scent.

“God, you smell so good,” Dean mutters against your temple. “Vanilla and rain. It’s making me crazy.”

Logan is there a second later, standing close enough to your back that you can feel the heat radiating off his chest. His hand settles heavily, warmly, on the back of your neck. It’s a purely dominant gesture, laying claim, offering protection.

You should be telling them to back off. You are an independent, rational college student who wanted to play intramural sports and get a history degree without a pack.

But your rational brain has been utterly, entirely hijacked.

You let your eyes flutter shut, a soft, involuntary purr starting up in your chest again. You are surrounded by them. Surrounded by a wall of muscle, heat, and devotion. It feels so right it actually aches. You don’t want them to step back. You want them closer.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Logan murmurs, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin right at your hairline.

“And my sweats,” Dean adds smugly.

“I slept in Garrett’s bed, though,” you point out, opening your eyes to look up at Garrett’s smug smirk.

Tucker sets a massive plate of chocolate chip pancakes on the island counter, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He walks over, completing the circle. He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch is softer than the others, but his eyes are just as intense.

“Sit, sweetheart,” Tucker says. “You need to eat.”

They practically escort you to a stool, boxing you in. Logan stands leaning against the counter to your left, Dean takes the stool to your right, Garrett stands directly in front of you, and Tucker places the plate down along with a massive glass of water and a cup of tea.

You pick up the fork, suddenly realizing you are ravenous. You cut a massive bite of the pancakes and shove it into your mouth.

“So,” you say after swallowing, looking around at the four men watching your every move like you’re the most fascinating thing on earth. “Four mates. Is that … normal?”

“It’s rare,” Tucker says, leaning his forearms on the counter. “Extremely rare. Usually, a pack forms around an omega naturally over time, or an omega bonds with a pre-existing pack. But a fated bond tying one omega to four alphas simultaneously? It happens maybe once in a generation.”

“Lucky us,” Dean grins, stealing a piece of bacon off a side plate. “We hit the biological jackpot.”

“I was a beta,” you say, staring down at your plate. “For two years, everyone thought I was a beta. My family, the doctors. I didn’t present when I was sixteen. I came to Briar to get away from the pity.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. He reaches out, covering your hand with his. “You were never a beta, baby. Your biology was just waiting. Sometimes, an omega needs a massive shock to the system to jumpstart a delayed presentation. The bond snapping into place when we smelled you … and the drug.”

Logan shifts, the easygoing cedar scent suddenly spiking with dark, violent aggression. “The drug.”

The atmosphere in the kitchen shifts violently. The warm, domestic bubble pops, replaced by a suffocating, lethal tension.

“Who gave you the drink?” Logan asks. His voice is dangerously quiet.

You swallow hard, putting your fork down. “Some guy by the kitchen. He said his name was Brad. Tall, wore a backward baseball cap. He handed me a cup of jungle juice. I only took two sips before I started feeling … weird.”

Dean’s hands curl into fists on the countertop. “Brad. I know him. He’s a junior, plays lacrosse.”

“Not anymore he doesn’t,” Garrett says coldly. “Not with broken kneecaps.”

“Guys,” you say softly, a little alarmed by the casual murder in Garrett’s eyes.

“We’re not going to kill him,” Tucker says, though his expression is just as grim as the others. “But we are going to make sure he is permanently expelled, arrested, and incapable of ever looking at an omega again.”

“Logan and I will handle it today,” Garrett says, looking at Logan. Logan nods, a dark promise in his eyes.

“What about me?” You ask, picking up your water glass. “I need to get back to my dorm. Brooke, my roommate, she probably noticed I never came back to the room. I don’t even have my phone, it must have fallen out of my pocket at the party. And I have orientation events tomorrow.”

Silence falls over the kitchen again.

Garrett and Dean exchange a look. Tucker crosses his arms over his chest. Logan picks up a butter knife, spinning it slowly on the granite counter.

“What?” You ask, looking between them.

“You’re not going back to the dorm,” Garrett says. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a statement of absolute fact.

You blink. “Excuse me? Yes, I am. All my stuff is there. My laptop, my clothes-”

“We’ll go get your stuff,” Dean interrupts, his tone soothing but firm. “We can pack up your room this afternoon and move it into the guest room here. Or my room. Or G’s room. Wherever you want.”

“I can’t just move in with you!” You protest, your rational brain finally trying to put up a fight. “I met you twelve hours ago! I have a roommate. I have a life I literally just started building yesterday.”

“You’re an unbonded, newly presented omega who was just targeted at a frat party,” Logan says bluntly, his dark eyes pinning you to your seat. “You have no control over your scent yet. You don’t have a bite mark to signal you’re taken. If you walk onto campus right now, every alpha within a two-mile radius is going to swarm you.”

“I can handle myself,” you say stubbornly, though even as you say it, a small part of you shrinks at the thought of leaving the safety of this kitchen.

Garrett steps closer, invading your space until you have to tilt your head back to look at him. He places both hands on the counter on either side of your hips, effectively caging you in.

“No, you can’t,” Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave into that terrifying, authoritative alpha command. “You are our mate. You belong to this pack. And my instincts are screaming at me to lock the front door and throw away the key just from the thought of you being out of my sight. You are staying here.”

You open your mouth to argue. You want to tell him he’s being ridiculous. You want to tell him he can’t order you around.

But you look up into Garrett’s eyes. You feel the heat of his body, the absolute, unshakable certainty in his voice. He wants to protect you. He wants to keep you safe from a world that literally just tried to poison you.

Your omega completely and utterly folds.

Yes, your inner voice purrs. Keep me.

“I … I have classes on Monday,” you say, your voice much weaker than you intended. It sounds more like a plea for compromise than a demand.

Tucker smiles, a slow, incredibly satisfied smile. He reaches out and gently strokes the back of your hair again. “We’ll figure classes out. The university has protocols for sudden presentations. We’ll get you a medical exemption for the first few weeks if we have to.”

“First few weeks?” Your eyes widen. “How long am I supposed to stay here?”

“Until your first heat hits,” Logan says smoothly. He leans forward, his face inches from yours. His gaze drops to your neck, his eyes darkening. “Until we can officially claim you. Until we can mark you. Once you’re wearing our bites, once your scent is permanently mixed with ours … then you can go back to campus. Because everyone will know you’re ours.”

A shiver wrecks through your entire body. The thought of their teeth sinking into your skin, laying a permanent claim, sends a jolt of heat straight to your core.

You look at Dean. He’s watching you with a hungry, predatory intensity that makes your breath catch. You look at Garrett, who is still caging you in, waiting for your absolute submission to the plan. You look at Tucker, the steady, grounding force, and Logan, the intense, silent protector.

You are entirely trapped.

And you have never felt happier in your entire life.

“Okay,” you whisper, the fight draining out of you entirely. You slump slightly against the counter. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

Garrett lets out a massive breath, his rigid posture relaxing. He leans down and presses a hard, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Good girl.”

The praise makes your toes curl.

“Great,” Dean claps his hands together, the charming, easy-going grin returning to his face. “Now that that’s settled, Tucker, make the girl some more bacon. She needs her strength. Logan and Garrett have a lacrosse player to ruin, and I have to go to a dorm and pack up an obscene amount of sweaters.”

“How do you know I have an obscene amount of sweaters?” You ask, taking another bite of your pancakes.

“Sweetheart,” Dean winks. “You’re from New York, you moved to Massachusetts, and you’re an omega. It’s practically a biological requirement.”

You roll your eyes, but a genuine smile breaks across your face. You take a sip of the tea Tucker placed in front of you. It’s perfectly sweetened, warm, and soothing.

You sit in the kitchen, surrounded by the towering, dominant presence of four fated mates who have completely hijacked your life in less than twenty-four hours. You have no dorm. You have no independence. You are essentially on lockdown until you go into heat.

Your mother’s pamphlet flashes through your mind.

You realize you left it on the bedside table back in New York.

Good. You definitely aren’t going to need it.

***

The lacrosse locker room is empty on a Saturday afternoon, save for one player trying to find his lost practice jersey.

Brad is digging through his duffel bag, nursing a massive hangover, when the heavy metal door of the locker room slams shut. The sound echoes sharply against the tile.

He turns around, annoyance flashing across his face. “Hey, man, watch the-”

The words die in his throat.

Garrett and Logan are blocking the only exit. Neither of them is wearing their usual easygoing campus smiles. They are dressed in dark hoodies, their expressions carved out of absolute, predatory ice.

The air in the room instantly drops ten degrees. The alpha pheromones rolling off the two hockey players are suffocating, heavy with dark, violent aggression.

Brad takes a step back, his instincts screaming at him. “Graham? Logan? What are you guys doing here?”

Garrett doesn’t say a word. He just starts walking forward, his strides slow and measured. Logan falls into step right beside him, pulling a roll of athletic tape out of his pocket and casually tossing it from hand to hand.

“Look, if this is about the ice time dispute between our teams-” Brad starts, holding his hands up defensively.

Garrett closes the distance in a blur of motion. He grabs Brad by the throat, hoisting the taller lacrosse player entirely off the ground, and slams him brutally into the metal lockers.

The metal caves inward with a deafening crash.

Brad chokes, his hands flying up to claw desperately at Garrett’s massive forearm. His feet kick uselessly at the air.

“You were at the frat house last night,” Garrett says. His voice isn’t a yell. It’s a low, terrifying rumble that vibrates through the locker room. “You poured a cup of jungle juice for a freshman. A beta.”

Brad’s eyes widen in sheer terror, his face already turning a splotchy purple. “I—I didn’t-”

Garrett squeezes harder. “Don’t lie to me. If you lie to me, I’ll crush your windpipe right now and tell the cops it was a weightlifting accident.”

“Okay! Okay!” Brad gasps out as Garrett slightly loosens his grip. “Yeah, I talked to her! She was hot. I just gave her a drink to loosen her up!”

Logan steps forward, his dark eyes dead and cold. He stops inches from Brad’s face. “What was in it, Brad?”

“Nothing! Just booze! I swear!”

Logan sighs, shaking his head. He looks at Garrett. “He’s lying.”

“I know,” Garrett says.

Garrett drops Brad. The lacrosse player hits the floor, hacking and gasping for air. Before Brad can even get to his hands and knees, Logan drives his boot directly into Brad’s ribs.

There’s a sickening crack.

Brad screams, curling into a tight ball on the floor.

Logan crouches down next to him, resting his elbows on his knees. “Here’s the thing, Brad. That girl wasn’t a beta. She was a delayed omega. And whatever garbage you put in that cup forced her to present. She almost died in our bathroom last night. Her heart almost gave out.”

Brad whimpers, clutching his side. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know she was an omega!”

“That doesn’t make it better, you piece of shit,” Garrett snarls, grabbing Brad by the collar of his shirt and hauling him halfway up. “And it gets worse for you. Because she isn’t just any omega. She’s our mate.”

All the blood drains from Brad’s face. To drug a girl is a crime. To drug an unbonded omega is a felony. But to drug an alpha’s fated mate? It’s a death sentence.

“Please,” Brad begs, tears spilling down his cheeks. The overwhelming scent of his fear fills the room. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t touch her. I just gave her the drink and she walked away. I swear on my life.”

“Your life isn’t worth a dime to me,” Garrett whispers, pulling Brad closer until they are nose to nose. “But you play lacrosse, right? You need your hands for that.”

Garrett shifts his grip, grabbing Brad’s right hand.

“No! Wait, please, God, no-”

Garrett doesn’t blink. He twists, hard and violently.

The snap of breaking fingers echoes through the empty locker room. Brad unleashes a bloodcurdling scream, collapsing onto the tile.

Logan stands up, looking down at the sobbing, broken mess on the floor with absolute disgust. “You’re going to the registrar’s office on Monday morning. You’re going to withdraw from Briar University. You’re going to pack your bags, and you’re going to go back to whatever miserable town you came from.”

Garrett wipes his hands on his jeans, his expression impassive. “If I ever see your face on this campus again, if I ever hear your name, or if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone … breaking your fingers will look like a warm-up. Do you understand me?”

Brad nods frantically, cradling his mangled hand to his chest, sobbing uncontrollably. “Yes. Yes. I’m leaving. I’m gone.”

“Good,” Garrett says.

He and Logan turn their backs on the lacrosse player, walking out of the locker room without a backward glance. The protective, violent rage inside their alphas finally begins to settle.

Their mate is safe. And the threat is gone.

***

Across campus, Dean is using his legendary charm on a very confused college freshman.

“So, let me get this straight,” Brooke says, leaning against her desk, blowing a massive bubble with her pink gum. The bubble pops. “You’re Dean Di Laurentis. Hockey player. Trust fund baby. Campus legend.”

Dean flashes a blinding, dimpled smile, currently folding a stack of your jeans. “Don’t forget incredibly handsome. It’s an important part of the brand.”

“Right. And my roommate, who arrived exactly twenty-four hours ago and explicitly told me she was a beta, is actually an omega.”

“A very late bloomer, yes.”

“And she is fated to you.”

“Yup.” Dean places the folded jeans neatly into a cardboard box.

“And Garrett Graham. And John Logan. And John Tucker.”

“We are a package deal.”

Brooke stares at him for a long, quiet moment. She looks from Dean, to the empty bed, and back to Dean.

“That is the wildest shit I have ever heard in my entire life,” Brooke declares, shaking her head. “I thought this year was going to be boring. Good for her, honestly. Four hot hockey players? She won the lottery.”

Dean chuckles, walking over to your tiny closet. “We’re the lucky ones, Brooke. Trust me.”

He reaches into the closet and pulls out one of your oversized knit sweaters. The moment the fabric gets close to his face, Dean completely freezes.

The sweater is saturated in your scent. Vanilla and rain. It hits Dean’s senses so hard his eyes flutter shut. His alpha purrs violently in his chest, a deep, possessive rumble that he doesn’t even try to suppress. Without thinking, Dean buries his face in the soft wool, taking a massive, deep inhale.

It smells like safety. It smells like home. It smells like you.

Brooke raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to make out with her laundry, or are you going to pack it?”

Dean snaps his eyes open, clearing his throat, though he doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. He carefully, almost reverently, folds the sweater. “I’m packing it. I just … the bond is new. Her scent is pretty overwhelming.”

“Clearly,” Brooke snorts. “Do you guys need any help carrying this stuff down? The elevator is still broken.”

“I’ve got it,” Dean says, taping the first box shut. “But do me a favor? Don’t mention the mate thing to anyone yet. The university doesn’t know she presented, and we want to keep her under the radar until her heat hits and we can claim her properly.”

