Page 22 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

His eyelids droop, but the expression is inscrutable. “No, you’re not. But you aren’t here to be my omega either. You can’t fill that role. Right, beta?”

The repeated reminders send my instincts keening. It’s like he knows and wants me to unzip my mind and let him dig through the contents.

There’s no way he could have figured it out. We’ve barely spent any time together outside of texts. I’m not perfuming; the suppressants assure that. The pads aren’t practical for heavy physical activity, but unless he touches me between my legs, he’ll never know.

Any other omega would be a puddle on the floor right now in the face of Patrick fucking Wyatt wielding that voice, scent, body like a fucking flame thrower.

Every gene in my being demands I submit to him. If it hadn’t been for years of concealing who and what I am, I’d have broken down and admitted everything.

I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t deepen the hole I’ve already dug myself. I can’t keep looking into those insistent mossy-green eyes and not spill my secrets.

By the time I’m centered enough to face them, Trick’s watching me with a quiet challenge. It’s expectant and firm, and I like it entirely too much. I’d worried about Mason charming me or Vin making me slip, but I wasn’t expecting this.

Instead, I force out a weak, “No, alpha.”

He grunts. “I’ll leave you to it, Isabelle. Put your things away. This is your room.”

“Yes, alpha.”

He grins and steps away with that pleased expression fixed on his face.

And then the alpha who’s housing me runs away from me in his own home. There’s no other way to explain it than that. Trick wheels and jogs for the door.

Message received. I’m not his omega, and don’t fuck it up for whoever she ends up being.

* * *

The next day. Mason informs me that the boys are home from practice by 6, so I plan a “thank you” dinner for them.

Most wouldn’t invite a girl to live with them, and especially not pro athletes. Sure, we all get something out of the pact, but they could have easily still told me no.

The kitchen of this house is a chef’s dream. Smooth, white marble and wide oak planks make for a subtle, comforting space.

Compound butter chills in the fridge, and I’m drumming my fingers on the countertop while waiting for the rice to boil in the stock. Thick, hearty steaks come to room temp on the L-shaped counter. They’re already patted dry and waiting for more seasoning. Like the polite cook that I am, the island in the middle of the room is already clear of dishes and wiped down.

I had to dip into my savings for cuts the size they’ll need to eat and the quality ingredients they’ll expect.

Trick’s promised to get me a card for house expenses, but this is a gift from me. It’s not much of a thank-you without some sacrifice.

The garage doorbell dings, and I hustle to finish the last of the prep before they come in the door. I hastily wipe my hands off on the towel over my shoulder and straighten the “be happy you’re fed” apron from the pantry. It’s 100% made for alphas because instead of having strings to wrap around a body, it uses elastics clipped together with buckles. The stretchy fabric is great for beefy, big boys.

“Bunny?” Mason calls. “I smell Brussels sprouts. Are you trying to feed a hungry alpha vegetation?”

Rolling my eyes, I carry on my cooking. He does actually need nutrients and the Brussels sprout, carrot, and parsnip “chips” roasting in the oven are pure magic.

The man in question floats into the kitchen like he’s on top of the world. Vin stalks in behind him, his shaggy hair still combed back on the top of his head with hair clips. The two are in slacks and polos to fit management’s requirements that players come and go in business casual.

“Aren’t you two handsome,” I comment but only spare a glance at them so I can concentrate. “You’re just in time to tell me how you like your steaks.”

Vin takes one of the stools on the other side of the countertop’s “L” shape, but Mason disappears into the adjacent bathroom.

“What are you making?” Vin asks. His face is smooth and relaxed, but his eyes dart from the bathroom door to me.

Not suspicious at all.

“Steaks. Veggie chips. Garlic and herb rice. I’ll make a peppercorn pan sauce while the steaks rest. No cream, of course.”

“Damn. You normally cook like that?”

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