Three voices. Declaring the word in unison. Archie's deep register. Rowan's warm baritone. Ronan's cooler cadence. The syllable merging into a single, composite declaration that carries the specific, binding quality of a commitment made in the presence of witnesses by men who understand that the word they just spoke constitutes a promise that extends beyond this room and this moment and this afternoon.
They said yes.
All three of them. To my father. In a room where their coach and my butler and the institutional authority of Valenridge University bore witness.
They claimed me.
Not through a Heat. Not through the biological override that the system uses to convert Omega autonomy into Alpha acquisition. Through a conversation. A request. A formal, respectful, old-fashioned-in-the-best-possible-way asking of permission from the man whose approval they valued enough to seek before acting on the desire that has been building between us since I crashed into Archie on a trail and sat on his lap and broke his glasses and told him they were ugly.
I am losing consciousness.
The sedation winning the final round of the negotiation with my awareness, the chemical peace overwhelming the desperate, clinging grip of a woman who wanted to hear every word and managed to hold on long enough to hear the ones that mattered.
But the peace that washes over me as the darkness descends is not pharmaceutical.
It is deeper. Warmer. Carrying the specific, bone-level, designation-confirmed certainty of an Omega whose biology has received the signal it has been waiting for since the first inhale of cedarwood on a November trail and is now processing the datawith the full, joyful, cellular-level recognition of a body that has identified its pack and received confirmation that the pack has identified it in return.
Have I finally been claimed?
CHAPTER 34
Uno
~SAGE~
"AWHOLE WEEK OFF?! We don't have time for that!"
I gawk at the twins from my position on the couch, which has become my designated recovery station since the nurse's office discharged me yesterday with a cocktail of instructions that my pride has categorized undersuggestions I will consider ignoring at my earliest convenience.The injection they administered during the collapse has stabilized the worst of the symptoms, the temperature fluctuations settling into a manageable range that no longer makes me feel like a human thermostat operated by a poltergeist. But the fatigue persists. My limbs carry the specific, weighted heaviness of a body that has been running a biological process in the background and is now presenting the energy bill.
Which, according to the medical team's recommendations relayed through my three self-appointed wardens, requires a full week of rest before I am cleared to return to the ice.
A week.
Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. An eternity measured in missed practices and missed drills and the specific, accumulating rust that develops on an athlete's edge work when her skates are collecting dust instead of cutting ice.
We have weeks left until the playoff deadline. The Division Two roster is still integrating. The chemistry between me and the twins and Archie has been building through daily sessions that the break will interrupt, and the momentum we established will degrade with every practice I miss because momentum is a biological product of repetition and repetition requires presence.
A week off is not rest. It is sabotage disguised as healthcare.
Rowan reaches into the bag he carried from the campus store and produces a deck of cards with the theatrical flourish of a man who has anticipated my objection and prepared a countermeasure.
"We can play Uno."
I pout.
The expression deploying my lower lip with the full, weaponized extension that has proven effective against one specific Alpha in this dorm and that I am now testing against the broader pack to determine if the technique scales.
Ronan chuckles from the armchair he claimed during yesterday's arrangement of furniture that converted the common room from a two-person living space into a four-person recovery ward. His amber eyes carry the warmer, quieter amusement that distinguishes his reactions from his brother's louder equivalents.
"She's so cute when she's being stubborn."
I groan with the full-body resonance of a woman who has been called cute by an Alpha she respects and finds the adjective simultaneously flattering and infuriating because cute is not the word she was cultivating. Fierce. Intimidating. Worthy of asports documentary narration. Cute is what people call kittens and toddlers and women whose resistance they find charming rather than consequential.
"CAPTAIN!"
The appeal launches across the dorm at maximum volume, my voice aimed at the kitchen where the sounds of active cooking have been producing aromatic intelligence for the last twenty minutes. Pots. Simmering liquid. The specific, rhythmic percussion of a knife against a cutting board, each impact landing with the precise, measured cadence that I have learned characterizes Archie's culinary technique: controlled, methodical, producing results that defy the simplicity of his movements.
"I'm being held against my will when I'm more than fit to perform back on the ice! They're trying to make me play card games instead of training! This is a human rights violation! An athletic crime! A?—"
