“Wes, just bite me or kiss me, but do something,” Jess whispered, her breath hitching as the bass from the speakers rattled the floorboards beneath her boots.

The lake house was a sweat-soaked den of shifting pheromones and cheap liquor. Wes—Ethan Cole to the rest of the pack—looked down at her, his pupils blown wide, nearly swallowing the hazel of his eyes. He wasn’t just a soccer player tonight; he was a predator wrestling with a leash.

“Your brothers will peel the skin from my bones, Jess,” Ethan rasped, his forehead dropping against hers. The heat coming off him was a physical weight. “Jonathan especially. He’s already got a scent lock on me from across the room.”

“Let him watch,” Jess said. She reached up, her fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down that final inch.

Ethan broke.

His mouth crashed into hers, tasting of hops and raw, unrefined hunger. It wasn't the polished, practiced kiss of Michael Reynolds. This was messy. It was desperate. His tongue swept past her lips, claiming her mouth with a low groan that vibrated through her entire chest. Jess pushed her body flush against his, her small frame disappearing against the wall of his chest.

He didn't just hold her; he anchored her. One hand tangled in her new, short hair while the other slid down, his palm burning through the thin fabric of her dress until he reached the swell of her backside. He squeezed, hard, lifting her slightly off her feet.

“Fuck,” Ethan growled into her mouth. “I’ve wanted to do that since we were sixteen.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Jess gasped, her heart drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

“Because Dominic Hale would’ve killed me before your brothers even got the chance.” Ethan pulled back just enough to look at her, his chest heaving. “He’s always had eyes on you, Jess. Even when he was halfway across the country, he was checking in. Making sure no one got too close.”

“Well, Dominic isn't here,” Jess lied, ignoring the way her skin prickled at the mention of the Alpha heir. “And I’m done being the untouchable Whitman sister.”

She grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. Ethan didn't need further encouragement. He spun her around, pinning her against the cool surface of the kitchen counter, his hands roaming over her hips with a frantic, messy energy.

“Up,” he commanded.

Jess hopped onto the counter, her legs wrapping around his waist. Ethan buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her throat. He wasn't marking her—not yet—but the threat was there, a delicious promise of belonging.

His hand slid up the inside of her thigh, his fingers ghosting over the edge of her panties. Jess let out a jagged moan, her head hitting the cabinet behind her. The noise of the party—the laughter, the crashing of beer pong cups, Emily’s high-pitched giggle—faded into a dull hum. There was only the heat of Ethan’s skin and the sharp, metallic tang of his arousal.

“You’re so tight,” Ethan panted, his fingers finally making contact with her slick center. “And you’re doing this to me. Just me.”

“Yes,” Jess sobbed, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails drawing thin white lines across his tanned skin. “Ethan, please.”

He fumbled with his belt, his movements jerky and ungraceful. He didn't have the cold, private restraint of Dominic. He was raw, a young wolf driven by instinct. When he finally freed himself, Jess gasped at the sight of him—heavy, dark, and pulsing with a life of its own.

He didn't waste time. He gripped her waist, his thumbs bruising the skin, and drove into her.

Jess’s scream was lost in the thumping bass of the music. He was thick, stretching her until she felt like she might break, but the pain was immediately swallowed by a wave of white-hot pleasure. He started to move, a fast, punishing rhythm that made the counter creak beneath them.

“You like that?” Ethan gasped, his eyes locked on hers. “You like a man who doesn’t ask permission?”

“Don't stop,” Jess cried, her legs tightening around him, her heels digging into his back.

He was relentless. He pounded into her, his sweat dripping onto her chest, the salt of their skin mixing as they slid against each other. It was messy, the sound of their bodies colliding a rhythmic, wet slapping that made Jess’s face flush with heat. Every thrust hit a spot that made her toes curl and her vision fracture.

The tension built, a coil of lightning tightening in her belly. Ethan’s pace became frantic, his breathing a series of ragged grunts. He reached down, his thumb finding the nub of her pleasure, working it in tandem with his thrusts.

“Dom,” Jess whispered, the name slipping out before she could catch it.

Ethan froze. The rhythm stopped. He stayed buried inside her, his muscles corded and shaking.

“What did you just say?” his voice was a low, dangerous snarl.

