Maddox’s grin widened, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Just like how good you’re making this entire house smell with that arousal of yours.” He paused, voice dropping to something warmer, more intimate. “Is our Omega content?”
She blushed—then shook her head.
“No.”
His grin turned playful.
“Then tell me, Octavia, was it? What does our Omega want next, hmm?”
The idea of getting to watch how this was going to turn out dared to make me excited.
CHAPTER 19
The Enforcer’s Turn
~MADDOX~
“She moved like the ice had never broken her. And every man in the room wanted to be the one who finally caught her.”
Ididn’t think my first real intimate experience with an Omega would be eight inches deep in the middle of a damn foursome, but here I am—cock buried to the hilt inside her while she’s sucking Luka off like it’s the final element of a gold-medal program and Renzo is devouring her nipples like they’re the lost treasures of the last Winter Games.
The contrast hits me harder than a clean hip-check into the boards. I’ve been in group scenes before. Pack dynamics in the old days demanded it—shared space, shared energy, the unspoken rule that every Alpha contributed to keeping the Omega satisfied. But contribute was the operative word. I was present.
A wall of muscle in the corner.
Arms crossed, jaw tight, watching the others take what they needed while I stood guard.
Touching? Kissing? Sliding inside? Never. Not once. The last Omega we tried to hold together as a unit had made it crystal clear: Maddox Hale was the enforcer, not the lover. The shield, not the spark.
So I learned to live with the ache. Learned to channel it into every body check on the ice, every blocked shot, every night I spent alone with my fist and the memory of what I wasn’t allowed to have.
This is different.
This is Octavia Moreau.
And the dangerous pull she exerts isn’t just biological.
It’s personal.
The second I saw her on the ice that audition morning—sparkly dress catching the arena lights like scattered diamonds, skates carving perfect edges through the fresh sheet—I felt it. Respect. Raw, immediate, the kind you only get when you recognize another athlete who’s clawed their way back from the abyss.
She didn’t just skate.
She commanded the ice the way I command the crease: total ownership, zero apology. When Kael caught the broadcast feed and growled out the order to ditch practice and interfere, I didn’t argue. I sprinted. Because talent like hers doesn’t deserve to be sidelined by politics or fear or some half-assed pack politics.
And now, buried inside the very woman whose determination had lit a fire under the entire Ironcrest roster, I’m realizing the fire she started in me isn’t going out anytime soon.
Her body is a goddamn masterpiece. Ten out of ten. Every inch carved by two decades of elite training—quads that could launch a throw triple Salchow with enough force to send a partner into orbit, core tight enough to hold adeath spiral for twelve rotations without a wobble, ass round and firm from endless edge work and off-ice plyometrics.
I can feel the power in her even now, the way her inner walls flutter around my cock like she’s still centering a spin.
She takes care of this body. Worships it the same way I worship mine—nutrition logs, recovery protocols, the relentless grind that separates Olympians from everyone else. The thought that she almost lost it all five years ago, that some coward partner dropped her on purpose and the world tried to write her obituary on the ice, makes something protective and feral uncoil in my chest.
No pack to catch her then.
No one in her corner when the cameras turned off and the sponsors vanished.
