It's the facility Bane. The one who burned through sedatives. The one who's running out of restraint.
He's across the distance in two steps. Pins me against the shower wall. His mouth on mine before I can finish saying his name—hard, urgent, the taste of salt water and sunscreen. His hands grip my hips, pulling me against him, and I can feel him—hard, thick, straining against his swim trunks. His mouth moves to my neck. To the healed over side where Atlas bit me. His teeth graze the skin and my whole body goes rigid.
"Bane—don't—not here—"
He pulls back. Breathing ragged. Eyes glassy. His jaw working like he's physically chewing on the instinct to bite.
"I can't do the whole vacation, Max." His voice wrecked. "Every hour that mark isn't on your neck, it gets louder. The drive. It's like a sound I can't turn off."
"Bane, they could come home any second—"
"I know." He doesn't move. His thumbs pressing circles into my hipbones. "I know. I just—" He kisses me again. Quick. Desperate. His teeth catching my lower lip—not a bite, but a taste, a promise, a man taking what he can get because what he needs is too dangerous to take here. "Needed that."
He pulls away. Runs his hand through his wet hair. By the time he reaches the shoreline he's composed again—easy smile, relaxed shoulders, the golden boy on vacation. My back is still against the shower wall. My lips tingling. The healed side of my neck throbbing where his teeth grazed it. My cock throbbinghard in my board shorts and the ghost of his desperation lingering on my skin.
That night in the hallway—I'm heading to the bathroom, Zero is coming out. Bare-chested, sweatpants low on his hips. He blocks the hallway. Hooks two fingers into my collar. Pulls it aside. Looks at the his mark.
"Missing one," he says.
"Iknow, Zero."
"So what are you waiting for?"
"Oh my God, can you not do this in the hallway where our parents—"
"You're going to make him wait?" Zero's mouth twitches. The closest thing to delight I've ever seen on his face. "You're killing him, Max. Trust me. I share a room with him. He's practically waking up with wet dreams. Last night he said your name in his sleep and I had to throw a pillow at him before Richard heard through the wall."
My face burns. "Shut up."
"I'm serious. The man is suffering." Zero's eyes glitter with the particular joy of someone who finds other people's desperation entertaining. "Can you feel it? The gap?"
"Yes,” I hiss. Because I can. Two tethers humming and a third space that aches with absence.
His fingers tighten. He pulls me forward—just enough that I step into his space. His mouth brushes my ear.
"He won't ask," Zero whispers. "He'll wait for you to come to him. That's Bane. He'll wait forever if you let him." His lips graze my earlobe. "Don't let him."
He lets go. Steps past me. Disappears into his room. And I stand in the hallway with my knees weak and my skin buzzing and the sound of my mother turning a page drifting up through the floor.
The days blur after that.
Each one a tightening of the same wire. Zero's hand on my ass when I bend to pick something up—a squeeze so quick I almost convince myself I imagined it. Atlas murmuring filth against the back of my neck while we stand at the kitchen counter slicing tomatoes for Margot's salad. Bane on the deck at sunset, his chest against my back, his mouth at my ear—"Two more days of this and I'm going to carry you into that bedroom and lock the door and I don't care who hears"—the hard line of his cock pressing against my ass for one devastating second before he's three feet away watching the sunset like nothing happened.
Each near-miss ratchets the tension higher. Each one pushes my body closer to a line I can feel approaching—the warmth in my belly building, the sensitivity in my skin, the awareness of every alpha in proximity dialed to maximum.
The suppressants are two hundred miles away in my nightstand drawer. My biology is unchecked, unsuppressed, and surrounded by three alphas in a house with thin walls that are getting thinner by the day.
I'm holding it together.
Barely.
The fifth evening, Richard grills fish on the deck. Corn on the cob. A salad Margot made with more tomatoes from the farmer's market. Wine for the adults, water for me because I don't trust my control enough to add alcohol, but I claim I just feel a bit dehydrated.
The table is round. Small. My knee touches Atlas's on my left. Bane's elbow brushes mine on my right. Zero sits across from me with that lazy, knowing expression, his fork in one hand, his chin in the other.
"You've got a sunburn," Margot says. Reaching across the table to touch my cheek. Her fingers graze near my collar and I lean back—too fast, too obvious—and she blinks.
"I'm fine. It's just the sun."
