Each of them showing me their own affection.
Warmth wins. My eyelids grow heavy, the room dimming, and their heat sinks into my bones. Their breathing surrounds me like a lullaby. My omega instincts soften fully, melting in the middle of them, between them, because every biological part of me recognizes something here.
Safety. Pack. Home.
I drift off breathing them in—sandalwood, peach, grapefruit.
I fall asleep tucked between their bodies, wrapped in their warmth.
And I sleep knowing I am safe. That I fully belong here with these men.
47
Korbin
I spendmost of the morning pacing my damn bedroom like a caged animal.
Back and forth.
Across the floorboards.
Then back again.
My thoughts won’t sit still long enough for me to make sense of any of them. Every few steps I catch myself glancing at the door, like if I stare hard enough it will summon the courage I’m apparently missing.
It shouldn’t be this hard.
I’ve faced down players twice my size on the ice. I’ve brawled to the point of being placed in penalty boxes. I’ve taken hits that rattled my bones. But asking Bayleigh out—just me and her, away from the noise and the others, makes my stomach twist like I’m sixteen again and about to ask my first crush to dance.
I scrub both hands over my face and force myself to breathe.
She came out of Lincoln’s room early this morning, hair still damp from a shower, her cheeks pink from the orgasm mybrother just gave her. Milton teased her, and she laughed so hard she nearly dropped a pan.
I want that with her. I want a moment that’s just ours.
But what if she thinks it’s too soon? What if she thinks I’m only doing this because Milton and Lincoln already got their time with her? What if she’s not ready to be alone with me yet?
My jaw clenches. My instincts don’t give a damn about logic or fear. They keep whispering the same thing: Go to her.
I pace three more times—one fast, two slower—then finally grab the door handle before I can talk myself out of it again.
Just ask her.
Just fucking ask.
The hall smells like bacon and coffee and her, that soft warm-sweet scent that always hits me like a body check straight to the sternum.
She’s sitting at the island between the guys, saying something about burners and Milton’s “chaotic cooking choices.” Lincoln is grinning. Milton looks offended. She’s glowing.
She looks happy, and it makes my heart stutter.
I stop in the doorway long enough to get my bearings and clear my throat. My brother and Milton glance over first, then Bayleigh lifts her head a beat later. And the second her eyes find mine, her whole face lights up—so fast and so bright it hits me like a punch.
Shit. Okay. Okay, I can do this.
I walk closer, ignoring the way Milton wiggles his eyebrows or how Lincoln’s mouth twitches like he already knows exactly what I’m about to do.
“Bayleigh,” I say, voice rougher than I meant. “Can I… talk to you?”
