Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Underage Sex

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Tante Olga

Additional Tags:

Alpha Shane Hollander, Omega Ilya Rozanov, Not Canon Compliant, Omegaverse, Nontraditional Omegaverse, D/s undertones, accidental teenager acquisition, Implied Child Abuse, Good Parent Yuna Hollander, Good Parent David Hollander, POV Multiple, Canon-Typical Injuries, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Bonding, oblivious idiots in love, Autistic Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov Gets A Hug, Protective Yuna Hollander, Eventual Happy Ending, Otttawa, Ilya has enough baggage to fill a U-Haul, Canadian-born Yuna Hollander, Japanese ancestry Yuna Hollander, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Everybody needs a Tante Olga, to be clear Ilya is the accidentally acquired teenager, Sprinkled with 90s style romance vibes, Angst with a Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-28 Completed: 2026-01-04 Words: 19,716 Chapters: 8/8

blood will tell

Summary

”Rozanov looks good in Russia, sure, but here? I don’t know if he’ll hold up.”

Shane wasn’t supposed to be listening. At sixteen, a decade into competition hockey, this was his first time at the Saskatchewan arena and he’d taken the wrong turn in the long, echoing corridors. The conference room door was shut, but there was a crack at the bottom and the words spilled out into the hallway, bouncing off the cheap vinyl tiles. He tried to breathe quietly, desperate for news about his opponent. There was only one other player near Shane’s level, and he’d come all the way from Russia.

“The rumors—”

The voice trailed off. Someone cleared their throat.

Heart beating double-time, Shane felt for his scent blockers. One firm cuff around each wrist, pads on either side of his neck. The underwear everyone wore, basic manners. Too many alphas in a small enough space could—had—led to fights in the locker room. Always, Shane had to set a good example. Had to be better, so he could play.

“I don’t believe it.” A chair creaked. “No fuckin’ omega plays like Rozanov.”

Notes

Heated Rivalry has been at least 20% of my brain since the first two episodes dropped. This is probably going to be a longer fic, and I hope to post on a regular basis.

Feel free to skip the rest of the notes! TL;DR: this is a work of fiction

Up front: I am bringing some inspiration from a mix of true events, some of which happened to me. Like Yuna in this story, I have raised other people's children. I can promise lush descriptions, complicated relationships with parents, and people making questionable decisions.

Why is this an omegaverse? ̄\_(ツ)_/ ̄ It came up in a server and I thought it was interesting. I tend to think of omegaverse from a disability perspective, and this offers many possibilities, plot wise.

nota bene: I am not Japanese, Canadian, or Russian, but I am doing my best to be respectful of all of those identities.

In this story, Shane's ethnicity matters. Anyone that good at hockey is smart and capable, and I choose to believe that Yuna would instill pride in her son about their shared heritage. I have many thoughts about raising children who are part of the larger culture and yet not entirely able to blend, so here we are.

Chapter 1

2008

”Rozanov looks good in the KHL, sure, but here? I don’t know if he’ll hold up.”

Shane wasn’t supposed to be listening. At sixteen, a decade into competition hockey, this was his first time at the Saskatchewan arena and he’d taken the wrong turn in the long, echoing corridors. The conference room door was shut, but there was a crack at the bottom and the words spilled out into the hallway, bouncing off the cheap vinyl tiles. He tried to breathe quietly, desperate for news about his opponent. There was only one other player near Shane’s level, and he’d come all the way from Russia.

“The rumors—”

The voice trailed off. Someone cleared their throat.

Heart beating double-time, Shane felt for his scent blockers. One firm cuff around each wrist, pads on either side of his neck. The underwear everyone wore, basic manners. Too many alphas in a small enough space could—had—led to fights in the locker room. Always, Shane had to set a good example. Had to be better, so he could play.

“I don’t believe it.” A chair creaked. “No fuckin’ omega plays like Rozanov.”

Quiet as a mouse, Shane crept away, back down the hall. He didn’t believe it either. Omegas couldn’t handle the pressure at this level.

A few days later, Shane slipped away from his mom.

“I think there’s a team meeting.”

”Are you sure honey? It’s not on the schedule.”

”I should check, just in case.”

