I do not need a long time to decide.
I walk deliberately to the exact center of the room.
“I spent five years letting other people decide what I was allowed to want.” I lock my spine straight. I hold my full height. I look directly at Nick. At Jude. At Rafe. “That ends right now. I choose this. I choose all of you. And if that terrifies you, you should have walked out the door last night.”
Nick moves first.
Two massive strides eliminate the distance between us. His large hands frame my face, and he kisses me hard. This is not the claiming kiss from the generator shed. This is harder. Deeper. His hot tongue pushes aggressively past my lips, claiming the entire space. His calloused thumbs press firmly into the hinge of my jaw, holding my head at the exact angle he demands.
The possessive ownership has expanded entirely. The Commander is kissing the woman he actively agreed to share,proving with his demanding mouth that sharing does absolutely not mean surrender.
Rafe moves silently behind me while Nick’s mouth is still bruising mine.
His massive, calloused hands settle firmly on my bare hips. The rough skin of his palms drags against the sensitive flesh directly below the flannel’s hem. A blistering wave of heat climbs straight up my spine. His hot mouth drops to the back of my neck. The top vertebra. Lower. The exact, sensitive curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
He communicates entirely in heavy pressure and precise placement. My hips push back against his thick, rigid thighs without any conscious permission from my brain.
Jude moves last.
Jude pushes off the counter, crossing the space to my right side with a surgeon’s economy of movement, and his heavily scarred hand comes up to tuck a loose curl gently behind my ear, fully exposing the long line of my throat to Nick’s descending mouth. The gesture is incredibly precise. Careful. It is a master surgeon prepping the field. His fingertips trail slowly down the side of my neck, find the frantic, jumping pulse at the base of my throat, and rest there.
Three massive men. Touching me simultaneously.
I am completely surrounded. I am not trapped.
The distinction is everything.
Rafe’s thick fingers find the top button of the borrowed flannel shirt. He unbuttons it from behind. Agonizingly slow. Each small plastic button is a deliberate, calculated action. His hotmouth follows the newly exposed strip of skin straight down my spine, sealing each new inch with a wet, heavy kiss. He is not rushed. He is reverent. He is carefully unwrapping something he has waited to see in this highly specific context.
Not alone. Not stolen in a dark hallway.
Witnessed. Chosen.
Nick watches every single second, his breathing turning into a jagged, rhythmic growl. His dark, dominant eyes track every inch of skin Rafe reveals, his gaze heavy and possessive, as if he’s mentally branding the territory Rafe is uncovering.
When the flannel finally slides off my shoulders, Nick’s grip on my jaw tightens, his thumb pressing hard into my lower lip to keep it parted. He isn’t just watching me; he’s watching Rafe’s calloused fingers work against my body, his pupils blowing wide with a dark, secondary arousal. The sight of another Alpha’s hands on his woman doesn’t diminish his drive—it makes his cock strain violently against his tactical pants, turning his territorial instinct into something sharper, darker, and entirely shared.
But underneath the heavy, coiled tension, there is zero rage.
There is relief. Pure, visible, and profound.
The moment fully registers: he braced his entire body for crushing jealousy, and it simply did not come. What arrived instead is the massive release of a crushing weight he has been carrying alone since the generator shed. The immense weight of being my only protector. My only anchor. He does not have to carry my safety alone anymore. Rafe’s heavy hands on my hips are not a theft. They are heavily armed reinforcement.
Nick’s broad shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. The Commander, finally exhaling.
The flannel shirt falls completely away, hitting the floorboards with a soft thud. Rafe presses his open mouth flat against the direct center of my bare back. One full, unhurried, blistering press against my spine.
A permanent seal.
Jude takes both of my trembling hands, his scarred fingers locking with mine. He doesn’t pull; he directs. He begins to walk me slowly backward toward the heavy wooden bedframe, and the other two move with us like a single, lethal organism.
Nick doesn’t release my jaw. He stalks forward, his dark eyes never leaving mine, his massive frame a wall of heat in front of me. Behind me, Rafe keeps his hands clamped to my hips, his chest pressed to my bare back, his boots heavy and rhythmic against the floorboards. I am encased in them—a moving fortress of muscle and intent.
When my knees hit the mattress, they don’t just let me fall. Jude maintains the tension in my arms, guiding my descent, while Rafe’s hands slide from my hips to my outer thighs, easing me down until the rough wool blanket scratches against my bare shoulder blades. The fire crackles loudly in the corner stove, the thick scent of pine smoke and the warm amber light turning the entire room into pure gold.
Three massive, lethal men looking down at me. Three entirely different kinds of starving hunger. Three distinct, unbreakable promises.
Nick stands at the head of the bed.You are mine. I will prove it while they watch.