Jess’s eyes snapped open, the haze of pleasure clearing. “I—I didn't—”

“You called me his name.” Ethan pulled out of her with a wet pop, his face twisting with a mix of shock and betrayal. He stepped back, his chest heaving, his manhood still weeping and angry in the dim light. “You’re thinking about him. Even now. Even while I’m inside you.”

“Ethan, wait—”

“No wonder he was so pissed when he heard I was taking you to this party.” Ethan shoved his hair back, his hands shaking as he adjusted his clothes. “You’re still his. You’ve always been his. I was just the distraction.”

“That’s not true!” Jess scrambled off the counter, her dress bunched around her waist, her legs trembling so hard she had to lean on the sink for support. The aftermath of the sex—the stinging skin, the lingering warmth, the heavy weight of the air—felt like a physical hangover.

“Save it, Jess.” Ethan turned away, his voice cold. “Go find him. He’s probably waiting in the shadows anyway. He usually is.”

Ethan walked out of the kitchen without a backward glance, leaving Jess alone in the dark. She stood there, her breath coming in jagged hitches, the silence of the room louder than the party outside.

She reached for a paper towel, wiping the evidence of him from her thighs, her mind a chaotic storm. Why had she said his name? Why did the thought of Dominic Hale feel like a brand on her soul?

She walked back into the living room, trying to find Emily, trying to find a way out of her own head. But the crowd was parting.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure stood in the doorway, the light from the porch silhouetting a frame that made Ethan look like a child. The scent hit her before she even saw his face—sandalwood, rain, and the unmistakable, crushing power of an Alpha.

Dominic Hale didn't look at the party. He didn't look at the beer or the dancers. His eyes, glowing a fierce, predatory gold, locked onto Jess.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. He walked toward her, the crowd shrinking back as if he were carrying a literal flame. He stopped a foot away, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of Ethan on her.

Dominic’s jaw creaked as he ground his teeth, his knuckles turning a bloodless white. He reached out, his hand closing around her wrist with a grip that was both a rescue and a prison.

“We’re leaving,” he said, the sub-vocal vibration of his voice making her bones ache.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Jess snapped, though her pulse was betraying her.

“You are.” Dominic leaned down, his voice a lethal whisper intended only for her. “Because your brother Jonathan just walked into the basement, and he’s looking for the man who put his hands on you. Unless you want a corpse on your conscience, you’ll get in my car right fucking now.”

As if on cue, a roar of pure, animal rage echoed from below the floorboards.

“You came,” Ethan rasped, his voice dropping into a register that made the fine hairs on Jess’s arms stand up.

The lake house was a sweltering tomb of bass and pheromones. Ethan didn’t just look at her; he mapped her. His eyes, dark with a hunger he usually kept masked by soccer stats and easy smiles, tracked the line of her throat down to where the silk of her dress strained against her chest. He moved closer, the heat of his body acting like a physical weight, pushing against her until the small of her back hit the wainscoting of the hallway.

He didn't ask. He simply reached out, his thick fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to expose the pale, unmarred skin of her throat.

“Your brothers will skin me alive for this,” he whispered against her skin, his breath a scorching trail.

“Then let them,” Jess bit out, her hands finding the hard, corded muscle of his biceps. She didn't want safety. She wanted to burn out the image of Michael Reynolds and Vanessa Price twisted together in that bedroom.

Ethan’s mouth crashed onto hers. It was a collision of teeth and tongue, tasting of salt and cheap whiskey. He groaned, a deep, animal sound that vibrated from his chest into hers, and hoisted her up. Her legs locked around his waist instinctively. He slammed her back against the wall, the framed photos of the pack house rattling against the plaster as he devoured her.

“Alex?”

The voice was a bucket of ice water.

Jess froze, her heart thudding a frantic rhythm against Ethan’s ribs. Ethan didn't let go immediately; his grip on her thighs tightened, his knuckles white, before he slowly slid her down the wall. They turned in unison.

Michael Reynolds stood at the end of the hall. His nose was a jagged, swollen mess of purple and black—the mark of Jess’s fist from hours earlier. He looked pathetic, his Alpha-scent sour with desperation.

“What the fuck is this, Ethan?” Michael’s voice cracked. “That’s my girl.”

Ethan stepped in front of Jess, his shoulders broadening, his posture shifting into a defensive crouch that screamed predator. “You lost the right to claim her the second you knotted Vanessa, Michael. Now turn around and crawl back to whatever hole you came out of.”

