Natalia

“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.

A heavy, warm hand slides up your spine. Calloused fingertips trace the line of your vertebrae with agonizing gentleness, right up to the nape of your neck, before a soft pair of lips presses against the healing mating bite over your scent gland.

“Morning, beautiful,” Dean’s voice rumbles, low and gravelly with sleep.

You let out a soft, contented sigh, shifting backward until your body is perfectly flush against his solid chest. The bond humming beneath your skin flares to life, vibrating with a deep, answering affection. “Morning.”

“How are you feeling?” He asks, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you even closer. “The fever is completely gone. You feel cool.”

“I feel like I ran a marathon,” you mumble, keeping your eyes closed. “Or maybe ten marathons. I can barely lift my arms.”

Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your back. “That’s fair. You put in a lot of work this week, sweetheart.”

You flush hotly, the memories of the past seven days rushing back. It had been a blur of skin, heat, and absolute biological demand. Every time you thought the wave was cresting, it would pull you back under, and Dean had been there for every single second of it. He hadn’t just taken care of you; he had worshipped you. He fed you when you were too weak to sit up, carried you to the bath when you were slick with sweat, and answered every single one of your omega’s frantic pleas with absolute, unyielding devotion.

“You must be exhausted,” you say, finally cracking your eyes open and turning your head to look at him over your shoulder.

Dean looks beautifully wrecked. His blonde hair is sticking up in every direction, his jaw is covered in a week’s worth of golden scruff, and there are faint, dark circles under his eyes. But his green eyes are bright, practically glowing with a fierce, settled contentment.

“I’ve never felt better in my entire life,” Dean says honestly. He props his head up on his hand, looking down at you. “You’re perfect. You did so good. I’m so damn proud of you.”

Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your emotions are still completely raw, sitting right on the surface. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” he promises, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Now, stay here. Don’t move a muscle. I’m going to make us some coffee and get some actual food in you. Room service brought up a massive breakfast spread about an hour ago.”

He climbs out of the nest, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing, and pulls on a pair of grey sweatpants low on his hips. You watch him walk out to the main living area, admiring the broad slope of his shoulders and the way his muscles shift under his skin.

He’s your mate. The reality of it still knocks the breath completely out of your lungs.

A few minutes later, Dean returns carrying a tray loaded with pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit, and two massive mugs of coffee. He sets it on the nightstand and climbs back into the bed, carefully pulling you up so your back is resting against the headboard. He grabs one of his oversized Briar hockey hoodies from the edge of the nest and gently pulls it over your head, completely cocooning you in his scent and warmth.

“Eat,” he commands gently, handing you a fork.

You actually have an appetite this morning. The two of you eat in comfortable, easy silence, occasionally stealing bites from each other’s plates. It feels incredibly domestic. It feels like the start of the rest of your life.

When the plates are mostly cleared, Dean sets his coffee mug down and clears his throat.

“So,” he begins, leaning back against the pillows and crossing his arms over his chest. “We need to make some phone calls.”

Your stomach does a complicated, nervous flip. “Phone calls?”

“To our parents,” Dean says. He watches your face carefully, instantly picking up on the spike of anxiety pushing through the bond. He reaches out, wrapping his hand around your ankle under the blankets. “Hey. It’s okay. I want to call mine first. I want them to know I found you. Is that alright?”

You swallow hard and nod. “Yeah. Yes, of course.”

“Do you want me to step out into the living room?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, stay here. I want to hear.”

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly tender expression. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabs his phone, and dials. He hits the speakerphone button and tosses the phone onto the mattress between you.

It rings twice before a bright, elegant voice answers.

“Dean? Honey, it’s barely ten in the morning on a Sunday. Are you actually awake, or is the frat house on fire?”

Dean laughs. “No fire, Mom. I’m wide awake. Is Dad there?”

“Peter!” His mother calls out, her voice slightly muffled as she pulls the phone away. “Pick up the line in the study! It’s Dean!” A second later, a deep, authoritative voice clicks onto the line.

“Morning, son. Everything alright?”

“Everything is perfect,” Dean says, leaning forward. He reaches out and takes your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours. “Better than perfect, actually. I found her.”

The silence on the line is instantaneous and absolute.

Then, his mother gasps. “Dean? Are you … are you serious?”

“I’m completely serious,” Dean says, his chest puffing out with undeniable alpha pride. “She’s right here with me. Her heat just broke this morning.”

“Oh my god,” his mother breathes, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. “Peter, he found his mate! Dean, this is incredible! Oh, darling, congratulations. We are so, so happy for you.”

“A fated mate,” his father adds, the strictness in his voice completely replaced by a warm, booming joy. “Well done, son. That’s the best news we’ve had in years. What’s her name? Is she a Briar student?”

Dean looks at you, his eyes shining. “Yeah, she goes to Briar. And she’s amazing. She’s the most beautiful, perfect omega I’ve ever met.”

You blush furiously, hiding your face in the oversized collar of Dean’s hoodie.

“Well, don’t keep her all to yourself!” His mother insists. “You need to bring her down to Greenwich immediately. We have to celebrate! I’ll have the staff air out the guest wing, or if she’d prefer, we can come up to Massachusetts. We can take you both out to dinner. Oh, I need to go shopping, I need to get her a welcoming gift-”

“Mom, hold on,” Dean interrupts gently. He gives your hand a firm squeeze. “I need you to listen to me for a second, okay? We aren’t coming to Greenwich right now, and you can’t come up here just yet.”

“Why?” His father asks, immediately picking up on the shift in Dean’s tone. “Is everything alright? Was the heat too hard on her?”

Dean takes a deep breath. “She had a rough time. A really rough time before I found her. Her family … they’re betas. Only betas.”

“Oh,” his mother says, her tone shifting to cautious understanding.

“They put her on suppressants when she was fourteen,” Dean continues, his voice hardening slightly at the memory. “Heavy, industrial-grade blockers. They tried to medicate her designation away because they thought it was an inconvenience. When I found her on campus a week ago, she was seizing on the concrete. She had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome from the toxicity. She almost died.”

A sharp, horrified intake of breath comes from the phone.

“My god,” his father murmurs, completely appalled.

“They put a child on those poisons?” His mother asks, her voice trembling with genuine outrage and heartbreak. “Dean, that’s barbaric. That poor darling. Is she okay? Is she healthy?”

“She’s healthy now,” Dean assures them quickly. “We flushed her system at the hospital, but coming off them threw her straight into her first heat. She was terrified. Her parents completely convinced her that fated mates were a myth and that her biology was something to be ashamed of.”

“That is unacceptable,” his father states firmly, the high-powered attorney coming out in full force. “Absolutely unacceptable.”

“I know,” Dean says. “Which is why I’m telling you this. When we do finally come down to visit, or when you come up, I need you to be extra gentle with her. She’s never had a proper pack. She’s never seen how an omega is supposed to be treated in a real family. I need you guys to show her that this is a blessing, not a curse.”

“Dean, you don’t even have to ask,” his mother says, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You just tell us what she needs. We will spoil her absolutely rotten. We will show her exactly what it means to be cherished by this family. You just take care of her right now, okay? Let her recover. Let her get her bearings.”

“We’re sending a care package,” his father adds decisively. “Expect it by tomorrow. And Dean … tell her welcome to the family.”

“I will,” Dean says, a massive smile breaking out on his face. “Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom. I’ll call you guys later.”

“We love you, Dean. Send her our love!”

Dean hangs up the phone and looks at you.

You are openly crying, the tears spilling down your cheeks and soaking into the collar of the hoodie. You have never, not once in your entire life, heard adults talk about an omega with that level of reverence, care, and desperate protection. And they haven’t even officially met you yet. They just immediately accepted you because you are their son’s mate.

“Hey, no tears,” Dean murmurs, dropping the phone and pulling you onto his lap. He cradles you against his chest, pressing kisses into your hair. “They love you already. I told you, you’re a queen now.”

“They’re so nice,” you sob, clinging to his shirt. “They didn’t even care that I missed class for a week. They just cared if I was okay.”

“Because you’re what matters,” Dean says, rubbing your back. “Not your grades, not your schedule. You.”

You stay there for a long time, letting his words and the overwhelming support from his parents settle into your bones. It makes you feel brave. It makes you feel incredibly grounded.

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes with the oversized sleeves of the hoodie. You take a deep, shaky breath.

“I need to call my parents.”

Dean frowns, his protective instincts immediately flaring. “You don’t have to do that right now. You can wait. Send a text.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I need to. I’ve been missing for a week. They’re probably worried sick. Or angry. Mostly angry. But I have to tell them.”

Dean studies your face, seeing the determination in your eyes. He hates it. He hates knowing what is likely waiting on the other end of that line, but he refuses to take your agency away.

“Okay,” Dean says softly. “But I’m right here. If they start their bullshit, I’m cutting it off.”

You nod, pulling your own phone off the charger on the nightstand. Your hands are shaking slightly as you scroll to your mother’s contact and hit call. You leave it off speakerphone, holding it tightly to your ear.

It rings four times.

“Hello?” Your mother’s crisp, impatient voice answers.

“Hi, Mom,” you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the racing of your heart.

“It’s about time,” she snaps immediately, the reprimand sharp and instant. “Do you have any idea how irresponsible you’ve been? I have been texting you for six days. I called your roommate, and she gave me some nonsense excuse about you being out of town. What is going on with you?”

You flinch slightly. Dean feels the spike of distress through the bond and immediately wraps his arm securely around your waist, anchoring you to him.

“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t call,” you start, trying to keep your tone reasonable. “I was in the hospital.”

There is a brief pause. “The hospital? I saw a charge hit the insurance from Boston General, but when I called, they wouldn’t release your records to me because you’re an adult. What did you do to yourself?”

What did you do to yourself. Not are you okay? Not I was so worried. “I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice hardening just a fraction. “The suppressants you and Dr. Davidson put me on caused a toxic reaction. I had a severe tonic-clonic seizure on the quad. I almost died, Mom.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” your mother sighs, a deeply irritated sound. “Dr. Davidson warned us that there might be some adverse side effects when we upped the dosage. It was just your body adjusting. You just needed to push through it. If you went to the hospital, I’m sure those doctors overreacted and pulled you off of them.”

You stare blankly at the wall, the sheer, willful ignorance of her words staggering you. “Yes, they pulled me off of them. Because they were poisoning me. Because they caused Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome.”

“Well, now what are we going to do?” Your mother demands, completely ignoring your near-death experience in favor of logistics. “You’ve been off them for a week. You must have missed your midterms. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get those professors to let you retake them? You’re jeopardizing your entire semester for a temporary biological hiccup!”

“It’s not a hiccup!” You finally raise your voice, frustration bleeding through. “It’s my biology! Coming off the pills triggered my heat.”

“Ugh,” she groans, the sound dripping with disgust. “I knew it. A whole week wasted wallowing in a dorm room. We are calling Dr. Davidson on Monday. There has to be a different brand, something lower dose that won’t cause the seizures but will still keep you regulated-”

“I’m not taking them ever again.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, I’m never taking suppressants again,” you say firmly, the mating mark on your neck pulsing warmly, giving you strength. “I’m an omega. I’m done hiding it.”

“You are a modern woman,” your mother corrects sharply, her voice rising in anger. “You are not an animal ruled by hormones. I will not let you throw your life away just because you had a bad reaction to one medication. We worked too hard to make sure you were independent.”

“I am independent!” You argue, tears springing to your eyes again, this time entirely out of frustration. “But I also found my mate, Mom.”

The line goes dead silent.

“What did you just say?”

“I found my fated mate,” you repeat, your voice shaking but defiant. “The guy who found me on the quad when I was seizing … he’s an alpha. We mated. Everything you said was just a fairytale, everything you told me didn’t exist in real life … it’s real. And it’s better than I ever imagined.”

Your mother scoffs. It is a loud, derisive, mocking sound.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Really? This is what this is about?” Her tone is dripping with absolute condescension. “You had a medical emergency, you got scared, and some frat boy alpha fed you a line about being fated to get you into bed during your heat. And you fell for it. You used a fairytale to justify throwing away your medication schedule.”

“That’s not what happened!” You gasp, completely horrified by her cruelty.

“It’s exactly what happened,” your mother says ruthlessly. “Fated mates aren’t real. It’s just a chemical reaction, a biological trap to keep women subservient. And now you’ve bound yourself to some random college boy who is going to expect you to play house instead of focusing on your career. I am so deeply disappointed in you.”

The words hit you like physical blows. You curl in on yourself, a fractured sob tearing from your throat. “Mom, please. Just listen to me-”

“I have heard enough. You are going to pack your bags, you are going to march into your professors’ offices tomorrow and beg for make-up exams, and then you are going to call Dr. Davidson. Until you are ready to act like an adult and take control of your biology, I have nothing else to say to you.”

Before you can even try to respond, Dean’s hand completely covers yours.

He physically pulls the phone out of your grip. His face is a mask of pure, terrifying alpha fury. The air in the room practically drops ten degrees as his scent spikes with sharp, aggressive warning pheromones.

He brings the phone to his mouth.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Dean snarls into the receiver, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat. “Do not ever speak to my omega like that again. You lost the right to call yourself her mother the second you put your prejudice above her life. Do not call this number again.”

“Excuse me, who do you think you are-”

Dean hits the red end-call button, cutting her off mid-sentence.

He tosses the phone onto the floor, completely dismissing its existence, and immediately turns all his attention to you.

You are shaking violently, sobbing into your hands. The rejection cuts so incredibly deep. It’s exactly what you had always feared — that if you embraced who you were, your family would throw you away.

“Shh, baby, hey,” Dean murmurs, pulling your hands away from your face. He wraps his arms completely around you, dragging you fully onto his lap and pressing your face into his neck. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“She hates me,” you cry, gripping handfuls of his t-shirt. “She didn’t even care that I was happy. She just cared that I ruined her perfect plan.”

“She’s toxic,” Dean says firmly, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your back. He pushes out waves of calming cedar, actively using the mating bond to try and force the panic and heartbreak out of your system. “She is a toxic, miserable person who can’t handle the fact that you have something she will never understand. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I just wanted her to be happy for me,” you whisper brokenly.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Dean kisses the top of your head, resting his cheek against your hair. “But you don’t need her. You don’t need any of them.”

You sniffle, looking up at him with red, swollen eyes. “I don’t?”

“No,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb sweeping away a fresh tear. “Because you have me. And you have my family. We are your pack now. You hear me? You belong to us. We are going to celebrate you, and we are going to love you exactly the way you are.”

He leans in and kisses you, a deep, grounding kiss that tastes like salt and coffee and absolute devotion.

“I’m never letting anyone make you feel small again,” Dean vows against your lips. “You’re my omega. My beautiful, perfect omega. And from now on, your life is going to be a goddamn fairytale. I promise.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his strength, letting his scent wash away the lingering sting of your mother’s words. It hurts. The rejection hurts terribly.

But as Dean holds you tight against his chest, safe in the center of the nest he built just for you, you realize that for the first time in your life, you are finally, truly home.

***

Stepping out of the hotel feels like crossing the threshold between a dream and reality. Only, as Dean’s hand rests heavily and securely on the small of your back, guiding you toward his car in the underground garage, you realize reality is suddenly far better than any dream you could have conjured.

The air in the parking garage is cool, but you are wrapped in one of Dean’s thick, grey Briar Hockey zip-ups, perfectly insulated by the soft fleece and the overwhelming scent of your mate. Your body still hums with a lingering, pleasant ache from the past week, a constant physical reminder of the bond that now firmly tethers your soul to his.

“You good?” Dean asks, opening the passenger door for you. He pauses, his green eyes scanning your face with that intense, focused dedication he hasn’t dropped since he found you on the quad. “Not too tired?”

“I’m good, Dean,” you promise, offering a soft smile as you slide into the leather seat. “I promise. I just feel … different. Lighter.”

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the mating bite resting over your scent gland. The jolt of electricity that shoots through your veins makes you gasp softly. Dean smirks against your skin, clearly pleased with his effect on you, before pulling back and shutting the door.

He climbs into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. “First stop, the dorms. We need to grab your essentials.”

“I should probably text Grace,” you say, pulling your phone out of your bag. You hadn’t looked at it since the disastrous call with your mother yesterday. True to his word, Dean had actively pushed out waves of calming alpha pheromones, completely smothering your anxiety and replacing it with a deep, settled peace. “She’s probably going to yell at me for going off the grid.”

“She can yell all she wants,” Dean says lazily, backing the SUV out of the parking spot. “As long as she doesn’t stress you out. If she stresses you out, I’m throwing her out the window.”

You roll your eyes, though a giggle escapes your lips. “She’s my best friend, Dean. And she’s a beta. You can’t throw her out a window.”

“Watch me,” he deadpans, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

The drive to campus is short. Dean navigates the familiar streets of Briar with practiced ease, pulling the heavy SUV right up to the curb outside your dorm building. He throws it into park, hopping out to open your door before you can even reach for the handle.

Walking into the dorm building with Dean Di Laurentis is an experience. Usually, you keep your head down, practically blending into the cinderblock walls to avoid drawing attention to yourself. Today, keeping a low profile is entirely impossible.

Dean entirely envelopes your space. He keeps one hand firmly laced with yours, his broad shoulders practically acting as a shield as he guides you through the crowded lobby.

Heads turn. Whispers instantly break out. Dean is a minor celebrity on campus, and the sight of him fiercely guarding a girl wearing his oversized hoodie sends shockwaves through the Sunday morning crowd. But Dean completely ignores them. He only has eyes for you.

When you reach your door on the third floor, you take a deep breath and push it open.

Grace is sitting at her desk, entirely surrounded by flashcards and empty coffee cups. She looks up, her eyes widening in immediate relief.

“Oh my god, you’re alive!” Grace shouts, jumping up from her chair and rushing toward you. “I have been calling you for-”

She stops dead in her tracks, about three feet away.

Her eyes dart from your face, down to your violently bruised lips, to the massive hockey hoodie, and finally, to the tall, imposing figure standing right behind your shoulder.

 Grace’s jaw practically hits the linoleum floor.

“No way,” Grace breathes, her eyes wide as saucers. She looks at you, then at Dean, then back at you. “No freaking way. You … and him? Dean Di Laurentis?”

Dean offers a charming, completely unapologetic grin, stepping forward to wrap his arm around your waist and pull your back flush against his chest. “Nice to meet you.”

“You … you smell different,” Grace says, taking a step back, her nose wrinkling slightly as she tries to process the heavy, mixed pheromones filling the small dorm room. Even as a beta, she can easily pick up on the intensity of the bond. Her eyes suddenly snap to your neck, catching a glimpse of the bruised, healing skin peeking out from the collar of the hoodie.

 Grace gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re mated! You actually did it! You stopped taking the pills!”

“I did,” you say, a massive, genuine smile breaking across your face. You lean back against Dean’s chest, entirely unashamed. “Grace, this is Dean. My mate.”

“But … he’s Dean Di Laurentis,” Grace stammers, entirely bewildered. “He’s Briar’s resident man-whore! He literally had a line of girls waiting outside his frat house last week!”

Dean winces slightly, a faint dusting of pink hitting his cheeks. He tightens his grip on your waist. “Hey. Former. I’m retired. And technically, it’s not a frat house, it’s an off-campus rental. I only slept with betas because I was waiting for her.”

Grace stares at him for a long, calculating moment. She looks at the way his hand rests possessively on your hip, and the way his green eyes soften every time he looks down at you. The protective, devoted aura rolling off him is entirely undeniable.

Slowly, Grace smiles. “Well. It’s about damn time somebody treated you like a queen.”

“That’s exactly what I told her,” Dean says, instantly warming up to your roommate. He looks around the cramped, sterile dorm room. “Alright, beautiful. Where are your bags?”

You blink, looking up at him. “My bags? I only have a backpack for class tomorrow.”

“No,” Dean says patiently, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. “Your duffel bags. For your clothes.”

“Why do I need to pack my clothes?” You ask, completely confused.

Dean stops. He looks down at you, his brow furrowing slightly, before a slow, devastatingly arrogant smirk spreads across his lips. “Because you’re not sleeping here anymore, sweetheart. You live with me now.”

A rush of heat floods your cheeks, turning your face a brilliant shade of crimson. “I … I do?”

“Yes, you do,” Dean says, the humor fading into absolute, unshakeable sincerity. “You’re my omega. You think I’m going to let you sleep in a twin-sized dorm bed across campus from me? Not a chance in hell. You’re coming home. To our house.”

You stare at him, your heart doing a frantic, joyful flutter against your ribs. Moving in with a guy you technically met a week ago should feel terrifying. It should feel reckless. But it doesn’t. It feels like the most natural, inevitable thing in the world.

“Okay,” you whisper, the blush still burning on your cheeks. “Okay. Under the bed. There are some suitcases.”

Dean is a man on a mission. For the next thirty minutes, he practically tears through your side of the room. He pulls out your suitcases, expertly folding and packing your clothes with a terrifying efficiency.

Grace sits on her bed, entirely entertained by the sight of Briar’s hottest alpha meticulously folding your fuzzy socks and organizing your skincare routine into a vanity bag.

“I’m going to miss you,” Grace says softly as Dean zips up the final suitcase. “But I’m really, really happy for you.”

“I’ll still see you in class,” you promise, walking over to pull her into a tight hug. “And I’ll text you. Thank you, Grace. For always telling me not to settle.”

“Anytime,” she smiles, pulling back. She points a warning finger at Dean. “You break her heart, Di Laurentis, and I don’t care how big you are. I will destroy you.”

Dean hoists two massive suitcases over his shoulders like they weigh absolutely nothing. He looks at Grace, his expression dead serious. “If I ever do anything to hurt her, you have my full permission.”

He gestures toward the door with his chin. “Ready, baby?”

“Ready,” you say, grabbing your backpack.

***

The house Dean shares with his hockey teammates is massive, sprawling, and exactly what you would expect a group of athletic college guys to live in. It sits at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac just off campus, boasting a massive wrap-around porch and a perfectly manicured lawn that you heavily suspect Dean pays someone to maintain.

Dean pulls into the driveway, cutting the engine. He turns in his seat, reaching out to gently cup your cheek.

“Nervous?” He asks, his thumb stroking your skin.

“A little,” you admit, biting your lower lip. “I know who your roommates are, Dean. Everyone knows who they are. What if they think this is weird? What if they don’t want an omega in the house?”

Dean’s expression hardens instantly. “It’s my house. My grandfather bought it, the lease is in my name. And even if it wasn’t, Garrett, Logan, and Tuck are my brothers. They were at the hospital pacing the waiting room right next to me. They already know you’re mine, and they already respect you. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

He leans in, pressing a firm, reassuring kiss to your lips. “You’re pack now. They’ll treat you like it.”

Dean hops out of the car, grabbing your heavy suitcases from the trunk. He refuses to let you carry a single thing, hip-checking the front door open and ushering you inside.

The house smells like fresh pine, leather, and the distinct, overlapping scents of three other alphas. It’s a little overwhelming, but underneath it all, the foundation is Dean’s comforting cedar and rain, anchoring you immediately.

“Di Laurentis! Is that you?” A deep voice calls out from the living room.

“Yeah, we’re in the hall!” Dean shouts back, dropping your bags near the staircase. He reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours as he leads you into the main living space.

Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are all sprawled across a massive sectional sofa, entirely surrounded by empty pizza boxes and video game controllers. The massive flat-screen TV is currently paused on a game of FIFA.

