It’s just that he’s… well,Beau, and I’m not used to him being in a good mood.
That, and I’m tired.
I head upstairs, and hear the shower in Beau’s en-suite turn on just as I reach my bedroom. The pipes rattle in the walls as water hisses to life, and my skin prickles at the sound, at the memory of his scent thickened with sweat and adrenaline.
God, I need sleep.
(Sleep, and maybe a frontal lobotomy.)
I grab my pajamas from the top drawer and slip into the main bathroom down the hall. My reflection in the mirror looks as flushed and windswept and exhausted as I feel. I change into my pajamas, brush my teeth, wash my face, and head back to my room. The shower is still running as I close my door, and as I crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, I exhale into the darkness.
Tomorrow will be another long day. Another chance to pretend my instincts aren’t humming in the direction of one particular alpha down the hall, and another chance to convince myself I can do solitude justfine.
...Even if solitude doesn’t feel the same as it used to anymore.
Chapter Seventeen
Beau
The water hits my shoulders hard, steam blooming fast, and I brace both hands against the tile as the sound fills the bathroom.
It’s quiet now. There’s no crowd here; no blades carving ice, no bench rattling under adrenaline. Just the rush of water and my own breathing, still heavier than it should be.
My shoulder aches; alive and used and satisfied for the first time in weeks, if not months, but it's the memory of the drive back from the Icebox that's sitting in my head and won’t leave me alone.
Emery beside me in the passenger seat, beanie pulled low, legs drawn up for warmth. Every breath she took fogged the window, and her scent filled the truck—clean, soft, and unmistakably omega. It got into everything. Into the seats. The dash.
Me.
I’d cracked the window twice and then rolled it back up. Told myself it was for visibility.
(It wasn’t.)
We didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt intentional: sitting heavy and watchful between us, and tense in the way instinct is when it’s trying not to move too fast.
Like even breathing too loud might tip the balance.
I’d kept my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel as I told myself, repeatedly, that it was the win keeping me wired.
Bullshit.
Even now, under hot water, the memory hits: of stepping onto the ice and knowing she was watching. Not hoping, butknowing.I didn’t look for her, but I felt her attention like a hand between my shoulder blades. Felt it when I tested the joint, when I leaned into the turn.
When I took that last shift and didn’t hesitate.
It’s her job. I know that. She watches everyone. But my instincts don’t care. They’ve already rewritten it:
Mine to show strength for.
Mine to impress.
Mine.
I drag a hand over my face, water slicking through my knuckles.
It’s stupid. Primal.
But it’s impossible to shut off once it’s awake.
