Emery
Iget home far later than I meant to.
The sky is ink-dark, the cold sharper than it was this morning, and my body feels… overaware. Every step sends a reminder up my spine: not just the ache between my thighs, but something deeper. A low, lingering hum that refuses to fade no matter how much time I put between now and then.
I still can’t quite believe that happened. Not just that Connor knotted me, but that it happenedat work.
The thought makes my stomach flip again, equal parts disbelief and heat. I hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t evenwantedit, not really—well, okay, I did, but not like that. I’d told myself I was being careful; that I was both professional and in control.
But then it hadn’t been careful at all.
I’d stayed in the PT room long after he left, wiping down every surface once, twice, then a third, just to be certain. I’d sprayed cleanser until my nose burned, until the citrus sting made my eyes water, and I’d scrubbedeverything:the table, the counter,the doorframe—anything that might’ve held onto the evidence of what I’d let happen there.
I’d sprayed myself, too.Twice. My hair, my neck, my wrists. Anything to drown it out.
Not that it made a difference. Connor’s scent is still on me now, threaded through my clothes and clinging stubbornly to my skin like it knows it doesn’t belong—and doesn’t care, for that matter. It’s softer than it was earlier, less sharp, but it’s there.
Persistent. Just like him.
I’d hoped, perhaps a little stupidly, that Beau would be out, that his truck wouldn’t be sitting in the drive, dusted with snow, dark and unmistakable beneath the porch light.
Well.Damn.
There goes that plan.
My chest tightens as I park my own car. There’s no turning around, or pretending this didn’t happen. I tell myself—again—that it’smybusiness. My body, and my choice. That Beau doesn’t own me.
But… it’s not that simple. Not when we work together. When welivetogether.
And alphas are territorial by nature. Even the good ones.
I step inside quietly, easing the door shut behind me and toeing off my boots. My movements are careful and measured, as if that might somehow soften the fallout I can already feel coiling in my chest. I hang my jacket by the door, fingers lingering on the hook longer than necessary, and draw in a shallow breath.
The house smells warm. Clean. Familiar. Soap and coffee andhim.
The kitchen light clicks on, and Beau steps into view. He’s changed into dark sweats and a fitted long-sleeve that stretches tight across his shoulders and chest, the fabric pulling when he moves. His hair is still damp, curls darkened with moisture, like he showered and didn’t bother finishing the job. He looks relaxed in that dangerous, post-evening quiet way—like he was winding down.
Until his eyes land on me.
His expression doesn’t change right away. It’s subtler than that. His shoulders lock, and his nostrils flare almost imperceptibly.
Then his gaze sharpens with terrifying precision, and the air thickens.
I feel it in my chest before he says a word: instinct curling inward, bristling, going tight and hot all at once.
“What,” he says slowly, his voice low and unnervingly calm, “is that.”
My pulse jumps.Hard.
“Beau…”
He takes one step closer. Then another.
“Did you,” he asks quietly, jaw flexing, “...let one of my guys touch you?”
The way he says it—my guys—makes something sharp twist in my gut, and I straighten instinctively, spine stiffening.
“You don’t get to ask me that.”