The moment the three of them catch your scent — the rich, undeniable sweetness of a newly mated omega — they all freeze.

It’s pure instinct. One by one, the three massive hockey players stand up, completely abandoning their game. The easy, frat-boy energy completely vanishes, replaced by a deep, biological respect.

“Guys,” Dean says, his voice carrying the calm, authoritative rumble of a pack leader. He tugs you slightly forward, keeping you tucked safely against his side. “This is my mate.”

Garrett is the first to move. He steps forward, offering a warm, genuine smile that completely transforms his usually intense features. He keeps his distance, making sure not to crowd you. “It’s really nice to officially meet you. I’m Garrett.”

“I know who you are,” you say softly, offering a small, shy smile in return. “Hi.”

“I’m Logan,” Logan says, giving you a two-finger salute from across the coffee table. “Glad to see you’re looking a hell of a lot better than the last time we saw you on the quad. Dean was about two seconds away from ripping someone’s head off.”

“Ignore him,” Tucker drawls, his thick Southern accent smooth and welcoming as he steps up beside Garrett. “I’m Tucker. Welcome to the madhouse, darlin’. If this idiot forgets to feed you or starts acting up, you just let us know, and we’ll handle him.”

Dean rolls his eyes, though the tension completely bleeds out of his shoulders. “I think I can handle feeding my own mate, Tuck.”

“Just putting it out there,” Tucker grins.

You look at the three alphas. You have spent your entire life being told that alpha-heavy spaces are dangerous, that they are overwhelming and oppressive to omegas. Your mother had warned you to stay away from the hockey houses, claiming they were toxic environments.

But standing here, surrounded by four massive alphas, you have never felt safer. They aren’t looking at you like prey. They are looking at you with respect, entirely acknowledging Dean’s claim and welcoming you into the fold without a single moment of hesitation.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice much steadier now. “It’s nice to meet you guys, too.”

“Alright, show’s over,” Dean announces, clapping his hands once. “We have unpacking to do. Don’t eat all the pizza.”

Dean guides you up the wide wooden staircase, easily carrying both of your massive suitcases. He leads you down a long hallway, pushing open the heavy oak door at the very end.

“Welcome home,” Dean says softly, dropping the bags on the floor.

You step inside, and your breath catches in your throat.

Dean’s bedroom is massive, almost the size of a studio apartment. It has high ceilings, massive windows overlooking the backyard, and a king-sized bed in the center of the room. But what stops you in your tracks is the fact that the room is completely, immaculately clean.

“You cleaned,” you observe, walking further into the room.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, looking slightly sheepish. “Tuck might have come up here and helped me scrub the place down yesterday while you were sleeping. I wanted it to be nice for you. I know I’m usually kind of a slob, but I swear, I’ll be better. I want you to be comfortable.”

Your heart melts entirely. You walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face into his chest. “It’s perfect, Dean. Thank you.”

He lets out a long exhale, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your hair. “Good.”

For the next two hours, Dean helps you unpack. And he doesn’t just clear out a single drawer for you; he completely reorganizes his massive walk-in closet, physically pushing all of his designer suits and hockey gear to one side to give you exactly half of the space. He sets up your skincare on the master bathroom vanity. He clears off the top shelf of the bookcase so you can put your textbooks there.

He doesn’t just make room for you. He completely integrates your life into his, physically and emotionally claiming you with every single sweater he hangs up.

By the time the last bag is unpacked, you are exhausted all over again. Dean pulls back the heavy comforter on the bed and ushers you in, pulling you flush against his chest and entirely burying you in his scent.

As you drift off to sleep, surrounded by the smell of cedar and rain in a house full of protective alphas, you realize you have finally found exactly where you belong.

***

The sharp, annoying blare of your phone alarm rips you out of a deep sleep the next morning.

You groan, reaching a hand blindly out from under the heavy comforter to smash the snooze button. The bed is incredibly warm, perfectly molded to your body.

A low, deep chuckle rumbles from the pillow next to you.

“Five more minutes?” Dean asks, his voice thick with morning gravel.

You open your eyes, blinking against the bright morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Dean is propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with a stupidly fond expression on his face. He is shirtless, the morning light catching the golden dusting of hair across his broad chest.

“I have an eight AM,” you grumble, pulling the blankets up to your chin. “I can’t miss it. I already missed a whole week.”

“I know,” Dean says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m taking you.”

You frown slightly, your sleepy brain trying to catch up. “You don’t have to walk me to class, Dean. I know you’re a political science major. You’re on the other side of campus.”

Dean smirks, a completely devastating look that makes your stomach flip. “Sweetheart, look at your schedule again. We’re in the same Intro to Political Theory lecture on Mondays and Wednesdays. I’ve been sitting three rows behind you since September.”

Your eyes widen drastically. “You … you have?”

“Yeah,” Dean says softly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I always wondered why you smelled like vanilla body spray instead of an actual scent. Now I know.”

He throws the blankets back and hops out of bed, completely unashamed of his nakedness as he walks toward the bathroom. “Come on. Up. I’ll make coffee while you shower.”

Getting ready with Dean is a completely new experience. In your dorm, mornings were a frantic rush of fighting Grace for the mirror and running out the door with a granola bar.

With Dean, everything is slow, deliberate, and entirely focused on you.

He stands behind you in the bathroom, brushing his teeth while you do your makeup, his free hand resting heavily on your hip. When you walk out to the kitchen, he has a travel mug of hot coffee and a perfectly toasted bagel waiting for you.

“Ready?” He asks, grabbing his own backpack and slinging it over one shoulder.

“Ready,” you smile, taking the coffee.

As you step out onto the front porch, you move to sling your heavy tote bag over your shoulder. But before the strap can even touch your arm, Dean’s hand catches it.

“I got it,” he says smoothly, taking the bag from your hand and sliding it onto his own shoulder, right next to his massive hockey backpack.

“Dean, it’s heavy,” you protest weakly. “You don’t have to carry my bag.”

“I’m an alpha, sweetheart,” he smirks, grabbing your free hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “Carrying heavy things for my incredibly beautiful mate is literally in my biological job description. Let me spoil you.”

You don’t argue again. You let him pull you down the driveway, a warm, bright feeling blooming in your chest.

Walking across campus with Dean is entirely different this time. You aren’t rushing, you aren’t hiding, and you certainly aren’t invisible.

The campus is buzzing with the morning rush. And almost instantly, people start staring. Dean Di Laurentis, the guy notorious for refusing to commit to anyone, the alpha who supposedly only slept with betas, is walking across the quad holding hands with a girl. And he’s carrying her floral tote bag.

You shrink slightly under the weight of the stares, instinctively moving closer to Dean.

He senses your anxiety immediately. His arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He pushes out a wave of sharp, protective cedar, a clear, biological warning to anyone staring too hard.

“Keep your head up,” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush against your ear. “You’re with me. Let them look.”

His confidence is infectious. You straighten your spine, leaning into his solid strength, and let the rest of the campus blur into the background.

You reach the massive lecture hall just as the previous class is filing out. Dean guides you through the double doors, leading you down the carpeted stairs toward the middle section.

He stops at a row of empty seats, but he doesn’t sit down immediately. Instead, he drops his backpack onto the floor, places your tote bag gently on the desk, and physically pulls out a chair for you.

“Here,” Dean says softly.

You sit down, completely overwhelmed by his attentiveness. Dean slides into the seat directly next to you, his massive frame making the small university desk look entirely inadequate.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a sleek, insulated thermos. He unscrews the top and slides it across the desk toward you.

“What’s this?” You ask, looking at the pale green liquid inside.

“Iced matcha,” Dean says casually, pulling out his notebook. “I noticed you always get one from the campus cafe before this lecture. But since we didn’t have time to stop today, I made it at the house.”

You stare at the drink, completely speechless. He had noticed. He had been watching you closely enough since September to know your exact morning coffee order, and he had taken the time to make it for you before you even woke up.

“Dean,” you whisper, your heart swelling with so much affection it physically aches. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply, looking at you with those deep, devoted green eyes. He reaches under the desk, taking your hand and resting it on his muscular thigh, tangling his fingers with yours.

The professor walks in, a stern-looking older beta, and immediately begins writing on the whiteboard. The dull hum of the lecture hall settles as students open their laptops and notebooks.

You try to focus on the lecture. You really do. But it’s nearly impossible when Dean is sitting inches away from you, his thumb slowly, rhythmically stroking the back of your hand under the desk.

About twenty minutes into the class, the professor starts droning on about the philosophical implications of Rousseau’s social contract.

Dean shifts slightly in his seat. Without looking away from the front of the room, he lifts your joined hands from his lap. He turns your hand over, brings your knuckles to his lips, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your skin.

A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm. You practically stop breathing, your eyes darting to look at him.

Dean is perfectly calm, completely unfazed by the public display of affection. He lowers your hand back to his leg, keeping his fingers tightly laced with yours. A faint, incredibly satisfied smirk plays on his lips.

You look down at your hand resting on his leg. You look at the iced matcha waiting perfectly on your desk. You inhale the rich, heavy scent of cedar and rain that entirely surrounds you, acting as a permanent, invisible shield against the rest of the world.

Your mother was wrong.

Being an omega isn’t a weakness. It isn’t a liability, and it isn’t a biological trap.

It is exactly this. It is feeling completely, undeniably safe. It is being cherished, protected, and adored by an alpha who looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars.

You shift in your plastic chair, leaning entirely into Dean’s space. You press your shoulder firmly against his massive bicep, nuzzling your face subtly into the crook of his neck to inhale his scent directly from the source.

Dean lets out a low, rumbling purr that completely vibrates through his chest. He wraps his arm around the back of your chair, pulling you flush against him, completely ignoring the professor and the fifty other students in the room.

He drops his head, pressing his lips to the crown of your hair.

“I love you,” Dean breathes, the words meant entirely for you, completely lost under the droning voice of the professor.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, meaning it with absolutely every fiber of your newly awakened soul.

Reality had finally begun. And as you sit there, anchored to the alpha you were quite literally born to be with, you realize that your fairytale was going to last a lifetime.

***

The heavy silk of your dress slips over your curves, settling perfectly around your hips. You turn slightly in front of the floor-to-length mirror in the luxury hotel suite, adjusting the thin straps.

It’s been three months since you moved into the hockey house. Three months of waking up completely wrapped in Dean’s scent, of Garrett and Tucker teasing you in the kitchen, of Logan complaining when Dean kisses you too long before practice. Three months of feeling completely, unapologetically alive.

But right now, staring at your reflection, a familiar knot of anxiety is twisting tight in your stomach.

“You’re overthinking.”

Two massive, warm hands slide around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against a broad, solid chest. Dean rests his chin on top of your head, his green eyes meeting yours in the mirror. He is already dressed in his suit — a bespoke, charcoal-grey masterpiece that fits his muscular frame so perfectly it should be illegal.

“I’m not overthinking,” you lie, leaning back into his heat. “I’m just adjusting the zipper.”

Dean smirks, his hands sliding flat over your stomach. “Sweetheart, I can literally feel your heart racing through the bond. And your scent is spiking with anxiety. You smell like sour vanilla.”

You sigh, dropping your hands. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Dean says softly. He turns you around in his arms, his expression instantly shifting from playful to fiercely devoted. “I told you, we don’t have to go. We can stay right here in this hotel room, order room service, and I can spend the next forty-eight hours ruining that pretty dress. You have absolutely zero obligation to see those people.”

“It’s Jenny’s wedding,” you remind him gently, reaching up to smooth the lapel of his suit jacket. “She was the only one in my extended family who actually treated me like a person growing up. She snuck me romance novels when my mom confiscated them. She always checked on me when the suppressants made me sick. I’m not going to miss her wedding just because my parents are on the guest list.”

Dean’s jaw ticks, a flash of pure alpha protectiveness darkening his eyes at the mention of your parents. He still hasn’t forgiven them. He likely never will.

“Okay,” Dean says, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your lips. “But we have a deal. The second they step out of line, the second they make you feel even a fraction of an inch small, I am stepping in. And then we’re leaving. I don’t care if they’re about to cut the cake.”

“Deal,” you smile, the anxiety already melting away under the heavy, grounding weight of his cedar and rain scent. “You look incredibly handsome, by the way.”

Dean grins, his trademark arrogant swagger snapping right back into place. “I know. It’s a burden. But wait until they get a load of you.”

He catches your wrist, his thumb gently brushing over the stunning diamond and sapphire claiming bracelet that hasn’t left your skin since the night in Greenwich. Above it, peeking just over the neckline of your dress, is the dark, permanent scar of his mating bite.

You belong to him. Completely and entirely.

“Let’s go show them what they’re missing,” Dean murmurs.

***

The country club reception hall is beautiful, entirely bathed in warm candlelight and soft floral arrangements. It is also entirely full of betas.

The moment you and Dean step through the double doors, the shift in the room’s atmosphere is instantaneous. Betas don’t have the acute, hyper-sensitive olfactory senses of alphas or omegas, but they aren’t entirely blind to biology. The sheer, overwhelming gravity of a fully mated alpha and omega walking into the room creates an undeniable ripple.

Heads turn. Whispers start up immediately.

Dean doesn’t falter. He walks with the kind of relaxed, predatory grace that demands the room’s attention, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back. He keeps you tucked firmly against his side, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic circle against your spine.

“They’re staring,” you whisper, keeping your eyes trained on the ice sculpture in the center of the room.

“Let them stare,” Dean says smoothly, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handing one to you. “They’ve probably never seen an actual mated couple before. Half of them are probably wondering why their own marriages feel like business transactions compared to this.”

You let out a startled laugh, almost spilling your champagne. “Dean! You can’t say that.”

“I just did,” he smirks, clinking his glass against yours. “Drink up, beautiful. We have a bride to congratulate.”

You spot Jenny near the sweetheart table. She looks radiant in her white gown, laughing with her new husband, a perfectly nice, perfectly average beta named Greg.

When Jenny sees you approaching, her eyes light up.

“You made it!” She shrieks, abandoning her husband to practically sprint across the dance floor. She throws her arms around you, squeezing you tight. “I am so happy you’re here. I was so worried your mom was going to convince you to stay in Massachusetts.”

“I don’t really listen to my mom anymore,” you say, pulling back with a bright smile. “You look absolutely stunning, Jenny.”

“Thank you,” she beams, before her eyes slide to the massive, imposing man standing directly behind you. Her eyes widen slightly, taking in Dean’s sharp jawline, broad shoulders, and the intense, protective way he’s watching the room around you. “Oh my god. Is this …”

“Jenny, this is Dean,” you say, reaching back to grab his hand. “My mate.”

Dean steps forward, offering a charming, devastating smile that completely melts the bride. “Congratulations, Jenny. She talks about you all the time. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“The honor is mine,” Jenny breathes, slightly dazed. She looks at you, her eyes dropping to the mating bite on your neck and the glittering bracelet on your wrist. “Wow. You guys … wow. You look amazing. Both of you. The energy between you two is practically vibrating.”

“It’s a fated thing,” Dean says simply, pulling you flush against his chest and wrapping both arms around your waist from behind. He rests his chin on your shoulder, entirely unashamed of the public display of affection.

You watch the other couples on the dance floor. The beta partners are swaying together, polite and pleasant. There is love there, absolutely. But it lacks the gravity, the desperate, magnetic pull that exists between you and Dean. When Dean touches you, it isn’t just a physical action, it’s a soul-deep reassurance. He doesn’t just hold your hand; he anchors your entire existence.

“I’m so incredibly happy for you,” Jenny says softly, her eyes shining with genuine tears. “You deserve the fairytale. I always knew it was real for you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning back into Dean’s solid heat.

“Enjoy the open bar,” Jenny grins, turning back toward her husband. “And brace yourself. Your parents are at table four, and they’ve been glaring holes into the back of your head since you walked in.”

The warmth instantly drains from your face.

Dean feels the spike of cold dread through the bond immediately. His arms tighten around you, his chest rumbling with a low, barely audible growl. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your ear. “Want me to go tell them to get lost?”

“No,” you say, taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. “No, I’m not hiding. We’re going to get a drink, we’re going to dance, and if they have something to say to me, they can come say it.”

Dean spins you around, a look of pure, blazing pride on his face. “God, you are so incredibly hot when you’re brave.”

He kisses you hard, right in the middle of the ballroom, before leading you toward the bar.

For the next hour, it’s perfect. You drink champagne, you introduce Dean to a few of your nicer aunts and uncles — who are all entirely captivated by his old-money charm and sheer alpha presence — and you dance. When a slow song comes on, Dean pulls you into the center of the floor. He doesn’t leave space between you like the beta couples. He pulls you flush against his body, his hands roaming freely over your back, your hips moving together in perfect, effortless synchronization.

You are laughing at a joke he just whispered in your ear when the music fades into a low hum.

“Having fun?”

The voice is cold, sharp, and instantly recognizable.

You freeze. Dean immediately stops swaying, his body going rigid as he turns you both to face the edge of the dance floor.

Your mother is standing there, flanked by your father. She is wearing a stiff navy dress, her lips pursed in a thin, deeply disapproving line. Her eyes rake over you, taking in the close proximity of your bodies, the flush on your cheeks, and finally, the heavy claiming mark on your neck.

“Mom. Dad,” you say, your voice perfectly even, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

“I’m surprised you showed up,” your father says bluntly, crossing his arms. “After the stunt you pulled.”

“It’s my cousin’s wedding,” you reply, keeping your chin high. “I wasn’t going to miss it.”

Your mother scoffs, an ugly, condescending sound. She looks directly at Dean. “And I suppose this is the boy you threw away your medication schedule for. The one who convinced you that acting like an animal in heat was somehow romantic.”

Dean lets out a low, vibrating snarl that is so purely alpha it actually makes your father take a physical step back.

“Speak to my mate with respect, or I will have security throw you out of this venue,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously quiet, entirely completely devoid of his usual charm. It is a lethal, unyielding command.

“Excuse me?” Your mother bristles, her face flushing with anger. “This is a family event. You don’t get to dictate-”

“I dictate everything concerning my omega,” Dean cuts her off, stepping slightly in front of you to shield you with his body. “You gave up your right to be called her family the day you decided her biology was an inconvenience. The day you nearly killed her with toxic suppressants.”

“We were trying to protect her future!” Your mother hisses, keeping her voice low to avoid a scene, though several nearby guests are already staring. “She was on track to graduate early. Now she’s probably failing half her classes because she’s too busy playing house with some arrogant frat boy.”

“Actually,” you say, stepping out from behind Dean. The fear is completely gone now. Staring at the bitter, close-minded woman in front of you, you only feel pity. “I have a 4.0 this semester. Because instead of fighting my own body, I’m actually healthy. I’m happy. And Dean isn’t a frat boy. He’s my mate.”

Your mother looks at the diamond and sapphire bracelet on your wrist, her lip curling in disgust. “A temporary chemical bond. He’ll get bored of you the second he graduates and goes back to his rich little alpha circles.”

Dean actually laughs. It’s a dark, humorless sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Temporary,” Dean repeats, shaking his head. He reaches out and grabs your hand, lifting your wrist so the diamonds catch the chandelier light. “My grandfather bought these sapphires in Paris for my grandmother on the night he claimed her. They’ve been in my family for sixty years. And now they belong to her. She is wearing my mark, my family’s legacy, and she has my entire soul in her hands. There is absolutely nothing temporary about this.”

Your parents stare at him, completely silenced by the sheer, overwhelming weight of his devotion.

“You don’t understand it because you’re incapable of feeling it,” Dean continues, his eyes locking onto your mother’s. “And that’s fine. But you will not stand here and project your miserable, sterile worldview onto my mate. We’re done here.”

Dean turns to you, his expression softening instantly. “Ready to go, baby?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your chest swelling with so much love for him it physically aches.

You don’t look back as Dean leads you off the dance floor, out of the reception hall, and straight to the valet.

***

The silence in the elevator ride up to your hotel suite is heavy, thick with the lingering adrenaline of the confrontation.

Dean’s jaw is clenched tight, his grip on your hand almost painfully firm. His alpha is entirely agitated, the protective instincts pushed into overdrive by the perceived threat to his omega.

The second the suite doors click shut behind you, Dean drops the keycard on the entry table and turns to you.

“I should have ruined them,” Dean snarls, running a hand aggressively through his perfectly styled blonde hair. “I should have completely torn into them. The way she looked at you-”

“Dean,” you say softly, dropping your small clutch onto the table.

You step into his space, sliding your hands up his chest to grip the lapels of his suit jacket. You look up into his dark, storming green eyes.

“You defended me,” you whisper, the words heavy with awe. “You stood in front of my parents, and you defended me. No one has ever done that for me.”

Dean’s breathing hitches. He looks down at you, the blazing anger slowly morphing into a deep, desperate hunger. “I will always defend you. I will burn the entire world down before I let anyone make you feel ashamed of being mine.”

Your omega practically screams in response to his dominance. A hot, slick rush of arousal pools instantly between your thighs. The sheer display of his protective, primal nature has completely short-circuited your brain.

“Show me,” you beg, your voice dropping to a breathy, desperate rasp. You pull on his lapels, forcing him to step closer until your bodies are flush. “Show me I’m yours.”

Dean groans, a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your knees weak.

He grabs you by the hips and physically lifts you off the floor. You let out a startled gasp, immediately wrapping your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles behind his back.

Dean doesn’t even bother walking to the bedroom. He backs you up two steps, slamming your back against the heavy wooden door of the suite. The impact knocks the breath out of you, completely replaced by his mouth crashing down onto yours.

It is a devastating, bruising kiss. There is no gentleness in it, only raw, desperate possession. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in the soft moans escaping your throat.

“So fucking perfect,” Dean breathes against your mouth, his hands dropping to grip the backs of your thighs.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are pitch black, completely feral. He reaches up and grips the neckline of your expensive silk dress.

With one sharp, violent tug, the silk tears down the center, the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the quiet entryway.

“Dean!” You gasp, entirely shocked by his aggression, but it only fuels the fire burning in your belly.

“I’ll buy you a hundred more,” he growls, shoving the ruined fabric off your shoulders. The dress pools around your waist, leaving you in nothing but a sheer lace bra and a matching thong.

Dean’s eyes rake over your exposed skin, darkening even further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping heavily over the mating mark he left there months ago. You throw your head back, arching your spine off the door as a jolt of pure lightning shoots straight down to your core.

“You handled them so beautifully, baby,” Dean praises, his voice a rough vibration against your skin. “You were so brave. My perfect omega.”

“Take it off,” you plead, your hands frantically tugging at his suit jacket. “Dean, please, I need you. I’m so empty.”

He drops you to your feet, letting your ruined dress fall completely to the floor. You step out of it, entirely focused on him.

Dean rips his suit jacket off, tossing it blindly into the room. He tears at his tie, popping the top three buttons of his crisp white dress shirt before he completely abandons it, unable to wait. He reaches for his belt, his breathing harsh and ragged as he sheds his slacks and boxers in a matter of seconds.

He stands before you, perfectly cut and entirely hard, the heavy, thick length of his arousal pulsing with demand.

You drop to your knees.

Dean’s breath catches violently in his throat as you look up at him through your lashes. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

“Claiming you back,” you whisper.

You reach out, wrapping your small hands around his thick base, and take him completely into your mouth.

Dean roars, his hands instantly flying to tangle in your hair. His head throws back, hitting the door behind him with a thud. “Fuck! God, baby, yes.”

