Chapter Text
Friday: Two days before Shane Hollander's twenty-first birthday
This was a bad idea.
Ilya was going to kill him.
It was going to be just like that alpha from a few years back, the one who reported that his mate died of pneumonia, only for her to be locked in the basement eating food through a tube, wearing a pretty pink dress with ruffles and bows. He said it was so he could keep her safe.
Courts ruled that his behavior was justified but cruel and unusual.
Ilya would do that to him—wrap Shane up in lacey frills with an ankle chain long enough to piss behind an unlocked door, hiding him from the outside world, you’ll want for nothing, my Shane.
In the backseat of a worn Prius with a bright pink bumper sticker reading We Are Not Equals: A ≠ O!, Shane squirmed in his seat and rolled down the window, taking a deep breath of fresh air, hoping it would cool him down—it didn’t.
His jeans were disgustingly tight, pressed against every pore and crease in his legs, leaving him feeling like an overstuffed sausage, or like the year he fractured his left wrist on the ice and was expressly forbidden from playing hockey for three weeks—Ilya took it upon himself to bring over jelly donuts from the bakery with peanut oil and all-natural jelly, hand-feeding them to Shane as they watched hockey.
His phone buzzed in his lap. Shane gulped.
Ilya: Are you still resting?
After a quiet dinner of plain rice with boiled sweet potatoes and a pinch of black garlic salt, a seared chicken breast cut down the middle and seasoned with white pepper, Shane had declined his mom’s offer to watch the Admirals game live—Scott Hunter is dinosaur, Shane, he walks and ice cracks under his big ugly claws, he will soon need scooter to catch up to you—pointing to his stomach, saying he just wanted to lie down the rest of the night, maybe nest a little.
In his room, behind the safety of an unlockable door, Shane had texted Ilya too. If Ilya reached out to his mom, he’d get the same answer. Shane went to bed after dinner.
And that he was in his room.
Yes. I’m in bed now.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.
Ilya: Do you need medicine? I can drop it at your door so you feel better.
His heart stuttered.
Ilya dropping by would ruin everything. Ilya had his own key, but he never just ‘dropped’ things off. Always, Ilya came inside and took a breath of fresh air, nose pressed to Shane’s crown. It was like the alpha couldn’t resist being so close to Shane and not touching him.
I’d rather not get you sick with my germs, Ilya.
Ilya: What if I want your germs.
Gross. Go to bed.
Ilya: How mean you are to me. So sad. :(
Shane snorted, flushing red as the driver eyed him again in the rearview mirror. An alpha, definitely, taller than Shane, with uneven shoulders that hunched over the steering wheel, locks of mousy, half-brushed hair tucked behind his ears. He smelled like sweat and plastic.
Switching apps from iMessage to Uber—every time a new phone dropped, Ilya presented him with the newest model, already unlocked and ready for use, beaming, cat-like, snatching the older device and promising to throw it in the trash—the map showed that they were nearing the gated community with Hayden and Jackie’s home. New home.
Having only met Jackie a handful of times, Shane could confidently say that they got along well, sharing smiles across the dinner table, and she let Hayden continue to play hockey, which gave her bonus points in Shane’s book.
Shane couldn’t tell if she knew about Ilya or that, beneath his natural citrusy sweet scent, Shane occasionally smelled like an alpha.
Before they married, she came to Shane begging for his approval, saying, Hayden means the world to me, but you mean the world to him, and I’d never want to get between you two.
Shane didn’t think alphas like Jackie existed.
You give or I take.
Ilya didn’t give his mother a choice, only the illusion of one.
As the car entered through the wrought iron gates, buzzed in by a stink-faced beta who took one look at Shane in the backseat and rolled his eyes, he realized that he hadn’t been to his friend's new house since they moved in and settled down.
Before Jackie and Ilya, they had sleepovers and slept side by side in Hayden’s old room, in his old house, cuddled beneath the covers, pinky swearing that nothing would tear them apart, that they’d be friends forever, and if a stinky alpha ever tried to take them, they’d run away together.
Shane looked out the window.