Brooke taps her nose. “My lips are sealed. Just tell her she owes me a coffee when she eventually re-enters society.”

“I’ll buy you a whole Starbucks franchise,” Dean winks, lifting two massive boxes as if they weigh nothing at all. “See you around, Brooke.”

Dean carries the boxes down the three flights of stairs, his mind entirely focused on getting back to the house. The protective urge to guard you is a constant, low-level thrum in his veins. He loads your belongings into the back of his Range Rover, slams the trunk shut, and gets into the driver’s seat.

He takes one last look at the freshman dorms. You are never stepping foot in that building again. You are theirs now.

***

“Do you like spicy food?”

You blink, pulling your gaze away from the massive window looking out into the backyard. Tucker is sitting across from you at the kitchen island, a yellow legal pad and a pen in front of him.

“Um. Yeah. A little bit,” you say.

“Noted,” Tucker murmurs, his neat handwriting flowing across the page. “What about allergies? Any aversions? Anything you absolutely hate?”

You rest your chin on your hand, watching him. For the past hour, while Garrett and Logan were out doing God-knows-what, and Dean was packing your room, Tucker had sat you down and started a full-blown interrogation about your dietary preferences.

“I hate mushrooms,” you say. “And I’m not a big fan of seafood. Unless it’s fried.”

“A girl after my own heart,” Tucker smiles softly. “No mushrooms. No baked fish. Got it. Do you like pasta?”

“Tucker, you don’t have to cook every meal for me,” you say gently. “I know how to make a sandwich. I don’t want to be a burden.”

Tucker stops writing. He sets the pen down and looks up at you. His dark eyes are serious, stripping away the casual, domestic banter.

“You are our mate,” Tucker says, his voice slow and deliberate, making sure you hear every single word. “You are the center of our pack. Feeding you, providing for you, taking care of you … that isn’t a burden, sweetheart. It’s literally what we were biologically designed to do. My alpha wants to build a fortress around you and spend the rest of my life making sure you never lift a finger.”

A blush crawls up your neck, heating your cheeks. You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers together. “I’m just not used to it. My family … when I didn’t present, they sort of just stopped treating me like I needed anything. Because betas are independent. They stopped fussing over me.”

Tucker stands up, walking around the island. He pulls the stool out next to yours and sits down, invading your personal space in the best possible way. He smells like fresh mint and warmth.

He reaches out, his large hands gently covering yours, stopping your nervous fidgeting.

“Your family made a mistake,” Tucker says softly. “They looked at you and saw a biology textbook instead of a person. We see you. Beta, omega, it wouldn’t have mattered. If we had met you yesterday before you presented, the bond still would have snapped. We still would have kept you.”

You look up at him, your eyes a little glossy. “Really?”

“Really,” Tucker promises, bringing your hands up to his mouth and pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. “Now. Back to pasta. Carbonara or marinara?”

You let out a wet, genuine laugh. “Carbonara.”

The front door suddenly unlocks, swinging open with a heavy thud. The scent of pine and cedar instantly floods the house, but it’s sharp. Bitter. Spiked with aggression and a metallic tang.

You stiffen slightly on the stool.

Garrett and Logan walk into the kitchen. They look entirely unbothered, but Garrett’s knuckles are bruised and slightly split, and Logan is rubbing a dark smudge of dirt off his jaw.

Tucker takes one breath of the air, his eyes narrowing. “You handle it?”

“Handled,” Garrett says flatly, his eyes immediately locking onto you. The cold, violent edge in his gaze vanishes the second he looks at your face. His shoulders drop. He walks straight toward you.

“Are you okay?” You ask, looking at his bruised hand.

“I’m perfect,” Garrett rumbles. He stops right in front of you, bracketing your knees with his thighs. He leans down and presses his face directly into the crook of your neck, taking a massive breath.

His body shudders against yours. The grounding effect of your vanilla scent works instantly, smoothing out the jagged edges of his feral alpha.

Logan walks over a second later, wrapping his arm around your shoulders from behind and kissing the top of your head. “Missed you,” he mumbles into your hair.

“You were gone for an hour,” you point out, though you lean back against Logan’s chest, your omega practically purring at the physical contact.

“An hour too long,” Logan corrects.

The front door opens again, and Dean strolls in, looking like he just stepped off a GQ magazine cover. “The prodigal son returns! And I brought sweaters! So many sweaters!”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the kitchen.

Dean dumps the boxes in the living room and immediately jogs into the kitchen, inserting himself into the cuddle pile. He grabs your face in both hands and squishes your cheeks together. “Did you miss me the most? Be honest.”

“I was too distracted by Tucker to miss you,” you tease, your voice muffled by his hands. “He’s making me carbonara.”

“Betrayal,” Dean gasps, pressing a quick, messy kiss to your forehead before letting you go. “Absolute betrayal in my own home.”

Garrett pulls back from your neck, his eyes warm and golden. “Alright, you animals, go shower. You smell like a locker room. I’m calling a pack meeting in the living room in twenty minutes.”

“Ooh, a pack meeting,” Dean wiggles his eyebrows. “Are we organizing a chore chart? Because I’m not cleaning the bathrooms.”

“We’re watching a movie,” Garrett says. He looks down at you, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “It’s time for the girl’s education to begin.”

***

An hour later, you are entirely trapped.

The massive, U-shaped sectional in the living room is designed to fit a half-dozen massive hockey players, but currently, it is holding exactly five people, and they are all piled into one corner.

You are sitting in the middle. Garrett is sitting to your left, his arm securely wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. Logan is on your right, his long legs stretched out over the coffee table, one of his large hands resting possessively on your thigh. Dean is sprawled out across the chaise part of the couch, his head quite literally resting in your lap. And Tucker is sitting on the floor directly in front of you, leaning his back against the couch between your knees.

The lights are off. The TV is playing the opening credits to Miracle.

“I’m just saying,” you argue softly, running your fingers through Dean’s soft blonde hair, entirely on instinct. Dean lets out a soft, pleased sigh, pressing his face closer to your stomach. “I don’t even like hockey.”

Four gasps echo in the dark room.

“Blasphemy,” Logan says, lightly squeezing your thigh. “Absolute blasphemy.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Garrett mutters, pulling you tighter against him until you are practically sitting in his lap. “You are mated to four hockey players. You are going to learn to love the game, sweetheart.”

“Or at least pretend to love it when we score,” Dean mumbles from your lap.

“Pay attention,” Tucker says, pointing at the screen. “Herb Brooks is about to speak.”

You try to pay attention. You really do. Kurt Russell is on the screen, giving a dramatic speech about the Soviet Union. It seems intense.

But you are incredibly distracted.

The physical affection is relentless. It isn’t sexual; it’s purely instinctual. It’s the grounding, tactile reassurance of a pack claiming their center.

Garrett’s thumb is rubbing slow, methodical circles into your hip bone through the fabric of the oversized sweatpants. His chin is resting on your shoulder, his nose occasionally brushing against your scent gland, taking deep, steadying breaths of your vanilla scent.

Logan hasn’t moved his hand from your thigh, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your skin. Every few minutes, he shifts closer, pressing his shoulder against yours, ensuring there isn’t a millimeter of space between you.

Dean is practically asleep in your lap, his entire body relaxed, completely trusting. Every time you stop playing with his hair, he makes a soft, pathetic whining sound until you start again.

And Tucker, sitting on the floor, has one hand resting casually on your ankle, his thumb stroking the bone.

You are drowning in a sea of alphas. The mingled scents of pine, cedar, mint, and leather are so thick in the air it feels like a heavy, warm blanket.

Your omega is in absolute, euphoric heaven. The stabbing pain in your chest that you had carried for two years — the agonizing belief that you were broken, destined to be alone — is completely gone. It has been erased, rewritten by the four men currently treating you like you are the most precious thing in the universe.

On the screen, the hockey players are doing some grueling drill. “Again!” The coach yells.

“Man, Jensen is going to run us like that on Monday,” Logan groans quietly.

“Let him,” Garrett says, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “We’re going to win the frozen four this year.”

“Cocky,” you whisper, tilting your head back slightly to look at him.

Garrett smirks, his eyes catching the light from the TV. “It’s not cocky if it’s true, baby.”

He leans in and catches your lips in a soft, devastatingly gentle kiss. It’s the first time any of them have kissed you on the mouth. It isn’t demanding or rushed. It’s a slow, sweet promise.

Your breath hitches, your eyes fluttering shut as you melt into his mouth. The kiss tastes like mint toothpaste and intense, unfiltered devotion.

“Hey,” Dean complains softly from your lap, cracking one eye open. “No fair. Share.”

Garrett breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours with a soft chuckle. “Patience, Di Laurentis.”

Logan leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, while Tucker squeezes your ankle.

You look at the TV screen. You have absolutely no idea what the plot of this movie is. You couldn’t name a single character.

And you genuinely do not care.

You settle deeper into the couch, surrounded by the crushing, beautiful weight of your pack, and for the first time in your life, you are exactly where you belong.

***

It starts as a persistent, maddening itch beneath your skin.

By Wednesday afternoon, the low-grade ache in your joints from your presentation has faded, replaced by an entirely new, entirely terrifying sensation. Your skin feels too tight. The ambient temperature of the house feels like a sauna, yet you are shivering. Every time the fabric of Logan’s oversized hoodie brushes against your chest, a sharp jolt of electricity shoots straight down to your core.

You are sitting on the edge of the kitchen island, swinging your legs, trying very hard to act normal.

It isn’t working.

“You’re flushed,” Tucker says. He doesn’t look up from the stove, where he is currently searing two massive ribeye steaks, but you know he’s hyper-aware of your every movement. “Drink your water, sweetheart.”

You pick up the glass of ice water and press the condensation against your cheek before taking a sip. “I’m fine. Just a little warm.”

“You smell different,” Logan points out. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. His dark eyes track the way you shift uncomfortably on the stool. “The vanilla … it’s getting sweeter. Heavier.”

“Like sugar glaze,” Dean chimes in, walking into the kitchen. He drops a duffel bag on the floor and instantly closes the distance between you two. He steps between your swinging legs, planting his hands on your thighs. “You smell absolutely edible, baby.”

You let out a soft, involuntary whine as Dean’s large, cool hands squeeze your bare thighs. The friction of his callouses against your skin sends a spike of wet heat directly between your legs. You clamp your thighs together, trapping Dean’s hands, your breath hitching.

“Dean,” you gasp, your voice trembling.

Dean’s eyes darken instantly. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the blue of his irises until they are entirely black. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales so deeply his chest expands against yours.

“Pre-heat,” Dean groans, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. “It’s starting.”

Garrett walks down the stairs, catching the tail end of the conversation. The easygoing, relaxed captain from five minutes ago vanishes. His posture goes rigid, his broad shoulders tensing as the heavy, overripe scent of your changing hormones hits his nose.

“Tucker,” Garrett barks, his voice dropping into that terrifying alpha command. “Food. Now. She needs every calorie she can get before the fever actually breaks.”

“Plating it up, G,” Tucker says smoothly, though his own scent of fresh mint is spiking with sharp, protective arousal.

Tucker sets a plate in front of you. It’s a massive portion of sliced steak, roasted potatoes, and a thick slice of buttered bread.

“I’m not hungry,” you protest, your stomach doing nervous flips. You squirm on the stool again. The core of your body feels hollow, empty, and aching in a way that food is absolutely not going to fix.

“You’re eating it anyway,” Garrett says, stepping up right beside Dean. He reaches out and grips the back of your neck. The sheer dominance in his touch makes your spine melt. “Your body is about to run a marathon, baby. You need the energy. Open up.”

Tucker actually holds a piece of steak on a fork to your lips.

You whine, a pathetic, high-pitched sound that makes all four alphas practically vibrate out of their skin, but you open your mouth. The moment the rich, salty meat hits your tongue, your body’s biological need takes over. You chew and swallow, leaning forward for the next bite.

“Good girl,” Logan praises, his voice a dark, rough rumble. He walks over and presses his hand flat against your lower back, his thumb tracing the curve of your spine. “Eat for us.”

They spend the next ten minutes treating you like a delicate, highly combustible bomb. Tucker feeds you every single bite. Dean refuses to move from between your legs, his hands constantly stroking your thighs, mapping the soft skin. Garrett keeps his heavy hand anchored to your neck, his thumb rhythmically pressing against your pulse point. Logan guards your back, a solid wall of heat.

By the time the plate is empty, your internal temperature has skyrocketed. A slick, heavy dampness is pooling in your underwear, completely unbidden. You squeeze your thighs tighter against Dean’s waist, desperate for friction.

“Okay,” Garrett says, his breathing a little ragged. He steps back, physically tearing himself away from you. “Dean, Logan, let her breathe. We need to go chop wood or run drills or something before I lose my mind and take her right here on this kitchen island.”

“She’s not in full heat yet,” Tucker reminds them, his voice tight. “If we seal the bond before her biology is ready, it’ll hurt her. We wait.”

“I know the damn rules, Tuck,” Garrett growls, running a hand through his hair. He looks at you, his chest heaving. “We’re going to the backyard. Ten minutes. Just to cool off. Tucker, get her settled in the living room.”

Garrett, Dean, and Logan practically flee the kitchen, the sliding glass door slamming shut behind them.

You let out a shaky breath, your body slumping forward. Without their hands on you, the hollow ache inside you amplifies tenfold.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Tucker says softly. He hooks his arms under your knees and back, lifting you off the stool effortlessly. He carries you into the living room and gently deposits you onto the massive sectional couch. “I’ll be right back with some Gatorade. Just rest.”

Tucker disappears into the kitchen.

You are alone in the living room. The TV is off. The house is quiet.

Your skin is on fire.

You twist on the couch, pulling your knees to your chest. The throw pillows beneath you feel rough. The blanket draped over the back of the couch smells like detergent. It’s wrong. Everything is wrong.

A primal, overwhelming instinct violently hijacks your brain.

You scramble off the couch, your legs a little wobbly. You stumble into the downstairs hallway, pulling open the door to the laundry room. A massive pile of clean, folded clothes sits on the dryer, but you ignore it. You dive for the woven hamper on the floor.

It’s full of their workout gear. Sweaty, unwashed, intensely scented clothes.

You let out a low, rumbling purr, dropping to your knees. You grab Dean’s grey sweatpants, Logan’s worn-in flannel shirt, Garrett’s heavy practice jersey, and Tucker’s thermal henley. You bundle them into your arms, pressing your face into the fabric. The overwhelming hit of pine, cedar, mint, and leather makes your eyes roll back in your head.

You carry the pile into the living room and dump it onto the sectional.

But it isn’t enough.