You swallow him as deeply as you can, the sheer size of him stretching your jaw comfortably. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, swirling and sucking with a desperate, greedy rhythm. You want to taste every inch of him. You want to make him lose that perfect, arrogant control.

Dean’s hips begin to buck involuntarily, entirely at your mercy. He grunts with every agonizingly wet pull of your mouth. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you in place as he sets a brutal, driving pace.

“I can’t-” Dean gasps, his entire body trembling violently. “Baby, stop. I’m going to finish in your mouth, let me go.”

You don’t listen. You hum against his length, increasing the suction, entirely determined to wreck him.

Dean curses, a filthy, desperate sound. He pulls back roughly, ripping himself from your mouth before he completely loses his mind.

He grabs you under the arms, hauling you to your feet. He spins you around, slamming your chest against the smooth wood of the door.

“You’re a menace,” Dean snarls, his chest heaving as he presses his massive body against your back. “A beautiful, entirely too eager menace.”

He reaches around your hips, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace thong. He rips it down your legs, leaving you completely bare and entirely exposed to him.

“Spread your legs,” Dean commands softly.

You obey instantly, stepping your feet shoulder-width apart.

Dean reaches down, his fingers completely coated in the slick, wet heat pouring from your core. He doesn’t bother with any preamble; you are already soaked, completely primed and desperate for him.

He aligns his thick, blunt tip against your entrance, leaning forward to bite down sharply on the junction of your shoulder and neck.

As you gasp at the pain, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one brutal, merciless thrust.

You scream his name, your fingernails digging frantically into the wood of the door. The feeling of him completely filling you up, stretching your inner walls taut, is the most intense, overwhelming sensation in the world.

“So fucking tight,” Dean groans, his forehead resting heavily against your back. He stays perfectly still for a moment, letting you adjust to his massive size. “You feel like heaven, baby. You feel so good.”

“Don’t stop,” you sob, throwing your hips back against him, demanding friction. “Dean, please move!”

He chuckles darkly. He grips your hips, holding you firmly in place, and pulls back almost entirely. And then he slams his hips forward, bottoming out with a loud, wet slap of skin.

You completely lose your mind.

Dean sets a punishing, relentless pace. He takes you from behind with pure alpha dominance, entirely feral and completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond. His thrusts are hard and deep, hitting the exact spot inside you that makes your vision white out.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice a low, rough growl in your ear. “Take all of me. Show me how much you need me.”

“I need you,” you cry, your head thrashing back and forth. “I love you, Dean. Please, please!”

He slides one hand around to your front, finding the slick, swollen bundle of nerves between your thighs. He rubs his thumb in a tight, fast circle right over your clit while continuing his brutal assault from behind.

It is entirely too much. The sensory overload snaps the last shred of your control.

“Dean!” You scream, your body bowing violently off the door as a massive, blinding climax rips through you. Your inner walls clench frantically around his length, completely milking him.

Dean snarls, his own control completely shattering. He drives his hips forward in rapid, erratic thrusts, chasing his release.

“Mine,” he roars, burying himself to the hilt as the heavy knot at his base swells, completely locking him inside you.

He unloads deep inside your womb with a devastating, earth-shattering force.

You cry out as his climax hits, the sheer volume of his heat sending you spiraling straight into a second, paralyzing orgasm. You ride the devastating aftershocks together, the physical tie of his knot anchoring you as the mating bond flares brilliantly in your chest, linking your souls in absolute, unshakeable harmony.

For a long time, the only sound in the entryway is your synchronized, ragged breathing.

Dean slowly collapses forward, pressing his sweaty chest entirely against your back. He keeps his heavy arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you upright as your legs tremble uncontrollably.

“God,” Dean breathes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder blade. “You are going to be the absolute death of me.”

“You started it,” you murmur, turning your head to smile weakly back at him.

Dean chuckles, his chest rumbling against your back. His knot slowly begins to recede, allowing him to carefully pull out of you.

He turns you around, catching you immediately as your knees buckle. He scoops you up into his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing, carrying you down the hall and into the master bedroom.

He drops you gently into the center of the massive king-sized bed, crawling in right beside you. He pulls the heavy duvet up over both of your damp, exhausted bodies, instantly pulling you flush against his chest.

“I’m sorry the wedding was stressful,” Dean murmurs, his thumb stroking a soothing rhythm up and down your bare arm. “I’m sorry they were there.”

“I’m not,” you say softly, resting your head on his shoulder.

Dean looks down at you, surprised. “You’re not?”

“No,” you smile, looking up into his devoted green eyes. “Because looking at them tonight, looking at how miserable and bitter they are, it just made me realize how lucky I am. I used to be so afraid of this. I used to think being an omega was a curse.”

You reach up, tracing the strong, sharp line of his jaw.

“But you showed me the truth,” you whisper. “You gave me the fairytale, Dean. I’ll never be afraid again.”

Dean’s expression melts into pure, undeniable adoration. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss that completely steals the breath from your lungs.

“I’m just getting started, sweetheart,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against yours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know exactly how perfect you are.”

You close your eyes, inhaling the deep, comforting scent of cedar and rain. As you drift off to sleep in the arms of your fated mate, wrapped entirely in his love and protection, you know with absolute certainty that he is telling the truth.

The happily ever after wasn’t just a story. It was finally yours.

***

Five years.

It feels like an entire lifetime ago that you were a terrified college student, choking down pale blue pills and trying to smother the very essence of your soul. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, you still marvel at the sheer, impossible trajectory of your life since the day you collapsed on the Briar University quad.

But right now, the house is perfectly, beautifully quiet, and you aren’t thinking about the past at all. You are entirely captivated by the present.

You are sitting in the direct center of the most magnificent nest you have ever built. It takes up the entirety of the massive, custom-made mattress in the master bedroom of the home you and Dean bought just outside of Boston. The nest is a masterpiece of biology and absolute luxury — woven together from Dean’s worn-in college hockey hoodies, the ridiculously expensive cashmere throws Dean’s mother gifts you every Christmas, and the softest silk sheets money can buy.

And resting perfectly against your chest, wrapped in a pale pink blanket, is your daughter.

Celia Di Laurentis is four days old.

You stare down at her tiny, sleeping face, your heart expanding so rapidly in your chest that it actually aches. She is impossibly small, with a full head of soft, spun-gold hair that exactly matches her father’s, and a tiny, perfect button nose. Her little chest rises and falls in a steady, peaceful rhythm, and every time she lets out a soft, mewling sigh, your omega instincts absolutely roar with a fierce, all-consuming wave of protective love.

She smells like sweet milk, baby powder, and the undeniable, distinct genetic blend of vanilla and cedar. Your pup. Your perfect, beautiful pup.

The heavy oak door of the master bedroom clicks open, the hinges entirely silent because Dean had personally oiled them the day before you went into labor.

You don’t even have to look up. The rich, grounding scent of rain-soaked asphalt and deep cedar immediately floods the room, completely blanketing your senses and making the mating mark on your neck tingle with warmth.

“Hey,” a low, achingly gentle voice whispers.

You look up. Dean is standing in the doorway, holding a silver tray loaded with a massive spread of food, a pitcher of ice water, and your postnatal vitamins. He is wearing soft grey sweatpants, entirely shirtless, his broad, heavily muscled chest currently acting as a canvas for the tiny, dark ink of your initial over his heart.

He is twenty-seven now. The cocky, arrogant college playboy has long since matured into a devastatingly handsome, fiercely commanding alpha who runs a massive division of his family’s luxury hotel empire. He wears bespoke suits to the office and commands boardrooms with lethal precision.

But right now, looking at you and Celia, he just looks like a man who has been completely brought to his knees by his own heart.

“You’re awake,” Dean murmurs, stepping into the room and gently kicking the door shut behind him. He moves with an incredible, practiced quietness, setting the heavy tray down on the bedside table before turning his full attention to the nest.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper back, your voice raspy. You brush a gentle finger over Celia’s soft cheek. “I just wanted to watch her.”

Dean’s green eyes soften into pools of pure, liquid devotion. He steps up to the edge of the mattress, dropping to his knees so he is perfectly at eye level with you and the baby. He doesn’t cross the boundary of the nest yet; even as your mated alpha, his biological respect for your nesting space during the immediate postpartum period is absolute.

“How is she?” Dean asks, his gaze tracing every single line of his daughter’s face as if he is trying to memorize it for the thousandth time today.

“Perfect,” you say, a completely genuine, exhausted smile spreading across your lips. “She ate about an hour ago, and then she just milk-drunk passed out. She hasn’t even fussed.”

“She’s a Di Laurentis,” Dean smirks, reaching out slowly. He rests his massive, calloused hand on the mattress, just inches from where your knee is tucked under the blankets. “She knows how to appreciate a good nap in a luxury bed.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You are completely ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” Dean says, though his smile is wide and painfully bright. He looks up from Celia, his eyes locking onto yours. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Really. Don’t lie to me to make me feel better. You’re exhausted.”

“I am exhausted,” you admit, the truth of it settling heavily in your bones. The labor had been long, a grueling eighteen hours that tested every ounce of your physical strength. But Dean had been a rock, an immovable anchor holding your hand, pushing his scent into your lungs, and practically growling at any nurse who didn’t move fast enough for his liking. “My body aches. But it’s … it’s a good ache, Dean. It feels like exactly what I was meant to do.”

Dean’s breathing hitches. He reaches forward, his large fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, sweeping a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You did so incredibly good,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with a raw, overwhelming emotion. “I have never been more terrified or more in awe of anyone in my entire life than I was watching you bring her into the world. You are so goddamn strong, baby.”

Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your hormones are still wildly fluctuating, keeping your emotions right on the surface, but this isn’t sadness. It is sheer, overwhelming gratitude.

“I wasn’t alone,” you remind him, leaning your cheek into the warmth of his palm. “I had you.”

“Always,” Dean vows, pressing his palm firmly against your skin. “You have me forever.”

He lets out a long breath, finally pulling his hand back to gesture to the tray on the nightstand. “I made you a turkey club. Extra bacon, extra mayo, exactly how you’ve been craving it since Monday. And Garrett dropped off those pastries from the bakery downtown.”

“Garrett was here?” You ask, your eyebrows lifting in surprise.

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. “Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have all been sitting in our living room for the past three hours. They refuse to leave. Tucker brought a massive stuffed bear that is literally bigger than the baby, and Logan has been aggressively trying to put together that luxury baby swing my dad sent over.”

A warm, bright feeling blooms in your chest. The Briar boys had never stopped being your pack. They had stood by Dean at your wedding, they had aggressively vetted the neighborhood before you bought this house, and the moment you announced you were pregnant, they had collectively lost their minds.

“You should let them come up,” you say softly. “They haven’t even seen her since we brought her home from the hospital.”

“Absolutely not,” Dean says instantly, his alpha completely rejecting the idea. He shakes his head, his jaw setting in a firm, protective line. “No other alphas in your nesting space right now. Not even them. You need quiet, you need your space, and you need to heal. They can look at her through the crack in the door tomorrow, maybe. From the hallway.”

You roll your eyes, but your omega practically purrs at his intense, territorial protection. It makes you feel entirely safe, completely guarded from the outside world.

“You’re a tyrant,” you tease.

“I’m a father,” Dean corrects smoothly, puffing his chest out just a fraction. He looks back down at Celia, and the fierce alpha completely melts back into a massive softie. “Look at her, baby. I mean, actually look at her. We made that.”

“I know,” you whisper, adjusting the pink blanket slightly. “She has your hair. And your absolute refusal to be put down in a crib.”

“She knows where the good snuggles are,” Dean defends, grinning. He shifts his weight on his knees. He looks at the edge of the nest, the chaotic wall of blankets and pillows you’ve spent the last four days meticulously arranging. He looks up at you, a silent, deeply respectful question in his eyes.

Your heart flutters. He never assumes. Even with his ring on your finger, even with his bite permanently scarred into your neck, he treats your biology with the ultimate reverence.

“Come in, Dean,” you say softly, pulling your legs back to make a massive space for him. “We want you.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He climbs over the edge of the mattress, carefully navigating the pillows so he doesn’t disturb the structural integrity of your nest. He settles in right beside you, stretching his long, muscular legs out and wrapping his heavy arm around your shoulders.

He pulls you flush against his side, his body heat seeping instantly into yours. You lean your head against his chest, tucking Celia safely between the two of you.

The moment the three of you are completely connected, the atmosphere in the room shifts. The chaotic, exhausting energy of the postpartum haze completely vanishes. The mingling of your scents — cedar, rain, vanilla, honey, and the sweet, powdery scent of your pup — creates an intoxicating, entirely perfect environment.

This is what heaven looks like.

“You’re warm,” you murmur, closing your eyes and just breathing him in.

“You’re perfect,” Dean replies, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

He reaches down, his massive, calloused index finger gently stroking Celia’s impossibly small hand. Even in her sleep, her tiny fingers instinctively curl around his, holding on tight.

Dean lets out a shaky breath, completely captivated by the movement.

“My mom called while you were sleeping,” Dean says quietly, not looking away from his daughter’s hand. “She and my dad are flying in from Greenwich tomorrow. They promised they’d stay at the hotel downtown so they don’t crowd you, but my mom is threatening to break down the front door if I don’t let her hold her granddaughter by noon.”

You smile. Lori and Peter have been the ultimate parents to you for the past five years. They embraced you entirely, completely filling the void your own parents left behind. They had paid for your dream wedding, they celebrated every single one of your career milestones, and Lori had spent the last nine months buying out every luxury baby boutique on the East Coast.

“Let her break the door down,” you say softly. “I want to see them. I want them to meet her.”

“I’ll tell security to stand down, then,” Dean jokes softly. He continues to stroke Celia’s tiny knuckles.

A quiet, comfortable silence stretches between you. It is the kind of silence that only exists between two people who know the absolute depths of each other’s souls. The heavy, gold wedding band on his left hand catches the soft light of the bedside lamp as it rests near the baby.

“Have you heard from Grace?” Dean asks, his voice careful.

“She texted me this morning,” you say, a genuine warmth filling your chest. “She’s demanding to be named the godmother. She said if you give the title to anyone else, she’s going to organize a beta uprising.”

Dean snorts, a quiet, amused sound. “Auntie Grace it is, then. I’m not dealing with an uprising.”

He shifts slightly, pulling you even closer. His hand slides up your arm, his fingers gently tracing the familiar, sparkling line of the diamond and sapphire tennis bracelet that still rests on your wrist. He hasn’t stopped draping you in jewelry since that night in Greenwich, but this piece never comes off.

“Did you … did you tell anyone else?” Dean asks, the hesitation in his voice letting you know exactly who he is referring to.

Your parents.

You look down at Celia’s sleeping face. Five years ago, the thought of cutting your parents out of your life entirely would have sent you into a paralyzing panic. The conditioning was so deep, the fear of their rejection so absolute. You had spent years agonizing over the fact that they chose their prejudice over their own daughter.

But looking at the family you have built — looking at the fiercely devoted alpha holding you, the perfect, beautiful pup resting against your chest, the unshakeable pack waiting in the living room below — the ache is entirely gone.

“No,” you say simply, your voice steady and completely devoid of regret. “I didn’t. And I don’t plan to.”

Dean lets out a quiet exhale, his chest relaxing completely against your back. He presses a firm, reassuring kiss to your temple. “Okay. Good.”

“They wouldn’t understand this anyway,” you continue, tracing the soft edge of Celia’s pink blanket. “They would look at me sitting in a nest, completely overwhelmed by my biology, and they would see a victim. They would see someone trapped by their hormones.”

You tilt your head back, looking up into Dean’s eyes. The absolute devotion in his gaze takes your breath away every single time.

“But I’m not trapped,” you whisper, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I have never been more free in my entire life. They told me this was all a fairytale, Dean. They told me that fated mates and biological bonds were just romanticized traps to make omegas subservient.”

Dean’s jaw ticks slightly at the memory of their cruel words, his protective instincts flaring, but he forces himself to stay calm for you. “They were idiots, sweetheart. I told you that on day one.”

“They were,” you agree, a soft, triumphant smile playing on your lips. “Because this isn’t a fairytale. Fairytales are fake. This is real. This is my life. And it is so much better than any stupid story.”

Dean’s expression shatters into something so incredibly soft it almost breaks your heart.

He shifts entirely, carefully maneuvering around Celia so he can lean directly over you. He frames your face with his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping gently over your cheekbones.

“You gave me everything,” Dean says, his voice a rough, desperate whisper. The arrogant, wealthy CEO is completely gone. In the center of this nest, he is just your mate. Just an alpha completely entirely devoted to his family. “You gave me a home. You gave me a purpose. And now you gave me her.”

He looks down at Celia, then back at you.

“I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure you both know exactly how worshipped you are,” Dean vows, his green eyes burning with absolute, permanent certainty. “I am going to build an entire empire just to lay it at your feet. You are my queen, and she is our princess. And nothing in this world will ever touch you.”

You reach up, wrapping your hands around his wrists. The mating bond pulses violently in your chest, a bright, blazing star of pure, unadulterated love.

“I know,” you whisper back.

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, devastatingly tender kiss. It is a kiss that holds five years of history. It holds the terror of the hospital, the blinding intensity of your first heat, the quiet Sunday mornings in the hockey house, and the profound, life-altering weight of the vows you took in front of his parents.

It is the promise of forever.

When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, Celia lets out a tiny, soft squeak. She stretches her little arms, her tiny nose scrunching up as she slowly blinks her eyes open.

“Hey,” Dean breathes, completely distracted. He looks down at his daughter, his entire face lighting up with absolute wonder. “Look who’s awake.”

Celia blinks, her unfocused, dark green eyes slowly finding the shape of her father’s face. She lets out a tiny yawn, perfectly content.

You look at the two of them. The beautiful, impossible family that the universe had carved out specifically for you. You lean your head against Dean’s shoulder, pulling the soft cashmere blanket tighter around your perfect little pup.

Your mother had told you to run from this. She had told you to medicate it away, to hide in the sterile, practical world of betas.

But sitting in the center of your nest, completely enveloped in the scent of cedar and rain, listening to your alpha whisper promises of the world to your newborn daughter, you know exactly what you are.

You are an omega. You are a mate. You are a mother.

And as Dean wraps his heavy arm around you, pulling you completely into his chest as the sun begins to set outside your window, you finally let out a long, perfectly contented sigh.

The story didn’t end with a happily ever after.

Logan snorts from the bench across the room, tossing a roll of tape that bounces directly off Dean’s shoulder guard. “You’re an animal. Does your dick ever get tired, or is it powered by some kind of endless trust-fund energy?”

“It’s powered by charisma, Logan,” Dean says, catching the tape on the rebound and tossing it into his bag. “And the fact that I actually know what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some of the tragic beta performances I’ve heard about.”

“Hey, leave us out of it,” Tucker drawls in his thick Southern accent, leaning against the doorframe with a protein shake in hand. “Some of us prefer a little quality over quantity.”

“I offer exceptional quality,” Dean says, finally kicking off his left skate. “Ask anyone.”

“Oh, we don’t have to,” Garrett mutters, rolling his eyes. “They literally line up outside the frat house. I tripped over a sophomore trying to get to the kitchen this morning.”

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his damp blonde hair. He knows what they think of him. To the guys, to the whole campus, he’s exactly what he appears to be: Briar’s resident playboy alpha. He’s got the wealthy attorney parents, the maternal family money tied up in luxury hotels across the globe, the looks, the charm, and the seemingly insatiable appetite.

But there’s a line he doesn’t cross. A line the guys love to give him shit for.

“Was she a beta too?” Tucker asks, taking a slow sip of his shake.

Dean pauses, his easy smile tightening just a fraction before he forces it back into place. “Always. You know the rule, Tuck.”

“It’s a stupid rule,” Logan points out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean, I get the whole old money, traditional thing your family has going on. But only sleeping with betas? Refusing to even look at an omega unless you think she’s the one? It’s archaic, man. It’s the twenty-first century.”

“It’s not archaic, it’s respect,” Dean fires back, his tone dropping its playful edge for a fleeting second. He stands up, pulling his t-shirt over his head. “When I meet my fated mate, she’s going to be the only omega I’ve ever touched. She gets all of me. The whole alpha package, untainted by anyone else’s scent or biology.”

Garrett groans. “You sound like a Victorian romance novel. What if you never meet her? Or what if she doesn’t care if you’ve slept with other omegas?”

“She’ll care,” Dean says simply, his voice firm. He grabs his duffel bag and hoists it over his shoulder. “Because I care. Betas are fun. They’re safe. There’s no biological complication, no scent-bonding, no risk of an accidental mating bite during a heat. It’s just physical.”

“So you’re just going to keep running through the beta population of Massachusetts until this mythical girl shows up?” Logan asks, amused.

“Pretty much,” Dean says, flashing his signature grin again, burying the sudden, sharp pang of longing that hits him square in the chest. “Keeps my skills sharp. When she finally shows up, I need to be ready to worship the ground she walks on. See you at the house, boys.”

He pushes through the locker room doors, the heavy scent of alpha pheromones fading into the sterile smell of the hallway. Dean keeps his smile locked in place as he walks out to his car, but the bravado slowly bleeds out of him.

He plays the part perfectly. He loves the attention, the sex, the careless fun. But God, he is so fucking tired of the emptiness of it. He was raised in circles where the alpha-omega bond was sacred, something to be revered. His parents had it. His grandparents had it.

He wants the fairytale. He wants the intoxicating, head-spinning rush of a fated scent hitting his system. He wants to fiercely protect someone, to provide for them, to spoil them absolutely rotten with every dime his family has to their name. He wants to be looking at a beta girl across a crowded room and suddenly realize she means nothing, because his mate just walked in.

He grips the steering wheel of his car, staring out at the campus parking lot.

“Where are you?” He murmurs to the empty car. “Come on, baby. I’m waiting.”

***

You stare at the tiny, pale blue pill resting in the center of your palm.

It looks entirely harmless. It looks like a breath mint, or a generic painkiller. It doesn’t look like something that is actively destroying you from the inside out.

Your stomach performs a violent, rolling flip just looking at it, and you have to close your eyes and grip the edge of the bathroom sink to steady yourself. The porcelain is cold under your hands.

“Hey,” a voice calls out, accompanied by a soft knock on the bathroom door. “You alive in there?”

It’s Grace, your roommate. You swallow hard, fighting the rising bile in your throat. “Yeah. Just … getting ready.”

“You’ve been staring at the mirror for ten minutes. The pizza is getting cold.”

“Coming,” you manage to say.

You look at the pill again. The suppressants. Grade-A, top-of-the-line, incredibly expensive synthetic hormones designed to completely mute your omega biology. Your parents, both highly pragmatic, fiercely independent betas, had insisted on the absolute strongest prescription available the moment you presented.

To them, being an omega is a biological inconvenience. A liability in the modern world.

You take a deep breath, tossing the pill to the back of your throat and immediately chasing it with a massive gulp of tap water. You gag as it goes down, your body instinctively rejecting it. You lean over the sink, breathing heavily, waiting to see if it’s going to come right back up.

When your stomach finally settles into a dull, throbbing ache, you wipe your mouth and open the door.

Grace is sitting cross-legged on her bed, a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. She looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing.

“You look like garbage,” she says bluntly.

“Thanks,” you mutter, shuffling over to your own bed and curling up into a tight ball, pulling your oversized hoodie down over your hands. You don’t want the pizza. The smell of the grease is making your head spin.