The day before, he’d run laps around the arena and seen a flash of red gold curls around back, by the loading docks and quickly understood who was there. Because Shane paid attention—he wasn’t being creepy—to Rozanov. To his competition.

Today, Shane found Rozanov cupping a cigarette in his hands, the click of the lighter loud against the blank wall. Shane tried to be polite, to use the manners sunk into him as thoroughly as a toddler’s passing drill. He introduced himself, shook Hollander’s hand, and found himself staring. Rozanov wasn’t delicate, or soft. He was as tall as Shane, his hand as callused as Shane’s, and his shoulders broader than Shane’s. Rozanov might have had a little weight on Shane.

The red gold curls poking out from a dark blue toque did surprise Shane. On his team, anyone that showed up with hair long enough to curl around Shane’s fingers would have been teased mercilessly. Maybe Russia was different.

Later that week, Rozanov—the Russian team, but really, it was Rozanov—won the World Juniors. When Shane shook his hand at the middle of the ice, Shane was too furious about his loss to think about whether Rozanov was an alpha. This was fucking Canada, and the Russian had stolen Shane’s spotlight.

Six months later, Rozanov had won the draft competition too. There were perhaps a dozen players in the world as good as Shane, and of those, only Rozanov had been drafted by the NHL in the same year as Shane. Rozanov could have stayed in the Superleague, but no, he’d had to come here and take Shane’s place as the number one draft of their year.

Standing on the podium in the uncomfortable suit, Shane had forced himself to smile into the blinding light of the cameras and ignore the warmth of Rozanov’s shoulder against his. Rozanov’s hair was cut short now and the fucker had grown at least another inch, but so had Shane. They were not that different.

All the rest of the day, Rozanov kept staring at him. They were under inspection by their new teams’ owners and Rozanov looked like he was enjoying it as much as Shane was, which was not at all. Rozanov threw back the wine like it was water, while Shane nursed his ginger ale. He’d learned the hard way that drinking more than a glass of wine made him uncomfortable, with a headache, a red face, and the reflexes of a drunk.

While the team owner chatted with his parents, Shane ran a bingo card in his head. Breaking barriers, check. Asian Canadian mention, check. We’re all fine with it comment, check. As if being half-white was a flaw they were overlooking. Winning, thought Shane, when he got a line on his imaginary bingo card. His mom smiled and changed the topic, so Shane smiled too.

He just wanted to play hockey.

That night, Shane couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the hotel room. Traveling for hockey meant he’d been in tons of hotel rooms. This was a nice one because the sheets didn’t stink of strange alphas, the mattress was soft, and the pillows were fluffy. About an hour before, the traffic in the hallways had settled down. His parents were across the hall and Shane was sure they were asleep.

Well, almost sure. They wouldn’t mind him leaving his room as long as he stayed in the hotel. Shane had seen a gym on the main floor, tucked past the registration desk. It was late enough that the journalists would mostly be gone, so he felt safe in venturing out in just some workout gear. Matching socks, a long-sleeve shirt to cover his scent-blocking cuffs and neck pads, his favorite sneakers.

In the hotel gym, Shane felt clumsy, as if he might hurt himself if he pushed too hard. The room was small and the lights bright, but the door closed solid behind him and Shane knew what to do in a room like this. The handful of equipment was familiar, and the mirrored wall showed only Shane. It was quiet enough that Shane could hear his shoes scuffing on the battered carpet.

Instead of weights, Shane settled on the stationary bicycle and let his head drop, running through the day. He thought he’d said all the right things and smiled at the right times. His parents had been pleased at the recognition Shane had earned. But Shane’s heart squeezed, knowing how much they’d sacrificed. When Shane had chosen a major junior team over college, his grandfather had been so angry he’d stopped speaking to his mother. It was Shane’s fault, and the only way he could fix it was by being so good his grandfather would forgive his mother.

Eyes closed, Shane felt more than heard the bicycle next to him. Straightening, Shane glanced over to see Ilya fucking Rozanov pedaling next to him, arms bared to the world. Asshole. This was a competition Shane would win. Petty as it was, the thought gave him satisfaction. He upped the resistance on the bike, just slightly more than Rozanov’s level.