You run up the stairs, practically panting. You go into Garrett’s room and strip his massive, heavy duvet right off his bed. You drag it down the stairs, adding it to the pile. You go back up for Dean’s incredibly soft cashmere throw. You take Logan’s favorite heavily-weighted blanket. You grab Tucker’s pillows.

For twenty minutes, you are a woman possessed. You arrange the blankets in a massive, circular crater on the corner of the sectional. You line the edges with the pillows. You weave their unwashed clothing into the center, creating a soft, overwhelmingly scented dip.

When it is finally perfect, you crawl into the very center. You curl into a tight ball, pulling Garrett’s jersey over your head, burying your nose in the collar. The scents wrap around you, suffocating and perfect.

You let out a long, shuddering sigh, your body finally relaxing as a heavy, continuous purr vibrates in your chest. The slickness between your legs intensifies, soaking the crotch of your sweatpants, but you don’t care. You are in your nest. You are safe.

***

The sliding glass door opens.

“I’m just saying, I could definitely take a bear in a fight,” Dean’s voice rings out, followed by the sound of heavy boots on the hardwood.

“You cry when you get a papercut, Di Laurentis,” Logan snorts.

“That’s different, papercuts are an unnatural evil-”

Dean stops walking.

Garrett bumps into his back, letting out a grunt of annoyance. “Keep moving, idiot.”

“Garrett,” Dean whispers, his voice entirely stripped of humor.

Garrett steps around Dean, looking into the living room. Logan comes up behind them. Tucker walks out of the kitchen, holding two blue sports drinks.

All four men freeze.

The living room looks like a tornado hit a bedding store. But right in the center of the massive, meticulously constructed pile of blankets and clothes, you are curled up, wearing Garrett’s practice jersey.

The scent in the room is blinding. The heavy, intoxicating smell of overripe vanilla, petrichor, and a sharp, musky sweetness that screams omega in pre-heat. It is the most beautiful, devastating thing any of them have ever seen.

“She nested,” Logan breathes, the words barely making it past his lips.

Tucker sets the Gatorade bottles on the coffee table. His hands are shaking. “She took our dirty laundry. She specifically sought out our scents.”

Garrett’s jaw is locked so tight a muscle ticks violently in his cheek. The sight of you, buried in his jersey, purring softly in a nest built of their belongings, utterly shatters the last remaining threads of his civilized restraint.

He stalks forward.

You crack an eye open as he approaches. Your inner omega recognizes the alpha instantly. You don’t shrink back. Instead, you stretch out like a cat, your spine arching, exposing your neck.

“Garrett,” you whine, a desperate, needy sound. “Come here. Please.”

Garrett groans, a harsh, guttural sound that tears from his throat. He drops to his knees right at the edge of the nest. He doesn’t cross the boundary. He knows the rules of the instinct.

“Can I come in, baby?” Garrett asks, his voice raw, pleading. “Let me in.”

You reach out, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and tug him forward. “Yes. Pack. Need you.”

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He crawls over the barrier of blankets and settles right into the center of the nest with you. He hauls you into his lap, crushing you against his chest.

“God, you smell so good,” Garrett mutters, burying his face in your neck. His teeth scrape lightly against your scent gland, not breaking the skin, but mimicking the claiming bite. The sensation sends a violent shiver through your entire body.

Dean, Logan, and Tucker are right behind him.

They pile into the nest, careful not to disturb the structure, entirely surrounding you.

“My turn,” Dean demands softly, sliding up right behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He immediately slots one of his thick, muscular thighs directly between your legs.

You gasp out loud as the hard ridge of his quad presses directly against your aching, sensitive core through your sweatpants. You instinctively grind down against him.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, his hips jerking forward. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. I can feel it through your pants.”

“Dean,” you sob, throwing your head back against his shoulder.

Logan is at your side, pulling your legs across his lap. He doesn’t bother with sweet talk. His hands slide directly under the hem of Garrett’s jersey, his large, rough palms skimming up your bare stomach. Your skin is searing hot to the touch.

Logan’s hands find your breasts, covered only by a thin bralette. He squeezes them with a firm, dominant pressure.

“Logan!” You cry out, your hands flying up to grip his forearms.

“I’ve got you,” Logan rumbles, his thumbs expertly flicking over your peaking nipples through the fabric. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just let it burn.”

You are thrashing in their grip, a tangled mess of limbs, blankets, and pure, unfiltered need. The friction is driving you absolutely insane. You grind harder against Dean’s thigh, chasing an elusive release that your body refuses to grant until the full heat hits.

Tucker appears in your line of sight. He is kneeling over you, his beautiful, calm face flushed with deep red desire. He holds an uncapped bottle of Gatorade.

“Drink,” Tucker orders, his voice entirely stripping away its usual softness. It is a pure, dominant command.

He presses the rim of the bottle to your lips. You part your lips obediently, taking frantic gulps of the cool, sweet liquid. Some of it spills, running down your chin and onto your neck.

Tucker sets the bottle down. He leans in and licks the spilled liquid right off your skin, his tongue dragging a hot, wet path up your throat.

“So sweet,” Tucker murmurs, his lips hovering over yours. “You are being so good for us, Y/N. Such a good omega.”

The praise breaks you.

“Please,” you sob, your hips rolling frantically against Dean. You are begging, though you don’t even know what you’re asking for. “Make it stop. Make it ache less. Please.”

Garrett grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are glowing in the dim light of the living room, completely feral.

“We can’t, baby,” Garrett says, his thumb stroking your lower lip. “If we take you now, we can’t knot you. We can’t mark you. Your body isn’t ready. You have to ride out the fever.”

“I can’t!” You cry, tears of frustration spilling down your cheeks. “It burns!”

“Let me help,” Dean whispers in your ear.

Dean’s hand slides around to the front of your sweatpants. He doesn’t pull them down. He just presses his palm flat over the soaked fabric covering your core, applying a heavy, agonizingly perfect pressure.

You let out a loud, keening scream into Garrett’s chest.

Dean begins to move his hand, rubbing the heel of his palm in slow, agonizing circles over your clit through the heavy cotton.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice a filthy, decadent purr. “Grind into my hand, sweetheart. Take what you need.”

You completely lose your mind. You buck your hips up into his palm, chasing the pressure, sobbing openly.

Logan abandons your breasts, moving his hands to grip your hips, holding you perfectly steady so Dean can find maximum leverage. Logan’s grip is bruising, possessive, keeping you anchored in the storm of your own hormones.

Garrett kisses you, a bruising, open-mouthed invasion that swallows your moans. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting like mint and aggressive alpha perfection. You kiss him back with desperate fervor, your hands tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.

The sensory overload is absolute. The scent of the nest, the heavy heat of four massive bodies pinning you down, the agonizing friction from Dean’s hand, Logan’s bruising grip, Garrett’s dominating kiss.

Tucker watches the entire thing, his eyes dark, his breathing ragged. He reaches out and gently strokes your hair, a grounding touch amidst the chaos.

“Almost there,” Tucker whispers, checking the flush of your skin, tracking the biological markers of the approaching heat. “Your temperature is peaking, baby. Just hold on a little longer.”

“Dean,” you gasp against Garrett’s lips. “Faster. Please. Please.”

“Needy little thing,” Dean chuckles darkly, his hand speeding up, the friction turning slick and hot. “You’re going to take all four of us so well. We’re going to absolutely ruin you for anyone else.”

“Ours,” Logan growls, his face buried in your stomach, biting lightly at the soft skin there. “You’re ours.”

The pressure building between your legs reaches a screaming crescendo. It feels like a rubber band pulling tighter and tighter, ready to snap. Your vision whites out. Every muscle in your body locks rigid.

You scream, a pure, wordless sound of absolute surrender, as a violent, full-body orgasm rips through you.

You convulse against them, sobbing, your hips bucking helplessly against Dean’s hand as wave after wave of agonizing pleasure floods your system. Garrett holds you tight against his chest, absorbing the tremors, whispering absolute filth and praise into your ear while you fall apart.

It takes a full two minutes for the spasms to subside.

You go completely boneless, slumping back against Dean’s chest, gasping for air. Your skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. You feel thoroughly wrecked, exhausted, and utterly sated.

But as you lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, you realize something terrifying.

The hollow ache inside your core didn’t go away.

In fact, the orgasm only seemed to clear away the fog of the pre-heat, leaving the true, biological imperative bare and raw.

A sudden, aggressive spike of heat flares from your center, radiating outward like a shockwave. It hits the alphas instantly.

Garrett’s head snaps up. Dean’s breathing stops. Logan’s hands freeze on your hips. Tucker’s eyes go completely black.

The sweet, sugary scent of your pre-heat vanishes.

It is replaced by something darker. Heavier. A scent so potent, so violently intoxicating, it demands absolute, feral submission from any alpha in the vicinity.

Your true heat has dropped.

Garrett looks down at you, his eyes completely gone, replaced by the pure, unadulterated instinct of a dominant alpha whose mate is finally ready to be claimed.

“The fever broke,” Garrett rumbles, a sound that vibrates through the floorboards.

He grabs the hem of the practice jersey you are wearing.

“Time’s up, sweetheart.” 

“You’re a growing boy.”

“I’m twenty-two. I think I’m done growing. And Briar needs me at peak performance. We’re two wins away from the championship.”

His dad glances over, a proud smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You played a good game last week. Your mother and I watched it from the living room. She was screaming at the television every time you got tackled.”

“Tell Mom to chill,” Beau says, shifting his long legs in the cramped footwell. “It’s football. Getting tackled is part of the job description.”

“Try telling an omega mother not to worry about her alpha son. It’s against her nature, Beau. You know how she gets.”

“Yeah, yeah. But seriously, thanks for driving me back to campus. I know you and Mom wanted to get back to the hotel.”

“Are you kidding? I jump at the chance to chauffeur Briar University’s star quarterback,” his dad jokes. “Besides, you had three beers at dinner. You know my rule. No driving after drinking, no matter how fast your alpha metabolism burns through it.”

“I was fine to drive,” Beau protests, though there’s no real heat in his voice. He stretches his neck, feeling a satisfying pop. “But I appreciate the ride. Seriously. It was good seeing Grammy. Wisconsin to Boston is a long flight for you guys.”

“She turned eighty, Beau. We wouldn’t miss it.”

The conversation lulls, the only sound the hum of the tires against the pavement and the low volume of the classic rock station playing on the radio. Beau closes his baby blue eyes, letting the alcohol and the heavy meal pull him into a comfortable drowsiness. He has practice at six a.m. tomorrow, and he needs the sleep.

“So,” his dad says after a few miles. “Any prospects?”

Beau groans, keeping his eyes shut. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just asking! You’re a handsome kid. You’ve got the looks, the swagger. You’re heading to the draft next year. Surely there’s an omega on that campus who’s caught your eye.”

“Dad, I don’t have time for a mate right now. Football is my priority. My only priority.”

“Life isn’t just about football, kid. Your mother and I met when we were your age.”

“And you guys are great,” Beau says, finally opening his eyes. “You’re the perfect mated pair. But I’m not looking for that right now. I just want to focus on the season.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll drop it.” His dad chuckles. “But you can’t fight fate, Beau. When you meet your mate, you’ll know. It hits you like a freight train.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I’m serious! It’s-”

His dad cuts off with a sharp gasp.

Beau’s eyes snap forward.

A massive buck is standing dead center in their lane, its antlers gleaming in the headlights.

“Shit!” His dad yells, wrenching the steering wheel to the right.

The heavy SUV swerves violently. The tires lose traction instantly. Black ice.

“Dad!” Beau shouts, bracing his hands against the dashboard.

The world spins. The headlights illuminate a terrifying blur of tree trunks and snow. The vehicle skids sideways, completely out of control, tires screaming against the frozen asphalt.

Then comes the impact.

It sounds like a bomb going off. The passenger side of the Explorer slams into a massive oak tree. Metal crunches, glass shatters, and the airbag deploys with a violent punch to Beau’s face. Pain, white-hot and blinding, explodes through his head and down his spine.

Then, there is nothing but ringing silence.

***

You tap your fingers against the steering wheel, belting out the lyrics to an old nineties R&B track playing through your phone. You’ve just finished a gruelling three-hour practice session in the vocal booths at Berklee, and your throat feels a little raw, but the drive always puts you in a good mood.

“I’m telling you, Mom, Professor Hastings hates my vibrato,” you say, speaking loudly over the Bluetooth connection.

“She doesn’t hate your vibrato, honey,” your mom’s soothing voice comes through the speakers. “You’re just being too hard on yourself. You’re an incredible singer.”

“She said it was ‘too emotionally unrestrained.’ What does that even mean? I’m an omega. We’re supposed to be emotional.”

“She’s an old beta with a stick up her behind,” your mom says, making you laugh. “Just sing from your heart. That’s what matters.”

“I know, I know. I just want this showcase to go perfectly.”

“It will. You’ll be wonderful.” Your mom pauses. “Did you see that boy from your music theory class today? The alpha?”

You roll your eyes, taking a sip from your water bottle at a red light. “Mom. Stop.”

“What? I’m just asking!”

“No, I didn’t see him. And even if I did, I don’t care. He’s not my mate.”

“You don’t know that until you talk to him.”

“Mom, I want what you and Dad have,” you say softly, the humor fading from your voice. “I want the real thing. I don’t want to just settle for some random alpha because he has nice hair and plays the cello.”

“I know, sweetie. And you’ll find him.”

“I know I will.”

You stare out at the dark, winding road. You were raised on fairytales. Real ones. Stories of alphas and omegas finding each other against all odds. Your absolute favorite, the one you made your dad read to you every single night until you were twelve, was about an omega princess. Her alpha knight was dying, struck down in battle, and she saved him with a single bite to the claiming gland. The bond, the pure rush of mate-magic, pulled him back from the brink of death.

You know it’s just a story, a children’s myth, but a small part of your romantic heart still believes in the power of that kind of connection.

“Drive safe, okay?” Your mom says. “The roads get icy out there near the city limits.”

“I will. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call disconnects. You turn up the music, humming along. You round a sharp bend, the headlights cutting through the darkness.

That’s when you see the tire tracks.

They swerve wildly across the road, cutting through the thin layer of fresh snow, leading directly off the shoulder and down into a shallow, wooded ditch.

You slam on the brakes, your heart leaping into your throat. Your car skids slightly before coming to a halt on the shoulder. You throw it into park and leave the headlights on.

“Hello?” You shout, unbuckling your seatbelt and shoving your car door open. The freezing air bites through your thin jacket.

