I kept answering myself.

  I folded the same towel three times before I was satisfied with the corner. Rearranged the firewood. Sorted the snacks. Stacked the books I’d brought by topic, then by size, then color-coded the spines until I wanted to scream.

  This wasn’t nesting.

  Not really.

  I wasn’t fluffing pillows with purpose or scent-marking surfaces like some omega fantasy story.

  I was just trying to feel normal.

  To keep moving before the ache swallowed me whole.

  I hadn’t slept more than an hour the night before. Couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, my body kicked. Hot one minute. Cold the next. My jaw ached from clenching. My thighs ached from nothing at all. And my thoughts kept drifting back to the guys.

  To Roan, arms crossed, always calculating.

  To Jay, too quiet, too perceptive.

  To Rhett—smiling like he wasn’t constantly two steps from combusting.

  The way they looked at me.

  The way I wanted them to look at me again.

  No.

  I shut the thought down.

  Walked to the kitchen. Opened a cabinet I’d already checked twice and stared into it like something new might appear. It didn’t.

  Outside, wind shoved snow across the windowpane in slow, silencing waves.

  I pressed my palms to the edge of the counter and exhaled. Long. Shaky.

  “I’m fine,” I said to no one. “This is fine.”

  The problem was, I wasn’t entirely sure who I was trying to convince. It was the lack of activity that was driving me mad. Work, I told myself. Get it done. There was plenty to prep for the playoffs. It was why I’d brought the laptop in the first place.

  I managed half a page.

  Maybe less.

  I stared at the screen long enough for the cursor to mock me, blinking steady and bright in the middle of a sentence I didn’t remember writing. My outline sat untouched beside me. The comms calendar was open, color-coded, and somehow still blurry.

  None of it made sense.

  None of it mattered.

  The Howlers could set themselves on fire and I couldn’t string three damn thoughts together right now. Every part of me was too aware of my own body—tight skin, flushed nerves, scent bleeding into the air with every breath. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t sit still.

  I shoved the laptop away and stood up again.

  Shower number two.

  The first had been this morning—early. Before the sun was all the way up. I’d scrubbed like it would clear my head, like the water could drown out the pulsing scent rolling off me, the one that had started curling its way into every soft surface I touched.

  This one? This one was desperation.

  The water was near-scalding. The steam fogged the mirror before I’d even stepped in. I braced one hand against the tile and stood under the spray with my eyes closed, trying not to think about how hollow my chest felt. How restless I was. How the heat didn’t help the ache—it just warmed it.

  The scent faded—slightly. Washed down the drain for now.

  But not gone.

  And not the only thing haunting me.

  It started small. Like déjà vu.

  The first time I met Roan, he’d just come off the draft. Fresh-faced and pissed off for reasons no one could pin down. His rep came first—ferocious on the ice, dead silent off it. The only player Marchand bragged about like he’d landed a goddamn wolf king.

  He walked into the room and every single person went still.

  Even me.

  Not because he was the biggest alpha I’d ever seen—but because he was quiet. Still. Calm like a blizzard before it broke.

  But his scent?

  God. His scent had wrecked something in me.

  I hadn’t even let it show. Not a twitch. Not a breath. But something in my chest had tilted sideways that day, and it never really reset.

  It didn’t help when Rhett and Jay came on a season later—both of them chaotic in their own way. Rhett was louder than life from the first handshake. Called me “boots” for a solid month and winked every time he got away with it. Jay, on the other hand, had barely said three words at first, but the way he watched everything, every shift of tone, every change in expression? It was surgical.

  They weren’t quiet about liking me. None of them were. Not even Jay, when you knew how to translate the silences.

  But Roan?

  Roan never said a word.

  Not once.

  Even when Rhett flirted too loud, when Jay made one of those dry comments that landed like a scalpel in silk—Roan just stood at the edge of the storm, arms crossed, watching.

  Managing.

  There I was, watching him right back.

  I wasn’t stupid. I saw it long before anyone else did—the way Roan eased around them. How the hot-headed rookie who barked at refs and broke sticks on the ice suddenly stopped pacing. How he started laughing—actually laughing—when Rhett lost a glove mid-practice and yelled “naked hand” like it was a goddamn emergency.

  Jay would roll his eyes. Roan would smirk.

  The three of them were chaos and gravity. Orbiting each other like planets. Pulling everyone around them into their strange, perfect rhythm.

  Including me.

  I told myself I didn’t care.

  Most of the time, I didn’t.

  I had work. I had rules. I had a plan.

  But the memories didn’t give a shit about that.

  Now, in this cabin, alone, exhausted and sore and strung out on a biological clock I couldn’t hold off anymore—those memories were everywhere.

  I left the shower and sat on the edge of the bed in a towel, hair dripping, laptop still open on the table across the room. My scent was back already. Warm. Sweet. Edging darker by the hour.

  Not full heat.

  Not yet.

  But it was close enough that I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.

  I wasn’t focused.

  I wasn’t fine.

  I wasn’t alone in my head—and that might’ve been the most dangerous part.

  I drank another glass of water.

  Third in an hour.