“Seriously,” Grace presses, setting her pizza down on a paper plate. “You’re completely pale, and you’ve been shivering since you got back from class. Are you sick?”

“It’s just the new dosage,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “Dr. Davidson upped my suppressants last week. My body is just … adjusting.”

Grace sighs, a very loud, very beta sigh. She doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body, but she doesn’t understand. She can’t. “I don’t get why you let your parents push you into taking those things. Especially the intense ones. They make you miserable.”

“Because according to them, the alternative is worse,” you say, your voice muffled by your pillow. “They think heats are degrading. They think the whole dynamic is outdated.”

“And what do you think?”

You open your eyes, looking at the faded poster on your wall. “I think I feel like I’m constantly walking underwater. I feel … muted. Like a part of me is just locked in a box.”

Grace softens a bit. “Have you tried talking to them again? Telling them how sick you feel?”

Right on cue, your cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. The screen lights up with Mom.

You groan, reaching out a trembling hand to grab it. You swipe to accept the call, bringing it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie,” your mother’s brisk, efficient voice comes through the speaker. There is no background noise, she’s likely in her corner office.

“I only have a minute before a conference call, but I wanted to check in. Did Dr. Davidson confirm the new prescription went through?”

“Yes,” you say, your voice flat. “I just took it.”

“Good. That higher dose should completely eliminate any residual pre-heat symptoms you were having. You can’t afford to be distracted right now, not with midterms coming up.”

“Mom, it’s making me really sick,” you say, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve. “I threw up twice yesterday. I can barely eat. I feel weak all the time.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end. Not of sympathy, but of calculation. “It’s a transition period. Your body is just fighting the regulation. Give it another week.”

“What if I don’t want my body to be regulated?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly. “What if I just want to be normal?”

“You are being normal,” your mother corrects sharply. “You’re a modern woman. You don’t need your biology dictating your schedule, or your emotions, or who you choose to partner with. We’ve talked about this. Those old fairytale ideas about fated alphas swooping in to take care of you? They’re fantasies. They don’t happen in the real world, and relying on some archaic bond is a recipe for losing your independence.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, hot and frustrating. “I know.”

“You’re a smart girl. You’re going to get a great degree, build a career, and find a nice, stable beta partner who respects you as an equal, not as a biological imperative. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, the fight completely draining out of you.

“Good. Call me on Sunday. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You drop the phone onto the bed.

“That sounded like it went well,” Grace notes sarcastically.

You roll onto your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. You love your family, you really do. But being the only omega in a house full of betas is like speaking a language no one else understands. They look at you and see a problem that needs to be medicated away.

But sometimes, when you’re alone in the dark, you let yourself remember the dreams you used to have. Before the pills started.

You dream of a heavy, comforting warmth. You dream of a scent that smells like home, of strong arms wrapping around you and making the rest of the world disappear. You dream of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of their entire universe. An alpha who wants to protect you, who wants to provide for you, who wants to adore you exactly as you are, biology and all.

You close your eyes, letting a single tear slip down your cheek into your hairline.

Fantasies, your mom called them.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe fated mates only exist in Hallmark movies and trashy romance novels. Maybe you just need to accept that you’re going to spend the rest of your life taking little blue pills and pretending you aren’t half-empty.

***

The bass from the speakers is rattling Dean’s teeth, and he is painfully, agonizingly bored.

He’s currently trapped in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while a stunning brunette — a junior named Alice, or maybe Alyssa, he honestly can’t remember — runs her hand up and down his bicep. She smells perfectly nice. Like vanilla body spray and vodka.

She smells like a beta.

“So,” she purrs, leaning in close so he can feel the heat of her body. “I was thinking maybe we could go upstairs? It’s getting kind of crowded down here.”

Dean looks at her. She’s beautiful. She’s eager. She’s exactly his type, or at least, the type he pretends to have. A year ago, he would have already had her pinned against the wall of his bedroom.

Tonight, he just feels … tired.

“You know, sweetheart, I’m actually really beat tonight,” Dean says, offering her a perfectly practiced, apologetic smile. He reaches out and gently untangles her fingers from his shirt. “Coach ran us into the ground at practice. I think I’m just gonna grab a water and crash.”

The beta pouts, clearly taken aback. Dean Di Laurentis turning down a sure thing? It’s practically a campus anomaly. “Are you sure? I give really good massages.”

“I bet you do,” Dean says, leaning in to press a brief, charming kiss to her cheek. “Next time, I promise.”

He slips past her before she can argue, navigating through the sweaty bodies of his classmates with the practiced ease of a guy who owns the room. He makes his way to the back patio, shoving the sliding glass door open and stepping out into the cool night air.

He lets out a long exhale, running a hand over his face.

“Well, that’s a first.”

Dean turns to see Tucker sitting on the patio railing, nursing a beer.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, walking over and leaning against the railing next to him.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker drawls, looking amused. “I just watched you turn down a ten. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor? Maybe a priest?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, staring out at the dark expanse of the backyard. “Just not in the mood.”

Tucker chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “You know, for a guy who sleeps around as much as you do, you’re surprisingly miserable doing it.”

Dean glares at him. “I’m not miserable.”

“You’re empty calories, man,” Tucker says, shrugging. “You’re eating junk food when you really want a steak. You’re waiting for this magic omega to drop out of the sky, and until she does, you’re just going through the motions to keep yourself occupied.”

Dean wants to argue, but the words die in his throat. Because Tucker is right. He’s so right it hurts.

“What if she’s not out there?” Dean asks, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. He hates sounding like this. He’s Dean Di Laurentis. He’s confident. He’s cocky. He doesn’t whine about feelings.

“She’s out there,” Tucker says simply. “You just haven’t crossed paths yet. But you will. The universe has a funny way of sorting these things out. And when you do …” Tucker grins. “I fully expect to see you turn into a pathetic, lovesick sap.”

“I am never pathetic,” Dean scoffs, some of his usual bravado returning. “I’ll be a goddamn delight. I’m going to spoil her rotten.”

“Sure you will, buddy. Sure you will.”

Dean looks back up at the sky, the stars mostly obscured by the campus light pollution. He wonders where she is right now. He wonders what she’s doing. Is she at a party? Is she studying? Is she waiting for him, too?

Hold on, he thinks, sending the thought out into the universe like a prayer. Just hold on. I’m looking for you.

***

You are practically shivering under your blankets, despite the fact that your dorm room is perfectly temperature-controlled.

The nausea from the suppressant has finally passed, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache in your chest. You have your laptop propped up on your stomach, playing a painfully cheesy rom-com from the early 2000s. On screen, the male lead is currently running through an airport to catch the female lead before she gets on a plane.

It’s cliché. It’s dramatic. It’s completely unrealistic.

You can’t look away.

Grace walks back into the room, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around her hair. She glances at your screen and sighs.

“Again?” She asks, walking over to her dresser. “You watched this same movie three days ago.”

“It’s comforting,” you say defensively, pulling the blankets up higher around your neck.

“It’s masochistic,” Grace corrects gently. She turns to look at you, her expression softening. “You watch these movies, and you read those books about fated mates, and then you let your parents convince you to take pills that stop you from ever actually having it. You’re torturing yourself.”

“They’re just movies, Grace,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “It’s not real life.”

“How do you know?” She challenges. “You’ve never even given yourself the chance to find out. You’ve been on suppressants since the day you presented. You hide your scent under perfume. You avoid alpha-heavy places like the plague. You’re terrified of your own biology.”

“I’m not terrified,” you snap, though the lie is weak even to your own ears. “I’m being practical.”

“You’re being miserable,” Grace says, walking over and sitting on the edge of your bed. She reaches out, gently resting a hand on your blanket-covered leg. “Look, I’m a beta. I know I don’t get the whole scent-bond, fated-mate thing. To me, it sounds totally overwhelming. But you’re an omega. It’s in your blood. And watching you try to squash it down to make your parents happy is really hard.”

You look away from her, staring at the screen. The male lead has finally caught the female lead. They are kissing passionately while a sweeping orchestral score plays in the background.

“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking down your cheek. “My family thinks it’s a weakness. They think if I let myself be an omega, I’ll just end up completely dependent on some alpha who treats me like property.”

“Then find an alpha who treats you like a queen,” Grace says simply. “They exist, you know. Not every alpha is some dominating jerk. Some of them actually like the romantic stuff as much as you do.”

You let out a wet, humorless laugh. “Right. Where am I going to find a romantic alpha at Briar? Have you seen the guys here? They’re all frat bros and athletes who sleep with a different girl every night.”

“Not all of them,” Grace points out.

“Name one.”

Grace hesitates. “Okay, fine, a lot of them are like that. But you won’t know if you don’t look. And you definitely won’t know if you keep taking those pills and pretending you’re a beta.”

You look back at the movie. The couple is walking hand-in-hand, smiling, completely wrapped up in each other. A deep, agonizing ache settles in the pit of your stomach. It’s a physical craving, a biological imperative that the pills are desperately trying to smother, but it’s still there. Faint, but undeniable.

You want to be cherished. You want to be protected. You want to belong to someone, and have them belong to you.

“I have to take them,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If I stop, if I go into heat,  it’ll ruin everything. My classes, my family’s expectations …”

“Is it really ruining things if it makes you happy?” Grace asks softly.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just squeezes your leg once more, stands up, and walks over to her desk to dry her hair.

You lay there for a long time, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating the dark room. You reach a hand up, resting it over your heart. It’s beating a steady, rhythmic thud.

I’m here, it seems to say. I’m still here.

You look over at your nightstand. The small, orange plastic pill bottle is sitting there, looking entirely unassuming.

For the first time in your life, you look at the bottle, and instead of feeling a sense of dutiful obligation … you feel a spark of resentment.

***

The summer heat is usually oppressive, but today, you can’t feel it at all. In fact, you’re freezing.

You grip the strap of your backpack, your knuckles turning white, and force yourself to take another step down the crowded brick pathway of the Briar University quad. Your teeth are chattering so hard your jaw aches. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been pulled taut, vibrating like a violin string right before it snaps.

“I’m telling you, you need to go to the campus clinic,” Grace’s voice sounds tinny and distant coming through your AirPods. “You looked like a ghost when I left for my eight AM. I seriously considered skipping to stay with you.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice breathless and shaky. You stumble slightly over a crack in the pavement. “It’s just … it’s just the adjustment period. Like my mom said. It’s normal.”

“It doesn’t look normal, and it doesn’t sound normal,” Grace snaps back, her tone sharp with genuine worry. “You were sweating through your sheets, but you were shivering. That’s a fever. Please, just skip the midterm. Professor Harrington is a hardass, but he’s not going to fail you for a medical emergency.”

“I don’t have a medical emergency, Grace,” you say stubbornly, though black spots are beginning to dance at the edges of your vision. “I just need to sit down. Once I’m in the lecture hall, I’ll be fine.”

You don’t feel fine.

Your skin feels too tight. There’s a strange, metallic taste in the back of your mouth, and your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead and realize your hand is trembling uncontrollably.

“Just … let me call you after the test, okay?” You mumble, not waiting for her response before you tap your ear to disconnect the call.

The campus around you seems to blur. The voices of passing students melt into a loud, ringing hum in your ears. You try to take another step, but your legs feel like lead. Your knee buckles.

You manage to catch yourself against a large oak tree, pressing your back against the rough bark. You just need to breathe. Just a deep breath.

But your chest won’t expand. The muscles in your torso are locking up, rigid and unyielding. Panic flares hot and bright in your chest.

Something is wrong, your brain finally screams, cutting through the haze of your mother’s assurances. Something is really, really wrong.

You try to push off the tree, to ask the guy walking past you for help, but your vocal cords seize. A sudden, violent tremor rips through your body. The world tilts sharply to the left.

The last thing you feel is the harsh impact of the concrete against your shoulder before the darkness swallows you whole.

***

“I’m just saying, if she asks me to explain the offside rule one more time, I might actually lose my mind,” Logan groans, taking a massive bite of his breakfast sandwich.

Dean chuckles, adjusting the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder. He and Logan are walking back from a brutal morning lift session, the sun beating down on the bustling campus. “Maybe she doesn’t care about hockey, man. Maybe she just likes watching you get all worked up trying to explain it.”

“It’s not cute,” Logan argues around a mouthful of egg and bacon. “It’s a foundational rule of the sport. It’s an insult to my life’s work.”

“Your life’s work is putting a piece of rubber into a net,” Dean points out lazily.

“Yeah, well, my life’s work pays my tuition.”

Dean grins, shaking his head. He feels good today. The lingering annoyance from last night’s party has faded, replaced by the familiar, comfortable rhythm of his routine. Workout, class, practice, sleep. It’s easy. It’s manageable.

He’s about to make another joke at Logan’s expense when a sudden, collective gasp ripples through the crowd of students about fifty yards ahead of them.

Dean stops walking.

“Whoa,” Logan says, swallowing his bite. “What’s going on over there?”

A cluster of students is rapidly forming near one of the large oak trees lining the path. People are pointing, pulling out their phones, taking hesitant steps backward.

“Someone fell,” Dean says, his eyes narrowing as he tries to see over the crowd.

Then, the murmurs turn into alarmed shouts.

“Holy shit, is she having a seizure?”

“Someone call 911!”

“Don’t touch her, you’re supposed to put something in her mouth, right?”

“No, idiot, don’t do that!”

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s sprinting. The heavy gym bag drops from his shoulder, hitting the grass with a thud, but he doesn’t look back. His heart is suddenly pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs. His alpha instincts, usually tightly leashed beneath his charming exterior, roar to life with blinding suddenness.

“Move!” Dean barks, his voice carrying the deep, resonant command of an alpha that has the surrounding students instantly stepping aside. “Get the fuck back, give her some space!”

He pushes through the inner circle of onlookers and drops to his knees on the concrete.

It’s a girl. She’s small, swallowed up by an oversized Briar University hoodie, and she is violently convulsing against the hard pavement. Her head is thrashing, perilously close to the brick border of a flower bed.

“Logan!” Dean yells, not looking away from her. “Call 911! Now!”

“Already on it!” Logan shouts from somewhere behind him.

Dean strips off his thick varsity jacket in one fluid motion, rolling it up. He moves quickly but carefully, sliding the jacket under her head to cushion the brutal impacts.

“Hey,” Dean says loudly, his hands hovering over her trembling shoulders, wanting to restrain her but knowing better. “Hey, I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just let it happen, sweetheart. Help is coming.”

Her eyes are rolled back, and a sickening, strained sound is pushing past her lips.

“What happened?” Dean snaps at a terrified-looking sophomore standing nearby.

“I-I don’t know!” The guy stammers. “She was just leaning against the tree, and then she just … dropped. She was shaking before she even fell.”

Dean curses under his breath. He reaches out, carefully checking her wrist for a pulse.

The second his skin makes contact with hers, he recoils.

“Christ, she’s burning up,” Dean mutters, his eyes widening. She’s radiating heat like a furnace. Her skin is drenched in sweat, yet her muscles are locked in terrifying rigidity beneath the convulsions.

“Dispatch says EMTs are three minutes out,” Logan says, kneeling next to Dean. He takes one look at the girl and pales. “Man, she looks bad.”

“She’s boiling,” Dean says, his voice tight. He shifts closer, using his body to block the harsh sunlight from hitting her face. “Her muscles are completely locked. This isn’t just a normal seizure.”

He leans in closer, checking to make sure her airway is clear. As he drops his face near her neck, he inhales sharply.

It hits him like a freight train.

At first, it’s nothing but the sharp, sterile, metallic stench of pharmaceuticals. It’s the distinct, bitter smell of clinical suppressants. It burns his nose, making his alpha recoil in disgust.

But then …

Underneath the chemical blockade, forced to the surface by the intense heat of her raging fever, is a scent.

It’s faint. It’s a whisper. It’s barely there.

But Dean feels it in his teeth.

It’s vanilla. Warm, rich vanilla, and spun sugar, and rain-soaked earth. It’s a scent so perfect, so impossibly right, that for a split second, the entire world goes completely, deafeningly silent.

Dean stops breathing.

His pupils blow wide, his irises flashing from their usual warm green to pitch black. A possessive, ferocious roar tears through his mind, so loud he almost claps his hands over his ears.

Mine.

The realization doesn’t tiptoe in. It kicks the door down and shatters every window in the house.

Mine. Omega. Mine.

“Dean?” Logan’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Hey, man, you good? The ambulance is pulling into the quad.”

Dean blinks, the world rushing back in with a dizzying rush of noise. He looks down at the girl — his girl, his mate, his omega — and a wave of terror so overwhelming t makes him nauseous crashes over him.

The convulsions are finally slowing down, tapering off into violent, whole-body shudders. But she isn’t waking up. Her lips are taking on a faint blue tint, and her breathing is shallow and ragged.

“Where the fuck are they?!” Dean snarls, his head whipping around. He spots the flashing lights of the ambulance navigating the crowded pedestrian path.

He looks back down at you. The acrid smell of the suppressants is choking the beautiful, perfect vanilla scent, suffocating it. Suffocating you.

“What did they do to you?” He whispers, his voice breaking. His hands are shaking now. He reaches out, gently brushing a damp lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “What did you take?”

“Step back, please! Let us through!”

Two paramedics shove their way through the crowd, carrying heavy jump bags.

“Move, Logan,” Dean barks, shoving his friend back to give the medics room. But Dean doesn’t stand up. He shifts to the side, refusing to break contact with the girl, keeping one hand firmly planted on her shoulder.

“Sir, you need to step back,” the first paramedic, a stern-looking woman, says as she drops to her knees beside you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that makes the medic pause. It’s pure alpha command, unyielding and terrifying. “Tell me what to do.”

The medic shares a quick, cautious look with her partner before turning back to the patient. “What happened?”

“She collapsed,” Dean says rapidly, his eyes tracking the medic’s every movement. “A seizure. Lasted about two minutes. She’s burning up, her muscles are rigid, and she smells like she swallowed a pharmacy.”

The second medic pulls out a thermometer and presses it to your ear. It beeps almost instantly.

“104.2,” he calls out grimly. He grabs your arm, checking the rigidity. “Severe muscle rigidity. Tachycardia. Is she a friend of yours? Do you know what she’s taken?”

“I don’t know her name,” Dean says, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But she’s an omega. And she smells like heavy, heavy suppressants. Industrial-grade blockers, or stronger.”

The female medic curses sharply. “Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Her body is having a toxic reaction to the suppressants. We need to cool her down immediately and get her an IV, or her organs are going to shut down.”

Dean’s heart stops. The words echo in his head. 

“Do it,” Dean snarls, the terrifying helplessness morphing into blistering rage. “Fix her.”

“We’re loading her up,” the male medic says, unrolling a stretcher. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

They hoist you onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency. Dean grabs his jacket from the ground and stands up, his eyes never leaving your pale, unconscious face.

As they start wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Dean falls into step right beside them.

“Sir, you can’t ride in the back,” the female medic says over her shoulder.

“Watch me,” Dean says flatly.

“Dean,” Logan says, grabbing Dean’s arm. “Hey. Stop. You can’t just jump in the ambulance. You don’t even know her.”

Dean rips his arm out of Logan’s grip with a viciousness that makes his best friend stumble backward.

“Don’t touch me,” Dean snaps, his eyes flashing black again. He points a shaking finger at the stretcher. “She’s mine. That’s my mate.”

Logan freezes, the color draining from his face. He looks at the girl, then back at Dean, his mouth falling open. “Holy shit. Are you … are you sure?”

“Yes,” Dean breathes, the anger cracking to reveal the absolute terror underneath. “And she’s dying, Logan. I just found her, and she’s dying.”

Logan swallows hard, nodding quickly. “Go. Get in the ambulance. I’ll get Garrett and Tucker and we’ll follow you to the hospital in my truck. Go!”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He sprints to the back of the ambulance, jumping in right before the doors close.

The medic glares at him. “I told you-”

“I’m her fated mate,” Dean says, his voice thick with a desperation he’s never felt before in his entire life. “I am not leaving her. Do your job, and let me stay.”

The medic looks at the absolute devastation on his face, the frantic, protective set of his jaw, and sighs. “Sit in the corner. Stay out of my way.”

“Thank you.”

The ambulance sirens wail to life, the sound deafening in the confined space. The vehicle jerks into motion, throwing Dean back against the metal wall.

He watches as the medics cut away the sleeve of your favorite hoodie, swabbing your arm to start an IV. They place a cold compress on your forehead and an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.

You look so incredibly fragile.

Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles ache.

He’s dreamed of this moment for years. He thought he knew exactly how it would happen. He thought it would be at a party, or a coffee shop, or maybe a fancy gala his parents dragged him to. He thought their eyes would meet across the room, the scent would hit him, and he would sweep her off her feet with his charm and his smile. It was supposed to be a fairytale.

Instead, it’s a nightmare.

He watches the steady, agonizing drip of the IV fluid. He listens to the erratic beep of the heart monitor they hooked you up to.

Underneath the smell of the sterile ambulance and the heavy, toxic blockers, that tiny whisper of vanilla and honey reaches him again. It’s so weak, struggling to survive under the chemical warfare going on inside your body.

Whoever prescribed those pills, whoever pushed her to take them … Dean is going to find them. And he is going to destroy them.

But right now, all that matters is you.

Dean carefully reaches out, ignoring the medic’s warning glance, and gently wraps his large, warm hand around your freezing fingers.

“I’m here,” he whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the sirens. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I finally found you. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

Your hand remains limp in his grip.

Dean squeezes tighter, bowing his head as a single, hot tear tracks down his cheek.

Please, he begs the universe. Just let her be okay.

***

The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic clamor of shouting doctors, crying children, and blaring alarms.

Dean is pacing. He has been pacing for two hours.

The small waiting area off the main ER floor is practically vibrating with his nervous, angry alpha energy. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting in a row of plastic chairs, watching him with varying degrees of concern and awe.

They’ve never seen Dean like this. None of them have. The easy-going, arrogant playboy is gone, completely erased. In his place is a terrifyingly focused, lethal-looking man who looks like he’s ready to tear the hospital down brick by brick if someone doesn’t give him an answer soon.

“Man, you’re going to wear a trench in the linoleum,” Garrett says quietly, leaning forward. “You need to sit down. You’re making the nurses nervous.”

Dean stops abruptly, turning his fierce glare on Garrett. “I don’t give a shit about that. I want to speak with a doctor. They took her behind those doors two hours ago and no one will tell me anything!”

“They’re working on her, Dean,” Tucker says, his Southern drawl slow and soothing, trying to de-escalate the situation. “NMS is serious business. They have to flush her system and get her temperature down. It takes time.”

“She was freezing when I touched her,” Dean mutters, running both hands through his disheveled blonde hair. He starts pacing again. “She was shaking so hard. And the smell of those pills … Tuck, it was repulsive. It smelled like bleach and metal. Who the fuck puts an omega on that kind of dosage?”

“Someone who doesn’t want her to be an omega,” Logan says quietly.

Dean stops dead. He looks at Logan, his jaw ticking. “What?”

“You said she was dressed in a massive hoodie, trying to hide. She’s taking industrial-strength blockers,” Logan explains gently. “A lot of omegas from beta families do it. They don’t want the stigma. They don’t want the heats. They try to suppress it so they can live ‘normal’ lives.”

“Normal?” Dean scoffs, his voice thick with disbelief and rising anger. “She almost died on the pavement! How the hell is that normal? It’s biology! You can’t just medicate it away!”