Ilya wouldn’t let Shane get far, would he?
His phone buzzed again.
Ilya: Shane
Yes?
Ilya: Sleep. Conservate energy.
It’s conserve.
Ilya: Is what I said. Put on your glasses.
Goodnight Ilya.
Ilya: Sleep tight, my Shane
The car swerved into a cul-de-sac lined with two story, white and blue houses, each one nearly identical in size and shape. Fresh mowed lawns, garden gnomes, SUV’s in the driveways. Second floor windows with bars from head of the window to the sill—statistically, fifteen-percent of postpartum omegas tried to jump from above ground windows.
Hayden’s house was slightly different. It was painted a lighter, softer blue, and the white was more snow than egg white.
Instead of gnomes, ceramic hockey players were stationed across the lawn, positioned around a puck-shaped rock. And the windows were bar-less.
Before sneaking out, Shane did everything he could to neutralize his scent.
Showering twice while scrubbing at his nape and neck, dousing himself in cherry blossom body wash, rubbing it into his skin until he couldn’t smell any of his natural cocoa or citrus sweetness.
Hayden wore scent-blocking patches at hockey, cute little squares dotted with flowers that went over his nape, and described them as the feeling of someone with two hands around your neck, strange and suffocating—no hiding from me, Shane, your smell, your taste, is all mine.
A small, quiet part of Shane wanted to run back home, no, run to his alpha and confess that he’d asked for Hayden’s credit card to put in Uber, ordered a car, snuck out of his second story bedroom and gotten into the car with a strange alpha to go to a party, all without permission.
If he came clean, maybe Ilya would only spank him like a naughty pup.
Shane deserved worse than a spanking for what he’d done, and what he was about to do.
True to Hayden’s word, it was more of a hang-out than a party. Still, Shane gawked at the naked alpha laying across the concrete front steps, sporting a half-formed knotted leaking cum across his belly, chest heaving and covered in something wet and shiny.
A grin was spread across his blissed out face.
He frowned at the stranger’s cock. Ilya’s was probably bigger.
Stepping over the alpha, Shane walked into Hayden’s living room for the first time.
It was an open floor plan with two L-shaped couches, settled across the room from the huge TV plastered on the wall, definitely great for watching hockey.
Everything was a little bit beige for Shane’s liking, but there were spots of omega around, like the fuzzy maroon blankets at the edge of the couch, and the lit pumpkin pecan waffle candle—alpha noses were too strong for most candles but omegas preferred aggressive, sweet scents especially on humid, rainy days.
On the opposite side of the TV wall was a framed canvas print from Hayden and Jackie’s wedding, black and white and slightly blurred at the edges; Jackie wearing a stunning heart shaped bodice gown with flowing lace and pearls along the train, Hayden in a tight custom suit, holding his new alpha wife. At the corner of Jackie’s mouth, tiny dots of blood.
Had the photo been taken at a different angle, it might’ve shown the new bite at the back of Hayden’s neck, staining his collar.
They looked happy.
Shane turned away from the wall, feeling an uncomfortable bout of jealousy settling in his chest. Jackie showed off Hayden from the lawn to the walls of their house, expressing her love for her chosen omega, telling the world Hayden’s mine, back off.
On the couch, two women, an alpha and a beta, were tangled in each's arms, a mess of limbs and sweat.
Laying spread across the cushion was a curly haired alpha with small breasts adorned with golden jewels embedded in her perky nipples that matched the one in her nose—glassy eyed, staring up the dark-skinned beta in her lap with full-heavy breasts that gave Shane a pang of envy.
If Ilya decided to get him pregnant, his chest would swell with milk to feed their baby, but not into full hanging breasts with thick nipples like hers. Did Ilya have a preference?
When the alpha adjusted to sit up and take a nipple in her mouth, making a show of biting down, hard, Shane clutched his chest and scampered to the kitchen.
Thankfully, the kitchen was empty, giving Shane a moment to catch his breath, hands still pressed against his chest.
He couldn’t help but picture Ilya’s plush lips, how they’d lave at his chest, tugging playfully on Shane’s nipple, whining for milk.