With a sly glance, Rozanov pedaled faster, and Shane had to meet the challenge. Over and over, they went faster and harder until suddenly they were both laughing, the sound loud over the bicycles. Gaudy cross on display, Rozanov put his hands up, as if to say, “Enough!” Shane didn’t know why he was laughing and he didn’t care. Shane hadn’t won, but he hadn’t lost, either.

Something about Rozanov’s laugh, the rough tones of amusement, soothed Shane. Rozanov wasn’t laughing at Shane. Instead, Rozanov had ended their race by inviting Shane to a shared, wordless joke. The whole thing was strange in a good way. When Shane had been young and playing in tournaments like this, he’d taken off his jersey between games and hid from what had felt like an endless series of angry, sharp words. Now, he felt like Rozanov was hiding with him.

Shane’s legs felt like jelly, so he slid off the bike and stumbled to the floor, ending up in a corner made by the free weight rack and the mirror. To Shane’s surprise, Rozanov followed him, still grinning. They were both sweaty as hell, and Rozanov’s bare arms glistened under the lights, his curly hair damp with sweat. Shane’s own long-sleeve shirt was soaked.

Trying to ignore Rozanov showing off with his water bottle, Shane took a long inhale and frowned at the sweetish overtones. “Their air filtration sucks. Smells like omega in here.”

Rozanov paused, eyes narrowed in amusement. Shane wasn’t in on the joke.

“What?”

“There must be omega here,” said Rozanov, his accent distinct to Shane’s ears. He only looked more amused at Shane’s confusion.

The hotel was busy. Rozanov was probably right—an omega had used the gym before them. “Yeah, maybe.”

Taking another sip of water, Rozanov watched Shane and Shane wasn’t sleepy. His chest felt tight and there was a spark under his skin, like before a game. Shane couldn’t take his eyes off Rozanov. He seemed so big and strong. Could Rozanov slam him into the boards? If Shane was too slow, he deserved it.

Tipping the cheap plastic bottle at Shane, Rozanov offered him some water.

Caught staring, heat flooded Shane’s face again. It was worse than the flush on his skin from working out. Shane knew better. He tried not to stare, tried not to look too hard. People hated it when they caught him watching. He should have brought a book. No, some earbuds, so he could have ignored all of this. Heat pooled in Shane’s belly. Maybe he’d eaten something bad at the fancy dinner.

Insistent now, Rozanov caught Shane with his eyes, smiled reassuringly, and pushed the water at him. Now it would be a big deal if Shane didn’t take the water. Fuck.

Heart pounding in his ears, Shane reached for the bottle. Rozanov didn’t toss it at him, like Shane had expected. Instead he reached forward and handed it over slowly, fingers touching Shane’s and leaving a trace of fire on his skin. The omega scent filled Shane’s nose, a cold mineral scent, like fresh snow on a pond, sharpened like hinoki and softened with something warm, like the spice in hot apple cider.

Thirsty now, Shane took a drink of water. He looked at Rozanov, waiting. Enough?

Waving his hand, Rozanov whispered, “More.”

At the back of Shane’s brain, something relaxed. He hadn’t even known it was there. He didn’t know what it was. Just that he felt quiet, and soft. Shane liked it. He took another drink, and noticed that there was a dark spot on the ceiling tile.

Rozanov was watching Shane and it didn’t feel bad. That… that was weird. Shane still had Rozanov’s water bottle, so he handed it back. Rozanov kept watching as he put his mouth where Shane’s had been and that should have been gross. It wasn’t. Shane hummed in confusion and Rozanov never stopped watching him. Those eyes followed Shane all the way out of the gym.

Chapter 2

2009

“Shane?”

Shane dumped his bag by the stairs in the garage and opened the door to the main part of his parent’s house. The International Prospect was in Ottawa this year, and Shane was looking forward to Christmas. Shane had wanted to play on a major junior team, had wanted to develop his hockey skills—but it was still hard. There were different rules, different food, and an intensive schedule. Spending forty hours a week on hockey was good, but anything less than an A on schoolwork was unacceptable to his mom. At least he didn’t have to worry about school during break.

“Here!”