“Jess, babe, please,” Michael ignored him, his eyes pleading. “It was a mistake. A shift-fever thing. You’re human-passing, you don't get how the blood pulls—”

“Don't you dare,” Jess hissed, stepping out from behind Ethan’s shadow. Her voice was cold, sharp as a glass shard. “I’m a Whitman. I know exactly how blood works. Yours is just weak. Get out before I finish what I started at your apartment.”

Michael lunged forward, but Ethan met him halfway. Their chests collided with a dull thud. Ethan loomed over him, his eyes flickering with a dangerous, sub-vocal growl.

“Touch her, and I’ll ensure you never practice medicine because you won’t have hands,” Ethan warned.

Michael’s jaw worked, his eyes darting between them. He mouched a silent I’m sorry toward Jess, a pathetic attempt at a hook, before he turned and bolted out the side door.

Jess felt the adrenaline drain, replaced by a hollow ache. The tears she’d been holding back pricked at her eyelids. Ethan didn't say a word. He just wrapped an arm around her waist and steered her through the crowd, his body a shield against the prying eyes of the pack.

The walk to her apartment was a blur of neon and cold air. When they reached her door, she couldn't face the empty silence of her room.

“Stay,” she whispered, her fingers catching the hem of his shirt. “Please. I don't want to be alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

Inside, the air was still. Jess bypassed her dresser and grabbed the one thing that felt like armor: the oversized, faded jersey Delilah Hale had sent her. It had HALE emblazoned across the shoulders.

When she came out of the bathroom, the jersey swamping her small frame, Ethan was already shirtless. He sat on the edge of her bed, the lamplight tracing the deep grooves of his abs and the powerful swell of his chest. He looked up, his gaze dropping to the name on her back.

He let out a short, dry laugh. “Seriously? You’re wearing his name to bed while I’m in the room?”

“It’s comfortable, Ethan. Don’t make it weird.” Jess sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching for a bottle of lotion to soothe the ache in her feet.

Ethan didn't answer. He watched her. His eyes followed the movement of her hands as she massaged the cream into her calves. He let out a low, guttural groan and reached out, his hand snapping around her wrist to stop the movement.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?” he rasped.

“I’m just putting on lotion—”

“You’re a goddamn siren.” He pulled her back, her spine hitting the mattress as he hovered over her. His weight was a solid, grounding presence. “If we start this, Jess, there’s no going back. Kyle will have my head on a pike.”

“Kyle isn't here,” she whispered, her hands sliding up to cup his face.

Ethan didn't hesitate this time. He claimed her mouth in a kiss that was pure possession. His hands slid under the hem of the jersey, his palms scorching against the bare skin of her thighs. He moved with an urgent, messy hunger, his tongue tangling with hers as his thumb hooked into the waistband of her lace panties.

“Fuck, Jess,” he breathed against her lips.

He didn't pull the lace down. Not yet. He slid his hand lower, his fingers finding the slick, aching heat between her legs. Jess cried out, her back arching off the bed as he found her rhythm. He was relentless, his mouth moving from her lips to the sensitive hollow of her throat, his teeth grazing her skin until she was sobbing his name.

“I want you,” he growled, his voice a raw animal vibration. “I’ve wanted this for years.”

He moved to position himself, his arousal heavy and pulsing against her thigh, but he stopped. He closed his eyes, his forehead dropping against her shoulder, his chest heaving as he fought for control.

“We should sleep,” he panted, the words sounding like they were being torn out of him. “If I do this tonight, while you’re hurting over Michael... it’s not right. I want you to want me, not just a distraction.”

He rolled away, the loss of his heat making Jess shiver. He reached over and killed the light, pulling her back against his chest in the dark. His arm was a heavy, protective bar across her waist.

“Goodnight, beautiful,” he whispered into her hair.

The morning sun was an intruder, slicing through the blinds. Jess blinked, her vision focusing on Ethan as he stretched. The movement made the muscles in his back ripple like water. He looked back at her, a lopsided, sleepy grin tugging at his lips. He winked—that damn, cocky wink—and disappeared into the bathroom.

Jess was still tangled in the sheets when her phone shrieked on the nightstand. She lunged for it, her heart skipping a beat.

