My body seizes, arching helplessly, stretched and full and wrecked, as my orgasm tears loose with a scream I can’t swallow. Slick floods down my thighs: theirs, and mine.
There’s no separation anymore. Just heat. Sound. Hands. Knot. Weight.
And the way they hold me like they’ll never let go.
“Ours,” Beau snarls hoarsely.
Theo echoes it without thinking. “Ours.”
Connor’s breath breaks above me a heartbeat later, nothing controlled left in it.
“Fuck,” he growls, the sound torn straight from his chest.
I feel him crowd closer, his presence looming as heavy and undeniable as the knots holding me open and helpless. His fingers dig into my hair like he needs to remind himself I’m real, that I’m here, that I’mhistoo.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Knotted. Held. And absolutely fukingruined.”
My body shudders at the truth of it.
“Open,” he says.
It’s not a request. It’s not even a command so much as a statement of fact. Athis is what comes next.
I open my mouth wide and stick out my tongue, and Connor’s sound as he finishes is broken and feral. Satisfaction bleeds through every rough breath, every low curse. There’s nothing gentle in it—only dominance, pride, and the quiet certainty of an alpha taking his due, painting my lips, my tongue, myfacein his release.
When it’s finally over, no one moves. I’m still held from every side: Beau beneath me, Theo behind me, and Connor close and steady above.
My breath returns slowly as hands remain firm, and grounding, and protective, and Connor presses his forehead to mine, his voice low and certain.
“Ours.”
And wrapped in them—full, spent, andsafe—I know it’s true.
There’s no more playing hurt.
Epilogue
Emery
Spring comes slowly to Iron Lake.
The snow doesn’t disappear all at once—it retreats in patches, stubborn and reluctant, lingering in shaded corners and along the boards of the Icebox long after the calendar insists it’s done. The air softens before the ground does. The light stays longer. The town exhales.
So do I.
The season is over. Properly over. The finals are behind us, the banners hung, the last of the bruises fading into yellowed reminders of a year that asked everything and gave just enough back to make it worth it. The Icebox is quieter now, echoing in a different way—less feral, more reflective.
I lock up the PT room one last time before the short off-season break, keys warm in my palm. Habit still has me checking everything twice: cabinets, lights, the table where so much tension once lived and then slowly learned how to soften.
A few months ago, this place felt like a minefield.
Now it feels like home.
Outside, Beau’s truck idles in the lot, Connor leaning against the hood with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, Theo sitting on the tailgate carefully stretching his leg like he’s been instructed—because he has, repeatedly. They look up when they see me, all at once, as if pulled by the same invisible thread.
The bond hums, easy and familiar.
“How’d it go?” Beau asks as I climb into the cab beside him.