Shane went down the hall, looking for his mom. She came to meet him and it would never not be shocking that she was small, now. In the last couple of years, he’d grown much taller than she was, and now he was uncomfortably aware that she was delicate compared to the bodies he shoved around on the ice. She still smelled the same, though, iron and fire and camomile. Shane knew that some people thought all omega scents should be sweet, but his mom was not sweet. Kind and generous, maybe, but not sweet.

“Hi, mom.” After a long hug, Shane pulled back. Her hair had more silver in it than the last time he’d noticed, but her eyes were sharp as ever. And worried.

She stepped back and frowned. “We need to talk.”

Tall and rumpled, Shane’s dad came into view, leaning out of his study door. “In here.”

The sofa in his dad’s office was oversized, with green fabric that was rough under his hands. After all these years, the fabric was imbued with his father’s scent, fresh red oak and cool blue shale overlaid with the rich, almost sweet scent of hard apple cider. Shane didn’t have to worry about getting the lumpy sofa dirty or damaging it—it was older than he was. Sinking gratefully into the cushions, Shane prepared to listen, pushing down the ache in his stomach. Whatever it was, his parents were serious about it.

“Shane, you know that players in the tournament are randomly selected for blood tests?”

He knew. “I haven’t taken anything—”

“No. Not you.” His mom sat beside him and took his hand. “You know better.”

Clearing his throat, his dad shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s, uh. Well. They do a lot of routine tests. And there were some surprises.”

“What your dad is trying to say is that the IIHF tests for a wide range of things. Including your secondary gender.” His mom was speaking fast, with urgency in every syllable. “One of the players turned out to be an omega. And from Russia.”

Shane sucked in a breath but she kept talking.

“When the results were. Well, not made public.” Her mouth twisting, his mom continued, “They called us.”

Of course they called his mom. Yuna Hollander ran parent groups like good coaches ran teams—with a firm hand, a tight schedule, and no mercy for slackers. Everybody did their part.

“Shane, you know we love you,” said his dad, and there were the fine wrinkles around his eyes that meant his dad was trying really hard to stay calm. “It’s just that, well, this player, he can’t go back to Russia. Not now.”

Shane blinked. “Uh.”

“He can’t play hockey in Russia,” whispered his mom, fierce and angry. “They don’t let boys who are omegas play there. It’s illegal for them to exist.”

“The Russian coach might have known, apparently, but now that the Canadians know...” Shane’s dad didn’t get angry very often. The air in the room seemed heavy, pressing down on Shane’s chest. “After the tournament, he can’t go home. His family, they–”

“They don’t want him!” His mom stood and whirled away, hands in the air. “A player like that and just because he’s an omega, they want to pretend he doesn’t exist.”

His parents’ twinned frustration made sense to Shane. If there was anybody who loved hockey as much as Shane did, it was his mom. She had given him his first skates, hired private coaches, and found him solo rink time. He owed her so much. And his dad volunteered every month as an advocate for abused and neglected crown wards at the children's aid society.

“Shane, your mom and I, we decided to. Well. Keep him.” His dad looked away, at the landscape painting on the wall. It was of the view from their summer cottage. “He’ll be a legal adult in six months and he can do whatever he wants then, but he needs a place to stay now. It’ll be like a billet.”

A billet was a paid host for major junior hockey players. For a monthly payment from the major junior organization, they provided three meals a day, and a bed, a closet or dresser, and access to a restroom. Shane’s mom had never hosted a player—she’d always had Shane, and Shane was playing for the local major junior team. He’d never needed to live in someone else’s home to play hockey.

“Rozanov?” asked Shane, just to be clear.

His parents went silent, carrying on a conversation with a series of raised eyebrows and open hands. “Yes, Rozanov. How did you know?”

“I might have heard something I wasn’t supposed to,” said Shane, swallowing down acid. “Last year, in Saskatchewan."

“Розанов довыёбывался!” exclaimed Ilya’s coach. The rest of his team, scattered on the benches around the locker room, stiffened as his coach explained in graphic detail exactly how hard they would need to work to make up for Ilya’s many, many failures. Ilya was not used to this shame. In the locker room, he was loved, because he knew how to win.

