“Pendle Cross!” The driver called, which was a damned good thing because he’d have missed his stop entirely.
Shuffling off the bus, he clutched his rucksack strap as he walked down the busy street towards his flat. After stopping for five minutes to pet the cat outside the Chinese takeaway, he took a left at the bike shop and ambled up five flights of stairs to his tiny home. Sighing, he turned the key, opened the door and shut out the rest of the world behind him.
Shrugging off his bag and shoes, he padded to the kitchen, flicked the switch on the kettle, and headed to his bedroom. His apartment looked like any other one bedroom, one bathroom residence belonging to a single male beta with a full-time job and very little time spent at home. He prided himself on clean lines and minimal clutter, with only the essentials on display. But his bedroom… his bedroom was a different beast entirely.
Blankets, pillows, throws, black-out curtains, white noise machine, massive stuffed koala called Roger, equally massive stuffed orangutan called Betty, humidifier, incense sticks, candles. You name it, his bedroom had it. The very core of comfort for a sometimes-omega, sometimes-alpha, sometimes-beta to rest his weary bones after a hard day of catching criminals. No one but he and Matteus had ever been in his room, and no one ever would. His brother called it his nest,but something about the word didn’t feel quite right to Oliver. Huffing, he slid off his tie and flung himself onto the double bed, head landing comfortably in Roger’s lap.
“Hi,” he said, staring up at the obscenely large koala. Roger, of course, said nothing back.
Lying down had been a mistake, because his eyes grew heavy almost immediately. ‘You won’t sleep tonight,’ his mum would have said.Ah well,a few minutes’ wouldn’t hurt.The sound of his phone ringing swiftly interrupted his nap.
“Dear God in Heaven—” he groaned, picking it up. A photograph of a scruffy haired beta flashed across the screen. It was Rhys, a coach at his kickboxing club. “Yeah?” He grunted, mouth heavy with almost-sleep.
“Yo Dai,” Rhys said, his South Wales accent far too cheerful for Oliver’s tired brain. “What time you getting to the club?”
He thought about it for a long moment. He should go, but the idea of ramen and an erotic ebook sounded far more palatable that evening.
“Because youdoremember that the residency coach is starting tonight, right? You said you’d meet him.”
“Oh crap,” he muttered, having indeed forgotten. “I’ll be there in an hour. But don’t expect me to make small talk.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just come do your thing. Someone needs to make us look good. Oh, and bring your wraps. The guy’s an absolute beast.”
“Oh great,” he drawled, but Rhys had already hung up.
Letting out a world-shatteringly long sigh, he slipped from the bed and peeled off his clothes. Glancing in the full-length mirror, his eyes drifted to the tight plane of his stomach and the lean lines of his thighs. He’d worked hard for that body, after nearly losing it six years prior.
Rolling out a strip of tension across his shoulders, he stepped into the shower. Now, showering before working out may haveseemed counter-productive. But Oliver found it was better for his sweat to be masked in the stench of peach and vanilla, than his sigma scent confusing everyone endlessly. Regardless, he swallowed an additional suppressant as he waited for the water to heat up.
Drying himself, he slipped on a black cotton t-shirt and a pair of blue shorts. Giving his glove bag a tentative sniff, he grimaced at the smell of stale sweat. No hidingthatstench, even after dousing them in fabric spray. Pulling the bag over his shoulder, he slipped on his trainers and walked out the door. It was going to be a tiring night—especially if the new guy was a dick—but punching something might actually be a decent remedy for his sluggish brain. The thought lightened his steps considerably, as he made the short walk to the club.
Ducking under the railing, he walked alongside the murky green canal and towards the railway bridge in the near distance. The wind whistled through the reeds, giving the towpath an eery feel in the late-afternoon sun. As he crossed the car park at the end of the path, he noticed a British racing green BMW in the corner of the yard. It was pretty nice, despite the almighty scuff across the bumper and curb marks on the nearside alloy. He admired it for a moment, before stepping into the dingy little warehouse on the edge of town.
Oliver’s gaze trailed across the mats and towards the gathering in the centre of the room, falling on a tall figure dressed in black. He was all legs, his black shorts revealing muscled thighs that seemed to go on for days. The t-shirt clung to his broad back in such a way that made Oliver’s insides do little flips.
As he crossed the threshold, the figure turned, hazel eyes meeting his own. Lucas fucking White.
TWO
THE PULL OF TWO
The club was in an eighteenth century converted warehouse, with its thick red bricks and towering iron beams. Traces of its origins as a flax mill still clung to the walls—the dry, dusty scent of plant fibres lingering over two hundred years later. Now though, the walls were mostly covered with Rhys’ medals and trophies.
As Oliver lingered in the doorway, it was as though a pair of magnets were holding him in place. One pushing him forward, the other pulling him back as he hung across the threshold in limbo.Shit. He knew he should have stayed at home.
Not one to admit defeat, he slipped off his shoes, dropped his gaze and padded towards the broken vending machine in the corner of the hall. On many,manyoccasions, Oliver had tried to fish out the last remaining chocolate bar, as it clung to the little shelf. But for weeks it’d been hanging at a precarious angle, much like Simba dangling over the wildebeest stampede. He gave it a discrete thump, just to be certain. Still nothing.
“You two, get here right now!” a sharp voice called to his left.
There was a skittering of claws and a howl, followed by the high-pitched laughter of mischievous children. Oliver turned,side-stepping just as two naked, ginger-haired toddlers ran into his legs.
“Oof,” he said, ruffling their curly hair as their omega father, Sammy, sprinted across the training hall.
“I told you, no shifting indoors!” Sammy called, scooping them up in his arms. “Sorry, Ollie. They’ve been absolutely sodding feral since they learned how to shift without my help. Rhys and I can’t take our eyes off them for a second.”
Oliver grinned. “It’s alright.” He tickled the smaller girl, Matilda, under the chin; the bigger one, Mia, nuzzled into Sammy’s flushed neck. “The world could use more fuzzy little demons. Isn’t that right, girls?” Matilda only snapped at his fingers in response.
“There you are!” Rhys called, jogging across the mats. “I thought I was gonna have to send out a search party.”