You scramble down the snowy embankment, your boots slipping on the ice. Down in the trees, a crushed SUV is wrapped around a massive oak. Steam is hissing from the crumpled hood.

“Hey! Are you okay?” You yell, running toward the driver’s side.

The door is wedged shut, but the window is shattered. An older man is slumped over the steering wheel. As you reach the car, he groans, lifting his head. A cut bleeds down his forehead, but his eyes are open.

“Sir! Sir, don’t move,” you say, reaching through the broken window.

“My … my boy,” the man gasps, his voice trembling with sheer panic. He turns his head frantically to the right. “Beau! Beau!”

You peer into the dark cabin. The passenger side took the brunt of the impact. The door is caved completely inward, crushing the seat.

And then, the scent hits you.

It is a physical blow. It knocks the breath from your lungs and makes your knees buckle.

Pine needles. Crisp winter air. A sharp, electric tang of ozone.

Your inner omega rears up, a violent, desperate howl echoing in your mind.

Mate.

“No,” you whisper, the word slipping out in a horrified breath.

You scramble around the back of the car to the passenger side. It’s a mess of twisted metal. You grip the handle of the mangled door and pull with all your strength, but it won’t budge.

“Help him!” The dad cries from inside. “Please, God, help him!”

“I’m trying!” You shout, tears already welling in your eyes.

You climb up onto the hood, slipping on the slick metal, and lean down through the shattered passenger window.

He is there. Your alpha.

He is beautiful, even covered in blood. Dark hair falls over a strong forehead. His eyes — a striking, pale baby blue — are half-open, unfocused and glassy.

“Hey,” you choke out, reaching in and pressing your shaking fingers to his cheek. His skin is terrifyingly cold. “Hey, stay with me. Please.”

His lips part. A terrible, wet rattling sound comes from his chest.

“Mate,” he breathes, the word barely a whisper.

“Yes,” you sob, tears spilling over your cheeks and dropping onto his jacket. “Yes, I’m here. I’m right here.”

You look down. His neck is bent at a sickening angle. Blood is pulsing sluggishly from a deep gash near his collarbone, soaking his shirt. His pulse, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, is slowing down.

He is dying.

“No, no, no,” you panic, pressing your hands against the wound to stop the bleeding. “Don’t you dare. You can’t leave me. We just met.”

His baby blue eyes lock onto yours. They are filled with an overwhelming sadness. His hand twitches, lifting just a fraction of an inch before falling back down.

“Cold,” he whispers.

“I know. Hold on. The ambulance is coming.” You haven’t even called them yet, but you need him to hold on.

But his pulse is fading. The bond, the fledgling thread connecting your soul to his, is dimming, flickering like a dying candle in a dark room.

He is slipping away.

Panic, primal and overwhelming, seizes you.

An omega princess. Her alpha knight was dying … she saved him with a single bite to the claiming gland.

It’s a fairytale. A stupid, childish myth.

But you have nothing else.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, leaning down through the broken window.

“What are you doing?” His dad shouts from the driver’s seat.

You ignore him. You press your face into the crook of Beau’s neck. The scent of pine and ozone is intoxicating, even under the metallic tang of blood. You find the soft spot right above his collarbone.

You open your mouth, letting your canines descend.

“Please work,” you pray, tears blinding you.

You sink your teeth into his neck.

You bite down hard, breaking the skin, tasting salt and copper and him. You pour every ounce of your soul, your desperation, your pure, unrestrained omega energy into the bite. You claim him.

A shockwave ripples through the air.

Beau gasps. A sharp, violent intake of air. His back arches off the seat.

You hold on, crying, biting down until your jaw aches, tethering his fading life to yours. The metallic taste of his blood coats your tongue, but you don’t care. You hold on.

Underneath your hands, Beau’s chest heaves. A sharp, ragged gasp tears from his throat, loud in the freezing night air. The horrific rattling in his lungs stops, replaced by the deep, desperate pull of oxygen.

You slowly break the bite.

You don’t want to. Your omega instincts are screaming at you to stay exactly where you are, to bury your face in his neck and never, ever let go. But the rational, human part of your brain knows he needs real medical attention.

You pull back, just an inch.

Instantly, a large, heavy hand clamps onto the back of your jacket.

“Don’t,” Beau rasps. His voice is a broken, gravelly sound, but it’s entirely coherent.

“I have to,” you choke out, tears still streaming down your freezing cheeks. “I have to call 911.”

His grip tightens. Even covered in blood, even trapped in the mangled wreckage of the Ford Explorer, his alpha strength is undeniable. “Mine,” he grunts, his baby blue eyes locking onto yours. They aren’t glassy anymore. They are sharp, dilated, and blazing with a terrifying intensity.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’m yours. I’m right here. But I need my phone.”

You fumble blindly in your coat pocket with your free hand, practically draped over the shattered window frame, your chest pressed against his uninjured shoulder. You manage to pull your phone out and hit the emergency button.

“911, what is your emergency?” The dispatcher’s voice rings out clearly over the speaker.

“There’s been an accident,” you say, your voice shaking so hard you barely recognize it. “A car crash. Off Route 2, about five miles past the Concord exit. An SUV hit a tree.”

“Okay, honey, calm down. Is anyone hurt?”

“Yes! The passenger-” You look down at Beau.

You stop.

You blink, convinced the darkness and your own tears are playing tricks on you.

“Miss? The passenger?” the dispatcher prompts.

You stare at Beau’s neck. The massive, gaping wound near his collarbone … it isn’t bleeding anymore. In fact, it isn’t open. The skin is smeared with thick, dark blood, but underneath the mess, you can clearly see unbroken skin. And his neck. Just minutes ago, it was bent at an angle that made you want to throw up.

Now, his head is resting perfectly straight against the ruined headrest.

“He …” You swallow hard. “He was hurt. He was bleeding out.”

“Okay, stay on the line. I have ambulances en route. Are you injured?”

“No. I wasn’t in the car. I just … I stopped.”

“What the hell?” His dad’s voice breaks through the shock.

You look past Beau. His dad is leaning over the center console, ignoring his own bleeding forehead. He is staring at his son like he’s seeing a ghost.

“Beau?” His dad whispers, his hands shaking as he reaches out to touch Beau’s arm. “Beau, talk to me.”

Beau doesn’t look at his dad. He doesn’t even blink. His eyes are entirely locked on you. His large hand slides from the back of your jacket up to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. A low, vibrating rumble starts deep in his chest. A purr.

“Mate,” Beau says again. It isn’t a question.

“What just happened?” His dad asks, his voice bordering on hysterical. “He was dying. I saw it. His neck-”

“I don’t know,” you say, your phone slipping from your numb fingers and dropping onto the dashboard. You don’t care. The dispatcher is still talking, but it sounds like white noise.

You cautiously reach out, your fingers trembling, and wipe a smear of blood away from Beau’s collarbone. Right where the gash used to be, there is nothing but smooth, unblemished skin. And right above it, sitting perfectly over his claiming gland, is the angry, red mark of your teeth.

It’s completely sealed.

“The story,” you whisper to yourself, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. “The fairytale.”

“What fairytale?” His dad demands. “What did you do to him?”

“I claimed him,” you say, finally looking at the older man. “He was dying, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I … I bit him.”

“You bit him?” His dad repeats, bewildered. “And that fixed a broken neck?”

“Dad. Shut up,” Beau grumbles. He shifts in the crushed seat, wincing slightly, but otherwise moving with complete fluidity. “Stop yelling at her.”

“I’m not yelling!” His dad yells. “I’m trying to understand why you aren’t a corpse right now!”

“Because she saved me,” Beau says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He tugs gently on your hair, pulling you closer. “Get in here.”

“I can’t,” you say, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat. “The door is crushed. I’m literally hanging through the window.”

“Then I’ll come out there.” Beau starts to unbuckle his seatbelt with his free hand.

“Don’t move!” You and his dad shout at the exact same time.

“Beau, seriously, you were just in a massive car wreck,” you say, bringing your hands up to cup his face. His skin is warming up, the terrifying ice-cold chill fading rapidly. “You need to stay still.”

“I feel fine,” he insists, leaning into your touch. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “You smell amazing. Like … vanilla and rain.”

“You smell like pine trees and a heart attack,” you reply, the adrenaline finally starting to crash, leaving you lightheaded.

Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder by the second. The flashing red and blue lights paint the snowy woods in a chaotic strobe effect.

“They’re here,” his dad breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

Two ambulances and a police cruiser pull up onto the shoulder of the highway. Car doors slam. Heavy boots crunch through the snow as three EMTs scramble down the embankment, their flashlights cutting through the dark.

“Hello! EMS!” A female EMT shouts. “Who’s hurt?”

“Down here!” His dad waves from the broken driver’s side window.

The EMTs split up. One goes to the dad, and two rush around the front of the hood toward you.

“Miss, step back,” a tall male EMT says, reaching out to guide you away from the car. “Let us assess the passenger.”

You try to comply. You really do. You plant your boots on the snowy hood and start to pull yourself backward out of the window.

Beau’s eyes snap open.

His arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist like a steel band. He yanks you right back against the door frame.

“No,” Beau growls.

It isn’t a normal voice. It’s a sound ripped straight from the chest of an apex predator. A deep, chest-rattling alpha warning that makes the hair on your arms stand up.

The EMT freezes, his hands raised. “Whoa. Okay, buddy. I just need to check you out. You’re covered in blood.”

“I said no,” Beau snarls, his grip on your waist tightening until it’s almost painful. He pulls you so close your face is buried in his neck. “Mine.”

“Sir, you’ve been in a severe accident,” the second EMT, an older beta man, says calmly. “Your mate needs to step back so we can make sure you don’t have internal bleeding.”

“She stays,” Beau snaps.

“Beau, let me go for a second,” you try to reason with him, pressing your hands against his chest. “They need to help you.”

“I don’t need help. I need you.”

The tall EMT loses his patience. “Look, man, you’re in shock.” He steps forward and grabs your upper arm, pulling firmly to dislodge you from the window.

Your vision goes red.

It happens so fast you don’t even have time to process it. Before you can think, before you can rationalize, your omega instincts completely hijack your brain.

A vicious, ear-splitting hiss rips from your throat. You bare your teeth, twisting out of the EMT’s grip and lunging slightly toward him, shielding Beau’s body with your own.

“Don’t touch me!” You shriek, your voice echoing off the trees. “Don’t touch him!”

The EMT stumbles backward, completely caught off guard. “Jesus Christ!”

Beau lets out a booming roar of approval, his hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck protectively. He glares at the medics with absolute murder in his eyes.

“Okay! Okay, everyone take a breath!” the female EMT shouts from the driver’s side. She looks over the roof of the car. “What is going on over there?”

“They’re going feral!” The tall EMT yells back, rubbing his arm. “The passenger is practically holding the girl hostage, and she just hissed at me like a rabid raccoon!”

“I am not a raccoon!” You yell defensively, though you are still firmly plastered against Beau’s chest, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

“They’re newly mated,” Beau’s dad calls out tiredly, leaning his head back against his seat. “Like, five minutes ago newly mated. Their instincts are completely fried.”

The EMTs all stop and stare.

“Are you kidding me?” The beta EMT asks, looking from Beau to you. “You guys decided to mate in the middle of a car crash?”

“I didn’t decide anything!” You argue, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck. “He was dying! His neck was broken, and he was bleeding out, so I bit him!”

Silence falls over the woods, save for the hum of the ambulance engines on the road above.

The tall EMT shines his flashlight directly onto Beau. The bright beam illuminates the horrific amount of blood soaking his shirt, his jacket, and the seat.

“If he was bleeding out,” the EMT says slowly, “where is the wound?”

“It’s gone,” Beau’s dad says. “She bit him, and … and it just stopped. The bleeding stopped. His neck snapped back into place. I saw it happen.”

The EMTs exchange a look that clearly communicates they think all three of you have severe concussions.

“Right,” the beta EMT says, his tone dripping with professional skepticism. “Spontaneous regeneration via mate-bite. That’s a new one for the incident report.”

“It’s true!” You insist, twisting slightly to glare at them. “Look at him! Does he look like he has a broken neck?”

“No, he looks like a guy who’s very lucky,” the female EMT says, walking around the front of the car. She keeps a safe distance. “Listen to me, both of you. Mated or not, feral or not, we need to get him out of this car. There is gasoline leaking. If you don’t let us help, we’re calling the police officers down here to physically separate you.”

Beau growls again, but you place a hand firmly over his mouth.

“Stop it,” you tell him, looking down into his fierce blue eyes. “She’s right. The car isn’t safe. We have to get you out.”

Beau kisses the palm of your hand, his eyes softening instantly. “Only if you stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It takes another ten minutes and a ridiculous amount of negotiating to get Beau out of the wreckage. The passenger door is completely jammed, so the fire department has to pry it open with the jaws of life while you stand exactly three feet away — the maximum distance Beau’s feral alpha brain will tolerate without him trying to lunge out of the car.

When they finally pop the door off its hinges, Beau refuses the stretcher. He climbs out of the ruined SUV on his own two feet.

He is massive.

You hadn’t quite realized it when he was crumpled in the seat, but standing up, he towers over you. He’s easily six-foot-three, built like a brick wall under his ruined winter coat. He takes one step out of the snowbank, ignores the EMTs entirely, and wraps his arms around you.

He buries his face in your neck, right over your own claiming gland, and breathes in so deeply his chest expands against yours.

“Okay, big guy, let’s get you up the hill,” the beta EMT sighs, looking thoroughly exhausted.

Beau keeps one arm wrapped firmly around your waist, practically carrying you as the two of you trudge up the snowy embankment. His dad follows behind on a backboard, just as a precaution, arguing with the paramedics about his deductible.

When you reach the ambulances, chaos erupts again.

“Sir, you need to ride in this rig so we can monitor your vitals,” the tall EMT says, pointing to the first ambulance.

“Fine,” Beau says. He turns to you. “Get in.”

“Whoa, hold on,” the EMT steps in. “Protocol says passengers only in the back. Your girlfriend can ride up front or take her own car.”

Beau’s jaw ticks. His eyes flash with that dangerous, feral light again. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my mate. And she’s riding in the back with me.”

“Sir, I can’t allow-”

“Listen to me very carefully,” Beau interrupts, his voice dropping an octave into a terrifying, commanding alpha tone. “I just survived a crash that should have killed me. My mate is the only reason I am breathing right now. If you think for one second I am letting her out of my sight, you are out of your goddamn mind. She gets in the back, or I walk to the hospital.”

The EMT stares at him, then looks at his sheer size, then looks at the blood covering him.

“Fine,” the EMT mutters. “Get in. Both of you.”

