Something hollow.
I slide down the door. Hit the floor. Sit there with my jeans around my thighs and my come cooling on my hand and my chest heaving.
Stare at the ceiling.
What am I doing?
Max Carter. The kid I told was nothing. The outsider I wanted gone. Margot's charity case who I dismissed as weak and pathetic and beneath me.
The omega whose scent just made me come so hard I saw stars.
I want to laugh. Want to scream. Want to punch something.
He's been here for—what? Three weeks? And in that time, I've watched my father bend over backward to make him feel welcome. Watched Atlas get that look in his eyes whenever Max walks into a room. Watched Zero go from hostile to murderous in the span of days.
And I told myself I was different. Told myself I saw through it. Saw through him. That I was the smart one. The one who didn't fall for the big eyes and the wounded act and the defensiveness that's obviously hiding something deeper.
Turns out I'm just the last one to figure out what he's hiding.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it.
My hand is still wrapped around my softening cock. Sticky. Disgusting. Evidence.
I need to shower. Need to clean up. Need to scrub his scent off my skin and out of my lungs and pretend this never happened.
But first—
I bring my clean hand to my face. The one that caught his arm. The one that held him up when he stumbled.
I breathe in.
Faint now. Fading. The barest trace of vanilla and honey and smoke.
My cock twitches. Already. Already starting to fill again just from this ghost of a scent on my skin.
"Fuck," I whisper to the empty room.
I'm so fucked.
I shower. Long. Hot. Scrubbing until my skin is raw and red. Washing my hands three times. Letting the water run until the steam fills the bathroom and I can't smell anything but soap.
It doesn't help.
The scent is in my head now. Carved there. Permanent.
I dress. Clean clothes. Different shirt. Like that matters. Like changing my outfit is going to change what just happened.
My phone buzzes again. I check it this time.
Dad:Everything good at the house? We're heading back now.
I type:All good.
All good. Right. Everything's great. Your stepson is an omega going through pre-heat, I just jerked off thinking about him, and I'm pretty sure at least one of my brothers has already done worse.
Sitting like you've got a stick up your ass.
The realization hits me slow. Cold.