Yes, Ilya would whine and croon and beg for a taste.
A grating laugh from the dining room jerked Shane back to reality, to the stunning kitchen marble countertop and embedded chairs.
Wine bottles were scattered across the marble, ranging from cheap university student brands to ones with big pink Omega Safe Caution Advised labels plastered across the glass—grape seeds found commonly in red wine, when consumed in large amounts, aggressively sped up ethanol absorption in omega stomachs.
Most places still refused service to omegas. No drinking unless supervised.
At dinner, when his mom and dad would top themselves off, his alpha always put a hand over Shane’s unfilled glass—is late already, Shane, do not need you losing sleep over bad Canadian wine.
Before he could think about Ilya and his rules, Shane grabbed a wine glass from the cabinet and poured.
He kept going until it reached the top, red liquid precariously spilling over the rim, then dipped down to sip. It was slightly fruity, like cherries and nectarines, followed by a bitterness that turned his stomach, but he gulped down a bit more, sending Ilya psychic messages saying am i being boring now, alpha?
On the other side of the kitchen island, the floor squeaked.
Shane froze.
Slowly coming around the other side of the countertop, he prepared himself to see another alpha with a half-blown knot or an already passed-out omega with red teeth to match his. Or a cat.
A cat would be good.
Sprawled along the clean floor, clutching a bottle of wine while mumbling something under his breath, Hayden waved at a wide-eyed Shane.
“Buddy! You made it,” hiccuped his friend, waving Shane closer with wild movements.
There were blotchy stains along the collar of his shirt, matching the smear of something along his denim covered knees. “Thought you—hic, weren’t gonna show, ya-know. Better things to do than hang around with me—hiccup!”
Hayden’s teeth were stained worse than Shane’s. He’d most likely been drinking for hours.
When Hayden tried, and failed, to take another glug, Shane smoothly took the bottle and reached up to place it out of sight.
“I think you’ve had enough of that for tonight. Let’s get some water in you. Try and sober you up a little,” Shane started to pull him to stand up, barely dodging a projectile of dark coloured vomit from Hayden’s mouth.
It smelled rancid, like alcohol and chips and munster cheese.
“She’s gonna be so mad at me, Shane, she’s gonna be soo-ooo pissed.” Tears ran down Hayden’s face, mixing with the pink-tinted spit on his chin. “Don’ wanna disappoint Jackie, Sha-yne.”
“She’s never going to find out about this.” Stepping over the gross puddle, Shane half-walked, half-dragged Hayden through the kitchen. “It’s alright, Hayd, everything’s fine,” he said, more to himself than to Hayden, not really knowing how to get someone sober.
Shane had never been to a party. This was his first and it was already going downhill.
He had to ignore a sharp pang of discomfort in his stomach. Probably the wine taking its toll.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
Hayden stiffened, then twisted against Shane’s front with a ferocity that almost scared him—if he weren’t into hockey with strong glutes and decent upper body strength, he might’ve caught an elbow to the chin.
His friend squirmed like an eel, wriggling against Shane.
“You don’ get it, Shane… Jackie doesn’ wan’ me,” blubbered Hayden, more tears streaming down his blotchy face. “Won’ even get me pregnan’, Shane, she won’t…” He clutched his flat stomach before retching on the carpet, again.
The words struck Shane upside the head, leaving him momentarily stunned.
Hayden wanted kids?
What about hockey?
Pregnant omegas were heavily restricted from sports, both leisure and competitive.
Once there was a clear positive ultrasound with proof of life, it was a done deal. Jackie would pull Hayden from the team, and once there was a baby, it was unlikely she’d let him join again.
Hayden wanted that… Shane shook his head and righted Hayden against his side, slowly walking them up the stairs.
Along the walls lining the staircase were more pictures of the happy couple; on their honeymoon in Bali, sipping cocktails on the beach with identical sunburns; at one of the junior omega league practices with a blurry Shane in the back flipping the bird; Jackie in front of the new house clutching Hayden at her side, both of them covered in sweat and dust, grinning ear to ear.
They’d been married for three years.
