Page 46 of The Last Great Omegaverse

Something breaks open in his face, thirty years of distance finally, completely undone, and he pulls me in against his chest like he’s the one who needs holding now, not the other way around.

We stay locked until the last knot softens. When Cal finally slips free I’m a mess of slick and cum and four distinct claiming marks, body heavy and satisfied and still humming with residual heat. They don’t leave me alone for a second. Silas carries me to the big bed upstairs while the others follow with water and soft cloths and clean sheets. They clean me gently, thoroughly, every touch careful of the new marks and the oversensitive places between my thighs.

Then they climb in around me. Cal at my back, Coop at my front, Asher and Silas settling on either side so that no part of me is left untouched. Hands stroke idle patterns over my skin. Soft kisses land on the fresh bonds. The room smells like sex and pack and the deep, satisfied musk of four Alphas who have claimed their Omega completely.

I drift in the middle of them, body sore in the best possible way, the four new bonds pulsing gently in time with my heartbeat. Heat still simmers under my skin, but the sharp edge of it has been banked into something tender, steadier.

I am full. Claimed. Chosen.

And for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I have finally, fully, come home.

We’re a tangle of limbs across a bed clearly not built for five, someone’s arm thrown over my waist, someone’s mouth pressed lazy and content against my shoulder, the whole room gone warm and quiet and thoroughly wrecked in the best possible way.

Chapter 20

Wren

0 Days To Go

I wake up, as I seem to do every day now, tangled in more limbs than I know what to do with, sunlight streaming in through the window. It takes me a long, tender moment to remember I’m not supposed to panic about that anymore.

It’s been a week since the night I was claimed and we’ve barely left the farm since. Every day it has been the same routine, we all do the farm work and then crawl into bed together. I’ve never had this much sex before and I’m definitely not complaining about it. Being loved, adored, and worshipped by four incredibly hot Alphas is a fever dream.

“You’re smiling,” Silas says, voice rough with sleep, one arm still slung heavy over my waist. “Feels like an occasion.”

“It’s Festival Day. I’m allowed to smile.”

“That’s not the smile of a woman thinking about pumpkins.”

“Maybe it’s a little bit about the pumpkins.” I catch sight of myself in the small mirror propped on my dresser as I sit up, and pause for a second at what I find there. Four marks, distinct and now healed, ringed soft along the curve of my neck and shoulder, each one slightly different. I love seeing them.

“They’re really there,” I say, mostly to myself, fingers brushing over the marks, feeling the warmth still humming faintly under each one.

“Regretting it?” Cal asks, from the doorway, already dressed, watching me with an edge of real uncertainty in it that surprises me even now.

“Not even slightly.” I catch his eye in the mirror and hold it. “I car hardly believe they’re real.”

“Real as anything,” Coop says, stretching from the far side of the bed, grinning at the sight of all four marks like he’s personally proud of his contribution. “Also, extremely visible. You planning on wearing a scarf today, or are we just letting the whole town see exactly what happened last week?”

“I’m not hiding it.”

“Good answer.”

Getting five people ready and out the door in under an hour turns out to be its own small chaos, Asher stealing the good mirror, Silas hunting for a shirt, Cal quietly, efficiently packing a cooler of cider like the most organized member of a household that otherwise runs on pure chaos. By the time we finally load into two trucks and head for town, I’m laughing too hard to be nervous about anything waiting for us there.

Hollow Creek’s town square has transformed completely overnight.

Hay bales are stacked into makeshift seating that line the perimeter, strung through with fairy lights that’ll glow properly once the sun goes down tonight. Booths crowd every available inch of space, cider pressing demonstrations, a pie contest with a judging table already crowded three deep, a corn maze cut into the field behind the town hall, kids running wild with faces painted like foxes and pumpkins, the whole square smelling like cinnamon and woodsmoke and roasting corn thick enough to taste.

Linda Pruitt spots me before I’ve even parked, clipboard in hand as always, though today she’s traded the cardigan for a flannel that suggests she’s fully prepared to get her hands dirty. “Ms. Calloway,” she says, and then, catching sight of the marks along my neck, her whole face softens into something unguardedly delighted. “Well. Look at that. Town’s going to have plenty to talk about besides pumpkins this year.”

“Try to keep the gossip charitable.”

“Around here? Never a guarantee. But I suspect this gossip’s going to run feverish.” She checks something off her clipboard. “Your delivery’s already been logged. Full quota, on time—and I hear the co-op numbers came in even better than the festival’s own requirement. Warren’s here somewhere, I think he’d like to speak with you.”

I find Warren Whitfield near the town hall steps, briefcase in hand, and out of place at the festivities. He greets me with something close to actual warmth for the first time since I met him. “Ms. Calloway. I’m delighted to report the farm’s met every condition of the will. The reversion clause is void, effective today. Calloway Farm is yours, free and clear, no further stipulations attached.”

“Thank you. For everything. The patience, the paperwork, all of it.”