“We know that,” Garrett says. “But clearly, she didn’t. Or someone convinced her otherwise.”

Dean closes his eyes, trying to reign in the explosive fury building in his chest. He remembers the fragility of your wrist in his hand. He remembers the agonizingly weak scent of vanilla fighting through the poison.

He wants to wrap you in a blanket and lock you in his bedroom where the world can never hurt you again. He wants to buy you a new wardrobe, throw every pill bottle you own into the ocean, and spend the rest of his life making sure you never look that pale again.

“Family of the Jane Doe from Briar University?”

Dean’s eyes snap open. A tired-looking doctor in blue scrubs is standing by the double doors, holding a clipboard.

Dean covers the distance between them in three massive strides. “That’s me. I’m with her.”

The doctor looks him up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a relative?”

“I’m her mate,” Dean says, the words feeling heavy and permanent and incredibly right on his tongue.

The doctor’s expression softens immediately. In their world, a fated bond overrides almost everything else. It’s an undeniable biological link. “Ah. I see. I’m Dr. Goldstein. Come with me, please.”

Dean follows the doctor down a quiet, sterile hallway, his heart thumping erratically. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker stay behind, giving him space.

“How is she?” Dean asks, his voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in his head.

“She’s stable,” Dr. Goldstein says, pushing open the door to a private room. “The EMTs were right, it was a severe case of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome brought on by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. We’ve managed to bring her fever down, and the muscle rigidity is subsiding. We have her on IV fluids and muscle relaxants.”

Dean steps into the room, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush.

You are lying in the hospital bed, looking incredibly small amidst the stark white sheets. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady but shallow. The bluish tint is gone from your lips, replaced by a pale, exhausted pallor. The IV is taped securely to the back of your hand.

“She’s sleeping,” Dr. Goldstein continues softly. “Her body has been through an immense trauma. It’s going to take a few days for the suppressants to completely flush out of her system.”

“And then what?” Dean asks, his eyes glued to the slow rise and fall of your chest.

“And then … her biology is going to rebound,” the doctor says carefully. “When an omega comes off suppressants cold turkey like this, especially at the dosage she was taking, it usually triggers an immediate, intense heat.”

Dean swallows hard. He steps closer to the bed, entirely captivated by you.

“She can’t take those pills ever again,” Dean says, his voice low and hard. It’s not a question. It’s a fact.

“I strongly advise against it,” Dr. Goldstein agrees. “Her system clearly can’t tolerate them. But she’s going to need a lot of support through the withdrawal process, and the subsequent heat. It will be overwhelming for her.”

“She’ll have it,” Dean says immediately. “She’ll have me.”

The doctor nods, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Press the call button if she wakes up and seems disoriented.”

The door clicks shut, leaving Dean alone with you.

The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the monitors.

Dean pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and sits down. He reaches out, slowly, reverently, and takes your hand in his. Your skin is cool now, lacking that terrifying, burning heat from the quad.

He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your skin.

Now that the suppressants are beginning to wash out of your system, your scent is getting stronger. It’s filling the small hospital room, wrapping around him like a physical embrace. Vanilla. Honey. Rain. It’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever breathed in.

His alpha settles, a deep, rumbling purr vibrating in his chest. Mate. Safe.

“You really scared the shit out of me, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his thumb stroking soothing circles over the back of your hand. “We haven’t even officially met, and you’re already giving me gray hairs.”

You don’t move, but Dean doesn’t care. He has all the time in the world.

He leans back in the chair, his eyes never leaving your face. He maps out the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheekbones, the soft part of your lips. He tries to imagine what color your eyes are. He tries to imagine what your voice sounds like when you aren’t screaming in agony.

“I don’t know who told you that you had to hide,” Dean says quietly to the empty room. “I don’t know who made you feel like you weren’t perfect exactly the way you are. But they were wrong.”

He squeezes your hand gently.

“I’m going to show you,” he promises, his voice a vow. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re never taking another one of those pills again. You’re going to be a queen. My queen.”

Dean settles in, letting the steady beat of your heart anchor him. The playboy of Briar University is dead.

And as he watches you sleep, inhaling the sweet, perfect scent of his fated mate, Dean Di Laurentis has never felt more alive.

***

Coming back to consciousness is a slow, heavy process. Your eyelids feel like they have lead weights attached to them, and your mouth is as dry as cotton. A steady, rhythmic beeping sound echoes somewhere to your left, pulling you inch by inch out of the dark.

But before you can even force your eyes open, a smell hits you.

It’s completely overwhelming, wrapping around your senses like a thick, warm blanket. It’s sandalwood and cedar, rain-soaked asphalt, and a deep, purely masculine musk. It doesn’t smell like your dorm room. It doesn’t smell like your childhood bedroom in your parents’ sterile, modern house.

It smells like home. Like a place you’ve never been, but have spent your entire life desperately searching for.

Your breath hitches, your omega biology — newly freed from the chemical cage of the suppressants — flaring to life with a desperate, greedy hunger. You inhale deeply, chasing the scent, and finally manage to blink your eyes open.

The harsh, fluorescent light of a hospital room makes you wince, but a large shadow immediately shifts, blocking the glare.

“Hey,” a low, incredibly gentle voice rumbles. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t rush.”

You blink the blurriness away, your vision slowly coming into focus. Sitting in a plastic chair pulled right up against the edge of your bed is a guy. A devastatingly handsome guy. He has messy, golden-blonde hair, striking green eyes that are completely locked onto you, and the kind of broad, muscular shoulders that a varsity jacket was practically invented for.

You don’t recognize his face. But the second you inhale again, you know exactly who the scent belongs to. It’s him. He is radiating it.

Panic spikes in your chest. You try to sit up, but your muscles feel entirely hollowed out, weak and trembling.

“Whoa, hey, stay still,” he says, instantly standing up. His hands hover over your shoulders, close enough to offer comfort but respectful enough not to touch without permission. With one hand, he reaches up and hits the red call button above your bed. “You’ve been through a lot. Just lay back.”

“Where …” Your voice comes out as a harsh, painful croak. Your throat feels like sandpaper.

“You’re at Boston General,” he explains calmly, his eyes tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He reaches for a plastic pitcher on the bedside table and pours water into a cup, sliding a bendy straw in. “Here. Just a little sip at first.”

He leans over, guiding the straw to your lips. You are so thirsty you don’t even hesitate, taking a slow, glorious pull of the ice-cold water.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning your head back against the pillows. You look at him, really look at him, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your memory. “I was on the quad. I was walking to my midterm, and then …”

“You collapsed,” he finishes for you. The easy gentleness in his expression hardens just a fraction, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You had a severe seizure. Your body was rejecting your suppressants.”

The word hits you like a bucket of ice water.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, your hands immediately flying to your face. “My mom. My mom is going to kill me. She told me it was just an adjustment period. I have to call her, she has to talk to Dr. Davidson-”

“Hey. Look at me.”

The command in his voice isn’t loud, but it vibrates straight through your bones. Your hands drop, and your eyes lock onto his.

“No one is calling anyone to adjust those pills,” he says, his tone firm, brooking absolute zero argument. “They were poisoning you. You had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. If I hadn’t been walking by when you went down …” He stops, swallowing hard. The absolute terror in his eyes is raw and jarring. “You’re done with them. Forever.”

You stare at him, completely bewildered. Why is this beautiful, random alpha hockey player looking at you like the thought of losing you physically pains him?

“Who are you?” You ask softly.

He smiles, and it’s a beautiful, devastating thing. The harshness completely melts out of his face. “I’m Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”

“I don’t know you, Dean,” you say, your brow furrowing. “Why are you sitting here? Why do you smell like …”

You trail off, your cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. You can’t just tell a stranger that his scent makes you want to curl up into his chest and never leave.

Dean’s smile softens even more, turning into something completely wrecked and reverent. He slowly reaches out, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and gently wraps his large hand over yours where it rests on the blanket. His skin is so warm.

“I smell like home,” Dean finishes for you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. “Don’t I?”

You can only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“That’s because I’m your mate, sweetheart,” Dean says, the words hanging in the quiet hospital room like a religious vow. “Your fated mate.”

Your entire world stops.

You stare at him, your brain desperately trying to process the words. Your fated mate. The thing you had secretly dreamed of. The thing your mother had ruthlessly mocked. The thing you had been medicated to avoid.

You yank your hand out from under his, shaking your head frantically. “No. No, that’s … that’s not real. That’s a fairytale.”

Dean looks at his empty hand for a second before his gaze snaps back up to yours. “Excuse me?”

“My family,” you stammer, pushing yourself backward against the pillows, trying to put distance between you and the intoxicating pull of his scent. “They told me it’s not real. It’s just biological chemistry that gets romanticized in Hallmark movies. Fated mates don’t actually exist in real life. It’s just an archaic myth.”

Dean stares at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room suddenly feels very heavy, his alpha presence expanding, pressing against the walls.

“Then your family,” Dean says, his voice dangerously quiet, “is full of idiots.”

“Don’t call them that,” you say automatically, though your defense sounds incredibly weak.

“I’ll call them whatever I want if they’re the ones who filled your head with that garbage,” Dean fires back, leaning closer. The intensity rolling off him is entirely focused on you. “Look at me. Look at how my hand is shaking right now. I smelled you underneath whatever toxic sludge you were taking, and my heart literally stopped beating in my chest. You are my omega. Mine. The universe literally carved my soul to match yours. Don’t tell me that’s a goddamn myth.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

Dean sees the tears and his entire demeanor fractures. “Hey, no, don’t cry. Shh, I’m sorry.” He sits on the very edge of your mattress, ignoring the hospital rules, and carefully reaches out again. This time, he doesn’t take your hand. He brings his fingers up to your face, gently wiping a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m angry. Not at you. Never at you.”

He traces the line of your jaw, his touch so achingly tender it makes a sob catch in your throat.

“Who put you on those pills?” Dean asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who gave you a dosage that high?”

You look away, ashamed. “Dr. Davidson. My family doctor.”

“And who asked for it?” Dean presses, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Because an omega doesn’t walk into a clinic and ask for an industrial-grade chemical lobotomy on their own.”

You close your eyes. “My mom.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You open your eyes to see Dean staring at the wall, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is twitching wildly. His green eyes have darkened, the pupils blown wide in pure, unadulterated fury. You have never seen a man look so lethal.

“Dean?” You whisper nervously.

He blinks, forcing his focus back to you. “Whoever she is,” Dean says, his voice flat and deadly cold, “I have never hated a human being more in my entire life.”

“You can’t say that!” You defend, the lifelong habit of protecting your parents kicking in. “She’s a beta. My whole family is full of betas. They don’t understand the alpha-omega dynamics, okay? To them, it’s a liability. She just wanted me to be independent. She wanted me to have a normal life, a good career, without being tied down by my biology. She thought she was protecting me.”

“Protecting you?” Dean snarls, the anger finally slipping the leash. He stands up, pacing away from the bed before whirling back around to face you. “You were seizing on the concrete! You were freezing to death and burning up at the same time! Is that her version of protection? Forcing you to suppress a fundamental part of who you are just because it inconveniences her worldview?”

“She didn’t know the pills would do this!”

“She didn’t care!” Dean shouts, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “Just because she’s a beta and she’ll never experience the absolute fucking magic of having a fated mate doesn’t give her the right to try and rip it away from you! It is a gift, and she treated it like a disease!”

You flinch, pulling your knees up to your chest. The truth of his words hits you like a physical blow, breaking through the decades of conditioning your parents had carefully layered over you.

Dean sees you flinch and curses violently under his breath. He crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees right beside your bed so he’s perfectly eye-level with you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m yelling,” he breathes, his hands coming up to grip the metal bedrails. “I’m just so angry that you got hurt. You have no idea what it did to me, watching you on that pavement. Thinking I finally found you, only to watch you die.”

He reaches through the rails, gently taking your left arm. He turns your wrist over, exposing the pale skin of your inner forearm. Right over your pulse point, where a mating gland sits dormant beneath the skin.

He lowers his head and presses a long, firm, agonizingly soft kiss directly over the gland.

A jolt of pure electricity shoots up your arm, straight into your chest. Your omega purrs, a deep, vibrating sound of absolute contentment that you didn’t even know you were capable of making.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his lips still hovering mere inches from your skin.

“She’s not in charge anymore,” Dean vows, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I’m here now. I am your mate. I will take care of you, I will protect you, and I swear on my life, you will never experience anything like that ever again. You are done hiding.”

You stare down at him, entirely captivated. For the first time in your life, you don’t feel broken. You don’t feel like a problem that needs to be solved. Under Dean’s heavy, devoted gaze, you feel perfect.

Before you can formulate a response, the heavy wooden door to your room pushes open.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a female voice says briskly.

Dean immediately stands up, though he doesn’t step away from your bed. He slides his hand down to tangle his fingers firmly with yours, presenting a united front as the doctor walks in, followed by a nurse holding a chart.

“I’m Dr. Goldstein,” the doctor says, offering a warm smile as she approaches the foot of the bed. “It’s good to see your eyes open. How are you feeling?”

“Weak,” you admit honestly, your voice still raspy. “My muscles ache.”

“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Goldstein says, flipping through your chart. “You suffered a severe tonic-clonic seizure caused by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. Your body went into a state of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Frankly, you’re very lucky your mate here acted as quickly as he did, and that the ambulance was close.”

You look up at Dean. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, though his eyes remain locked sharply on the doctor.

“We’ve pumped you full of fluids and muscle relaxants, and we’ve successfully flushed the majority of the chemical toxicity out of your system,” Dr. Goldstein continues. She lowers the clipboard, looking at you with serious, sympathetic eyes. “But we need to talk about what comes next.”

The knot of anxiety in your stomach, which Dean had momentarily smoothed away, twists tight again. “What comes next?”

“You cannot go back on suppressants,” Dr. Goldstein says firmly. “Your body has developed a severe, life-threatening allergy to them. If you try to take even a low dose, you could go into anaphylactic shock, or worse.”

“Never again,” Dean states, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate.

You swallow hard. “Okay. No more pills. But … what does that mean?”

Dr. Goldstein sighs softly. “It means your biology is going to rebound. Hard. You’ve been forcibly suppressing your omega nature for years. Now that the dam is broken, your hormones are going to spike to compensate. I need you to be prepared. Within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, you are going to go into heat.”

The blood completely drains from your face.

Heat. The thought echoes in your head, a terrifying, abstract concept that your mother had always spoken about in hushed, disgusted tones. A loss of control. A feverish, degrading biological imperative.

“No,” you whisper, true, visceral panic setting in. You start to shake, pulling your hand out of Dean’s grip to clutch at the hospital blanket. “No, I can’t. I don’t know how. I’ve never had one.”

Dr. Goldstein looks surprised. “Never?”

“My parents put me on suppressants the day I presented at fourteen,” you say, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how it feels. Please, isn’t there something else you can give me? A lighter pill? An injection? I can’t just … I can’t!”

“Sweetheart, hey, look at me,” Dean says, his voice cutting through the rising tide of your panic.

You look at him, tears freely spilling down your cheeks.

Internally, Dean is a hurricane of pure, unadulterated violence. The realization that your parents essentially chemically sterilized you at fourteen — robbing you of every natural milestone of your secondary gender out of their own beta prejudice — makes him want to find them and tear them apart with his bare hands. The rage is so hot and blinding he can barely see straight.

But outwardly? Outwardly, he is a mountain. Unshakeable. Calm.

He sits back down on the edge of the bed, completely ignoring the doctor and nurse. He frames your face with both of his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping away your tears.

“Breathe with me,” Dean murmurs, locking his green eyes onto yours. He takes an exaggerated, deep breath in. “Come on. In.”

You drag a ragged breath into your lungs, mirroring him.

“Good. Out,” he praises softly.

He keeps his scent deliberately calm, pushing out waves of soothing cedar and rain, blanketing your panic in layers of alpha protection.

“I’m terrified,” you sob, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “My mom always said heats make you lose your mind. She said it’s humiliating.”

“Your mom doesn’t know a damn thing about what it means to be an omega,” Dean says, his voice dripping with absolute certainty. “She lied to you. It’s not humiliating. It’s natural. It’s beautiful.”

“But I don’t know what to do!”

“You don’t have to know what to do,” Dean says gently, leaning in until his forehead is resting against yours. “Because I know what to do. That’s what mates are for, baby. I am going to be right by your side the entire time. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to think, you won’t have to worry, you just have to let your body do what it was meant to do.”

“You promise?” You whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his solid strength.

“I swear it on my life,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. I’m not going to let anything scare you ever again. We’re going to get through this together.”

Dr. Goldstein clears her throat softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s right. A mate bond makes the biological transition significantly smoother. You’re in very good hands.”

You open your eyes, looking at Dean. The arrogant, charming playboy of Briar University is entirely gone. In his place is a devoted, fiercely protective alpha who is looking at you like you hold the stars in your hands.

For the first time in your life, you stop fighting your own biology. You take a deep breath of sandalwood and rain, and finally, you let yourself just be an omega.

***

The next thirty-two hours are a masterclass in anticipation.

The hospital staff insists on keeping you for observation to ensure the suppressants are completely flushed from your system and that your organs haven’t suffered any lasting damage from the toxicity.

Dean never leaves your side. He sleeps in the wildly uncomfortable plastic chair next to your bed, his hand tangled with yours. He eats terrible cafeteria food. He charms the nurses into bringing you extra pillows and smuggled-in hot chocolate.

He only leaves once. On the second morning, he kisses your forehead, promises he’ll be back before you can even miss him, and vanishes for two hours. He returns smelling like his expensive cedar body wash, wearing fresh clothes, and carrying a massive duffel bag.

“I had to prep,” Dean explains simply when you ask about the bag, a devastating smirk playing on his lips. “And I had to threaten Logan with bodily harm if he ever breathed a word about my panic attack.”

When Dr. Goldstein finally signs your discharge papers, the shift in your body is undeniable.

You feel … heavy. There is a deep, pulsing warmth settling low in your abdomen, a completely foreign sensation that makes your breath catch every few minutes. Your skin feels highly sensitized, the friction of your sweatpants against your legs sends tiny shocks up your spine.

But the most obvious change is the scent.

As Dean leads you out to his car, you notice the way his nostrils flare. His jaw is tight, his grip on your hand firm and possessive. The faint, smothered vanilla scent that had barely survived the suppressants has bloomed. It’s rich, thick, and intoxicatingly sweet, dripping with the undeniable pheromones of an omega on the absolute precipice of her first heat.

“We aren’t going to my house,” Dean says, opening the passenger door for you and helping you climb inside. “Logan and the guys are great, but you don’t need three other alphas in the house right now. And you definitely aren’t going back to your dorm.”

“Where are we going?” You ask, your voice already a little breathless. The leather of the car seat feels incredibly soft against your back.

“My family owns the Heyward Harbor Hotel downtown,” Dean says, shutting your door and walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, immediately locking the doors and starting the engine. “There’s a private penthouse suite on the top floor. It’s soundproof, secure, and completely ours. The staff knows not to come up unless I call.”

You swallow hard, your heart doing a nervous, excited flutter. “You really planned this out.”

Dean shoots you a dark, heated look as he pulls out of the hospital parking lot. “Sweetheart, I’ve been planning for you since I was sixteen years old. And right now, you smell so incredibly sweet that it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to pull this car over and climb into the backseat with you.”

You flush a deep crimson, a rush of slick heat pooling between your thighs at his words. “Dean …”

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “Hold on for me. Just a little longer.”

The drive is a blur of city lights and the heavy, electric tension filling the cabin of the car. By the time Dean pulls into the private underground garage of the hotel, you are practically vibrating.

He leads you to a private elevator that opens directly into the penthouse. The space is massive, all floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, and sleek furniture. But Dean bypasses the living area entirely, guiding you straight into the sprawling master bedroom.

You stop dead in your tracks.

The king-sized bed in the center of the room has been completely transformed. It’s a nest. A massive, chaotic, incredibly inviting pile of faux fur blankets, high-thread-count sheets, and enormous plush pillows. And woven through every single layer of fabric is the heavy, comforting scent of sandalwood, cedar, and rain. Dean’s scent.

“You built this?” You whisper, staring at the bed. Your omega instincts are practically screaming at you to dive into the center of it and roll around until you are completely coated in his scent.

“When I went back to shower,” Dean says, stepping up behind you. He rests his hands on your hips, pulling your back flush against his solid chest.

“I bought every soft blanket I could find in a ten-mile radius. Does it look okay?”

“It looks perfect,” you breathe, leaning back against him.

“Good. But you can’t get in it yet,” Dean says, his hands sliding up to grip your waist. He kisses the side of your neck, sending a violent shiver down your body. “You need a bath. And you need to eat. Once the heat fully hits, you aren’t going to care about food, and you need your strength.”

He is as good as his word. Dean leads you into a massive marble bathroom and starts the water in a deep soaking tub. He helps you strip out of your hospital clothes with a terrifyingly gentle reverence, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands entirely respectful.

The warm water feels like heaven on your aching muscles. Dean kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, and actually washes your hair. His large fingers massage your scalp with a perfect, agonizingly slow pressure.

“You’re shaking,” Dean notes softly, rinsing the shampoo from your hair.

“I feel … weird,” you admit, your eyes fluttering shut. The ache low in your belly is turning into a sharp, demanding throb. “It’s like there’s a wire pulled tight inside me, and it keeps getting tighter.”

“That’s the pre-heat,” Dean explains, his voice a soothing rumble. “Your body is prepping. It’s waking up. Just breathe through it.”

After the bath, he wraps you in a massive, fluffy towel and carries you out to the kitchen island. He’s ordered room service — a massive plate of carbonara, warm bread, and fruit.

“Eat,” he commands gently, pushing a fork into your hand. “As much as you can.”

You manage to eat half the pasta, though your appetite is rapidly being eclipsed by a different kind of hunger. The scent in the room is overwhelming now. Your vanilla and honey has mixed entirely with his cedar and rain, creating a thick, heady atmosphere that makes your head spin.

You drop the fork, a sudden, violent hot flash tearing through your body. You gasp, your hands gripping the edge of the marble counter.

Dean is there in a second. “Hey. Look at me.”

You look up, panting slightly. “Dean … it hurts. It’s so hot.”

“I know,” Dean says, his eyes flashing to a pitch-black, predatory dark. The leash he’s been keeping on his alpha is snapping. He reaches down and effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He drops you gently into the center of the nest. The sheer volume of his scent embedded in the blankets hits your system like a drug. You instantly curl onto your side, burying your face in one of his oversized t-shirts he left in the pile, a loud, desperate whine tearing from your throat.

Dean strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. He kicks off his shoes and jeans, left only in his boxer briefs, before he crawls into the nest with you.

The moment his bare skin touches yours, the final thread snaps.

The heat hits.

It is a tidal wave of biological demand. The dull ache turns into a blinding, searing need that completely consumes your mind. You don’t think. You just react. You scramble toward him, your hands desperately clutching at his broad, muscular shoulders, pulling him down over you.

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a fractured sob. You arch your hips upward, seeking the heavy, solid weight of him. “Please, I need … I need …”

“I know what you need,” Dean growls, his voice a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your core clench. He pins your wrists gently above your head with one hand, his chest hovering inches from yours. “You are so incredibly beautiful. You smell like pure sugar, baby.”

He lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating, bruising kiss. It’s nothing like the polite, gentle care he’s shown you for the last two days. This is raw, possessive, and entirely alpha. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in your soft moans.

