Page 7

Chapter

Five

DARREN

T he rage burns like the surface of the fucking sun inside me, an inferno consuming every rational thought. I’m on my knees—on my fucking knees —because Jax barked an order at me. And my body just... obeyed. Like I’m some kind of pet.

No. No fucking way.

I stare at the droplets of blood marking the floor beneath me, watching them spread into tiny crimson pools. Each one a sobering reminder of what I’m losing with every second I stay in this goddamn hospital room.

My career. My identity. Everything I’ve fought for.

“Darren,” Jax says, his voice careful now, stripped of that commanding tone. “You need to stay calm.”

Calm? My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse. Behind my eyelids, fragmented memories surface. Medical staff hovering over me earlier, speaking in hushed tones.

“Hormone levels rising rapidly...”

“Late presentation, very unusual...”

“We’ll need to register his status change...”

I’d thought it was a dream, a concussion-induced hallucination. But the words circle back now with terrible clarity.

“Get away from me,” I growl, the sound barely human in my own ears.

None of them move. They’re all watching me like I’m a bomb about to detonate. And they’re right.

The scents… Gods, the scents . How did I never notice before?

Jax smells like bourbon, rich and warm. Dmitri’s scent is sharp, like winter air and pine.

Zayn’s leather scent curls around the edges of my awareness, more appealing than it has any fucking right to be considering how much I hate him.

If there was any logic to the world, he’d smell like hair gel and too much testosterone.

And Aidan smells like vanilla and sugar, like a fucking bakery, but the rookie’s scent makes my mouth water in a way even my favorite desserts never have and that’s the most disturbing part of all.

And all of it mixes with the woodsmoke they claim is coming from me.

So that wasn’t just a hallucination. At least, not one that’s going away anytime soon.

I guess I should count my blessings I don’t smell like a fucking rose.

“This can’t be happening,” I mutter, more to myself than them.

“It is happening,” Zayn says, because of course he can’t keep his fucking mouth shut. “And throwing a tantrum won’t change it.”

“You’re not helping right now,” Jax growls, always the leader. The peacemaker.

Usually, it’s not a job I envy him. Right now, his reasonable bullshit is pissing me off even more than Zayn is. Especially considering he’s the one who used his fucking bark.

On me .

Now that the hazy cloud the bark formed in my head has dissipated, leaving only cold realization in its wake, something snaps inside me.

I lunge from my knees, ignoring the way my vision swims and my head screams in protest. My shoulder connects with Jax’s midsection, driving him back against the wall with enough force to rattle the medical charts hanging there. His breath leaves him in a rush, eyes widening in surprise.

“Darren!” Aidan yelps somewhere behind me, but I’m locked onto Jax.

“Fight back,” I snarl, pinning him to the wall, forearm pressed against his chest. “Fucking fight back so I can knock your ass out!”

But Jax doesn’t. His gray eyes hold mine, calm and infuriatingly steady despite the situation. His hands come up, but only to stabilize himself, not to strike at me.

“I’m not going to fight you,” he says quietly.

The control in his voice makes my blood boil hotter. He’s treating me like I’m made of glass already. Like I’m some tiny little yappy dog that needs to be handled with care. A fucking omega.

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss, grabbing the front of his jersey. “Don’t you fucking dare start handling me with kid gloves.”

I draw back my fist and swing. Jax turns his head at the last moment, taking the blow on his cheek instead of his jaw. It’s a glancing hit, nowhere near what I’m capable of, but it splits his skin all the same. A trickle of blood appears at the corner of his mouth.

It’s not enough to provoke him. He still doesn’t fight back.

“Knock it off, Darren!” Zayn shouts, moving to intervene. Usually, he’s the one we’re pulling off of some asshole on the ice. Occasionally, that asshole is me.

I release Jax with one hand, pivoting to shove Zayn away. He stumbles back, surprise flashing across his features. The movement makes my head spin, but rage keeps me upright.

“Stay out of this,” I warn Zayn.

“Or what?” He steps closer, defiant as ever. “You’ll use your little omega whine on me?”

I swing at him next, a wild haymaker that connects with his shoulder as he tries to dodge. It’s far more satisfying than punching Jax. The impact sends pain shooting up my arm, a reminder that I’m injured, weak, and apparently about to shift into a whole new biology I never asked for.

Strong arms suddenly lock around me from behind. Dmitri, using his considerable size advantage to restrain me. I struggle against him, but it’s like fighting a brick wall.

“Let me go!” I thrash in his grip.

“ Nyet , my friend,” Dmitri’s voice rumbles against my back. “Not until you calm down.”

Aidan appears in front of me, hands raised placatingly, freckles standing out sharply against his pale skin. “Darren, please. The nurses will hear. They’ll sedate you.”

Sedate me. Like an animal. Is this what my life is going to be now? Restrained, medicated, handled?

“They wouldn’t dare,” I spit, but I stop struggling quite so hard. The mention of sedation conjures images of being even more powerless than I already feel, and that thought is unbearable.

My chest heaves with exertion, each breath sending stabs of pain through my skull. The room tilts and spins around me. Dark spots dance at the edges of my vision. I’m pushing myself too hard. The concussion combined with the adrenaline crash is taking its toll.

