Page 132 of False Catch

"Same way we row," Bo says. "All eight, swing together."

"Plus one," Zane adds, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Our perfect nine."

I want to argue more. Want to tell them they're making a mistake, that I'm not worth this sacrifice. But surrounded by their warmth, their certainty, maybe their love, I can't bring myself to push them away.

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."

"Okay?" Gray pulls back enough to see my face. "You'll let us do this? Form the bonds?"

I look at him, this beautiful, stubborn Alpha who just said his parents could go to hell for me. Then at the others, each one ready to fight the world if necessary.

"Like you're giving me a choice," I say, but there's no heat in it.

"There's always a choice," Cameron says seriously. "This only works if you want it too."

"I want it," I admit, the words tearing from somewhere deep. "God help me, I want all of you."

"Then you have us," Gray says simply. "All of us."

"One month," I repeat, the timeline sitting heavy in my chest.

"One month," they echo.

We stand there in the empty conference room, holding each other like our lives depend on it. Maybe they do. One month to form eight bonds. One month to prove the impossible.

But looking at their faces, feeling their determination through the tentative pack bonds already forming, I think maybe, just maybe, we can pull this off.

We have to.

Because the alternative—going back to being alone, being less than what we are together—isn't an alternative at all.

It's unthinkable.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Reese

The water at Lake Hartwell is perfect. Glass smooth, no wind, the kind of conditions rowers dream about. We're in lane four, dead center, with Northridge to our left and Hampton Hills to our right.

"Hands on," I call through the cox box, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.

Eight pairs of hands grip oars. Eight bodies coiled with potential energy. My pack, ready to prove to everyone that what we have makes us stronger, not weaker.

"Sit ready."

They square their blades, bodies compressed forward. Gray in stroke seat, setting the rhythm. Bo behind him, our powerhouse. All the way down to Cameron in bow, each one exactly where they need to be.

The starting official raises his flag. My heart pounds, but my voice remains calm. This is what we were made for.

"Row!"

We explode off the line. Ten strokes at maximum pressure, bodies moving in perfect synchronization. The boat surges beneath us, that beautiful feeling when everything clicks.

"Settle in two... one... settle!"

We drop to race pace, thirty-six strokes per minute, sustainable but aggressive. Northridge jumps out to an early lead, but I'm not worried. We have two thousand meters to make our statement.

"Length on Hampton Hills," I report, watching the other crews in my peripheral vision. "Even with Northridge. You've got this, boys. Long and strong."