  The giant flat I’d hauled in from the back of the SUV was half-drained now, bottles scattered like fallen soldiers around the cabin. Water was supposed to help. Hydration, balance, grounding. Or whatever bullshit mantra my doctor had tossed me before I left.

  It didn’t help.

  Neither did the protein bar I chewed like cardboard, jaw aching, stomach curling away from the idea of food. I wasn’t hungry. Not for that.

  I paced.

  The movie I’d tried to start was still running in the background—some indie romcom I didn’t have the energy to absorb. Too many soft looks. Too much chemistry. Too much of everything I couldn’t let myself want.

  The blanket I’d wrapped around my shoulders fell to the floor again and I left it there.

  My body was hot.

  Not just flushed—but hot. Skin too tight. Too sensitive. Every movement against fabric scraped across nerve endings I didn’t know I had.

  Even the hoodie I’d put on earlier felt like too much now. I stripped it off and threw it across the back of the couch, one bare arm wrapping around my ribs like I could hold myself together.

  Touch-hunger, they called it.

  I’d heard other omegas talk about it, years ago. Whispered, half-mocking stories about their first heat after suppressants—how their brains short-circuited when they couldn’t scent anyone else, couldn’t feel the comfort of a bond or pressure of skin-on-skin.

  I’d rolled my eyes at the time.

  But now?

  Now I couldn’t sit down because the couch didn’t hold me. Couldn’t stop moving because the air was too empty. Couldn’t stop aching because my body didn’t want space—it wanted contact.

  Not sex.

  Not yet.

  Just… touch. Heat. Scent. Them.

  I closed my eyes and immediately regretted it.

  Because I could feel them again.

  Roan, all silent presence and iron will, scent like cold smoke and snow-damp cedar.

  Jay—sharp, clean, quiet. A whisper under the chaos. A blade sheathed in silk.

  Rhett—loud and sun-warmed, always moving, always two steps from wrapping himself around someone like it was his job.

  My hands curled into fists. My breath caught.

  This wasn’t fair.

  I’d fought so hard to keep distance. To be neutral. To stay contained. Yet, here I was and my body was rebelling like it had never agreed to any of those terms in the first place.

  I made it to the bed out of exhaustion more than intent. Curled on top of the covers with another bottle of water beside me, half-finished. My legs tangled. My body burned. My thoughts refused to stay quiet.

  The window was cracked, letting in a sliver of night air to cool the rising heat. I closed my eyes again and told myself I’d just rest for a minute. Just long enough to reset.

  Sleep didn’t come gently.

  It came like drowning.

  The dream started in the arena.

  Empty. Echoing.

  The lights above the ice humming like insects.

  I stood barefoot at center rink.

  And then they were there.

  Roan first—helmet off, skates half-unlaced, watching me like I was the only thing in the building.

  Jay, gliding silent from the bench, gloves off, eyes too dark to read.

  Rhett, breathless and grinning, already close, scent thick and teasing, curling around my ankles like smoke.

  “You ran,” he said, brushing my hair off my neck. “You didn’t have to run.”

  “I didn’t—” My voice caught.

  Jay’s fingers grazed my wrist, feather-light. “You always run. Even when you’re standing still.”

  Roan didn’t speak.

  He just stepped closer.

  I let him. What was I doing? I was… oh, it was a dream. I didn’t have to fight it. I didn’t have to lie. I didn’t have to keep the leash tight around a body already slipping.

  Roan’s hand touched my jaw, firm and steady.

  Jay leaned in, his scent cutting clean through the fog. “Let go, Wren.”

  Rhett whispered at my back, warm lips brushing my ear. “We’ll catch you.”

  I wanted to say no. But that wasn’t what came out of my mouth. No, a very simple word. Maintain the boundaries. Keep my distance. Be contained.

  That was what I should have done. But what did I do?

  I said yes.

  I woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat.

  Blankets kicked off. Skin burning. Muscles clenched.

  The air in the cabin was cold. Too cold. My body didn’t care.

  I sat up, heart pounding.

  My scent was everywhere.

  It was no longer subtle. No longer manageable. It was full and heady and soaked into every surface. I could barely breathe through it.

  My hands trembled.

  This wasn’t heat.

  Not yet.

  But it was coming.

  Fast.

  I wasn’t ready.

  For the first time since dismissing the doctor’s recommendation of hiring a pro, I wanted to scream at myself. Saying no to that had been automatic, intense, and necessary. The idea of someone else…

  No. I survived those first two heats. I’d survive this one. I dragged myself to the bathroom, still half-dazed from the dream. The cold tile beneath my feet was a jolt, but it wasn’t enough to shake off the lingering sensations. I splashed water on my face, the shock of it barely registering against the fire beneath my skin.

  The mirror reflected back a stranger—eyes too bright, cheeks flushed, lips parted like I was already panting. I looked like I was in the throes of it, even though I wasn’t. Not yet. But the signs were all there, screaming at me that I was on the edge of something I couldn’t control.