You scramble up into the back of the brightly lit ambulance, your legs shaking slightly. Beau climbs in right behind you. Instead of sitting on the stretcher, he pulls you down onto the small bench seat along the wall, pulling you directly onto his lap.

“Sir, I really need you on the stretcher,” the female medic says from the corner.

“I’m fine right here,” Beau says stubbornly, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Just let him,” you tell the medic apologetically. “It’s easier than fighting him.”

The ambulance doors slam shut, and the engine rumbles as it pulls out onto the highway. The bright fluorescent lights of the rig are blinding after the dark woods.

You finally get a good look at him.

His face is smeared with dried blood, some from his own vanished wounds, some from the cut on his dad’s head. His dark hair is wild and sticking up in every direction. His expensive winter coat is ruined.

And he is the most gorgeous man you have ever seen in your life.

“Stop staring at me,” he murmurs, a cocky smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not staring,” you lie, your face heating up.

“You totally are.” He reaches up, his large, rough thumb gently wiping a tear track off your cheek. “You’re ruining my tough guy image. Crying over me when we just met.”

“You were dying!” You say, smacking his chest lightly. “Excuse me for being slightly upset!”

“I’m kidding,” he says softly, his smirk fading into something deeply sincere. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He tilts his head, his blue eyes searching yours. “You saved my life.”

“I … I guess I did.”

“No guessing about it.” He shifts, pulling you closer. “I felt it, you know. Before you bit me. I felt the bond. It was like … like a cord snapping tight in my chest. And then everything went cold. But when you bit me …” He shudders, a full-body tremor. “It was like lightning. It burned all the cold away.”

“I read about it in a book,” you admit quietly, feeling incredibly stupid now that the danger has passed. “When I was a kid. A fairytale about an omega saving her mate. I didn’t think it would actually work.”

Beau laughs, a rich, warm sound that fills the small space. “Well, remind me to buy that book and frame it.”

The medic clears her throat loudly. “I still need to take your blood pressure, sir.”

Beau sighs dramatically, extending his arm while keeping his other arm wrapped firmly around your waist. “Knock yourself out.”

While the medic works, Beau looks at you, his eyes crinkling. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Y/N,” you say.

“Y/N,” he repeats, testing the syllables on his tongue. He nods. “I like it. I’m Beau. Beau Maxwell.”

“I know.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You know? What, are you a football fan?”

“No,” you scoff. “My roommate is. She has a massive poster of you in our dorm. It’s deeply unsettling.”

Beau throws his head back and laughs again. “Ouch. My ego.”

“You’ll survive. You clearly have a talent for surviving.”

“Only because I have you.” He leans in, his face inches from yours. “So, Y/N. Since we skipped the whole dating phase and went straight to the life-saving, soul-binding mate claim … what do you want to do for our first date?”

You stare at him, completely incredulous. “Are you asking me out in the back of an ambulance?”

“I’m an opportunist,” he says with a wicked grin. “Plus, I have a feeling my schedule is going to be pretty packed with doctors telling me I’m a medical marvel. I need to pencil you in.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I’m your alpha,” he corrects smoothly, his voice dropping an octave. “And you’re my omega.”

A shiver runs down your spine at the words. The sheer truth of it, the heavy, intoxicating reality of the bond humming between you, is overwhelming. You look at him — at the blood, the cocky smirk, the intense, adoring eyes — and you realize your life will never, ever be the same.

“Pizza,” you say finally.

“What?”

“For our first date. I want pizza. And you’re paying.”

Beau’s grin widens, bright and devastating. “Deal.”

***

The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic symphony of beeping monitors, squeaking rubber soles, and the low hum of medical staff, but inside Trauma Room 3, the silence is thick and highly irritated.

Dr. Evans, a balding beta with dark circles under his eyes, stares at the glowing X-ray on the tablet in his hands. Then, he looks up at Beau. Then, he looks back down at the tablet.

“I don’t understand,” Dr. Evans mutters, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Beau sighs, leaning back against the uncomfortable hospital pillows. “Doc, with all due respect, I don’t know how many different ways I can say this. I am fine.”

“You were in a high-speed collision with a tree,” Dr. Evans says, his voice flat. “Your father’s side of the vehicle sustained moderate damage, but the passenger side was crushed inward by nearly three feet. The paramedics reported that you were covered in a massive amount of blood. Which you are.”

He gestures vaguely to Beau’s bare chest. They had to literally cut his ruined, blood-soaked sweater off him when he refused to let go of your hand long enough to take it off normally. Now, he’s sitting shirtless in the stark hospital lighting, his skin stained with dried, dark red flakes, but perfectly intact.

“It’s my blood,” Beau says, sounding bored.

“Yes, but from where?” Dr. Evans asks, his voice rising in frustration. “Your X-rays are completely clear. No fractures, no hairline breaks, no internal bleeding, no contusions. There isn’t even whiplash. The only physical anomaly is a minor elevation in your heart rate and … well.”

Dr. Evans glances at you.

You are currently squeezed onto the edge of the narrow hospital bed, your legs pressed against Beau’s hip. His heavy, warm arm is locked around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. Every time a nurse or doctor has stepped within a three-foot radius, Beau’s chest rumbles with a low, instinctual warning growl that makes the staff extremely nervous.

“And the fresh bite mark on your claiming gland,” Dr. Evans finishes carefully.

“Exactly,” Beau says, pointing his free hand at you. “She bit me. She’s my mate. The bond healed me. We’ve been over this.”

“Mr. Maxwell,” Dr. Evans sighs, rubbing his temples. “Spontaneous cellular regeneration via a mating bite is an urban legend. It’s a myth omegas tell their pups. It does not actually happen.”

“Then explain the blood,” you say, speaking up for the first time in ten minutes.

Dr. Evans looks at you. “Shock can do strange things to the mind, miss. And being a newly awakened omega in the presence of a distressed alpha can trigger intense olfactory hallucinations. It’s highly likely the blood belongs to a wounded animal that was struck during the crash, and in the confusion, you believed-”

“Are you calling my mate a liar?” Beau’s voice drops instantly. It loses all the casual cockiness and turns into a lethal, icy rumble. His fingers dig into your waist.

Dr. Evans pales, taking a distinct step back. “No. No, I am simply saying scientifically-”

“Scientifically, I had a severed artery and a snapped C-spine twenty minutes ago,” Beau snarls, his baby blue eyes darkening. “She healed me. Put it in my chart and discharge me.”

“I … I need an attending to sign off,” Dr. Evans stammers, quickly retreating toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

The door clicks shut.

You let out a long breath, slumping slightly against Beau’s chest. The adrenaline of the night is finally wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. “He thinks we’re crazy.”

“Let him think whatever he wants,” Beau murmurs. The aggression instantly bleeds out of his posture. He shifts, pulling you fully onto his lap despite the cramped space of the hospital bed. He presses his face into your neck, taking a deep, greedy inhale of your scent. “You’re safe. I’m safe. That’s all that matters.”

You wrap your arms around his broad, bare shoulders, resting your chin on top of his head. His skin is so warm. The scent of pine and ozone is settling, shifting from the sharp, electric tang of a newly struck bond into something deeper, richer. Like a forest after a heavy rain.

“Your dad is going to be okay,” you say softly. “The nurse said it was just a surface laceration and a mild concussion.”

“I know,” Beau says against your skin. “I can smell it. He’s stressed, but he’s fine.” He turns his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your pulse point. “You’re exhausted.”

“I’ve had a busy night,” you joke tiredly. “Vocal practice, driving, pulling a giant alpha out of a car wreck. Standard Tuesday.”

Beau chuckles, the vibration rumbling pleasantly against your chest. “You have no idea how glad I am you decided to take that road.”

Before you can answer, a commotion erupts out in the hallway.

“I don’t care about the visiting hours, lady, my best friend is in there!” a loud, frantic voice echoes through the thin door.

“Sir, you cannot go back there-”

“Watch me!”

The door to Trauma Room 3 flies open with such force it bangs against the wall.

A tall guy with messy blond hair and frantic green eyes bursts into the room, chest heaving. He’s wearing Briar University sweatpants and a backwards snapback, looking like he literally ran all the way from campus.

Three more massive guys pile in directly behind him, completely ignoring the protests of the nurse in the hallway. They are all huge, clearly athletes, radiating an overwhelming wall of alpha energy that instantly makes your omega instincts flare in warning.

You tense, shrinking back against Beau.

Beau reacts instantly. A vicious, deafening roar rips from his chest. He throws his body over yours, shielding you from the door, his canines fully descended as he glares at the intruders.

The four guys freeze in their tracks.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy, man, it’s us!” The blond guy yells, throwing his hands up in surrender. “It’s Dean!”

Beau blinks, the feral glaze slowly fading from his eyes as he registers the familiar scents of his teammates. The growl dies down in his throat, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He stays firmly angled in front of you, a physical barrier between you and his friends.

“Dean,” Beau breathes out, his shoulders dropping a fraction.

“Yeah, it’s me, you idiot,” Dean says, exhaling a massive breath. He looks Beau up and down, his eyes wide. “Jesus, Beau. We got a call from your dad. He said you guys hit a tree and you were crushed. I thought … man, I thought I was walking in here to identify a body.”

“I’m fine,” Beau says firmly.

A guy with dark hair and striking gray eyes steps forward, looking incredibly confused. “You don’t look fine. You’re covered in blood. But … you’re sitting up.”

“And you’re growling at us,” adds a guy with a sharp jawline and a sarcastic smirk. “Which is rude, considering we broke several traffic laws to get here.”

“I’m growling because you busted in here unannounced and spooked my mate,” Beau snaps.

The silence in the room is absolute.

All four hockey players stop. They stare at Beau. Then, slowly, simultaneously, they shift their gaze to look past his massive shoulder, spotting you tucked against his side.

“Your … what?” Dean chokes out.

Beau’s chest puffs out. The sheer pride radiating off him is almost blinding. He shifts slightly, pulling you forward so you are visible, but keeps one heavy, protective arm locked around your waist.

“My mate,” Beau announces smoothly, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Guys, this is Y/N. Y/N, these are the morons I’m friends with. Dean, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.”

You offer a tiny, awkward wave. “Hi.”

Tucker, a guy with a calm demeanor and a thick Southern drawl, steps forward, his eyes narrowed as he looks at the blood on Beau, and then at the very clear, angry red bite mark on Beau’s neck.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tucker mutters. “He actually got bit.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean says, shaking his head like a wet dog. “I’m confused. Coach calls, says you’re dying. We get here, you’re covered in blood, but you’re chilling in a hospital bed with a gorgeous omega on your lap, and you’re saying you just got mated?”

“That’s exactly what happened,” Beau says, his grin turning incredibly cocky. “She found the wreck. I was bleeding out. My neck was broken. She claimed me and healed me.”

Garrett crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Beau, bro, I love you, but you realize that’s biologically impossible, right?”

“Tell that to the doctors,” Beau scoffs. “They’re out there right now having a panic attack over my X-rays. Not a scratch on me. Because my omega,” he pauses, leaning down to press a loud, obnoxious kiss to your cheek, “is a literal miracle worker.”

You flush, burying your face in his shoulder. “Beau, stop, you’re embarrassing me.”

“I am praising you,” he corrects, his voice dripping with affection. “You saved my life.”

Logan lets out a low whistle. “So, let me get this straight. You get into a near-fatal car crash, and instead of dying like a normal person, you manage to score a soulmate?”

“I have excellent timing,” Beau says.

“You have a horseshoe shoved up your ass, is what you have,” Dean groans, though the sheer relief in his voice is palpable. He walks over, keeping his movements slow and deliberate to avoid triggering Beau’s newly-mated instincts, and claps a hand on Beau’s uninjured shoulder. “God, man. Don’t ever do that to us again. I almost threw up in Logan’s car.”

“Hey, if you puked on my upholstery, I would have left you on the side of the highway,” Logan points out.

“It’s true,” Garrett nods solemnly. “He loves that car more than he loves us.”

You can’t help it. A small laugh escapes your lips.

The sound draws the attention of all four alphas back to you. The intense scrutiny makes your cheeks heat up again, but it isn’t predatory. It’s curious. And welcoming.

“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, offering a charming, easy smile. “You really pulled this meathead out of a wrecked car?”

“I couldn’t get him out, actually,” you admit. “The door was stuck. I just … climbed in the window.”

“And bit him,” Tucker adds, looking impressed. “Takes a lot of guts. Especially with a feral alpha bleeding out.”

“I read a lot of fairytales growing up,” you shrug, feeling shy but incredibly safe with Beau’s arm wrapped around you like a shield. “I guess I just panicked and hoped the stories were right.”

“Well, thank God you did,” Dean says, his expression softening into something entirely genuine. He looks at you, really looks at you, and you can see the deep, brotherly love he has for Beau shining in his eyes. “Seriously, Y/N. If you saved him … you saved all of us. Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Garrett agrees softly. “Welcome to the family, Y/N.”

Beau’s chest rumbles with a purr. He is practically vibrating with happiness, his alpha instincts perfectly soothed by his pack accepting his mate. He rubs his chin against your hair.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough sentimental crap,” Logan claps his hands together, breaking the emotional tension. “Are they discharging you tonight, or do we need to smuggle you out in a laundry cart? Because we have a game on Saturday, and Coach is going to lose his mind if his star quarterback is trapped in a hospital.”

“They’re discharging me,” Beau says confidently. “There’s literally nothing wrong with me. As soon as the doctor gets back with the paperwork, we’re out of here.”

“Good,” Dean says, dropping into a plastic guest chair in the corner of the room. “Because my adrenaline is crashing, and I need a cheeseburger.”

“I want pizza,” you say automatically.

All five guys look at you.

“She wants pizza,” Beau announces to the room, as if you just decreed a new law of physics. He looks at Dean. “Go get my mate a pizza.”

Dean stares at him. “Are you serious? I just drove a hundred miles an hour down Route 2 to see if you were alive, and you’re treating me like Postmates?”

“Did you miss the part where she saved my life?” Beau demands, his eyebrows pulling together. “She asked for pizza, Dean. Get the girl a pizza.”

“I’ll get it,” Tucker laughs, turning toward the door. “Any specific toppings, sweetheart?”

“Don’t call her sweetheart,” Beau growls immediately.

Tucker raises his hands, backing out of the room. “Right. Sorry. Feral alpha. Got it. Pepperoni?”

“Pepperoni is perfect, thank you,” you say, glaring up at Beau. “And stop growling at your friends.”

“They need to know boundaries,” Beau grumbles, though he looks entirely unapologetic.