You writhe beneath him, your legs tangling with his. You are soaked, a slick, hot mess of arousal that your body has naturally produced in terrifying abundance.

Dean breaks the kiss, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and the sensitive column of your neck. He pauses right over your scent gland, inhaling sharply.

“You’re mine,” he breathes against the skin, his hot breath making you arch off the mattress. “Only mine. Tell me.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes rolling back. “Dean, please, it’s so empty. Please.”

“Impatient,” Dean chuckles darkly. His free hand trails down your torso, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. “We have to do this right, sweetheart. I need you completely ready for me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

His hand slips between your thighs, and you let out a high, fractured cry at the contact. His fingers are large, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they are impossibly gentle. He parts your slick folds, tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves at your peak.

You thrash against his hold, completely overwhelmed by the sensation. “Dean!”

“I’m here,” he murmurs, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure. “Let go for me. Come for me, baby.”

He slides two fingers deep inside you, and you completely shatter. Your body bows off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as your first orgasm rips through you. It’s blinding. It’s a rush of pure pleasure that leaves you gasping for air, your muscles trembling violently as your inner walls clench around his fingers.

Dean watches you unravel, a look of pure worship on his face. He doesn’t stop. As you ride out the agonizingly long waves of the climax, he shifts lower down the bed.

“Dean, wait, I’m too sensitive-” you stammer, trying to push yourself backward.

“I’m not done,” he says simply.

He parts your thighs wider, settling between your legs. He grips your hips to hold you completely still, and then he lowers his mouth to your core.

You scream his name, your hands flying to tangle in his blonde hair. The slide of his tongue is expertly cruel, lapping up your slick with a greedy, starving desperation. He finds your clit again, sucking gently before swirling his tongue over it, sending you plummeting right back into the fire.

Your mind goes completely blank. There is only the heat, the overwhelming scent of cedar, and the devastating perfection of his mouth. You climax again, harder this time, sobbing into the pillows as your vision literally whites out.

Dean pulls back, his chest heaving as he crawls back up your body. His eyes are glazed, completely feral. He strips away your underwear and tears his boxers off, discarding them off the edge of the bed.

You feel the heavy, thick press of him against your entrance. The sheer size of him makes you gasp, a fleeting moment of apprehension piercing through the haze of the heat.

Dean senses it immediately. He pauses, his forearms bracketing your head, and looks down into your eyes.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

You meet his gaze.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Dean vows, his voice a rough, desperate rasp. “I am going to fill you up, and I am going to make you feel so goddamn good. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you whisper, meaning it with every fiber of your being. “I trust you. Please.”

Dean groans, a deeply satisfied, rumbling sound. “Good girl.”

He pushes his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.

You cry out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It is the most intense, overwhelming feeling you have ever experienced. You are completely full, stretched taut, the physical connection bridging the gap your soul has been aching to fill for years.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. He stays perfectly still, giving your body time to adjust to his massive size. “Fuck. You feel … you feel like heaven. So tight. So wet for me.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet him. “Dean, please move.”

He chuckles, a dark, breathless sound, and begins to pull back. The friction is absolute torture in the best way possible. He sets a brutal, driving pace, his hips snapping against yours with audible slaps of skin.

You are completely lost in it. You match his rhythm perfectly, meeting his thrusts, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to draw him in even deeper. The room smells like sex and alpha command and the intoxicating sweetness of an omega in the throes of a mating heat.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice strained. “Take it all, baby. You’re doing so good.”

The pressure is building again, twisting into a tight, coiled spring low in your belly. Dean recognizes the shift in your breathing, the frantic, desperate hitch in your chest.

He slides one hand under your lower back, angling your hips up to hit a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars.

“Dean!” You scream, your head thrashing side to side.

“I’ve got you,” he growls. He shifts his weight, pinning you down, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brush directly over your scent gland. “I’m going to claim you now. I’m going to make you mine permanently. Let me mark you.”

“Yes,” you sob, the word a desperate plea. “Yes, mark me!”

Dean bites down.

His sharp canines pierce the delicate skin over your scent gland. The pain is a sharp, brief sting, instantly swallowed by a blinding, explosive rush of euphoria.

The bond snaps into place.

It is physical. It is emotional. It is a sudden, brilliant tether forming between your chest and his, locking your souls together with an undeniable, permanent gravity. You can feel him. You can feel his love, his possessiveness, his absolute devotion flooding into your mind.

At the exact same moment his teeth break the skin, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, and unloads deep inside you.

Your own climax hits like a freight train, your body convulsing violently around his knot as it swells, locking you together. You scream his name, your hands desperately clutching at his back.

“Bite me,” Dean commands, his voice muffled against your skin. He pulls back just enough to expose his own neck, baring his throat to you in the ultimate display of alpha submission. “Mark me back, sweetheart. Claim me.”

You don’t hesitate. You surge upward, your lips finding the pulsing scent gland on the side of his neck. You sink your teeth in, tasting the salt of his sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

Dean lets out a roaring groan, his head falling back as the bond solidifies on his end. The tether snaps tight, completely unbreakable. He grips your hips, riding out the devastating aftershocks of your shared climax, completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

The room is silent except for your ragged, synchronized breathing. Dean’s knot is still firmly locked inside you, keeping you intimately tethered. He collapses completely against you, his heavy weight a comforting, grounding presence.

He gently buries his face in your hair, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your temple.

“Mine,” he whispers, the word laced with pure awe. “You’re actually mine.”

“Yours,” you echo softly, running your hands through his damp blonde hair.

Slowly, the frantic racing of your heart begins to settle. The feverish edge of the heat dulls into a bone-deep, lethargic exhaustion. Your eyelids droop, the sheer physical toll of the last few hours finally catching up to you.

Dean senses it. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms securely around your waist. “Tired?”

“Exhausted,” you murmur, nuzzling your face into the hollow of his shoulder. “Is it … is it over?”

Dean chuckles softly, his chest rumbling against yours. He reaches up, gently petting your hair, his fingers smoothing the tangled strands.

“Not even close, sweetheart,” Dean says, pressing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your neck. “A normal heat usually lasts anywhere from four to seven days, depending on the omega.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you try to pull back to look at him, but he keeps you flush against his chest. “Four to seven days? Of that?”

“Usually,” Dean continues, his voice soothing and calm. “But given the circumstances … given how long your parents had you on those heavy suppressants, and how violently your body rejected them … Dr. Goldstein warned me that this one is going to be different. Your biology is rebounding. Hard. This heat is going to be significantly longer, and the peaks are going to be a lot more extreme.”

A spike of nervous anxiety flares in your chest. “Dean, I don’t know if I can-”

“Hey,” Dean interrupts gently, his hand sweeping down your back in a steady, calming rhythm. “Stop. What did I promise you in the hospital?”

You swallow hard. “That you’d take care of me.”

“Exactly. And I will,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. “I am not going anywhere. I’ve got enough food and water in this suite to last us two weeks. I’ll be here for every single wave. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to worry. You just have to let your body do what it needs to do, and I will handle the rest.”

You look at him, really look at the beautiful, devoted alpha who has completely upended your entire life in the span of three days. The fear melts away, completely smothered by the warm, buzzing hum of the mating bond currently singing in your veins.

“Okay,” you whisper, resting your head back against his chest.

“Okay,” Dean echoes. His knot slowly begins to recede, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, pulling the heavy faux fur blankets up over both of you, completely cocooning you in the nest.

He wraps his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. His thumb resumes its slow, hypnotic petting of your hair.

“You did so good for me, baby,” Dean murmurs, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion. “So perfect. Try to get some sleep. You need to rest before the next wave hits.”

You close your eyes, the scent of cedar and vanilla wrapping around you like a physical shield. The ache is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s no longer terrifying. It’s natural. It’s right.

For the first time in your life, you aren’t fighting who you are. You aren’t suppressing the deepest, most fundamental parts of your soul. You are exactly where you are supposed to be, safe in the arms of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of his entire universe.

This is the fairytale. This is everything your mother said didn’t exist.

As you drift off to sleep, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of Dean’s heart beneath your ear, you realize one simple, absolute truth.

The reality is so much better than the dream.

It’s been four hours since you ran out of the Briar hockey house. Four hours since you willingly pressed your scent gland against Garrett Graham’s neck and let him do the same to you.

“You’re losing your mind,” you whisper to the empty bathroom. “It was just a biological misfire. It means nothing.”

But your body violently disagrees.

You wrap a towel around yourself and trudge back to your room. The moment you open the door, Jackie sits straight up on her futon. She takes one look at you, her nose twitching, and her eyes go as wide as dinner plates.

“Holy mother of alphas,” Jackie breathes out, dropping her phone. “Y/N. You … you smell like a lumberjack wrapped in an expensive cologne ad. What happened? Did you fight him or fuck him?”

“Neither!” You snap, marching over to your dresser and yanking out an oversized sweatshirt. “I went over there to yell at him for the book. I gave it back.”

“You did not just yell at him,” Jackie says, standing up and crossing the small room. She leans in, sniffing the air near your shoulder, and shudders. “My god, that is potent. That is a straight-up claiming scent. You scented him? The president of O.M.E.G.A. scented the most toxic alpha on the ice?”

“I didn’t mean to!” You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I walked in, and his house smelled like him, and my stupid biology just … hijacked my brain! I couldn’t control it, Jackie. It was terrifying. It felt so good, and I couldn’t stop it.”

Jackie’s teasing expression softens. She reaches out, gently rubbing your back. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s just instincts. You’re an omega, he’s an alpha, and clearly, you guys are highly compatible. There’s no shame in your body responding to that.”

“There is shame in it,” you argue, pulling your sweatshirt over your head. “It goes against everything I stand for. I refuse to be a slave to my hormones. I’m going to sleep this off, wake up tomorrow, and pretend none of this ever happened.”

But sleep does not come.

You lie in your narrow twin bed, staring at the ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark stars mocking you.

Your omega is awake. And she is absolutely furious with you.

Where is he?

The instinctual demand is a relentless, dull ache in the center of your chest. You curled up in your blankets, trying to create a makeshift nest to soothe the anxiety, but your cheap sheets don’t smell like him. They don’t feel like the crushed velvet and silk he bought for you.

Every time you close your eyes, you feel the scrape of his jaw against your neck. You hear the deep, rumbling purr vibrating against your collarbone.

Alpha. Need our alpha. Go back.

“Shut up,” you hiss into your pillow, squeezing your eyes shut.

You toss. You turn. You kick the blankets off. You pull them back on. The physical ache of separation is agonizing. Scenting an alpha is a promise of proximity. By initiating that contact and then running away, you threw your own nervous system into shock. Your biology thinks you’ve been abandoned by your mate.

A soft, pathetic whine slips out of your throat. You clamp your hand over your mouth, utterly humiliated by the sound.

You spend the entire night trapped in this purgatory. Whining, tossing, fighting your own tears.

***

By Thursday, you are a walking corpse.

You haven’t slept more than forty-five minutes at a time. The dark circles under your eyes look like bruises. Your bones ache, your skin feels too tight, and your concentration is completely shattered.

You sit in the back of your Advanced Gender Theory seminar, staring blankly at the whiteboard. The professor is talking about the societal constructs of omega submission, but the words just sound like white noise.

All you can think about is cedar and bergamot.

The scent on your skin finally started to fade this morning, and instead of feeling relieved, you felt a crushing, devastating wave of panic. Your omega is starving for him.

The bell rings, signaling the end of class. You sluggishly pack your notebook into your tote bag, your movements heavy and uncoordinated.

“You okay, Y/N?” A beta classmate asks, eyeing you with concern. “You look really pale.”

“Just pulling an all-nighter for a paper,” you lie, forcing a weak smile. “I’m going to get some coffee. Lots of it.”

You stumble out of the academic building and into the cold, damp Boston afternoon. The sky is a heavy, overcast gray, threatening rain. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, shivering. You need caffeine if you’re going to survive the O.M.E.G.A. board meeting tonight.

You walk two blocks off campus to a small, independent coffee shop tucked between a used bookstore and a laundromat. It’s a neutral zone, caught halfway between BU’s campus and Briar University. You come here when you need to escape the campus bubble.

The bell above the door chimes cheerfully as you step inside. The air is warm, smelling of roasted espresso beans and baked pastries. You let out a sigh of relief, stepping up to the counter.

“Large black coffee, please,” you say to the barista. “Actually, make it a red-eye. Add a shot of espresso.”

You pay, dropping a dollar in the tip jar, and move to the pickup counter near the back of the shop, right next to the narrow hallway that leads to the restrooms and the rear exit door.

You lean your hip against the counter, closing your eyes and rubbing your temples. Just a few more hours, and you can go back to your room and try to sleep again.

The bell above the front door chimes again.

And then, the air in the coffee shop changes.

It happens in a split second. The smell of espresso and pastries is violently overwritten.

Crisp winter air. Bergamot. And heavy, dominant cedar.

Your eyes snap open. Your heart literally stutters in your chest, missing a beat before slamming against your ribs in a frantic, double-time rhythm.

Alpha. Alpha is here.

Your omega violently thrashes to life, a rush of warmth flooding your veins and instantly erasing the exhaustion of the past three days.

You slowly turn your head.

Garrett is standing by the pastry display. He’s wearing a Briar hockey hoodie, his dark hair messy, looking impossibly broad and devastatingly handsome. He’s looking down at his phone, completely unaware of your presence.

Panic, cold and sharp, spikes through your chest.

If he sees you, you’re done. If he gets close to you, your omega will absolutely take over and you will embarrass yourself in the middle of a public coffee shop. You cannot let him touch you.

“Order for Y/N!” The barista calls out, sliding a paper cup onto the counter.

Garrett’s head snaps up at the sound of your name.

His blue eyes lock onto yours across the crowded room. Even from thirty feet away, you can see the exact moment his pupils blow wide. The casual, relaxed posture vanishes, replaced instantly by the rigid, predatory focus of an alpha who just found his missing mate.

“No,” you whisper.

You grab the coffee cup, ignoring the scalding heat against your palm, and bolt.

You don’t go for the front door — he’s blocking it. You spin around and dive into the narrow hallway leading to the back exit. It’s dimly lit, lined with stacked boxes of coffee cups and cleaning supplies.

You reach the heavy metal door at the end of the hall and slam your hand against the push-bar.

It doesn’t budge.

“Come on,” you hiss, throwing your weight against it. It’s locked.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps echo on the linoleum behind you.

You spin around, your back pressing flat against the cold metal door, your coffee cup clutched to your chest like a shield.

Garrett steps into the hallway.

He fills the narrow space completely. He takes a step toward you, the shadows contouring the sharp lines of his jaw and the intense, dark hunger in his eyes.

“Running again?” Garrett asks, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that sends a treacherous shiver straight down your spine.

“Stay back, Graham,” you warn, trying to sound authoritative. It comes out breathless and weak.

He doesn’t listen. He takes another slow step. Then another. Until he is standing right in front of you.

He reaches out, taking the hot coffee cup from your trembling hands. He sets it casually on a stack of boxes next to you. Then, he brings his hands up and places them flat against the metal door, one on either side of your head.

He cages you in.

He doesn’t touch you, but he doesn’t have to. The heat radiating off his massive body is enough to make your knees weak. His scent is a thick, invisible blanket wrapping around your senses, soothing the agonizing ache that has been tearing you apart for three days.

Home, your omega purrs happily. Finally.

“You look exhausted,” Garrett murmurs, leaning in closer. His eyes drop to the dark circles under your eyes, his brow furrowing in genuine concern. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

“Gee, I wonder whose fault that is,” you snap, looking up at him. You try to glare, but your eyes keep dropping to his lips.

“It’s your own fault, sweetheart,” he says softly. “You started a bond and then starved it. Your omega is punishing you for leaving me. You can’t just fight biology and expect to win.”

“I can,” you insist, your voice wavering. “I will. I’m not giving in to this. I’m not giving in to you.”

Garrett sighs, a sound of profound patience. He slowly shifts his weight, leaning closer until his chest is barely an inch from yours.

“Why?” He asks, his voice dropping into that hypnotic, gravelly register. “Why are you fighting this so hard? You know how good it felt. You know you belong in my space. Stop fighting destiny, Y/N.”

“Because I know exactly what destiny looks like!” You explode, the frustration and exhaustion finally boiling over. You press your hands against his chest, trying to push him away, but it’s like pushing against a brick wall. He doesn’t budge an inch. “I know exactly what being an alpha’s destined mate means! I won’t do it!”

Garrett’s expression sharpens. “What does it mean, then? Tell me.”

“It means giving up my life!” You yell, your voice echoing slightly in the narrow hallway. “It means giving up my autonomy! I am the president of O.M.E.G.A. I have a career planned. I have goals! I refuse to become your stay-at-home, submissive omega wet dream, Garrett! I won’t sit in a penthouse and pop out pups and wait for you to come home from hockey practice so I can fetch your slippers!”

Silence falls over the hallway.

You breathe heavily, staring up at him, waiting for the anger. Waiting for the traditional alpha ego to rear its ugly head and demand obedience.

But Garrett doesn’t look angry. He looks fascinated.

Slowly, he moves his right hand from the door. He lifts it, his large, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The touch is so incredibly tender it makes your breath hitch.

“Is that really what you think I want?” He asks softly.

“It’s what all alphas want,” you say stubbornly, refusing to lean into his touch.

“I’m not all alphas.” Garrett cups your cheek, his thumb slowly stroking across your cheekbone. The warmth of his skin sends a wave of lethargy crashing over you. “I read the book you left on my coffee table, Y/N.”

You blink, completely caught off guard. “You read it?”

“Cover to cover,” Garrett says, his eyes never leaving yours. “Dr. Richter makes some good points about systematic oppression. I agree with her. Alphas have abused their biological advantage for centuries to exert control. It’s bullshit. And it’s exactly what my father did to my mother.”

Your anger falters. The fight starts to drain out of your muscles. 

“I swore a long time ago,” Garrett continues, his voice thick with raw emotion, “that I would never, ever make my mate feel trapped. I would never take her choices away.”

He leans his forehead against yours. The proximity is dizzying.

“I don’t want a maid, Y/N,” he murmurs, his breath dusting across your lips. “I don’t want a quiet little doll who sits at home. I want the fierce, beautiful girl who stood on the steps of the student union and threw my own courting gift at my chest.”

You let out a shaky breath, your hands uncurling against his chest, the fabric of his hoodie soft under your fingertips. “Garrett …”

“I want your fire,” he whispers, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I want you to run your movement. I want you to change the world. I will stand right behind you and bankroll the entire goddamn thing if you let me. I will fight anyone who gets in your way.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. The absolute devotion in his voice is overwhelming. It shatters the armor you’ve spent years building.

“But I’m an alpha,” Garrett says, his voice darkening, a heavy, possessive edge slipping back in. “And you are my omega. And I need you to understand something very clearly.”

You swallow hard, your eyes wide as you look up at him. “What?”

“I would never force you to be submissive in your life,” Garrett says, his gaze dropping to your lips. He leans in closer, his nose brushing against yours. “I only want you submissive voluntarily. When you’re in my bed. When you are under me, completely undone, and I am making you feel good the way only I can.”

A hot, heavy flush explodes across your entire body. Your knees literally buckle at the visual, at the unapologetic dominance in his tone.

Garrett catches you instantly, his strong arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against his solid frame. He holds you up effortlessly.

“You need to stop fighting,” Garrett purrs, the sound vibrating through his chest and directly into yours. “You are killing yourself trying to run from something that is already written in our blood. Accept it, sweetheart. You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

He doesn’t order you. He doesn’t use heavy pheromones to force your compliance. He just states it as an absolute, undeniable fact.

And looking up into his gray eyes, feeling the agonizing ache in your chest finally, completely vanish … you know he’s right.

The last ounce of fight drains out of your body. The exhaustion, the anger, the stubborn defiance — it all melts away, leaving behind only the pure, burning need of your omega.

You slide your arms up, wrapping them around his thick neck. You bury your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

Garrett lets out a ragged, triumphant groan.

“Please,” you whisper, the word a surrender.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Garrett leans in and captures your lips with his.

The kiss is explosive. It is nothing like the gentle, tender caresses from a moment ago. It is demanding, hungry, and completely territorial. His mouth is hot and desperate, tasting like espresso and pure alpha heat.

And this time, you don’t fight back.

You melt against him with a soft, desperate whimper, opening your mouth for him. Garrett’s tongue sweeps inside, claiming you, tasting you, tangling with yours in a slick, feverish dance. His hands slide down your back, gripping your hips and pulling you agonizingly flush against him, letting you feel exactly how much he wants you.

The biological click is instantaneous. The bond snaps into place, a rush of pure, golden euphoria flooding your senses.

You kiss him back with everything you have, your hands gripping his hair, pulling him closer. He tastes like victory. He smells like home.

Garrett breaks the kiss just long enough for you to catch a jagged breath. He presses a string of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, working his way down to the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Mine,” he growls against your pulse point, his fangs grazing lightly against your skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. “Finally.”

“Yours,” you gasp out, your head falling back against the metal door, completely surrendering to the alpha making you feel better than you ever thought possible.

Garrett kisses you again, deeper this time, swallowing your moan as he backs you fully into the door. The coffee shop, the protest, the movement — it all fades away. There is only Garrett, his scent, and the undeniable truth that you have finally found exactly where you belong.

***

You don’t remember the drive from the coffee shop.

You only remember the heavy, intoxicating scent of cedar filling the cab of Garrett’s truck, the heat of his massive hand resting possessively on your thigh the entire ride, and the absolute, terrifying surrender singing in your veins.

Garrett doesn’t even let your feet touch the ground when you arrive at the house. He kills the engine, rounds the hood of the truck, and scoops you up into his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing. You bury your face in his neck, inhaling the crisp winter air and bergamot that clings to his skin, your omega purring in a continuous, frantic vibration against his chest.

He kicks the front door open with his heavy boot.

The loud bang echoes through the house.

“Whoa, what the-” Dean starts, looking up from the living room couch.

Logan and Tucker are in the kitchen, but the moment Garrett steps fully into the entryway, all three alphas freeze. The air in the house instantly thickens, completely saturated by Garrett’s dominant, territorial pheromones and the sweet, heavy scent of your slick vanilla and rainwater.

It is the unmistakable scent of an alpha bringing his mate home to claim her.

“Out,” Garrett snarls.

It isn’t a request. It is a primal, chest-deep command that vibrates off the walls. He doesn’t even look at them. His eyes are entirely black, blown wide with absolute lust and instinctual focus. He holds you tighter against his chest, shielding you from their gaze.

“We’re going, we’re going,” Logan says instantly, holding his hands up in a gesture of pure surrender. He grabs Dean by the back of the shirt, hauling him off the couch. “Tucker, grab your keys. Let’s move. Now.”

Within ten seconds, the front door slams shut behind them. The house is completely, blissfully empty.

“Mine,” Garrett growls softly, his lips pressing a hot kiss to your temple. “Nobody else. Just you and me.”

“Garrett,” you whimper, your hands clutching the fabric of his hoodie. The ache in your lower stomach is becoming unbearable. A heavy, pooling heat

throbs between your thighs, your slick soaking your underwear as your body aggressively prepares for him.

He carries you up the stairs taking them two at a time. He kicks his bedroom door open, steps inside, and kicks it shut behind him, the heavy click of the deadbolt locking sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.