“Hello?”

“Baby doll! Oh, how I’ve missed that sexy voice of yours.”

The blood in Jess’s veins turned to liquid nitrogen. She knew that voice. It wasn't Michael. It wasn't Ethan.

It was Dominic Hale.

“Dominic?” she stammered, her grip tightening on the phone.

“I’m in the city, Jess. And I just saw a very interesting photo of Ethan Cole leaving your building in last night’s clothes.” His voice was low, lethal, and vibrating with an Alpha’s territorial rage. “I’m outside. We need to talk. Now.”

“What do you want, Dominic?” Jess gripped the phone, her knuckles turning a bloodless white.

“Damn, I’ve missed you saying my name, baby doll.” Dominic’s voice was a low, tectonic rumble that made the glass of water on her nightstand vibrate. “I’m calling to offer those tickets again. Front row. Right behind the bench.”

The gall of the man. He was acting as if the other night—the way he’d hauled her out of the rain, the way he’d almost claimed her mouth right there in the SUV—had been a fever dream. Jess cleared her throat, her chest tight. “Why don’t you just invite your pop star of the week instead? I’m sure she’d love the press.”

He let out a dark, jagged chuckle. “Which one? I lose track.”

“You’re such a cocky dick, Dominic.” She shifted on the mattress, the movement making the silk of her sleep shirt ride up. “Why are you stalking me? Why do you want me at your game so badly?”

“I miss seeing my girl. Simple as that.” There was a pause, the sound of him shifting on his end. “Speaking of which, are you heading back to the pack lands for the Thanksgiving hunt?”

“Ugh, you’re infuriating. Quit calling me that! And yes, I’ll be in Savannah. I’m guessing you won’t be there? Too busy with practice or whatever it is you do for the cameras?” She crossed her fingers, praying for a 'no.'

“You’re in luck, sweetheart. I’ll be in Savannah this year. My mother already put me on the seating chart. Right next to you.”

Jess could practically see the smug, gold-eyed grin through the receiver. “Ew, please. Stay in the city. Convince one of your one-night stands to cook you a turkey. It’s safer for everyone.”

His laughter grew louder, more predatory. “It’s alright, Jess. You can admit you miss me. You know I hate a liar. Why would I stay here when our mothers are doing a joint feast? Hmm?”

“Because you’re a man-whore who humps and dumps, nails and bails—whatever your PR team calls it these days. You could manipulate any omega into feeding you. It’s your only real talent.” She smirked, waiting for the bite.

Ethan walked out of the bathroom, the steam following him like a ghost. He was rubbing a towel through his damp hair, his chest bare and still glistening with droplets. “Who the hell are you talking to?” he snapped, his scent turning sharp with suspicion.

Jess hesitated. The air in the room suddenly felt pressurized. “It’s Dominic,” she said, her voice small.

Ethan didn't wait. He strode over, his jaw clenching so hard the bone popped, and snatched the phone from her hand. His grip was a vice. The easygoing protector from the night before vanished, replaced by a possessive Alpha-male who didn't like other wolves in his territory.

“Hey man! What’s up?” Ethan barked into the phone.

He listened for a second, his eyes boring into Jess’s. “We’re just hanging out. Yeah, I stayed over last night. In her bed.”

Ethan’s chest heaved as he listened to Dominic’s response. “Knox, chill. Nothing happened. She just needed someone. Relax, dude!”

Jess watched Ethan’s knuckles turn white. He was defending himself to a man who lived a thousand miles away, and it made her skin crawl. Why was Dominic fishing? Why was Ethan acting like a guilty subordinate?

“You’re so damn entitled, Hale,” Ethan spat, his voice rising. “Newsflash—the whole world doesn’t revolve around your schedule or your whims.”

There was a muffled sound from the speaker, something sharp and cold from Dominic, but Ethan didn't wait to hear the end of it. He slammed the 'end call' button and tossed the phone onto the bed like it was a piece of hot coal.

He stood there, his chest rising and falling in heavy, angry bursts. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, fists balled. The heat radiating off him was stifling.

Jess couldn't help it; her eyes drifted to the hard lines of his abs, the way they flexed with every ragged breath. She’d slept next to that. Not with it, but close enough to feel the power.