“They’re just trying to be nice,” you tell him, reaching up to run your fingers through his messy, dark hair. The simple touch is electric. It sends a wave of calm straight down the bond, and you can physically feel his muscles relaxing under your hand.

Garrett watches the exchange with a highly amused expression. “Whipped. He’s been mated for an hour, and he’s already completely whipped.”

“I’m not whipped,” Beau scoffs.

“You literally just barked at Dean to go buy her dinner,” Logan points out. “If she asked you to wear a leash, you’d probably ask what color.”

“I am an alpha,” Beau says, his voice dripping with offended dignity. “I command respect.”

You pull your hand out of his hair and poke him in the ribs. “Beau. Hush.”

“Yes, baby,” he says instantly.

The entire room bursts into laughter. Dean practically falls out of the plastic chair, and even Garrett has to lean against the wall, shaking his head.

“Oh, this is going to be the best semester ever,” Logan cackles. “The great Beau Maxwell, tamed.”

Beau glares at them, but there’s no real heat in it. He just pulls you closer, resting his head against yours. The chaos of his friends fills the small hospital room, loud and boisterous, turning a terrifying night into something surprisingly warm.

The door opens again, and Dr. Evans steps back in, holding a stack of discharge papers. He stops dead in his tracks, staring at the four massive athletes crowding the small room.

“Is there a problem here?” Dr. Evans asks nervously.

“No problem, Doc,” Beau says, holding his hand out for the papers. “Just waiting to get out of here so I can take my mate on a date.”

Dr. Evans sighs, handing over the clipboard. “Sign at the bottom. And please, Mr. Maxwell, take it easy for the next forty-eight hours. Miracles aside, your body has been through a trauma.”

“I feel better than ever,” Beau promises, signing the paperwork with a messy scrawl.

And as he looks down at you, his blue eyes soft and entirely devoted, you realize he isn’t lying. The bond hums between you, bright and unbroken, a fairytale come to life in the sterile lights of a hospital room.

***

The frosty Boston air hits your face the second the sliding doors of the emergency room part, but you barely feel the chill. You are currently tucked flush against Beau’s side, enveloped in the heavy, ruinous warmth of his ruined winter coat, which he has stubbornly draped over your shoulders despite the fact that he is currently shirtless in twenty-degree weather.

“Beau, you are going to catch pneumonia,” you tell him, trying to shrug the coat off to give it back to him.

His large hand clamps over the lapel, holding it firmly in place around your neck. “I’m an alpha. We run hot. Plus, I just regenerated a broken neck. I think my immune system can handle a little breeze. Keep the coat on.”

“He’s right, Y/N,” Garrett says, walking backward a few paces ahead of you. “Don’t try to fight a freshly mated alpha on temperature control. They get weirdly territorial about their omega’s body heat. My cousin mated last year, and he practically kept his poor omega wrapped in bubble wrap and heated blankets for a week.”

“I am not weird,” Beau grumbles, though his arm tightening around your waist completely contradicts his statement.

“You’re a little weird, man,” Logan calls out, clicking his keys to unlock a pickup truck parked illegally near the ambulance bay. “And hey, before you get in my car, I need to know you aren’t going to flake dried blood all over my upholstery.”

Beau glares at him. “I’m literally fine, Logan. But if you’re that worried, I’ll buy you a new car with my signing bonus next year.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Logan smirks, pulling the back door open. “Alright, kids. In you go. Tucker and Garrett are taking Garrett’s Jeep. Dean is riding shotgun with me so I can control the aux cord.”

“I have great taste in music!” Dean protests, rounding the hood.

“You listen to EDM remixes of country songs, Dean. You have zero taste,” Logan deadpans, climbing into the driver’s seat.

Beau practically lifts you into the spacious backseat of the truck, sliding in directly beside you. He doesn’t just sit next to you; he pulls you across the supple leather until you are practically sitting on his lap, your knees resting against his thigh. He exhales a long, deep breath, burying his face in your hair. The constant, thrumming hum of the bond — a sensation you are still trying to wrap your head around — settles into a peaceful, rhythmic vibration between the two of you.

As Logan pulls out of the hospital parking lot, the heater in the car kicks in, blasting warm air. It reminds you, with a sudden, jarring jolt, of the crashed Ford Explorer.

“Your dad,” you say, looking up at Beau quickly. “We left without saying goodbye to him. Is he-”

“He’s fine,” Beau soothes, rubbing a heavy thumb along your hip. “He texted me while the doctor was printing my discharge papers. He caught a cab back to the hotel. My mom is there, and he said she’s currently fussing over him and having a minor meltdown. He told me to go with my boys, take care of my mate, and that we’ll all get together for a proper breakfast tomorrow once everyone’s blood pressure drops.”

“Oh, thank God,” you breathe out, relieved.

The mention of parents, however, sends a cold spike of panic straight through your chest.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, sitting bolt upright.

Beau’s hands instantly tighten around you, his alpha instincts flaring as a low, rumbling growl vibrates in his throat. “What? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Dean twists around in the passenger seat, looking alarmed. “Is it delayed shock? Do we need to turn around?”

“No, no, I’m not hurt,” you say, frantically digging through your pockets until you find your phone. “I hung up on my mom.”

“What?” Beau blinks, the protective tension instantly bleeding out of his broad shoulders, replaced by confusion.

“When I was driving,” you explain, staring at the terrifying 14 Missed Calls notification glowing on your lock screen. “I was on the phone with my mom right before I saw the tire tracks. I told her I had to go, and then I just … I never called her back. She knows I was pulling over for a crash. She’s probably out of her mind with worry.”

“Oh, shit,” Logan says from the front, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, you better call her right now. An omega mother’s panic is no joke.”

“Put it on speaker,” Beau says softly, his blue eyes warm and encouraging. “I’m right here.”

You swallow hard, your thumb hovering over her contact name. You press call and tap the speaker icon.

It doesn’t even ring once.

“Y/N?!” Your mom’s voice explodes through the car speakers, tight with tears and absolute terror. “Oh my god, honey! Are you okay? Where are you? I’ve been calling and calling! Your father was just about to call the state highway patrol!”

“Mom, Mom, breathe, I’m okay,” you say quickly, your own voice cracking a little at the sound of her panic. “I’m perfectly fine. I promise. Not a scratch on me.”

A loud, shuddering sob echoes through the phone. “You said there was a crash. You just vanished. I thought … I don’t even know what I thought.”

“I know, I’m so sorry I didn’t call you right back,” you say, leaning back against Beau’s solid chest. His hand slowly strokes your arm, grounding you. “It’s just … things got really chaotic, really fast.”

“What happened? Were there people in the car? The news said there was a severe accident on Route 2.”

“There was,” you say, taking a deep breath. You look up at Beau. He offers a slow, reassuring nod. “Mom, there was an alpha in the passenger seat. His dad was driving, and they hit black ice.”

“Oh, how awful,” your mom gasps. “Did the ambulance get there in time?”

“They did, but … Mom, he was really hurt. Like, really bad.” You bite your lip, trying to figure out how to say this without sounding completely insane. “And … well, when I got to the car, his scent hit me.”

There is a beat of dead silence on the line.

Then, your mom’s voice drops to a near whisper. “His scent?”

“Yeah.”

“Y/N,” she says, the syllables breathless. “Are you telling me …”

“He’s my mate, Mom,” you admit, the words feeling incredibly heavy and magical all at once. “He’s my mate.”

“Oh my god!” Your mom shrieked, the sound entirely different this time. “Y/F/N! Y/F/N, get in here! Our baby found her mate!” You can hear her pulling the phone away from her face, shouting to your dad in the background. She comes back on the line, laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh, honey, I told you! I told you it would happen when you least expect it! Oh, this is wonderful! Is he okay? You said he was hurt!”

“He was dying, Mom,” you say, the trauma of the memory making your throat tight. “His neck was broken. He was bleeding out. His pulse was stopping.”

“What?” The joy vanishes, replaced by a horrified gasp. “But you just said-”

“I did the thing,” you blurts out.

“What thing?”

“The fairytale thing,” you say, your voice dropping in embarrassment, completely aware that there are three alphas listening to this conversation in dead silence. “The story dad used to read to me. About the omega princess who saved her knight. I panicked, Mom. I didn’t know what to do, and I could feel him slipping away, so I just … I bit him.”

Silence. Total, ringing silence.

“Mom?” You ask nervously.

“You bit him,” your mom repeats slowly, as if sounding out a foreign language.

“Through the claiming gland,” you confirm. “And Mom … it worked. It actually worked. The bleeding stopped. His neck healed. The doctors at the hospital just did X-rays, and he doesn’t even have a bruise.”

“That’s … that’s impossible,” your dad’s deep, steady voice finally comes through the speaker. He must have taken the phone. “Sweetheart, those are just bedtime stories. Biologically, a mating bite seals a bond, it doesn’t perform miracles.”

“I’m telling you, Dad, it happened,” you insist.

Beau leans forward slightly, his mouth coming closer to the microphone. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N.”

Another stunned silence from your parents.

“Who is this?” Your dad asks, his tone instantly slipping into a protective, assessing alpha timber.

“I’m Beau,” Beau says smoothly, his chest rumbling with natural authority, though his tone is incredibly respectful. “Beau Maxwell. I’m your daughter’s mate. And I just wanted to tell you myself, sir, that she’s telling the truth. I was dead to rights in that car. She saved my life.”

“Beau Maxwell?” Your dad repeats. “Wait a minute. The Briar quarterback?”

Beau grins, a cocky little smirk playing on his lips. “That’s me, sir.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” your dad laughs, a rich, booming sound. “My little girl bagged a D1 athlete.”

“Stop it!” Your mom scolds in the background, though she sounds elated. “Beau, sweetheart, it is so wonderful to meet you. I can’t believe this is happening. We are just so overwhelmed, but we are so, so happy for you both.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Beau says, his voice softening. “I promise you, I’m going to take very good care of her. I owe her my life, but even if I didn’t, I’d give her the world anyway.”

Your breath hitches. You look up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. He isn’t looking at the phone; he is looking right down at you, his blue eyes blazing with absolute sincerity.

From the front seat, Dean dramatically pretends to gag, making choking noises.

“Shut up, Dean,” Logan mutters, smacking Dean’s shoulder.

“Was that someone gagging?” Your mom asks, confused.

“Just my idiot friends, Mrs. Y/L/N,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you. “We’re heading back to my place now to get some food in her. It’s been a long night.”

“Of course, of course. Go eat, rest,” your mom says quickly. “We love you so much, Y/N. We will drive down to Boston this weekend to meet him. I want a full story. Every detail.”

“I love you guys too,” you smile, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

You hang up the phone, leaning back against the leather seat. You let out a long, exhausted breath. “Well. That went better than expected.”

“Your parents seem awesome,” Beau says, kissing the top of your head.

“They are,” you nod. “They’re just going to be incredibly overbearing for the next six months. My mom is a hopeless romantic, so she is going to want to plan a mating ceremony immediately.”

“Let her,” Beau says easily. “I’ll rent out a castle if she wants.”

“Okay, Rockefeller,” Dean snorts from the front. “Let’s stick to surviving the week before we book a castle.”

Logan pulls the car onto a quiet, tree-lined street about a mile off Briar’s main campus, pulling into the driveway of a massive, sprawling two-story colonial house. Garrett’s Jeep is already parked on the lawn, and Tucker is walking up the front steps balancing four large pizza boxes.

“Home sweet home,” Logan announces, putting the car in park.

The house is exactly what you would expect from a group of elite college athletes, yet surprisingly clean. The living room is gigantic, dominated by a massive, U-shaped sectional couch that looks like it could comfortably sleep eight people, a ridiculously large flat-screen TV, and an impressive sound system. There are hockey sticks leaning in the corner and a football resting on the coffee table, but the space smells comfortably like a mix of their scents — cedar, sandalwood, musk, and clean laundry.

“Kitchen’s to the right, bathroom is down the hall,” Dean says, kicking his shoes off by the door. “Make yourself at home, Y/N. You practically own the place now.”

You step out of your boots, hanging Beau’s ruined coat on a hook. Beau instantly wraps his arm around your waist again, guiding you toward the living room.

Tucker sets the pizza boxes down on the wide coffee table. “We got two pepperonis, a meat lovers, and a plain cheese for Logan because his palate is that of a fussy toddler.”

“Hey, respect the classics,” Logan defends, grabbing a slice of cheese.

You go to sit down on an empty cushion on the sectional, but Beau simply pulls you backward. He drops down onto the plush fabric and easily guides you right down onto his lap. You end up straddling his thighs sideways, your back resting against his arm.

“Beau, there’s plenty of room,” you laugh softly, though you don’t make any real effort to move. The truth is, the physical contact is addictive.

“I’m comfortable,” he states, resting his chin on your shoulder. He leans forward, his long arm reaching out to grab a massive slice of pepperoni pizza from the box.

He doesn’t take a bite. Instead, he folds it slightly and brings it directly to your mouth.

You blink at the slice, then look over your shoulder at him. “Are you serious right now?”

“You said you wanted pizza,” Beau says smoothly. “Eat.”

“I can feed myself, you weirdo,” you say, your face flushing hot.

“Humor me,” his voice drops, the vibration rumbling directly against your spine. “My instincts are screaming at me to make sure you’re provided for. Just take a bite, Y/N, before I lose my mind.”

You roll your eyes, but the heavy, intoxicating pull of the bond makes you part your lips. You take a bite of the pizza. It’s perfectly greasy and delicious, the exact kind of comfort food you need after a near-death experience.

Beau watches you chew, his eyes tracking the movement of your throat with dark, laser-focused intensity. A low, satisfied purr vibrates in his chest.

Across the coffee table, Dean groans loudly, dropping his face into his hands. “Oh my god. I can’t. I literally can’t watch this. It’s like watching a nature documentary about terrifyingly codependent wolves.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Garrett laughs around a mouthful of crust. “It’s cute.”

“It’s gross,” Dean argues, pointing a slice of meat lovers at Beau. “Can you not do the weird bird-feeding thing in the communal living space? Some of us are trying to eat.”

Beau doesn’t even look at him. He just waits for you to finish chewing before offering you the slice again. “I literally died an hour ago, Dean. You can put up with me being in love with my mate.”

The casual, effortless way he says it makes your breath catch. It’s insane. You’ve known him for roughly two hours. But as you look at his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle way he holds the food for you, it doesn’t feel insane at all. It feels like absolute truth.

“Fine, use the death card,” Dean grumbles, though he’s smiling. “But when you start baby-talking her, I’m moving out.”

“So,” Tucker says, leaning back against the couch and looking at you. “Y/N. We know you’re at Berklee. Vocal performance, you said?”

