But I am here.
Fully. Completely. Present in the specific, deliberate, eyes-wide-open way that matters more than sobriety metrics or blood alcohol estimates. I know where I am. I know who I am with. I know the man whose hand is on my waist and whose eyes are locked on mine and whose question is not a question but an invitation issued with the specific, respectful, this-is-your-choice framing that Archie Hale Rosedale applies to every interaction that involves my body because he understands, more than anyone in this building, that consent is not a formality but a foundation.
I grin.
Seductive. Deliberate. The expression deployed with the full, conscious, I-know-exactly-what-I-am-agreeing-to confidence of a woman whose pack has claimed her and whose captain has asked and whose answer has been building since a forest trail and a pair of broken glasses and every bickering, kissing, soup-eating, Uno-playing moment that led to this specific point in time.
"Bet."
His smirk widens. The dimples surfacing. The green eyes carrying the specific, heated, competitive brightness that I have learned precedes the moments where Archie converts a verbal exchange into a physical one.
"Ride me, and give both the twins the attention they deserve, and I'll take you on a shopping spree." The terms are delivered with the flat, negotiation-closing cadence of a man whose proposition is not a bluff. "New gear. New clothes. Whatever you want."
"And if I lose?"
"You dance in front of the entire team." His smirk sharpens. "Solo. Center ice. Full choreography. While they watch."
I cringe. The expression involuntary. The mental image of performing a solo dance routine on the ice in front of fifteen Alphas whose collective commentary would constitute a verbal assault on whatever dignity the performance left intact producing a visceral, full-body rejection that makes my competitive instincts recalibrate from casual to critical.
But a shopping spree.
New gear. New clothes. The wardrobe investment that I have been unable to make since arriving at Valenridge with two suitcases and a functional inventory that constitutes approximately forty percent of what a university student requires.
And the alternative to the shopping spree is a public dance that my pride will survive because my pride has survived worse. Arranged marriage meetings. Fifteen years of rejection letters. A mother whose love was conditional on compliance. If I can endure those, I can endure a solo dance on center ice while Alphas heckle.
But I am not going to lose.
Because Sage Holloway does not lose bets. The last man who bet against me on the ice caught a puck in his balls, and the one before that watched me outscore him seven to zero in a scrimmage he thought was a joke.
I do not lose.
I lock my eyes on his. Green on green. The connection carrying the full, charged, pheromone-saturated weight of a woman who has evaluated the terms and found them acceptable and is now accepting them with the specific, fierce, competitive energy that governs every agreement she enters.
"It's on."
CHAPTER 36
The Long Way Home
~SAGE~
The privacy screen glides up with a soft mechanical hush, sealing the rear cabin of the Rolls Royce into its own private universe.
Soundproofed walls swallow the last echoes of the frat house bass still thumping in my ears. One moment the night air carried distant shouts and laughter from the lawn; the next, nothing but the low thrum of tires on asphalt and the collective rhythm of four heartbeats. Four. Mine, Archie’s beneath me, and the twins’ across the wide, cream-leather bench opposite us.
I straddle Archie’s lap, knees braced on either side of his hips, the cropped tank top already rucked up around my ribs. The leather jacket Ronan lent me lies discarded somewhere on the floor. Cool air kisses my bare midriff, but the heat rolling off Archie’s body chases it away before it can settle. His hands rest heavy on my waist, thumbs tracing slow circles just above the waistband of my fitted black jeans. Those jeans are unbuttoned now, zipper down, the denim shoved low enough to give me room to move.
I can feel him, thick and ready, pressed against the damp fabric of my panties. Four weeks of tension coil tight in my belly.
Four weeks of bickering over pasta portions, of stolen kisses in the dorm kitchen while the twins pretended not to notice, of nights where I fell asleep with my head on his chest and woke up wondering if an Omega who still flinched at the word “distraction” deserved any of this.
Now the distraction is exactly what I want.
I rock forward, slow, testing. The blunt head of him nudges against my entrance through the thin barrier of lace. A low sound escapes my throat, half moan, half challenge.
“Wildcard,” Archie murmurs, voice gravel-rough. His green eyes lock on mine, steady even though his pulse hammers against my palm where I brace it on his chest. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
I answer by hooking two fingers into the crotch of my panties and tugging the fabric aside. The cool cabin air meets slick heat, and I shiver. Not from cold. From the weight of three sets of eyes on me. Archie’s, dark with hunger. Rowan’s and Ronan’s across the bench, amber bright, hands already working open their own flies with zero shame.