  Already naked, because even the sheets had already been too much touching my skin, I stepped into the shower again. The water was ice-cold this time, a desperate attempt to cool the inferno raging inside me. I stood under the spray, teeth chattering, but it didn’t help. The ache was too deep, too insistent. It wasn’t just physical; it was a need that went beyond my body, a craving for something I couldn’t name.

  Dialing the water up to something warmer, I reached for the soap, my hands shaking as I lathered it over my skin. Each touch was electric, sending sparks through my nerves. I couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t get clean. The scent of my arousal was thick in the air, clinging to me, marking me.

  I slipped my hand between my legs, fingers gliding over slick flesh. The sensation was intense, almost painful, but I didn’t stop. I needed release, needed to ease the pressure that was building inside me. I worked myself faster, harder, chasing the orgasm that would give me a moment’s respite.

  It came in waves, crashing over me, leaving me gasping and trembling. But it wasn’t enough. It never was. The ache was still there, gnawing at me, demanding more. I leaned against the wall, water cascading over me, and slid to the floor, too exhausted to stand.

  I stayed there, curled up in the corner of the shower, until the water turned cold again. Then I dragged myself out, wrapping a towel around my shivering body. I stumbled back to the bed, collapsing onto the mattress, too tired to do anything but lie there and stare at the ceiling.

  Sleep eluded me, but I didn’t fight it. I let my mind drift, let the memories and fantasies take over. Roan, Jay, Rhett—their faces, their scents, their touches. It was a dangerous game, letting myself go there, but I was past caring. I was past everything but the need.

  I reached for the bottle of water, taking a long drink, trying to ground myself. But there was no grounding when my body was on fire, when every thought was consumed by the approaching storm. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me, hoping that this time, sleep would bring some relief. But even as I drifted off, I knew it was just a temporary escape. The heat was coming, and there was no running from it now.

  Chapter

  Nine

  RHETT

  Iwasn’t gonna sit around and do another lap on the ice like it would fix anything.

  Roan could bark orders all he wanted—“keep your head in the game, Navarro”—but that ship sailed the second I realized she wasn’t just off the clock.

  Wren was gone.

  Not answering her phone, her private line, her backup number. No location pinned on her work calendar. No car in the arena garage. No familiar scent lingering near the media rooms or tunnels or even the stupid vending machines she hit when she forgot to eat.

  She hadn’t just left for the day.

  She’d left. Period.

  Twenty-four hours later and no one seemed to know where the hell she went.

  Except maybe…

  I took the stairs two at a time, not even trying to hide the fact that I was headed to her office. If security wanted to stop me, they could try. I had a key. Technically. Sort of. Maybe it wasn’t mine, but I’d borrowed it once during that preseason charity shoot, and Wren had never asked for it back.

  So that was her fault. Kind of.

  I reached the top of the stairs, heart pounding hard enough to feel it in my throat—and froze.

  Her office door was already open.

  Light on.

  Someone inside.

  I stepped in fast, ready to throw down if it was Beckett or Marchand or some dumb rookie with a death wish—and found Jay.

  Sitting calmly in her chair, desktop computer on, his fingers moving with surgical precision across the keys. His black hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, expression unreadable, mouth a thin, focused line.

  “What the hell,” I blurted. “You hacked her computer?”

  Jay didn’t flinch. “Didn’t need to. Her access card was still in the drawer. Backup one, the spare she keeps in case her main gets demagnetized.”

  He didn’t even glance at me. Just kept scanning.

  I stepped farther into the room, shutting the door behind me. “And what—you're just going through her stuff?”

  He finally looked up then, brows lifted like really, Rhett?

  “She’s gone.” His voice was low, clipped. “Why are you acting like you didn’t come here to do the exact same thing?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Because he was right.

  Jay turned the monitor so I could see her screen. “Calendar's clear after yesterday. But look—her upcoming out-of-office entry? ‘Personal medical leave.’ Starts today. Runs five days.”

  “Five days,” I repeated, the words catching in my throat. “You think she’s in heat?”

  But she wasn’t an omega. Why the fuck did my brain go straight to her being in heat?

  Jay didn’t blink. “I think we don’t know what we don’t know.”

  Which wasn’t a no.

  “She’s not an omega.” I tested the words out, my understanding of them, and my knowledge of Wren. If anyone was an alpha, it had to be her. Right?

  “You asking me or telling me?” Jay was such a cool-headed prick sometimes.

  I scrubbed a hand down my face, pacing a slow line across the office while Jay clicked through her email tabs with surgeon-level calm.

  “She’s too careful,” I muttered. “She wouldn’t just go off the grid like this. Not unless⁠—”

  “She didn’t want anyone to know where she went.”

  Jay's voice cut through mine, clean and sharp.

  I stopped pacing.

  “She’s been planning this,” he added. “Check the sent folder—she rescheduled meetings, reassigned her PR rotation to the assistants, cleared the schedule for every major player interview through the weekend.”

  “But she didn’t tell us,” I said quietly.

  Jay’s mouth pulled tight.

  In that moment, I saw it too.

  The hurt.

  He was the calm one, the sane one, the guy who never lost it—but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. His silence wasn’t indifference. It was control.

  And it was cracking.

  “She didn’t trust us to handle it,” I said.

  Or she was scared.