The room is exactly as he prepared it. The heavy curtains are drawn, plunging the space into dim, intimate shadows. The massive bed in the center of the room is piled high with the crushed velvet pillows, the faux-fur throw, and the expensive silk sheets he bought just for you.

Garrett gently sets you down on your feet at the edge of the mattress.

Your knees immediately buckle. The biological exhaustion and the sheer weight of his pheromones are too much.

Garrett catches you instantly, his strong hands gripping your waist to keep you steady. “I’ve got you, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

“It’s too much,” you gasp, leaning your forehead against his broad chest. “Garrett, please. It hurts. I need you.”

“I know, baby. I know,” he murmurs, his voice a thick, gravelly purr that sends a fresh wave of slick rushing down your thighs. “But we’re not rushing this. We’ve waited three months. I’m going to savor every single second of you.”

He reaches for the hem of your oversized sweatshirt. “Lift your arms for me.”

You obey without a single thought of rebellion. The fierce, independent president of O.M.E.G.A. is entirely gone, replaced by a desperate, aching omega who finally, willingly yields to her alpha.

Garrett pulls the sweatshirt over your head and tosses it onto the floor. He makes quick work of your jeans, sliding them down your hips and legs, leaving you standing in nothing but a simple lace bra and panties.

He takes a step back.

You shiver, suddenly exposed in the dim light. But when you look up at him, the expression on his face completely steals your breath.

He isn’t just looking at you. He is worshipping you. His black eyes trace every curve, every dip, every soft line of your body like he’s memorizing a sacred text.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he breathes out, his voice practically trembling with reverence.

He steps forward again, his massive hands reaching out to cup your shoulders. He drags his palms slowly down your arms, his calloused skin tracing paths of fire across your sensitive nerves. He unhooks your bra, letting it fall away, and then his thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties.

He slides them down, his knuckles brushing against your slick-soaked curls.

You let out a jagged gasp as the cool air hits your wet heat.

“So ready for me,” Garrett purrs, his eyes dropping to the glistening wetness between your thighs. “You smell like heaven, Y/N. You smell like mine.”

He grips your hips and lifts you, laying you back onto the center of the massive bed. The silk sheets are incredibly soft against your bare skin, a stark, luxurious contrast to the rough, feral energy radiating off the man standing over you.

Garrett grabs the hem of his hoodie and yanks it off in one fluid motion, discarding his t-shirt right after. His chest is broad, carved with heavy, athletic muscle and dusted with golden hair. He sheds his jeans and boxers, kicking them aside.

He is fully aroused, thick and heavily veined, his length bobbing against his flat stomach. The sight of him — so big, so dominant, so entirely focused on you — makes your heart hammer wildly against your ribs.

Garrett crawls onto the bed, positioning himself between your spread thighs.

But instead of looming over you to claim your mouth, he stays low. He grips the backs of your thighs, his large hands easily wrapping around your legs, and pulls your hips right to the edge of the mattress.

“Garrett,” you breathe, your fingers twisting into the luxurious silk sheets.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the inside of your knee. “Just let me take care of you. Let me show you how good it can be.”

He presses his face directly against your slick, wet core.

You scream his name, your spine arching entirely off the bed as his hot, rough tongue drags right up your center.

It is a sensory overload. Garrett doesn’t just taste you; he devours you. He groans into your slick, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly they will definitely leave bruises — a possessive, undeniable mark. His tongue flicks over your sensitized bundle of nerves with agonizing precision.

“Garrett! Please!” You sob, your head thrashing side to side on the crushed velvet pillows.

“I’m right here,” he rumbles against your wetness, his breath sending violent shivers through your entire body. “I’ve got you. Fall for me, sweetie. Let it go.”

He sucks you into his mouth, his tongue swirling and lapping as you shatter completely.

The orgasm rips through you like a hurricane. You cry out, your vision flashing white as your inner muscles clench and spasm around empty air.

But Garrett isn’t done.

Just as the peak of your climax hits, just as you are hovering in that terrifying, blissful free-fall, Garrett turns his head. He finds the delicate, highly sensitive scent gland tucked right into the crease of your thigh, where your leg meets your pelvis.

He opens his mouth and sinks his fangs directly into the gland.

You shriek, a wild, primal sound tearing from your throat.

The bite is a sharp, blinding pinch of pain that instantly morphs into the most intense, earth-shattering pleasure you have ever experienced. Biting the thigh gland is a deep, instinctual claiming act — an alpha flooding their omega’s lower nervous system with their own venom and scent, forcing a secondary, even more violent climax.

Your body arches so hard your hips lift off the mattress. A fresh wave of slick floods out of you, completely drenching Garrett’s face.

Garrett pulls back from the bite, his chest heaving, his mouth and chin slick with your essence. He looks like a starved beast who finally caught his prey. He leans back down and licks the excess slick from your thighs, lapping at you like a dying man at an oasis.

“God, you taste so sweet,” he groans, crawling up your body.

He covers you completely, his massive weight pressing you down into the mattress. It is the most grounding, secure feeling in the world. His broad chest crushes your soft breasts, his heart hammering in perfect synchronization with yours.

“Look at me,” Garrett orders, his voice thick and raspy.

You flutter your eyes open, your vision still swimming from the sheer force of the climax. You look up into his dark, entirely feral eyes.

“You belong to me now,” Garrett says, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. “You are my destined mate. You are my omega. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, tears of pure relief slipping down your temples. “I belong to you.”

A guttural, triumphant growl tears from Garrett’s throat.

He reaches down, guiding his thick, blunt tip to your slick, swollen opening.

“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he commands softly.

You obey, crossing your ankles over his lower back, opening yourself completely for him.

Garrett pushes forward.

You gasp, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders. He is so big, stretching you incredibly wide. But your body is entirely prepared for him, practically melting around his girth as he sinks in.

He pushes all the way to the hilt in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.

The friction is incredible. The feeling of being entirely filled, of having the agonizing emptiness inside you finally answered, draws a deep, soulful sob from your lips.

It feels like coming home. It feels like a puzzle piece finally snapping into its perfect, designated place. You were made for him, and he was made for you.

Garrett buries his face in your neck, letting out a fractured, breathless groan. “Fuck. Y/N. You feel … you feel so perfect.”

He begins to move.

His thrusts are slow at first, deep and deliberate, making sure you can accommodate his size. He pulls almost entirely out before sinking back down to the hilt, the wet sound of your slick echoing in the quiet bedroom.

“Yes,” you moan, your hands trailing down his sweaty back to grip his tight hips, silently urging him to move faster. “Garrett, please. Harder.”

“I’ve got you,” he pants, his rhythm picking up.

He shifts his weight, propping himself up on one forearm while his other hand slides beneath your lower back, angling your hips up to meet his violent thrusts.

He pounds into you, his hips slapping against your thighs with loud, wet smacks. Every thrust hits the deepest part of you, sending shockwaves of pleasure rolling through your stomach. It is a total, absolute claiming. He is branding you from the inside out, erasing every thought, every doubt, every protest you ever had.

The heat in the room is suffocating. The air is thick with the scent of cedar, bergamot, vanilla, and heavy, musky sex.

“Garrett,” you cry out, your head tossing back against the pillows. The pressure is building again, a tight, coiled spring winding up in your core. “I’m close. Please, I’m so close.”

“Me too,” Garrett grits out, his jaw clenched tight, a vein pulsing at his temple. “Come for me, sweetheart. Come for your alpha.”

He reaches between your bodies, his thick thumb finding your swollen clitoris. He presses down, rubbing in a harsh, frantic circle while he continues to pound into you from below.

The dual stimulation shatters your restraint.

“Garrett!” You scream, your inner walls violently clamping down around his thick length.

Garrett roars, his hips stuttering as his own climax hits him. He drives into you one final, brutal time, burying himself as deep as physically possible.

But this time, the biological script demands the final step.

As you both free-fall over the edge of the cliff, Garrett’s mouth opens wide. He lines his sharp fangs up directly over the prominent scent gland on the side of your neck.

At the exact same moment, driven by a purely instinctual, undeniable urge, you turn your head and bare your own teeth, pressing your open mouth against the scent gland on the side of his thick neck.

You bite down.

Garrett bites down.

The pain is sharp, piercing, and entirely eclipsed by the blinding, supernatural rush of the mating bond snapping into place.

It is an explosion of light behind your eyes. Your souls violently crash into each other, fusing together at a cellular level. You can feel him in your mind — his fierce protectiveness, his overwhelming love, his possessive triumph. And you know he can feel you — your fiery spirit, your deep, your submission, your absolute devotion.

You taste his blood, rich and metallic, mixing with the heavy cedar of his scent.

Garrett groans against your neck, his fangs deeply embedded in your flesh, marking you for the rest of your life. He pumps his hips, his base pressing flush against you.

The knot at the base of his shaft suddenly swells, locking him firmly inside of you.

You gasp, your eyes flying open as the immense pressure stretches you to your absolute limit. “Garrett …”

“I’m not pulling out,” Garrett growls against your marked skin, his hot breath ghosting over the fresh bite. “I’m never pulling out.”

He unleashes a torrential, scorching flood of his seed deep inside of you. You can feel every powerful pulse of his release, painting your womb with his claiming mark. He imagines his seed taking root, imagines filling you with his pups, securing his ultimate, permanent hold on his destined mate. The alpha breeding instinct is completely unrestrained, and your omega happily, greedily drinks it all in.

He stays clamped to your neck, riding out the violent waves of his climax, until he finally goes limp.

He collapses on top of you, his massive chest heaving for air, completely crushing you into the mattress.

You don’t care. You wrap your arms around his sweaty back, holding him as tightly as you can, a deep, continuous purr vibrating from your chest.

Garrett gently pulls his fangs out of your neck. He presses a soft, tender kiss to the bleeding mating mark, his tongue soothing the broken skin.

“Mine,” he whispers, his voice exhausted but unimaginably happy. “My beautiful, perfect mate.”

“Yours,” you hum, your fingers playing with the damp blonde hair at the nape of his neck.

You lie there tangled together for a long time. Garrett’s knot slowly, gradually begins to recede, but he refuses to move. He keeps you pinned beneath him, periodically dropping soft kisses on your jaw, your nose, your lips.

Eventually, the biological exhaustion wears off, replaced by a strange, humming energy.

Your omega is fully awake now. She is deeply satisfied, fully bonded, and entirely safe. But looking around the messy, disheveled bed, an undeniable urge begins to pull at you.

“Garrett,” you murmur, gently tapping his shoulder. “You need to move.”

Garrett groans, nuzzling his face into your neck. “No. Never moving again. I live here now.”

“Alpha, please,” you say softly.

The word makes Garrett freeze. He lifts his head, his blue eyes entirely clear and focused, staring down at you with raw devotion. Hearing you call him ‘alpha’ voluntarily is the sweetest sound he has ever heard.

He slowly rolls off of you, though he keeps a heavy hand resting on your hip.

You sit up. You are completely bare, your body flushed, covered in sweat, slick, and his scent. Your neck throbs slightly where the mating mark rests, a permanent claim.

You look at the pile of crushed velvet pillows that were kicked to the end of the bed during your frantic claiming. You look at the silk sheets, the heavy faux-fur throw.

The nesting instinct hits you like a physical wave.

You crawl to the foot of the bed, entirely unashamed of your nakedness in front of him. You grab two of the heavy burgundy pillows and drag them to the center of the mattress.

Garrett shifts onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. He watches you in complete, mesmerized awe.

You arrange the pillows in a half-circle. You pull the silk sheets up, bunching them together to create a soft, protective wall. You grab the faux-fur throw and lay it gently in the center.

But it’s not enough. It doesn’t smell enough like him.

You look over the edge of the bed at the clothes he discarded earlier. You scramble off the mattress, your legs shaking slightly, and snatch his Briar hockey hoodie and his gray t-shirt off the floor.

You climb back onto the bed and meticulously weave his clothing into the center of the nest. The heavy scent of cedar and bergamot radiates from the fabric, making the small, enclosed space feel incredibly safe and secure.

It is your first nest. It is messy, chaotic, and absolutely perfect.

You crawl into the center of the nest, curling your legs underneath you. The faux-fur tickles your skin, and the scent of your mate wraps around you like a protective shield. You look up at Garrett.

He is staring at you with an expression of such intense, overwhelming love that it makes your chest ache. He is a traditional alpha, an ex-abused kid who just wanted to provide for his omega and protect her from the world.

Seeing you voluntarily build a nest in his bed, with his clothes, is everything he has ever dreamed of.

You smile, a soft, yielding expression that melts the last of his hardened exterior.

You reach your hand out toward him across the silk sheets.

“Come here, alpha,” you whisper softly. “Come into the nest.”

Garrett doesn’t hesitate.

He crawls across the mattress, his massive frame carefully maneuvering into the small, soft sanctuary you built. He wraps his heavy arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and buries his face in your hair.

“Good girl,” Garrett murmurs, his deep purr vibrating right through your spine. “Such a perfect, beautiful omega.”

You close your eyes, leaning back into his solid warmth. The war is over. The rebellion is done. And wrapped in the arms of your alpha, surrounded by the nest you built together, you have never felt more free in your entire life.

***

The morning sun filters through the heavy curtains of Garrett’s bedroom and over the tangled mess of the bed.

You wake up slowly. Your entire body feels heavy, deliciously sore, and incredibly warm. You shift slightly, the expensive silk sheets brushing against your bare skin. Instantly, a massive, muscular arm tightens around your waist, hauling you backward until your spine is pressed flush against a broad, hard chest.

“Don’t move,” Garrett grumbles, his voice a thick, sleep-heavy rasp that vibrates against your shoulder blades. “Nest is too comfortable. We live here now.”

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “Garrett, it’s 8:30. I have a nine o’clock seminar.”

“Skip it,” he murmurs, burying his face into your hair and inhaling deeply. The deep, rumbling purr starts up in his chest again, a constant, soothing hum that your omega eagerly responds to. “You’re a mated omega now. You don’t need seminars. You just need me.”

“Nice try, Graham,” you say, gently prying his heavy arm off your waist and rolling over to face him.

He looks devastating in the morning light. His hair is a messy halo, his jaw is dark with stubble, and his gray eyes are already entirely focused on you. He reaches out, his large fingers gently brushing your hair aside to expose your neck.

His eyes darken as he looks at the mating mark. The bruised, broken skin is a permanent brand against your collarbone. He traces it lightly with his thumb, his expression shifting into something fiercely protective and deeply awed.

“Does it hurt?” He asks softly.

“A little,” you admit, shivering at his touch. “But it’s a good hurt.”

Garrett leans in and presses a soft, reverent kiss directly over the mark. “Mine. God, you smell so good. You smell exactly like me.”

“I smell like a lumber factory,” you tease, pushing against his chest to sit up. “Seriously, I need to get ready. And I don’t have any clothes here.”

Garrett sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist, putting his heavily muscled torso on full display. He grabs the Briar hockey hoodie you used to build the nest last night and tosses it to you. “Wear this.”

You catch the heavy gray fabric. “I’m going to walk onto the Boston University campus wearing the Briar University hockey captain’s hoodie?”

“Yes,” Garrett says, completely unapologetic. “It has my scent on it. And my name on the back. It’ll keep every single alpha on that campus exactly where they belong — far away from you.”

You roll your eyes, but you pull the hoodie over your head anyway. It’s huge on you, the hem reaching halfway down your thighs, and the scent of cedar and bergamot wraps around you like a warm hug. It makes you feel incredibly grounded.

You grab your jeans from the floor and quickly pull them on. “Are you driving me?”

“I’m driving you everywhere,” Garrett states, sliding out of bed and grabbing a pair of sweatpants. “I’m dropping you off at the door. I’m picking you up the second you’re done. Deal with it.”

You don’t fight him. The truth is, the thought of being separated from him right now makes a tight knot of anxiety form in your chest. The new bond is settling, and your omega craves his proximity.

Forty-five minutes later, Garrett pulls his heavy black truck up to the curb outside your academic building.

He kills the engine and turns to you, his hand immediately reaching out to cup your cheek. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you in?”

“I think the hoodie is enough of a statement, Garrett,” you say, leaning into his palm.

“Call me the second you’re out,” he orders, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He leans in and kisses you, a deep, slow, claiming kiss that leaves you breathless. “I love you.”

The words make your heart stutter. He says it so easily. So confidently.

“I love you, too,” you whisper back, feeling a rush of pure euphoria.

You grab your tote bag, open the door, and step out into the crisp morning air. You wave as his truck pulls away, merging into the Boston traffic.

You turn and walk toward the building, adjusting the strap of your bag. You feel amazing. You feel complete, centered, and terrifyingly happy. You are still you. You still have your brain, your goals, your passions. You just happen to share your life with an alpha who worships the ground you walk on.

But the moment you step through the glass double doors into the crowded lobby of the humanities building, the atmosphere shifts.

It happens instantly.

A group of three alphas standing by the vending machines abruptly stop talking. They all turn their heads, their nostrils flaring. One of them actually takes a physical step backward, his eyes widening.

You frown, walking past them toward the stairs.

As you climb the steps, the reaction ripples through the hallway. Betas pause and stare. Omegas cast nervous, wide-eyed glances in your direction. The scent rolling off you — the heavy, dark, aggressive cedar of a highly dominant alpha who has just mated — is practically a physical wall. It’s a biological warning sign flashing neon red CLAIMED, DO NOT TOUCH.

You walk into your seminar room and take your usual seat in the second row.

Jackie is already there. She turns to say something to you, but the words die in her throat. Her eyes drop from your face to the heavy Briar hoodie, and then to the collar of the sweatshirt, which is slightly askew, exposing the angry, bruised mating mark on your neck.

“Oh my god,” Jackie whispers, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

The entire classroom falls dead silent.

Every single head is turned toward you. The professor isn’t there yet, and the silence is deafening.

“What?” You ask, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of twenty stares.

“You did it,” Jackie breathes out, leaning in. Her eyes are wide with shock. “You actually did it. You mated him.”

“I did,” you say, lifting your chin. You refuse to be ashamed. You refuse to hide it. “And?”

“Y/N, you’re wearing a Briar hockey hoodie. You smell like an alpha’s wet dream. You have a bite mark the size of a golf ball on your neck.” Jackie shakes her head, looking completely bewildered. “You’re the president of O.M.E.G.A.”

“My personal life doesn’t invalidate my activism, Jackie,” you say firmly, pulling your notebook out of your bag. “I can have a mate and still fight for equality in the workplace. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Josephine Richter herself said that autonomy includes the right to choose your partner.”

Jackie slowly nods, though she still looks stunned. “Okay. I mean, I’m happy for you. If you’re happy. But … people are going to talk.”

“Let them talk,” you say dismissively.

And they do talk. The whispers follow you all day. In the dining hall, in the library, in the campus quad. It’s annoying, but the heavy, comforting weight of the bond in your chest keeps you anchored. Whenever the stares get to be too much, you just inhale the scent of Garrett from the collar of your hoodie, and the anxiety melts away.

By the time Wednesday evening rolls around, you are ready to get back to business.

The weekly O.M.E.G.A. chapter meeting is held in a large, tiered lecture hall in the student union. It’s your sanctuary. The place where you built a community of strong, independent individuals who refuse to be defined by their secondary genders.

You walk into the lecture hall ten minutes early to set up. You’re wearing a turtleneck sweater today — not because you want to hide the mark, but because the New England wind is brutal. Still, the scent of your alpha is undeniable. It clings to you permanently now.

The hall fills up quickly. Almost sixty members file in, taking their seats. But the energy in the room feels wrong. It’s tight. It’s uncomfortable. Usually, the meetings start with loud chatter and music, but tonight, there is only a tense, heavy murmur.

You stand behind the wooden podium at the front of the room, tapping your microphone.

“Alright, everyone, let’s get started,” you say, your voice projecting clearly across the room. “Thank you all for coming. Tonight, we need to finalize the logistics for our petition to the university board regarding the beta-omega housing disparity.”

You look down at your notes.

“Wait,” a loud, sharp voice cuts through the room.

You look up.

Becca, a junior omega and the chapter’s treasurer, stands up from her seat in the third row. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and her expression is hard and unforgiving.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but we can’t do this right now,” Becca says, her voice ringing out in the quiet hall.

You frown, gripping the edges of the podium. “Can’t do what, Becca? The petition is due on Friday.”

“We can’t pretend like everything is normal,” Becca shoots back. She steps out into the aisle. “Some of the members have been talking. Actually, a lot of us have been talking.”

“About what?” You ask, though a cold, sinking feeling begins to pool in your stomach.

“About you,” Becca says bluntly. She points a finger at you. “You reek of alpha, Y/N. The entire campus knows what happened this weekend. You went to the house of the most toxic, aggressive alpha in the collegiate hockey league, and you let him claim you.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room, followed by a harsh, biting silence.

Your heart stammers. You stand up taller, forcing your voice to remain steady. “My personal relationship is not up for discussion at this meeting. What I do in my private life has nothing to do with my ability to lead this chapter.”

“It has everything to do with it!” Becca yells, her voice rising in pitch. “You stood on the steps of this very building last week and told us that we shouldn’t submit! You told us that biology isn’t destiny! And then you turned around and spread your legs for a guy who literally beat your brother to a pulp because of territorial aggression!”

“Hey! Back off!” Jackie shouts, standing up from her seat in the front row. “You don’t know the whole story, Becca!”

“I know what I can smell!” Becca snaps back. She turns to address the room. “Look at her! She’s wearing his scent like a collar! She let him bite her! She submitted to the very system we are trying to dismantle! How are we supposed to take her seriously as the face of our movement?”

The room erupts into a chaotic murmur. People are nodding. People are whispering. The hostile energy is suffocating.

“Becca, you are completely misunderstanding the core tenets of our own philosophy!” You argue, your voice shaking slightly, amplifying over the microphone. “O.M.E.G.A. is about choice! It is about not being forced into a role. I made a choice. I chose my mate. Submitting in the bedroom does not mean I am submitting in my life, or my career, or this movement!”

“You’re a hypocrite,” a voice calls out from the back row.

“You sold out!” Another yells.

“You let an alpha buy you with his status!”

The accusations hit you like physical blows. You stare out at the sea of faces — people you mentored, people you marched with, people you fought for. They are looking at you with disgust. With betrayal. They don’t see a leader anymore. They just see a traditional, mated omega.

“I move for a vote of no confidence,” Becca announces loudly, cutting through the noise.

The words freeze the blood in your veins.

“Becca, you can’t do that,” Jackie says, her voice laced with panic. “She founded this chapter! She built this from the ground up!”

“I second the motion,” a beta from the executive board says, standing up next to Becca.

“The motion has been seconded,” Becca says, her eyes locked onto yours with cold, righteous fury. “All those in favor of removing Y/N as president of the Boston University O.M.E.G.A. chapter, effective immediately, raise your hands.”

You stand perfectly still behind the podium. You literally cannot breathe.

One by one, hands begin to rise.

First, Becca’s. Then the executive board members. Then the omegas in the middle rows.

You watch in absolute, paralyzing horror as the room turns against you. It’s not a close vote. It is an overwhelming, crushing majority. Dozens of hands held high in the air, a silent, damning verdict on your character.

Jackie doesn’t raise her hand. She looks at you, her eyes swimming with tears. “Y/N …”

“The motion passes,” Becca states, her voice ringing with finality. “Please step down from the podium, Y/N. You are no longer welcome to lead this group.”