Most alphas got their mates pregnant within the first few months, and Jackie bonded with Hayden at eighteen.
So—why wasn’t Hayden pregnant?
Maybe later, when Hayden was sobered up, they could talk.
Once they were upstairs, Shane looked between the three bedrooms. One was slightly open, and he quickly turned Hayden away from it, knowing that the sight of a mostly deconstructed baby blue crib would only make things worse.
“Hayd, which is yours?”
Shane hefted his friend up and gestured to the other doors. “Eh? You remember, Hay?”
When Hayden lifted a droopy hand to the right, Shane wasted no time in dragging his friend across the threshold, sighing in relief at the immediate sight of a huge ottoman and the foot of an obnoxiously large bed. Except—
“Do you two fuckers mind? We’re busy here.”
The last time Shane saw Dallas Kent was on the field at graduation; Kent stood two heads taller than everyone else, brawnier than other alphas twice his age, more muscle packed into his biceps, known for picking fights and finishing them all before the lunch bell rang.
More than one omega said he never pulled out, that he preferred knotting and watching the cum dry.
He’d never said more than a grunt to Shane and less to Hayden, which made it all the more jarring to see Kent’s naked back on display, half-bent over what seemed to be a woman, probably an omega, pistoning his strong hips between her naked, glistening thighs.
Thin scratches covered Kent’s back, trails of blood sliding down his skin as he pressed his groin deeper with each thrust.
Beneath him, the girl moaned, loud.
On one hand, Shane really wanted to slink back to the hallway and find somewhere else to sober Hayden up and then send everyone away, air out the house, toss the evidence so that by Monday, the scent of vomit and wine would be long gone.
But on the other hand, an angry, spiteful little part of him wanted to be the one to send Dallas packing.
Pressed against Shane’s side, Hayden tried and failed to stand on his own. “You’re not my Jackie,” he slurred, pointing towards Kent’s muscular back. “Shane, tha’s not Jackie.”
Hayden let out a distressed bleep when Shane laid him across the ottoman at the foot of the bed, reaching for Shane and missing. “Don’ leave me, Shaaa-aaane.”
Kent kept his eyes on Shane, barely glancing at the girl beneath him. “Hollander,” he chuckled, almost smiling with a look only an asshole could perfect. “Long time no see. You look good. Still single?” His nose lifted to the air, eyes sharpening. “You taken?”
Shane’s face tightened. “This is Hayden’s room. Can you two go somewhere else? I need to sober him up.”
Kent’s face broke out into a wide-toothed grin. His thrusts sped up, green eyes still locked on Shane. Peacocking. “No, we’re good here. M’ almost done.” He licked his lips, then asked, “You free later? We can go for a round or two.”
“No.”
“Aw, you scared, Hollander? Probably never fucked a guy like me before, right? Don’t be scared, I’ll go slow.”
On the ottoman, Hayden spat up more wine.
“I don’t want to fuck you,” Shane spat the word fuck, “and I’m not asking again. Leave.”
He pointed to the open door. “Now. Just go.” Then softer. “Please.”
Later, when Shane would look back on this, he’d scream at himself to run, get out, leave!
For most of his life, Shane only interacted with two alphas, his mother and Ilya.
His mom moved slowly with measured steps around the house, announcing when she entered a room, quiet but present in Shane’s periphery, never wanting to lull him into anything except a sense of safety and security.
Ilya moved like a lion. Some called him lazy. Too lax.
Shane called it intentional.
Kent, however, moved like a bull.
“Holy shit!”
In the blink of an eye, arm reared back and fury etched across his face, Kent slammed his fist across Shane’s chin, the omega's teeth crunching on his tongue so hard that a burst of blood spilled down his chin.
A second punch hit Shane’s cheek, harder than the first, more blood sliding down his cupid's bow, pooling in his collarbone.
His vision came in waves—Shane’s blood was on Kent’s cheek and smeared across the fist clutching his shirt, staining the alpha in red—barely able to focus on much else but the pain radiating from the left half of his face. His tongue sluggishly pressed against each tooth.
They were all still intact, no cracks.