Ethan shifted, his shoulder brushing hers, and reached out to take her hand. His touch was gentler now, but his fingers were still trembling. “I’m sorry about him. He shouldn't talk to you like that.”

“It’s not a big deal,” she murmured, trying to pull her hand back.

“He’s always been this way. Even before the NFL. Thought he was the sun and we were all just rotating around him.” Ethan let out a dry, bitter breath. “I love the guy, he’s pack, but sometimes? Sometimes I really fucking hate him.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Jess said, then quickly added, “I mean, I don't love him. I hate him most of the time.”

Ethan checked the clock and sighed. “I should go. Practice is in an hour.” He stood slowly, his hesitation thick in the air. He leaned in, his hand cupping her jaw as he pressed a warm, lingering kiss to her lips. “I’ll see you soon, Jess.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

“You moved on fast,” a voice teased from the doorway.

Emily Parker was leaning against the frame, her arms crossed, a wicked glint in her eyes.

“It’s not like that!” Jess shouted, throwing a pillow at her. “I used to have a crush on him in high school, okay? It was just... fun. He’s on the same page. But when we go home for the wedding and Thanksgiving, you can’t tell Jonathan. He’ll castrate Ethan in the middle of the town square.”

“I think he’s always been gone for you, Jess. You’re just blind. But I’m glad you’re done with Michael. Enjoy the fling.”

Single.

The word felt like a jagged blade in Jess’s chest. The reality of Michael’s betrayal rushed back, hitting her with the force of a tidal wave. The anger drained away, leaving only a hollow, cold ache.

Tears spilled over, hot and fast. She felt worthless. Discarded. Like a wolfless fluke that Michael had finally grown tired of pretending to love.

“What did I do wrong, Em?” Jess sobbed, her voice breaking. “Was I not enough? Was I bad in bed? Why did he have to go to her?”

She flipped onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow to muffle the raw, ugly sounds of her grief.

Emily was there in a second, climbing onto the bed and pulling Jess into a tight, grounding hug. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered, her hand tracing slow, soothing circles on Jess’s back. “You don't have to be strong right now. Just let it out.”

Jess clung to her, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. She cried until her throat was raw, until her eyes were swollen and her head throbbed.

The drive to Savannah was long, the air getting thicker and more humid as they crossed the Georgia line. Jess stared out the window, her mind a chaotic mess of the upcoming wedding and the inevitable confrontation with her brothers.

As they pulled into the Whitman estate, the scent of the pack lands hit her—pine, damp earth, and the overwhelming presence of her family.

“Look who finally crawled home.”

Jonathan stood on the porch, his arms crossed over his massive chest. Behind him stood Marcus and Benjamin, looking like a wall of muscle and overprotective fury.

“Where’s Michael?” Marcus asked, his voice low and dangerous as he scanned the car. “He was supposed to drive you.”

Jess stepped out of the car, her chin tilted up, though her knees were weak. “Michael isn't coming.”

“The hell he isn't,” Jonathan said, stepping down the stairs. “We have a seat for him at the rehearsal dinner. What happened, Jess?”

“He cheated,” Jess said, the words coming out flat and hard. “I dumped him. He’s gone.”

The silence that followed was terrifying. The air seemed to crackle as the three Whitman brothers processed the information. Their scents shifted instantly—sour, metallic, and lethal.

“He did what?” Benjamin roared, his hands curling into claws.

“I’ll kill him,” Marcus stated, his voice devoid of emotion.

“He’s already dealt with,” another voice interrupted.

A black sports car roared up the driveway, kicking up a cloud of red dust. Dominic Hale stepped out, looking every bit the Alpha in a tailored suit that struggled to contain his frame. He walked toward the group, his eyes locked on Jess.

“Dominic?” Jonathan blinked, his anger momentarily diverted. “What are you doing here early?”

“I heard the news,” Dominic said, stopping right next to Jess. He didn't touch her, but his presence was a claim, a barrier between her and her brothers' interrogation. “And I think Michael Reynolds is currently hiding in a motel three towns over, hoping the ground swallows him whole.”

“How do you know that?” Jonathan asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Because I’m the one who told him what would happen if I saw him on these lands again.” Dominic looked down at Jess, a strange, dark intensity in his gaze. “You okay, baby doll?”

Jess looked from her brothers to the man who had been haunting her dreams, and she knew. This Thanksgiving wasn't going to be about gratitude.