The silence that follows is heavier than anything you have ever experienced.

You don’t argue. You don’t scream. You don’t try to defend yourself again. The rejection is so complete, so absolute, that it hollows you out from the inside.

With trembling hands, you reach down and gather your notes. You slide them into your tote bag. You don’t look at Becca. You don’t look at the crowd.

You step out from behind the podium.

The crowd parts for you as you walk up the center aisle. No one meets your eye. They just watch you leave, their faces set in hard, judgmental lines.

You push open the heavy wooden doors at the back of the lecture hall and step out into the hallway.

You keep walking. You walk past the student union desk, past the bulletin boards covered in flyers for the movement you built, and out the front doors into the biting cold of the Boston evening.

You make it exactly fifty feet down the concrete sidewalk before the shock wears off.

It hits you all at once. The adrenaline crashes, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound. Your identity on this campus — your friends, your cause, the thing you dedicated two years of your life to — is gone. Stripped away in a matter of three minutes.

Your knees buckle.

You stumble toward a concrete bench under a large oak tree and collapse onto it. You drop your bag onto the ground.

And then, you break.

A ragged, agonizing sob tears its way up your throat. You bend over, burying your face in your hands, and cry. You cry so hard your ribs ache. You cry for the unfairness of it all. For the absolute, suffocating narrow-mindedness of the people who claim to champion open-mindedness.

A sharp, terrified whine rips from your chest.

Your omega panics. The emotional trauma triggers a massive biological distress signal. You need your mate. You need safety. You need the one person in the world who promised never to make you feel like this.

Your hands shake violently as you dig into your coat pocket and pull out your phone.

You don’t even look at the screen. You just hit his contact on your favorites list.

It rings exactly once.

“Hey, baby,” Garrett’s voice comes through the speaker, deep, warm, and relaxed. There are loud shouts and the sound of pucks hitting the glass in the background. He’s at the rink. “I thought your meeting went until nine. You want me to come grab you early?”

“Garrett,” you gasp out, the word fracturing into a choked sob.

The background noise on the phone vanishes instantly. The casual warmth in Garrett’s voice disappears, replaced by a cold, terrifyingly sharp focus.

“Y/N. What happened? Are you hurt?” The absolute panic in his tone is palpable. You hear a loud clatter — the sound of him dropping his hockey stick onto the ice. “Who touched you?”

“N-no one,” you cry, struggling to pull air into your lungs. “No one touched me. I just … they voted me out. They kicked me out, Garrett. Everyone. They all raised their hands.”

“Where are you?” Garrett demands. His voice is a low, dangerous snarl. You can hear the heavy thud of his skates as he practically sprints off the ice.

“Outside the union. On the bench near the quad.”

“Stay exactly where you are,” he orders. “Do not move. I am coming right now.”

“You’re at practice-”

“Fuck practice!” He roars, the sound echoing through the phone. You hear a door slam open. “I am getting in my truck right this second. I’ll be there in five minutes. Keep me on the line. Talk to me, sweetheart. Breathe for me.”

“It hurts,” you sob, wiping uselessly at your face as the tears keep coming. “They said I was a hypocrite. They said I sold out.”

“They’re fucking idiots,” Garrett says viciously. The sound of an engine roaring to life fills the speaker. Tires screech against pavement. “They don’t know you. They don’t know shit. You are the strongest person I have ever met. You hear me? You’re brilliant, and you’re mine, and I’m going to fix this.”

“You can’t fix it,” you cry, pulling your knees to your chest.

“I can fix anything if it means keeping you safe,” he promises, his voice a steady, grounding anchor amidst the storm of your panic. “I’m turning onto Commonwealth now. Two minutes. Keep breathing, baby. I’m almost there.”

You sit on the freezing bench, the phone pressed hard against your ear, listening to the roar of his truck engine. Students walk past you, casting curious or pitiful glances at the sobbing girl on the bench, but you don’t care.

Headlights sweep across the quad.

The heavy black SUV jumps the curb, parking illegally right on the edge of the grass, hazard lights flashing wildly.

The driver’s side door flies open before the truck is even fully in park.

Garrett jumps out. He is still wearing his black compression gear from practice, his skates swapped hastily for slide sandals. He looks massive, terrifying, and completely frantic.

His eyes scan the darkness, locking onto you huddled on the bench.

“Y/N!”

He sprints across the grass.

You drop your phone and stand up, your legs trembling.

Garrett crashes into you, his massive arms wrapping around you and hauling you off your feet. He crushes you against his chest, burying his face into your neck right over the mating mark, inhaling your scent in desperate, ragged gasps.

“I’ve got you,” he says thickly, rocking you back and forth. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe. Alpha’s here.”

The physical contact, the overwhelming flood of his heavy cedar scent, shatters whatever fragile restraint you had left.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck and wail. Your fingers dig into the tight fabric of his compression shirt, holding onto him like he is the only solid thing left in the universe.

“Let’s get out of here,” Garrett murmurs, kissing the side of your head.

He doesn’t put you down. He carries you to the truck, yanks the passenger door open, and carefully sets you inside. He grabs your bag from the bench, tosses it into the back seat, and slams the door shut.

A moment later, he climbs into the driver’s seat. He cranks the heat up to the max, ignoring the blaring horn of a passing car as he throws the truck into reverse and speeds off the BU campus.

The cab of the truck is warm, dark, and utterly safe.

You curl into a tight ball in the passenger seat, your face buried in your hands, the sobs wracking your small frame.

Garrett doesn’t say anything at first. He drives with one hand on the wheel, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes dark with a murderous fury. His other hand reaches across the center console, resting heavily on your thigh, his thumb stroking back and forth in a constant, soothing rhythm.

He drives away from the city. He doesn’t go back to the house. He just drives until the city lights begin to fade, taking you away from the campus that rejected you.

Finally, he pulls into an empty parking lot overlooking a dark, quiet stretch of the Charles River. He puts the truck in park and kills the headlights, leaving the engine running for heat.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, slides across the wide center console, and pulls you firmly into his lap.

“Come here,” he orders softly.

You collapse against him, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. He wraps both of his arms around your waist, pulling you so close there isn’t a millimeter of space between you.

“They hate me,” you whisper brokenly against his shoulder. “They looked at me like I was a traitor. Like I’m some brainwashed, submissive little pet just because I love you.”

Garrett’s arms tighten around you. “You are nobody’s pet, Y/N. You are a queen. And those girls in that room? They’re terrified.”

“Terrified of what?” You sniffle.

“Of you,” Garrett says fiercely. He pulls back just enough to frame your tear-stained face with his large hands. His thumbs gently wipe the wetness from your cheeks. “They built their entire identity around fighting biology because they think biology means weakness. And then you walked in. Strong, independent, brilliant. And mated. You proved that you can have an alpha and still be entirely your own person. It shattered their narrative. So they attacked you.”

“I lost my chapter, Garrett,” you cry, a fresh wave of tears welling up. “I lost everything I worked for.”

“No, you didn’t,” he says, his voice a low, vibrating rumble of absolute certainty. “You lost a room full of hypocrites. The movement is bigger than that classroom. And you are bigger than them.”

He leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to each of your eyelids, kissing away the tears.

“I am so sorry I put that mark on you, if it caused this,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly with guilt. “I just … I wanted everyone to know you were mine.”

“Don’t,” you say, your voice suddenly firm despite the tears. You reach up, your small hands gripping his wrists. You press your own wrist against his pulse point, letting your vanilla scent mix with his cedar. “Don’t you ever apologize for claiming me. I wanted this. I want you.”

Garrett lets out a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours. “I will burn that entire school to the ground for making you cry.”

“You don’t have to burn anything down,” you murmur, closing your eyes and letting the deep, rumbling purr in his chest soothe the fractured pieces of your heart. “Just hold me. Please, just hold me.”

“Always,” Garrett promises, shifting you closer, wrapping his massive body around you like a human shield. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m never letting go.”

***

The green room at the Boston Convention Center smells like expensive hairspray, stale coffee, and the sharp, grounding scent of cedar.

You stand in front of the full-length mirror, taking a deep breath. You smooth your hands down the front of your tailored, navy-blue maternity dress. At seven months pregnant, your belly is a prominent, beautiful curve. You rest your palms against it, feeling a sharp, familiar flutter as the pup inside gives a vigorous kick.

“Easy in there,” you murmur, a soft smile touching your lips. “Mommy has a big night tonight.”

The heavy wooden door to the green room swings open.

“I’m telling you, buddy, if you don’t eat your broccoli, you’re never going to get drafted,” a deep, rumbling voice announces.

You turn around just as Garrett walks into the room. He is wearing a sharp, custom-fitted charcoal suit that stretches perfectly over his broad shoulders. But the most striking thing about him isn’t the suit or the fact that he’s currently among the top-scoring centers in the NHL.

It’s the fact that he is currently holding your four-year-old son, Cole, completely upside down by his ankles.

Cole, a wildly energetic toddler with your eyes and Garrett’s unruly dark hair, is shrieking with absolute delight.

“I don’t like broccoli! I want chicken nuggets!” Cole yells, his face turning red from laughing as Garrett swings him like a pendulum.

“Chicken nuggets do not build strong hockey players,” Garrett counters playfully. “Right, sweetheart? Tell him.”

“Garrett, please put our son upright before he throws up the apple juice he just drank,” you laugh, crossing the room.

Garrett immediately flips Cole right-side up, catching the boy easily against his massive chest. He presses a loud, exaggerated kiss to Cole’s cheek, making the toddler groan and wipe it away. Garrett looks up at you, his gray eyes instantly softening, completely melting the fierce alpha exterior he presents to the rest of the world.

“Look at you,” Garrett breathes out, his gaze dropping to your rounded stomach before coming back up to your face. He steps forward, wrapping his free arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. “You are the most gorgeous woman in this entire building. They’re going to vote for you just so they can keep looking at you.”

“I’m hoping they vote for me because of my policy platform, actually,” you say, though you lean into him, instinctively rubbing your scent gland against his lapel.

Even after seven years, the bond is just as electric as the day it snapped into place. If anything, it’s deeper. Richer.

“They’ll vote for you because you’re a force of nature,” Garrett corrects smoothly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “How are the ankles?”

“Swollen,” you admit with a sigh. “These heels are a torture device invented by someone who clearly never had to carry an extra twenty pounds of alpha-pup in their uterus.”

“Take them off,” Garrett says immediately. “You can do the speech barefoot.”

“I am running for the United States Congress, Garrett. I cannot walk out onto a national stage in my bare feet.”

“Why not? You’re the boss. You make the rules.” Garrett sets Cole down on the plush leather sofa. “Cole, stay right there. Don’t mess up your bowtie. Your mom is about to make history.”

“Okay, Dad!” Cole says, immediately grabbing a toy firetruck from his small backpack and running it over the sofa cushions.

Garrett turns back to you, his expression turning entirely serious. He reaches out, taking both of your hands in his. His thumbs trace the sensitive skin of your wrists, sending a calming wave of heavy cedar pheromones into your system.

“Are you nervous?” He asks quietly.

“Terrified,” you whisper, looking up at him. “There are three thousand people out there, Garrett. And national news cameras. If I mess this up …”

“You aren’t going to mess anything up,” he says, his voice a low, vibrating anchor. “You have been preparing for this your entire life. You are going to walk out there, and you are going to tell them exactly what they need to hear. And I am going to be standing right in the front row, cheering louder than anyone else.”

You swallow hard, your eyes shining. “You really think they’re ready for this?”

“They don’t have a choice,” Garrett smiles, a wicked, proud smirk playing on his lips. “You’re going to change the world, sweetie. You already changed mine.”

Before you can respond, the door flies open again.

Jackie bursts into the room, a clipboard clutched to her chest and a Bluetooth earpiece blinking on her ear. As your campaign manager, she has been running on espresso and pure anxiety for the last eight months.

“Five minutes!” Jackie announces, slightly breathless. She stops, taking in the sight of you, Garrett, and Cole. “Oh, thank god, no one is crying. Y/N, you look phenomenal. Garrett, you look like a very expensive bodyguard. Cole, do not put that truck in your mouth.”

“I wasn’t!” Cole protests, lowering the toy defensively.

“Alright, let’s review,” Jackie says, marching over to you. “The introduction will be given by Senator Johnson. When he says your name, the music hits, and you walk out. The teleprompters are loaded, but honestly?

Just speak from the heart. That’s what the polls are showing people want. They want your authenticity.”

“I can do authenticity,” you say, taking a deep breath and smoothing your dress one last time.

“I know you can.” Jackie smiles, her eyes softening. “I am so incredibly proud of you, you know that? The girl who used to make Sharpie posters on our dorm room floor is about to become a Congresswoman.”

“We aren’t there yet,” you warn her, though a smile breaks across your face.

“We’re basically there. The incumbent is trailing by twelve points.” Jackie taps her clipboard. “Alright. It’s time. Let’s go make some noise.”

Garrett steps forward, pulling you into one last, tight embrace. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Knock ‘em dead, baby. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say.

Garrett scoops Cole up, settling the boy on his broad shoulders. “Come on, monster. Let’s go watch Mom save the world.”

***

The roar of the crowd hits you like a physical wall the second you step out from behind the heavy velvet curtains.

The Boston Convention Center is packed to the rafters. Three thousand people are on their feet, waving signs, clapping, and cheering as you walk across the stage toward the clear acrylic podium. The bright stage lights are almost blinding, but as you approach the mic, your eyes immediately find the front row.

Garrett is standing exactly where he promised. He is holding Cole on his shoulders, beaming up at you with such intense, unfiltered pride that it makes your breath hitch.

You reach the podium, gripping the edges, and look out over the sea of faces. Betas. Alphas. Omegas. People of all ages and backgrounds, holding signs that read EQUALITY IN INSTINCT and VOTE FOR PROGRESS.

You smile, letting the applause wash over you for a long moment before raising a hand to quiet the room.

Slowly, the roar fades into an excited hum, and then into total silence.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice echoing through the massive hall. “Thank you all so much for being here tonight.”

You look out at the crowd, your heart hammering a steady, powerful rhythm against your ribs. You don’t even look at the teleprompter. You know exactly what you want to say.

“Seven years ago,” you begin, your voice clear and unwavering, “I stood on a concrete bench outside the student union of my college campus, and I cried until I couldn’t breathe.”

A quiet hush falls over the audience. It isn’t the standard political opening they expected.

“I cried because the political movement I had dedicated my entire life to — the movement for omega rights and equality — had just kicked me out,” you continue. “And they kicked me out for one simple reason. Because I had found my destined mate, an alpha, and I chose to let him claim me.”

You pause, letting the words settle. Down in the front row, Garrett is watching you with rapt attention.

“When I was younger,” you say, gripping the sides of the podium, “I used to think that the world was entirely black and white. I believed that submitting to an alpha, in any capacity, meant giving up my independence. I thought it meant surrendering everything our movement stood for. I was angry. I looked at the history of how alphas have used biology to oppress and control omegas, and I decided the only way to be free was to deny my own instincts.”

You look out into the crowd, locking eyes with a young omega girl holding a sign a few rows back.

“But I learned that couldn’t be further from the truth,” you say, your voice rising with passion. “Just as feminism fights for women to have equality and the absolute right to make a choice about what they want to do with their lives, so does omeganism.”

A smattering of applause breaks out, quickly growing louder.

“Omeganism is not about fighting who we are!” You project over the noise. “It is not about suppressing our biology or pretending we don’t have natural instincts! It is about dismantling the systemic, societal roles that tell us those instincts make us weak!”

The crowd cheers loudly. You press forward, your adrenaline surging.

“Submitting to my alpha in the privacy of our home does not make me submissive in a boardroom!” You declare, your voice ringing with fierce authority. “Nesting for my family does not mean I cannot write legislation! Being a mother to my pups does not mean I cannot lead this district!”

The applause turns into a roar. People are standing up, cheering and clapping.

“We are told that we have to choose,” you continue, speaking directly into the camera broadcasting your speech to the nation. “We are told that we can either be a traditional, mated omega, or we can be a strong, independent career professional. I am standing here tonight to tell you that the narrative is a lie!”

You point out into the crowd.

“True autonomy,” you shout, “true freedom, is having the power to choose your own path without society dictating your worth based on your secondary gender! We demand equal pay! We demand equal representation! We demand the right to embrace our biology without sacrificing our equality!”

The convention center absolutely erupts. The sound is deafening.

You smile, tears of pure joy pricking the corners of your eyes. You look down at Garrett. He is cheering so loudly you can see the cords of his neck straining, his hand firmly holding Cole’s leg so the boy doesn’t fall off his shoulders.

“If you elect me to Congress,” you promise, your voice cutting through the cheering, “I will fight every single day to tear down the archaic laws that keep us boxed into these roles. I will fight for a future where our pups — alphas, betas, and omegas alike — can grow up knowing that their biology is a beautiful part of who they are, not a limitation on what they can become.”

You step back from the podium, raising your hand as the campaign music begins to blare through the speakers.

“Thank you, Boston! Let’s go win this!”

The crowd loses their minds. Confetti begins to rain down from the ceiling.

You turn and walk off the stage, your heart soaring, your body buzzing with the kind of high that only comes from knowing you just spoke your absolute truth to the world.

The second you cross the threshold backstage, you are engulfed in a pair of massive, familiar arms.

“You were incredible,” Garrett growls, pressing you back against the cinderblock wall of the hallway and kissing you deeply.

“Garrett,” you laugh against his mouth, kissing him back, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Ew! Gross!” Cole complains from beside you.

Garrett breaks the kiss, turning to look at his son, who is currently covering his eyes with his small hands. “Hey, watch it, kid. I’m kissing the next Congresswoman of Massachusetts. Show some respect.”

“I want ice cream,” Cole demands, dropping his hands.

“Ice cream sounds perfect,” you say, bending down slightly to ruffle Cole’s hair. You look back up at Garrett, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. “Did I do okay?”

“Are you kidding me?” Jackie says, marching down the hallway with her phone pressed to her ear. She covers the receiver. “CNN is already playing clips of the speech. They’re calling it the defining moment of the campaign. You killed it, Y/N. Absolutely killed it.”

“See?” Garrett says, offering you his arm. “I told you. Force of nature.”

***

Three hours later, the adrenaline of the rally has finally faded, leaving behind a deep, comfortable exhaustion.

The sprawling, luxurious house you and Garrett bought out in the Boston suburbs is quiet. The only sound is the gentle hum of the central heating and the distant, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

You stand in the doorway of Cole’s bedroom. The room is painted a soft sage green, filled with hockey sticks, building blocks, and an absurd number of stuffed animals.

Garrett is sitting on the edge of Cole’s toddler bed. He’s traded his expensive suit for a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He is reading a picture book about a very confused moose, doing distinct, ridiculous voices for every single character.

Cole is tucked under his blankets, his eyes already closed, his breathing slow and even.

You watch them for a long moment, leaning against the doorframe.

This is the man the O.M.E.G.A. chapter members warned you about. The “toxic, aggressive brute.”

And yet, here he is. One of the NHL’s heaviest hitters, using a high-pitched squeak to voice a cartoon squirrel so his son will fall asleep. He is the most devoted, involved, incredible father you have ever seen. He splits the parenting duties effortlessly. If you have a late-night campaign meeting, he handles dinner and bath time without a second thought. He attends every parent-teacher conference, packs Cole’s lunches, and brags about your political career to anyone in the locker room who will listen.

He didn’t just give you a family. He gave you a true partnership.

Garrett finishes the book, closes it softly, and sets it on the nightstand. He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to Cole’s forehead. He stands up, his movements surprisingly graceful for a man of his massive size, and tiptoes out of the room.

He spots you in the doorway, his eyes warming immediately.

“He’s out,” Garrett whispers, pulling the door partially shut behind him.

“You’re a good dad, Graham,” you say softly, reaching out and taking his hand.

Garrett laces his fingers through yours, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. “I have good motivation.”

He leads you down the hallway and into your master bedroom.

The room is vast, elegant, and completely dominated by the massive, custom-built nest in the center of the king bed. Even after seven years, the nesting instinct is something you never let go of. It is your sanctuary. It is a physical manifestation of your bond, a blend of your expensive silk sheets and Garrett’s softest hoodies, heavily saturated in both of your scents.

You let go of his hand and walk over to your vanity, reaching up to unclasp the delicate necklace you wore for the rally.

Garrett steps up behind you. His large hands find your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscles at the base of your neck, beginning to massage away the tension of the long day.

“Mmm,” you groan, letting your head fall forward. “That feels amazing.”

“You carry all your stress right here,” Garrett murmurs, his hands working magic on your tired muscles. “You did so good tonight, baby. I was so proud of you I thought my chest was going to crack open.”

“I meant every word,” you say, opening your eyes to look at him in the mirror. “Everything I said up there … I only know it’s true because of you. Because you showed me what it really means to be claimed.”

Garrett meets your gaze in the reflection. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, right over the faded, permanent scar of his mating mark. He inhales deeply, the steady, comforting purr starting up in his chest.

“You’re mine,” he says softly against your skin. “And I’m yours. That’s the only truth that matters.”

He slides his hands down your arms, wrapping them around your waist from behind, his large palms coming to rest gently over the pronounced swell of your pregnant belly.

He holds you there, the two of you swaying slightly in the quiet room.

Suddenly, your stomach jumps. A sharp, distinct kick against Garrett’s palm.

Garrett lets out a soft, surprised laugh, his eyes lighting up. “Hey there, little one. You awake in there?”

“She’s been kicking like crazy all night,” you smile, covering his hands with your own. “I think she liked the speech.”

“She knows her mom is a badass,” Garrett says, gently rubbing his thumb over your stomach. He presses a kiss to your cheek. “You think she’ll be an omega like her gorgeous mother?”

“I don’t care what she is,” you say honestly, leaning back against his solid chest. “Alpha, beta, omega. As long as she’s healthy. And as long as she inherits your wrist shot.”

Garrett chuckles, a deep, rich sound that fills the room. “She’s going to have a wicked slapshot. I’ll have a hockey stick in her hands before she can walk. Cole is already practically skating.”

“You’re going to turn my children into rink rats,” you sigh affectionately.

“Hey, we need to secure the Bruins’ future draft picks,” Garrett teases.

He gently turns you around to face him. His expression softens, the playful banter fading into something deeply emotional and utterly sincere.

“I love the life we built, Y/N,” Garrett whispers, his thumbs lightly tracing the curve of your jaw. “I love our house. I love our boy. I love this little girl you’re carrying. I love that you’re going to Washington and you’re going to show the whole damn country what an omega can do.”

You look up at the man who barged into your life seven years ago and completely turned it upside down. The alpha who bought you expensive pillows, who stood his ground when you threw his courting gift at his chest, who held you while you cried outside the student union.

He didn’t break you. He didn’t cage you. He simply stood beside you, an immovable, unshakable pillar of support, and let you fly.

“I love it too,” you whisper, rising up on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck.

Garrett leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet, and intensely passionate kiss. It isn’t the feral, desperate claiming of your early college days. It is the deep, steady, unshakeable devotion of a bond that has weathered storms, built a family, and changed the world.

He pulls back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“Come on, future Congresswoman,” Garrett murmurs, sweeping you effortlessly up into his arms, just like he did the very first day he brought you home. “Let’s get you into the nest. You need your rest.”

You laugh, burying your face in the warm, cedar-scented crook of his neck as he carries you toward the bed.

“Take me to the nest, alpha,” you whisper against his skin.