Thank god, his mom would kill him if he had to get veneers over broken teeth at twenty.
When Shane tried to speak, more blood slid down the back of his throat, tasting like the summer he convinced his mom that liver was the new cure to heart disease, blockage, and failure, suffering three dinners of boiled, pressure cooked and sauteed liver before calling it quits—earthy, irony, bloody.
“Stupid fuckin’ bitches, man. Every last one of you. But maybe, when I’m done with her,” a rough hand gripped Shane’s ass, Kent smiling against Shane’s bloody face, “We can have a little fun.”
Shane wanted to go home.
He wanted Ilya. “...‘lya,” Shane mumbled through a mouthful of blood, his body releasing plumes of thick omega fear.
Fingers ran through Shane’s sweaty locks and tugged his head forward, then quickly slammed his skull against the wall, pulling a weak cry from Shane’s empty lungs.
It was a pain worse than anything he’d gotten in hockey, where people wore knee-pads and helmets and there were rules and punishments when a player got too rough.
The back of Shane’s head felt ripped open, exposed, his brain pulsing against the stale open air lined with his terror and gore, matching the leaking cuts on his cheek and chin that pulsed with every breath he took, feeling both weightless and weighted down by a pair of unfamiliar hands.
“You still with me, Hollander?”
Shane coughed. “Ilya,” or at least, that’s what he thought he said—hoped he said.
Right before the rest of the night went to hell, turning into an event that the papers would be covering up over the span of two weeks, another scandal for teenagers to whisper about during passing period, Shane swore Dallas said something like I always thought you were one of the cuter ones—
Suddenly Shane could breathe again, sucking in lungfuls of air, in and out, one after the other, blinking out tears and sweat from his eyes.
It helped only a little, squinting towards where he’d placed Hayden and seeing something that looked like his friend still on the ottoman.
One the bed, the girl omega who’d been fucking Dallas, content to watch him pummel Shane, screamed.
Shane turned to the mess of bodies on the floor. Two of them, exactly, one younger with brown hair and small teeth and the other much bigger with huge fangs and sharp claws.
And blonde hair.
A halo of curls.
In the air, cigarette smoke.
Hayden called out Shane’s name, still by the edge of the bed, watching from the other side of the room with wide, frightened eyes. “Who the fuck is tha’?”
Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. It had to be Ilya. His alpha.
Questions flowed through Shane’s sloppy mind, asking how and why and how and why? Did mom tell you? Did they know? Are you mad? Can we go home?
Blonde hair, blood on the carpet, unrelenting fists moving fast and angry, turning Kent’s fast into a mural of broken canines and bruised cartilage. He’s going to kill him.
“Ilya,” Shane cried out.“Don’ kill em’, Ilya. You gotta stop, please, ‘lya…please…”
He crawled towards them, snot running down his chin while the sound of a mallet hitting wet meat echoed through the room.
Shane wanted to go home.
He wanted to be in his nest reading the ending of his book while sipping tea from a polka dotted mug Ilya had made in a pottery class—next time, we make together, Shane, one for us.
He wanted to remake the nest in his room and sleep in until noon. He wanted it to be Sunday, already, so Ilya could pick him up and decide where they went from here. Would Ilya even touch my face when I look like this?
Exhaustion hit him once he was close enough to see a mole dotted back looming over Dallas, who’d stopped moving altogether.
The air stank so bad Shane’s nose burned: singed leather and campfire smoke. Shane vaguely heard the people downstairs running and yelling things he couldn’t make out.
Good.
Less cleaning. Maybe there was still a chance Jackie wouldn’t know.
Except for all the blood. It would stain.
“Ilya.” Shane wasn’t sure if his lips made the correct sounds to say his alpha's name. “Ilya,” he repeated, maybe, sort of.
Too much blood in his mouth to tell. His tongue was numb.
His eyes burned.
Shane wept. “Home.”
Before he shut his eyes, succumbing to the exhaustion that was readily consuming him from head to toe, Shane hoped Ilya wasn’t thinking Shane Hollander is bad boy, but that, sadly, was unlikely.