You nod, taking another bite of the pizza Beau is offering. “Yeah. My concentration is in classical crossover and contemporary theater.”

“Damn, so you’ve got pipes,” Logan says, looking impressed. “That’s intense. Berklee is no joke.”

“It’s a lot of work,” you admit, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “My professor currently thinks my vibrato is ‘too emotionally unrestrained.’”

Beau frowns, his brow furrowing. “Who is your professor? Give me their name.”

“Why?” You ask, amused. “Are you going to go beat up an eighty-year-old beta woman?”

“I’m going to go have a polite conversation with her about how my mate’s vibrato is perfect exactly the way it is,” Beau states matter-of-factly.

“Down boy,” Garrett chuckles. “So, theater? You want to be on Broadway?”

“That’s the dream,” you nod, a shy smile pulling at your lips. “Or doing session vocals for studio albums. I just love to sing. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”

“Can you sing for us?” Dean asks eagerly.

Beau’s arm tightens around you like a vice. A deep, territorial rumble starts in his chest. “No.”

Dean throws his hands up. “Bro! I just asked if she could sing!”

“No one is looking at my mate while she performs right now,” Beau snarls, his alpha brain clearly still in hyper-protective overdrive. “She’s mine.”

“Beau, relax,” you say gently, running your hand over his bare chest, right above his heart. His skin is blazing hot. “They just want to hear me sing.” You look at Dean. “I will sing for you guys eventually, I promise. But my throat is kind of raw right now from screaming at EMTs in the woods.”

“Fair enough,” Tucker nods in understanding. “We’ll hold you to that, though.”

“So, what about you guys?” You ask, leaning back completely against Beau, enjoying the feeling of his solid warmth enveloping you. “I know Beau is a quarterback. Are you all football players?”

“Hell no,” Logan scoffs. “We play a real sport. Ice hockey.”

“Hey,” Beau warns, though he chuckles.

“It’s true,” Dean says. “But yeah, we’re hockey players. Garrett is the captain. I’m just the good-looking one.”

“You’re the annoying one,” Logan corrects.

“Wait, so if you play football, and they play hockey, why do you live together?” You ask Beau, looking up at him.

Beau looks down, his eyes softening as he meets your gaze. “Because they’re my pack. Football is my team, but these guys … they’re my family away from Wisconsin. We look out for each other.”

The absolute sincerity in his voice makes something deep in your chest ache in the best way possible. You can see the bond these guys share. It’s written in the comfortable silence, the easy banter, the way they dropped everything and broke traffic laws just to make sure Beau was safe.

“He’s a softie,” Garrett stage-whispers to you, leaning across the table. “Don’t let the scary alpha act fool you. He cries during rom-coms.”

“I do not!” Beau barks indignantly.

“Dude, you literally bawled during 10 Things I Hate About You last week,” Logan points out. “You paused the movie to monologue about how Heath Ledger set unrealistic standards for modern romance.”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece, Logan, and the stadium bleacher scene is emotionally devastating,” Beau argues, entirely serious.

You burst out laughing, clapping a hand over your mouth.

Beau looks at you, his offended expression melting away the second he hears your laugh. A slow, devastatingly handsome smile spreads across his face.

“You think that’s funny, huh?” He murmurs, trailing a finger down your cheek.

“I think it’s adorable,” you tease. “My big, bad, feral alpha cries over Heath Ledger.”

“Only for Heath,” Beau whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the boys’ bickering. “But I’d cry over you, too.”

The sudden intensity in his voice makes the air leave your lungs. You stare into his baby blue eyes, completely captivated by the raw, open adoration shining there. The hospital, the crash, the freezing snow — it all feels like a lifetime ago. Right now, in this messy living room filled with the smell of pizza and the loud, chaotic voices of his pack, everything is perfect.

“You won’t have to,” you whisper back, reaching up to trace the perfectly unblemished skin on his neck, right where your claiming mark rests, hidden beneath the collar of the coat. “I’m right here.”

Beau exhales a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second before he leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, reverent kiss. It tastes like pepperoni and salt, but underneath it is the undeniable, electric spark of a bond that is absolute and eternal.

“Okay, nope! No making out on the couch!” Dean yells, throwing a crumpled napkin at Beau’s head. “I’m drawing a line! Save it for the bedroom, lovers!”

Beau breaks the kiss, laughing against your mouth, his chest vibrating with pure, unadulterated joy. He catches the napkin out of mid-air and tosses it back at Dean, pulling you impossibly closer.

You smile into his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beating against yours. A heart that you kept beating. A heart that is now entirely, irreversibly yours.

***

The pizza boxes are half-empty and the chaotic banter of the hockey players is still echoing in the living room when Beau suddenly stands up. He doesn’t ask. He just scoops you up into his arms, right off his lap, supporting your thighs with ease.

“Hey, where are you going?” Dean protests from the armchair, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. “Tucker was just about to tell the story about the time Garrett got his tongue stuck to the goalpost.”

“I am stealing my mate,” Beau announces, his voice brokering absolutely no argument. “We’ve had a long night. You animals clean up the boxes.”

“Whipped!” Logan calls out, laughing.

“Shut up, Logan,” Beau says, but he’s smiling as he carries you toward the stairs.

“Goodnight, guys!” You call over his broad shoulder.

A chorus of “Night, Y/N” and “Welcome to the pack” follows you up the wooden staircase.

Beau carries you effortlessly down the hallway, kicking open the last door on the right and carrying you inside. He pushes the heavy wooden door shut with his foot. The lock clicks, and instantly, the noise from downstairs is muffled into a distant hum.

His room is exactly what you’d expect, yet entirely comforting. It’s large, with a massive king-sized bed dominating the center of the space. There are Briar University football posters on the walls, a massive flat-screen TV mounted across from the bed, and a desk cluttered with playbooks and protein powder shakers. But mostly, the room just smells like him. Cedar, pine, and the crisp bite of ozone. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible, wrapping around your senses and making your omega hum with pure satisfaction.

Beau doesn’t put you down immediately. He just holds you against his chest, standing in the middle of the room in the dim light of a bedside lamp. The cocky, playful alpha from downstairs fades, replaced by something much more intense. His baby blue eyes are dark, tracing every feature of your face.

“You okay?” You whisper, resting your hands on his bare, broad shoulders.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, his voice thick. “Just processing.”

“It’s a lot to process.”

“Not that,” he murmurs. He slowly lowers you down until your boots touch the hardwood floor, but he doesn’t step back. His hands slide up your waist, gripping your hips tightly. “I mean … you. Here. In my room. Mine.”

He reaches up, his thumb brushing against your neck, right over your claiming gland.

You let out a soft gasp. The spot is agonizingly sensitive. It has been throbbing ever since the ambulance ride, a dull, pulsing ache that you’ve been trying to ignore. But with his touch, the ache flares into a sharp, undeniable need.

Beau’s brow furrows. He can feel it.

“It’s one-sided,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble.

“I know,” you say, your breath catching.

You saved him. You gave him your bite, pouring your soul and your omega energy into him to knit his body back together. But a bond is a two-way street. Right now, your mark is fully healed on his neck, but you remain unmarked. You can feel the echo of his emotions — his protectiveness, his overwhelming adoration — but he can’t fully feel yours. The connection is unbalanced, and your body is practically screaming for him to finish what you started on the side of that icy highway.

“You need my mark,” Beau says, his eyes darkening with primal instinct. “You need to be claimed.”

“I do,” you whisper, looking up at him. “I really do, Beau.”

That’s all it takes.

Beau lets out a ragged groan and crushes his mouth to yours. There is no hesitation, no gentle buildup. It is an explosion. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting like pepperoni and pure alpha heat. You melt against him instantly, your hands tangling in his dark, messy hair.

He walks you backward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and then he’s pushing you down, following you onto the soft duvet.

“You have no idea how badly I want you,” he growls against your lips, his hands already working the zipper of your jacket. He pushes the heavy winter coat off your shoulders, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. “I’ve wanted you since the second I opened my eyes in that wrecked car and saw you looking at me.”

“You were dying, Beau,” you laugh breathlessly, helping him pull your sweater over your head.

“And my first thought was still fuck, she’s gorgeous,” he replies, entirely serious.

He strips you down with an urgent, desperate efficiency that speaks of pure alpha focus. When you are lying on his bed in nothing but your matching lace bra and panties, Beau finally stops. He sits back on his heels at the edge of the bed, his chest heaving, his blue eyes raking over your body like he’s a starving man and you’re a feast.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, running a large, calloused hand up your thigh. “You are so beautiful. It’s actually insane.”

“Beau,” you whine, your hips tilting instinctively toward his touch. The ache in your neck is pulsing in time with the heavy, wet heat pooling between your legs. “Please.”

“I got you. I’m right here,” he soothes, the rough timber of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

He unhooks your bra, tossing it aside, before his large hands hook into the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs and throwing them to the floor.

You expect him to move up. You expect him to crawl over you, to press his heavy, warm body against yours and sink his teeth into your neck to finalize the bond.

Instead, Beau grabs your ankles, gently but firmly pulling you toward him until your hips are at the very edge of the bed. He drops to his knees on the floor between your spread thighs.

“Beau?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Relax, baby,” he murmurs. He wraps his large hands around your thighs, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, then another halfway up your thigh.

He inhales deeply, his chest expanding. “Fuck. You smell like vanilla and slick. You are so ready for me.”

“I need you to claim me,” you pant, your fingers gripping the duvet tightly.

“I will,” he promises, his hot breath ghosting right over your center. “But first, I’m going to take care of you. You saved my life today. Let me worship you a little.”

Before you can argue, Beau buries his face between your thighs.

A loud, startled moan rips from your throat. Your hips jerk up off the mattress, completely entirely of their own accord.

Beau is not tentative. He is an absolute menace. He laps at your core with a greedy, wet enthusiasm that makes your brain completely short-circuit. His broad hands grip your thighs like a vice, holding you perfectly in place as his tongue lashes over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Beau! Oh my god,” you gasp, your head throwing back against the pillows.

He hums in response, the deep vibration buzzing directly against your clit. It is the most intensely pleasurable sensation you have ever felt. He sucks you right into his mouth, his tongue swirling and flicking with a devastating rhythm. He is ravenous, slurping and eating you out like it’s his last meal on earth.

“So fucking sweet,” he groans against you, his voice muffled. “You taste so good, Y/N.”

“You’re—oh, God, Beau, please,” you stammer, your fingers tangling blindly in the bedsheets.

He doesn’t slow down. If anything, his enthusiasm ramps up. He slips two thick fingers inside of you, pumping deeply in time with the relentless assault of his tongue. He is a huge munch, completely and utterly obsessed with the taste of his omega. He drinks your slick like he’s dying of thirst, letting out low, feral growls of approval every time your hips twitch and stutter against his mouth.

It is dirty, and messy, and completely mind-blowing.

“That’s it, baby, give it to me,” he praises, his wet mouth sliding up to nip playfully at your inner thigh before diving right back to your center. “Let go for me.”

You are spiraling. The pleasure is building to an unbearable peak, a rushing tidal wave of sensation that leaves you completely breathless.

But beneath the blinding pleasure, the primal, driving ache in your neck is screaming. The bond is demanding to be completed. You can’t climax like this, not when the connection between your souls is still hanging by a single, one-sided thread.

“Beau,” you gasp, your voice cracking. You reach down, your fingers tangling in his dark, messy hair. You tug gently. “Beau, stop. Wait.”

He groans in protest, pulling back just an inch, his lips wet and shining in the dim light. “What? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you pant, your chest heaving. “No, it feels incredible. But you … I need you up here. The bond. It hurts, Beau.”

His eyes snap up to yours. The haze of pure lust in his gaze clears instantly, replaced by that sharp, protective alpha instinct. He sees the desperate need in your eyes, the way your hand reaches up to cover the throbbing claiming gland on your neck.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he says quickly, his voice rough.

He stands up, ripping his ruined jeans and boxers down his legs in one smooth motion. He kicks them away.

You finally get a good look at him fully naked, and your breath simply stops. He is massive. His chest and arms are heavily muscled, completely unmarked thanks to your bite, and his thick, heavy cock is completely rigid, bobbing against his stomach.

He crawls up the bed, caging you beneath his heavy frame. His skin is blazing hot against yours. The friction of his chest rubbing against your bare breasts makes you whimper.

“I got you,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a gravelly timber. He presses his hips into yours, letting you feel the thick, heavy heat of him resting right against your entrance. “I’m right here, Y/N. I’m claiming you.”

He slides one large hand under your neck, tilting your head to the side, exposing the sensitive, unbroken skin of your claiming gland.

The anticipation is maddening.

“Do it,” you beg, your nails digging into his back. “Beau, please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Beau aligns his hips and pushes forward, burying himself deep inside of you in one smooth, powerful thrust.

You cry out, your eyes flying wide open. He is incredibly thick, stretching you completely full. The sensation of him finally inside you is overwhelming, a perfect, puzzle-piece fit.

But he doesn’t give you time to adjust. The second he is fully seated inside you, Beau opens his mouth and sinks his teeth directly into your claiming gland.

The pain is sharp, a split-second sting that vanishes almost instantly.

Because the second his teeth break the skin, the bond snaps shut.

It hits you like a freight train. It is a blinding, white-hot explosion of emotion and sensation. Suddenly, you aren’t just feeling your own pleasure, you are feeling his. You feel his overwhelming adoration for you, his sheer, terrifying relief that he survived to meet you, and the heavy, intoxicating possessiveness that courses through his veins. It floods your mind, a two-way street of unfiltered connection.

“Mine,” he roars directly against your neck, his voice tearing through the room.

“Yours,” you sob back, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist.

Beau starts to move. He pulls back and slams into you with devastating force. He isn’t gentle anymore; he is a feral alpha completely consumed by the need to mate. His hips snap forward with a wet, heavy slap of skin against skin, driving deep into your core over and over again.

You are completely unmoored. You meet his thrusts, your hips rocking up to take every inch of him.

“Fuck, Y/N, you feel so good,” he groans, his teeth grazing over the fresh, bleeding mark he just left on your neck. “So tight. So perfect.”

“Beau,” you gasp, your head thrashing against the pillows. The pleasure is building too fast, amplified a thousand times by the completed bond. You can feel how close he is, how the pressure is building at the base of his spine, and it pushes you right over the edge.

“Let go, baby. Come for me,” he commands, his thrusts turning brutal and erratic.

You scream his name as you shatter. A violent, full-body climax rips through you, your internal muscles clenching down hard around his thick length.