“That’s it,” Aidan says encouragingly. “Just breathe.”

I glare at him. “Don’t patronize me, rookie.”

I don’t want to hit him, but I’ll put the fucker in a headlock just to remind him of his place if I have to.

“I’m not,” he insists, those green eyes wide and earnest. “I’m trying to help.”

“Help? There’s no fucking help for this.” I laugh, the sound hollow and bitter. “What am I supposed to do now? Wait around for my first heat? Let the league push me into retirement? Become somebody’s?—“

I can’t even say the word. The thought of being claimed, marked, owned. It makes me want to vomit.

“You don’t know what will happen,” Aidan says softly. “Maybe, uh… maybe because it took so long for you to present, there’s a way to reverse it.”

I stare at him, wanting desperately to believe the kid’s words. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers. Maybe this is temporary, a fluke that can be fixed. But deep down, beneath the denial and the rage, I know better.

I’ve never heard of anyone un-presenting. This is my new reality. No unbaking the shit cake once it’s out of the oven.

“Let him go, Dmitri,” Jax says, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Dmitri hesitates. “You sure about that, Cap? He still seems to want to rearrange your face.”

“I know,” Jax meets my eyes steadily. “But restraining him isn’t helping.”

Slowly, Dmitri releases his hold. I step away immediately, putting distance between myself and all of them, backing up until I feel the edge of the hospital bed against my legs.

The room falls silent except for our collective breathing. I look at each of them in turn. My teammates, my pack. People I’ve trusted with my life on the ice for years. Now they’re looking at me like I’m a stranger.

Or worse, like I’m suddenly fragile.

And I didn’t miss the way they looked at me when they first caught my scent. Like I was the last fucking cupcake in the bakery window and they’d all been cutting for weeks.

Zayn’s dark eyes study me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. There’s a new element in his gaze, one I can’t name but instantly hate. It’s not quite pity, not quite curiosity, but equally unwelcome.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I snap at him.

Zayn doesn’t flinch. “Like what?”

“Like I’m different.” My voice cracks on the last word, betraying me.

“You are different,” he says bluntly.

I lunge forward again, but this time, it’s Aidan who steps between us. “He didn’t mean it like that,” the kid says quickly. “Right, Zayn?”

Zayn shrugs, which only fuels my anger. But I’m suddenly too exhausted to act on it. The adrenaline is fading, leaving me hollowed out and aching everywhere. My head throbs in time with my heartbeat. The blood from my arm has slowed to a lazy trickle, making my skin itch where it dries.

And the scents. Gods, they’re overwhelming now. Each of them distinct yet somehow harmonized, like they belong together. Like we belong together. The thought freaks me out in ways I can’t even begin to articulate.

“I want you all to leave,” I say, the words dropping into the tense silence like stones on a lake.

They exchange glances, a silent pack communication that, for the first time, leaves me feeling like an outsider. Even more than when I was just a beta.

“Darren,” Jax begins, “I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

“I don’t care what you think.” I sink onto the edge of the bed, suddenly too weak to keep standing. “Get out. All of you.”

None of them move. Jax’s eyes, those piercing gray eyes that can silence a locker room with a single look, fill with concern.

“N ow! ” I roar, the effort sending fresh pain lancing through my skull.

Aidan flinches. Dmitri’s massive frame tenses. Even Zayn looks taken aback by the force of my outburst.

“Okay,” Jax says calmly, holding up his hands like I’m a wild horse he’s trying to tame. “We’ll give you space. But we’re not going far.”

“Wherever you go, make it away from me,” I mutter, refusing to meet his eyes.

They file out slowly. Zayn first, then Aidan with a last worried glance over his shoulder. Dmitri follows last, his bulk making the room feel suddenly larger with his absence.

Jax lingers at the door. “This doesn’t change who you are to us,” he says quietly.

I laugh, the sound scraped raw from my throat. “It changes everything, and you know it.”

He doesn’t argue. After a moment, he steps into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him.

When I’m finally alone, I cover my face with my hands. My body shakes with emotions I can’t even name. Grief, maybe. Rage, definitely. Fear, undeniably. The bandage on my head feels too tight, the hospital gown thin and exposing.

I lift my head, catching my reflection in the darkened window across the room. Same stubbled jaw. Same blue eyes. Same short brown hair mussed from the game and the struggle. I still look like me. But according to everyone else, I’m not me anymore.

The scents linger even with them gone. Bourbon, winter, leather, vanilla. And underneath it all, woodsmoke. My scent. An omega’s scent.

I grab the nearest object, a glass water pitcher, and hurl it against the wall. It shatters satisfyingly, water splattering across the floor. But the brief relief fades almost instantly, leaving me emptier than before.

Twenty-seven years as a beta. Seven seasons in the NHL. Three All-Star selections. An identity built on being the toughest, most dependable defenseman in the league. All of it ripped away by one hit, one concussion, one biological twist of fate I never saw coming.

I curl forward, pressing my forehead against my knees, trying to block out everything. The scents, the memories, the terrible certainty that nothing will ever be the same again.

I’m an omega.

And there’s no coming back from this.