Did last night really happen?I couldn’t help questioning my memory, despite the ample evidence across my skin.
They’d really marked me.
And I’d marked them.
No, it wasn’t just marking. It waseverything.
My fingers drifted to the mark on my right wrist—Nitro's claim. I traced the slight indentation where his teeth had broken skin, the wound already healing but the bond it created pulsing strong and vital beneath my fingertips. I moved to the left wristnext—Asher's mark, slightly more ragged, as chaotic as the man himself. My hand traveled up to my neck, finding Xander's claim on one side and Fallon's on the other, perfectly symmetrical as though they'd planned it. Finally, my fingers brushed over my breast where Kane had left his mark, a gentle throb that echoed the persistent ache between my legs.
How could I possibly want more, when every part of me was aching? But…I did.
I hadn't known it could be like this—that being claimed could feel so complete, so all-encompassing. The sterile educational materials at Brightfield House had covered the biological basics of Alpha-Omega bonding, but they'd failed spectacularly to prepare me for the reality. For the way five separate bonds would weave together inside me, creating a tapestry of connection that hummed beneath my skin like electricity. For how I would still feel them, hours later, as though their hands had left permanent imprints on my body.
My hand drifted down my stomach, fingers trailing over the bumpy scar there. Another defect added to a body born defective.
Yet, last night, five different mouths had pressed kisses to that scar, five different voices had whispered words of reverence against that skin. They hadn't seen damage; they'd seen survival. Strength.
I slipped my fingers lower, gasping as they met slick heat. I was still wet, still ready, my body's response to memories so fresh they might have been happening in real time. My eyes fluttered closed as I remembered—Xander's controlled power, Asher's wild passion, Nitro's exacting precision, Fallon's elegant thoroughness, Kane's reckless abandon. Five distinct approaches to pleasure, five ways of claiming the same woman.
My fingers circled lazily as the memories washed over me—the weight of different bodies pressing me into the mattress,the varied textures of skin beneath my exploring hands, the distinctive scents that combined into something that could only be described as home. I remembered how it felt to be surrounded, to have hands and mouths on every part of me simultaneously, to be the absolute center of attention for five men who had never known how to do anything halfway.
Last night, I had been the death-defying stunt that they approached with reckless abandon.
A soft moan escaped my lips as pleasure built, my back arching slightly off the bed. Even alone, touching myself, I could feel them with me. Their presence lingered in the bond marks, in the delicious ache of well-used muscles, in the scents embedded in the sheets tangled around my legs. As the orgasm faded, my eyes snapped open as realization dawned.Alone. I was alone.
I sat up abruptly, wincing slightly at the various protests from my body, and scanned the massive pack suite. The bed—large enough to comfortably accommodate six people—was empty save for me. The bathroom door stood open, showing an unoccupied space. No sounds of movement came from the adjoining rooms.
A cold knot formed in my stomach, irrational but powerful.Where had they gone? Had they left? Had I done something wrong?
The old fears rose like ghosts from my past—abandonment, rejection, being left behind. My parents' faces flashed through my mind, the way they'd gradually appeared less and less frequently at Brightfield until they stopped coming altogether.
I pushed the thought away forcefully. These men weren't my parents. They’d fought not to lose me after being monumental jerks. They’d been terrified after the Cirque accident. They’d claimed me, bonded with me. I closed my eyes, focusing on our pack connection. It thrummed, just below the surface of my skin.Five whispers of consciousness, faraway, not here. Not at the house.
As I shifted, intending to get up and search for them, my gaze fell on something I'd missed in my moment of panic. A tray on the nightstand beside me, laden with breakfast foods—golden waffles stacked high, fresh strawberries sparkling with sugar, a mountain of whipped cream, and a tall glass of orange juice. Beside the tray lay a folded piece of paper.
I reached for the note, my heart rate slowly returning to normal. The handwriting was bold and slightly messy.
Morning Lucy-Loo,
Don't panic when you wake up alone. We got called in for an emergency all-hands meeting at Cirque. Some technical issue. We tried to wake you, but you were sleeping so peacefully that Xander threatened bodily harm to anyone who disturbed you. We'll be home by noon with lunch—something delicious, promise. Last night was only the beginning.
-N
A smile spread across my face, relief washing through me like a cool wave. They hadn't left me. They were coming back. With food, no less. My stomach growled on cue, reminding me that I'd expended quite a lot of energy the night before.
I leaned back against the pillows, picking up a strawberry and biting into it with relish. The sweetness exploded on my tongue, another sensory pleasure to add to the many I'ddiscovered since leaving Brightfield House. Food that actually tasted like something. Air that wasn't filtered and sterilized. Sunshine on my skin. The touch of five men who saw me as perfect rather than broken.
I rolled onto my back, covering my face with my hands and letting out a disbelieving laugh.
"DemonX's Omega," I whispered to the empty room. "Me." The laughter bubbled up again, impossible to contain. "If I could time travel and tell my teenage self that I'd not only be cured and leave Brightfield someday, but also mate with the craziest Alphas alive, I'd have accused my future self of being on hallucinatory drugs."
The absurdity of it all hit me then. The statistical improbability of where I was right now, versus where I probably should be…dead, buried six feet under.
A rare Omega disease that should have killed me. An experimental treatment derived from snake venom that saved me instead. A scent matching with five Alphas who performed death-defying stunts for a living.
I reached for another strawberry, licking whipped cream from my fingers as I surveyed the massive, rumpled bed where I'd been thoroughly claimed by five of the most dangerous, protective, and passionate men in existence. For the first time in my life, I felt completely whole—not despite my scars and my history, but because of them. They had led me here, to this moment, to this new life. Funny how they’d hated me at first. Funny how I’d thought, more than once, about running back to Eros.
And as Nitro’s note promised, this was only the beginning.