Beau lets out a harsh, guttural shout. He drives into you one last time, pinning your hips to the mattress as he spills inside of you, his entire massive body shuddering with the force of his release.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the heavy, ragged sound of your combined breathing.

Beau stays buried inside you, his full weight pressing you down into the mattress. He turns his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his nose practically touching the fresh bite mark. He inhales deeply, the steady, rhythmic vibration of his purr rumbling against your chest.

“You okay?” He finally rasps, his voice completely wrecked.

“Mhmm,” you hum, too exhausted to form words. You let your hands fall limply to the bed, your entire body feeling like it has been melted down and poured into a puddle of pure bliss. The aching, unbalanced feeling in your chest is completely gone. In its place is a steady, warm hum of absolute security.

Beau finally pulls back, shifting his weight off you. He rolls onto his side, pulling you flush against his chest and tangling his legs with yours. He reaches up, his thumb gently wiping a smear of blood away from the fresh mark on your neck.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his blue eyes soft and full of awe. “You’re perfect.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you tease weakly, resting your hand over his heart. It’s beating strong and steady.

Beau chuckles, kissing your forehead. “I’m going to take you on a real date tomorrow. No ambulances, no feral teammates. Just you and me.”

“I’d like that,” you smile, your eyes drifting shut.

“Good.” He pulls the duvet up over both of you, tucking it securely around your shoulders. He kisses you one last time, a soft, lingering promise. “Go to sleep, omega. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time all night, wrapped in the arms of your alpha, you let yourself completely relax. The fairytale was real. And it was just beginning.

***

The roar of fifty thousand screaming fans is absolutely deafening, a physical wall of sound that shakes the cold aluminum bleachers of the stadium. The crisp, biting winter wind whips through your hair, but you barely feel the chill. You are currently sandwiched between Beau’s dad and Dean, buried beneath three different layers of Briar University merchandise, including Beau’s oversized spare game jersey pulled over your winter coat.

“I can’t look,” you say, burying your face in your gloved hands. “Tell me when it’s over.”

“You can’t not look, Y/N, it’s third and goal!” Dean shouts over the crowd, elbowing you gently in the ribs. “Look at your man! He’s about to do something crazy, I can smell it.”

“He better not do anything crazy,” Beau’s dad grumbles from your other side, his hands tightly gripping the railing of the front-row VIP section. “He just needs to hand it off to the fullback. Safe and steady.”

“Mr. Maxwell, with all due respect, your son doesn’t know the meaning of safe and steady,” Logan chimes in from behind you, leaning over the bleacher seat. “The guy is a feral alpha with a football. He’s going to run it himself.”

You peek through your fingers, your stomach tying itself into a series of complicated knots.

Down on the pristine turf, under the glaring stadium lights, the Briar University offense is lined up on the five-yard line. The championship game has been an absolute bloodbath. Briar is down by four points. There are exactly fourteen seconds left on the game clock. This is the final play. It is literally do or die.

And right in the center of the chaos, standing in the shotgun formation, is your mate.

Even from the stands, Beau looks massive. His broad shoulders fill out his shoulder pads, his dark visor obscuring his baby blue eyes, but you don’t need to see his face to know exactly what he’s feeling. The bond linking your souls together is humming with a frantic, electric intensity. You can feel his pure, unadulterated focus. There is no fear. There is only the predatory, overwhelming alpha drive to win.

You close your eyes for a split second, taking a deep breath, and push a wave of absolute belief down the bond. You’ve got this.

Down on the field, Beau’s head snaps up. He looks away from the defensive line, his helmet tilting directly toward the VIP section. He can’t see your face in the sea of screaming fans, but he feels you. He taps his chest twice, right over his heart, a silent, public acknowledgment that sends a thrill straight down your spine.

“Oh, you guys make me sick,” Garrett groans from the row behind you. “He’s literally about to play the most important snap of his college career and he’s flirting with you telepathically.”

“It’s not flirting, it’s anchoring,” you argue, a nervous smile breaking across your face. “And shut up, Garrett, or I’m not making you guys breakfast tomorrow.”

“I take it back. You are a queen, and Beau is lucky to have you,” Garrett backpedals instantly.

“Hike!” Beau’s deep, booming cadence echoes through the stadium speakers, cutting through the crowd noise.

The ball snaps. The stadium collectively holds its breath.

The defensive line instantly collapses the pocket, a terrifying rush of three-hundred-pound linebackers charging directly at Beau. For a terrifying second, you think he’s going to get sacked. The pocket completely dissolves.

But Beau doesn’t panic. He spins, dodging a massive defensive tackle with a fluidity that shouldn’t be possible for a guy his size. He tucks the football tightly against his ribs and scrambles out to the right.

“He’s running!” Dean screams, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you. “I told you! He’s running it!”

“Throw the ball, Beau!” His dad yells, practically climbing over the railing.

But there is no one to throw to. The endzone is completely locked down by the opposing team. Beau has no choice. He lowers his shoulder and charges toward the pylon.

Two defenders close in on him at the two-yard line. It looks like a car crash waiting to happen. Your breath catches in your throat, a flash of memory from that icy highway hitting you, but the bond radiates nothing but sheer, bulletproof confidence.

Beau doesn’t slide. He leaps.

He launches his massive frame into the air just as the defenders dive for his legs. He absorbs a brutal hit in mid-air, spinning from the impact, but he extends his right arm, stretching the football as far as his reach will go.

The tip of the football crosses the bright orange pylon of the endzone just a fraction of a second before Beau crashes into the turf out of bounds.

The referee throws his hands straight up into the air.

Touchdown.

The stadium absolutely erupts. The noise is no longer just a roar; it is a physical earthquake. Fireworks explode from the top of the scoreboard, painting the dark December sky in Briar’s colors. The game clock hits double zeros.

They won. He won.

“He did it!” You scream, jumping up and down.

Dean grabs you by the waist and completely lifts you off the ground, spinning you in a circle while screaming unintelligibly. Logan and Garrett are hugging each other and jumping like little kids. Beau’s dad has his face buried in his hands, completely overwhelmed with pride.

“Put me down, Dean!” You laugh, smacking his shoulder until he drops you back onto the aluminum bleachers.

Down on the field, pandemonium has broken loose. The entire Briar sideline empties, a massive wave of players rushing the endzone to dogpile on top of Beau. Coaches are hugging, Gatorade coolers are being dumped, and a swarm of sports reporters and cameramen are already sprinting onto the turf.

You grip the railing, leaning over as far as you can, your eyes desperately searching the chaotic sea of jerseys for him.

The heavy, suffocating weight of the crowd and the overwhelming mix of scents should be triggering your omega anxiety, but it doesn’t. The only thing you feel is the blinding, radiant joy pouring through the bond from your alpha. He is ecstatic. He is triumphant.

And he is looking for you.

The massive dogpile finally unweaves, and Beau emerges from the center of it. He rips his helmet off, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his face smeared with turf paint and dirt. He looks feral, wild, and incredibly beautiful.

A reporter shoves a microphone directly into his face, a cameraman practically tripping over Beau’s cleats. “Beau! Beau Maxwell! What a game-winning play! Can you tell us what was going through your mind during that final run?”

Beau doesn’t even look at the reporter. He gently but firmly pushes the microphone out of his face. “Excuse me.”

“Beau, just one question!” The reporter pleads, trailing after him.

Beau ignores him completely. He breaks into a jog, weaving through the celebrating players, the coaches, and the security guards. His baby blue eyes lock onto the VIP section. He locks onto you.

“Oh, boy,” Tucker laughs, leaning against the railing next to you. “Here comes the main character moment.”

“Shut up, Tucker,” you say, but your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Beau reaches the bottom of the stands. The VIP section is separated from the field by a six-foot concrete wall, but that doesn’t even slow him down. He doesn’t look for the stairs. He steps up onto a medical cooler sitting on the sideline, grabs the top of the concrete barrier, and easily vaults his massive frame upward, his cleats catching the edge.

He ignores the security guards shouting. He ignores the flashing cameras.

He leans entirely over the railing, reaching into the stands.

You don’t even have to think. You step up onto the bottom bleacher seat, leaning over the railing to meet him.

Beau’s large, taped hands cup your face, his thumbs instantly pressing into your cheeks to tilt your head up. He smells like sweat, adrenaline, and that heavy, intoxicating scent of pine and ozone.

“You did it,” you breathe out, a massive smile taking over your face.

“We did it,” he corrects, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrates straight to your core.

And then, he kisses you.

It isn’t a gentle, polite peck. It is a completely unrestrained, desperate, soul-consuming kiss. He crushes his mouth to yours, his tongue sweeping inside to taste you, claiming you all over again in front of fifty thousand people.

The crowd around you goes absolutely feral. Dean and the boys are whistling and howling like wolves. The sports cameras pivot, broadcasting the kiss to the jumbotrons towering over the stadium.

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his damp hair, kissing him back with everything you have. The bond flares so brightly it practically blinds you, a perfect, unbroken circle of love and devotion.

When he finally pulls back, you are both breathless.

He rests his forehead against yours, his blue eyes shining with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I love you,” he whispers, the words meant only for you, entirely cutting through the chaos of the stadium.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, brushing a smudge of dirt off his cheek. “Now go celebrate with your team before your coach has a heart attack.”

“Let him,” Beau smirks, turning his head just enough to press a kiss directly over the claiming mark on your neck, right where your pulse is racing. “You’re my real prize anyway.”

“Gross!” Logan yells from three feet away. “Get a room! Or at least get off the wall, you’re ruining the structural integrity!”

Beau finally looks away from you, glaring playfully at his friends. “Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Logan.” He looks over at his dad, who has finally stopped crying and is grinning ear to ear. “Hey, old man. Did you see that?”

“I saw you ignore the play call and give your mother gray hairs all the way from Wisconsin,” his dad laughs, reaching over to grip Beau’s shoulder pad. “But it was a hell of a run, son. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Beau looks back at you, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “I have to go do the trophy presentation and talk to the press. Go back to the locker room tunnel with the boys. I’ll meet you there in twenty.”

“Okay,” you smile. “Go be a hero.”

Beau drops back down onto the turf, his cleats hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He points a finger at Dean. “Keep an eye on her, or I’m ending your bloodline.”

“I got her, boss!” Dean salutes, though he completely ruins the serious moment by tripping over an empty popcorn bucket.

You watch Beau jog back toward the center of the field, instantly swarmed by his teammates who lift him onto their shoulders. It feels surreal. It has been exactly six months since the crash on Route 2. Six months since you pulled a dying alpha out of a wrecked car and completely derailed your entire life.

It was the best thing you ever did.

“Alright, Y/N, let’s move,” Garrett says, gently steering you by the shoulder. “The post-game crowd crush is going to be brutal. Let’s get down to the tunnels.”

The boys flank you perfectly, a massive, impenetrable wall of alpha hockey players shielding you from the chaotic crush of fans trying to rush the lower sections. They guide you down the concourse, flashing their VIP passes to security, and lead you into the quiet, concrete bowels of the stadium.

The hallway outside the Briar locker room is relatively quiet, a stark contrast to the absolute madness happening on the field above.

“So,” Tucker says, leaning against the cinderblock wall and crossing his arms. “Who had ‘Beau Maxwell becomes a hopelessly romantic sap’ on their yearly bingo card? Because I certainly didn’t.”

“I did,” Dean says smugly, stealing a half-eaten pretzel from Logan’s hand. “The guy has been a walking red flag for codependency since he made Y/N sit on his lap in the ambulance.”

“It’s not codependency, it’s called being a good mate,” you defend him, laughing.

“It’s called being whipped,” Logan grumbles, swatting Dean’s hand away. “He literally just paused the greatest moment of his athletic career to climb a wall and make out with you. If I ever do that, I want you guys to medically check my brain.”

“Don’t worry, Logan, you have to actually find someone willing to date you first,” Garrett deadpans.

You tune out their bickering, leaning your back against the cool concrete wall. You pull out your phone, sending a quick text to your mom.

We won! He’s safe. Call you tomorrow.

Her reply is instantaneous. Saw the kiss on ESPN! Your father is complaining about PDA but he’s smiling. So proud of him! Love you!

You smile, sliding the phone back into your pocket. The sound of heavy cleats clicking against the concrete floor echoes down the tunnel.

You look up.

Beau is walking down the hallway, completely alone. He’s ditched the reporters, the coaches, and the trophy. He has a towel draped over his neck, his jersey grass-stained and torn at the collar, but he walks with the swagger of a man who owns the entire world.

When he sees you, his entire posture softens. He doesn’t even acknowledge the boys. He walks straight up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck.

“You smell so good,” he groans, inhaling deeply. “I’ve been surrounded by sweaty linebackers for four hours. My instincts were screaming at me to find you.”

“I’m right here,” you say softly, running your hands through his damp hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you know he loves.

“We’ll give you two a minute,” Garrett says, clapping his hands together. “We’re going to go raid the VIP buffet before the offensive line gets there and eats everything. Meet us at the car, Beau.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Beau dismisses them with a wave of his hand, not lifting his head from your neck.

The boys shuffle down the hallway, their voices fading into the distance, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet tunnel.

Beau finally pulls back, resting his hands on your hips. He looks down at you, really looks at you, his eyes searching your face.

“What?” You ask, feeling a flush creep up your cheeks under his intense stare.

“I’m just thinking,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “About the drive back from the city that night. Before the crash. My dad asked me if I had any prospects, and I told him I didn’t have time for a mate. That football was my only priority.”

“Well, you were a little busy,” you tease.

“I was an idiot,” he corrects, his voice completely serious. “I thought this — the game, the championship, the draft — I thought this was the best feeling in the world.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. “It doesn’t even come close, Y/N. Winning this game feels great, but coming to the sidelines and seeing you waiting for me? That’s everything.”

Your heart swells, the bond flooding with such overwhelming warmth it brings tears to your eyes. “Beau …”

“I mean it,” he says, his grip on your hips tightening. “You saved my life, Y/N. But you also gave me a reason to live it. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret climbing into that wrecked car.”

“I could never regret it,” you say, reaching up to cup his face. You stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, marveling at the fact that this incredible, fiercely devoted alpha belongs entirely to you. “You’re my knight, remember? It’s just like the fairytale.”

Beau smiles, a soft, incredibly tender expression that he only ever reserves for you. “Yeah. Just like the fairytale.”

He leans in, kissing you again. It’s slower this time, a deep, lingering promise of everything to come. The noise of the stadium above you is a distant rumble, completely entirely irrelevant.

In the quiet of the concrete tunnel, wrapped in the arms of the boy who owns your soul, you know exactly how the story ends.