None of it helps.
Because every time I blink, I hear it again.
Th…ank you… for… lett-ing me… stay here.
Her voice. Soft and uneven. Pulled from a place that must’ve hurt her to open. Fragile and fucking brave at the same time.
She trusted us with it. She trustedmewith it. She let three alphas hear a sound most of the world has never earned from her.
And the more I try to outrun that fact, the more it chases me.
By the time I get back home and shower, my alpha instincts are still keyed up, restless, pacing under my skin. It’s time for practice. Milton’s skipping—Coach already got the “family emergency” text from him, and I didn’t question it—so it’s just me stepping into the Scorpion den today.
I should’ve known it would be hell the second I walked into the locker room.
As soon as I pass Philips’ corner, he gets this smirk—one of those shit-eating grins that makes my hackles rise. My alpha bristles, dominance climbing my spine on reflex.
“Yo, Brooks,” he calls out, loud enough for half the room to hear, “heard from my cousin who’s friend works for the Krakens, that your brother and Benton's sister are having a slumber party.”
My scent spikes sharp and bitter. I ignore him.
Barely.
Someone else snickers, while another mutters, “Bro’s whipped.” And someone else adds, “My grandma lives across the street from Lennox. She said Benton exploded. So maybe she needed comfort after getting yelled at.”
My fists clench. My jaw grinds. There’s a tight, coiled pressure in my chest that feels a hell of a lot like an alpha being called out about his omega before he’s even admitted she’s his.
I tell myself not to react.
The press is already circling Lincoln and Bayleigh like sharks. I don’t need to make it worse by breaking someone’s face, no matter how much my instincts snarl for it.
I’m holding it together.
I’m doing fine.
Right until one of them tries to imitate her signing, while another stands behind him, making lewd comments. I know it’s not her standing there, but it still hits me hard.
I slam the defenseman into the lockers so hard half the room jolts.
His helmet drops, while his water bottle rolls across the floor, and he curses.
My forearm pins him by the chest, my alpha aura pouring off me like a storm. The entire locker room goes still. I don’t yell, or shove him; nor do I swing.
I get close enough that he can smell the promise of violence rolling off me and say, very low, “Do not ever imitate her again. Do not say her name. Do not breathe in her direction. Not if you want to keep playing hockey. Are we clear?”
He nods so fast his skull hits the metal behind him, his scent flipping from smug to terrified in a heartbeat.
Good.
I let him go and walk away, while Coach pretends he didn’t see anything.
Smart man.
Practice is a blur after that—drills, shouts, the sharp stink of sweat and ego. None of it cuts through the hum under my skin. My alpha is pacing the bars of his cage, restless, pissed, protective as hell over an omega who isn’t mine.
Not officially.
Not claimed.