But even here, his coach did not speak of exactly how Ilya had failed. For winning hockey games, Ilya mattered, and so his secret could not become common knowledge. If it came out that his father had known, and not turned him in—well, Ilya would not be the only one going to jail. So Ilya kept his mouth shut as his stomach turned and he picked at the wrist cuffs under his jersey.

Later, during practice, Sergei whispered, “Blood tests.”

Ilya flicked a glance at their coach, talking to the Canadian administrators. His face was stone, but Ilya could see the tension in the way their coach held himself. Ilya could not let his secret pass out of his mouth, but he passed the puck to Sergei, who nodded slightly and skated off. Sergei understood.

Up in the stands, Hollander was watching. Dark-eyed and dark-haired and almost as quick as Ilya on the ice, and Ilya had not thought about the way Hollander’s throat had flexed that evening in the gym. Ilya had refused to let himself think about the way Hollander had waited for his order, hungry to follow Ilya’s commands. As the saying went, ‘If there was a neck, a collar would be found.’

Instead, Ilya focused on the anger. That was comfortable and familiar. Hollander’s mother was in the empty stands, slender and dark as Hollander with silver streaks gleaming in her hair. Hollander probably didn’t even appreciate how lucky he was.

After practice, the coach snarled, “In my office.”

Dread settling like cold lead in his chest, Ilya nodded. The visiting team’s locker room was cold, and Ilya put on a hoodie before grabbing his bag and following orders.

To Ilya’s surprise, the coach wasn’t in his office, but Hollander’s mother was. She was somehow shorter than he expected, and smaller, and older. And darker. And then Ilya realized that he was thinking of his own mama and he took that thought, locked it in a box, and put it in the corner of a mental basement. Hollander’s mother smelled like metal and fire and herbs, and that odd combination of scents was somehow correct, as if she was stronger than she looked.

Ilya braced for the hit. Shoulders back, chin up, eyes down. No son of Grigori Alexandrovich flinched. To do so invited a punishment worse than the original blow.

For a long moment, she studied him, eyes bright and curious as a bird’s. A жар-пти́ца, a fire-bird, like in the stories his own mama had read to him. Then Hollander’s mother said, with the emphasis on the wrong syllables, “Ilya Rozanov.”

“Yes.” Agreement was safe.

Still watching him, she added, “I’m Yuna Hollander, Shane’s mom.”

“Yes.” He had seen her with a proprietary hand on Shane’s shoulder.

Brisk now, she said, “You don’t know why I’m here.”

“Coach say office. I go to office.” Ilya knew how to follow orders.

Hollander’s mother closed her eyes for a second, rubbed gently at the wrinkle between her eyebrows, and took a deep breath before pointing at one of the hard, uncomfortable plastic chairs in front of the coach’s desk. “OK. Ilya, sit down.”

Ilya sat, and much to his surprise, she did too. This close, Ilya could almost feel the heat of her intensity. This was where Hollander got it from.

“I know, Ilya.” She mimed pulling blood from a vein in the crook of her elbow and Ilya felt like he’d taken a high stick. “It’s not public, but my husband and I know. We know you won’t want to go back.”

There it was, the black yawning pit that Ilya had pushed to the edge of his consciousness. Now that the IIHF knew, there was no way the Superleague could pretend not to know. Or his father. When Ilya finished the tournament, his father would no longer have a younger son, a son that looked like his first wife. Every morning since they’d taken his blood, Ilya had awoken knowing that this was one of the few days remaining to him.

“No.” Ilya swallowed hard. “Russia is home.”

Hollander’s mother blinked. “Don’t you want to play hockey?”

“Yes, of course.” Ilya desperately wanted a cigarette. “Not, not—”

He groped for the English words. “I am Russian. ‘Want to go home’ is not choice.”

Fierce now, she leaned forward and put a hand on his knee, heedless of the fact that he was strong enough to hurt her. “I am giving you a choice, Ilya. Billet at my home. Play with Shane.”

Ilya didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. This was not real. This tiny fire-bird mama was not real, staying in Canada was not real. None of this was real. She tightened her grip and the fire and metal and herbs filled the room. Between the pain in his knee and the scent in his nose, Ilya conceded that perhaps he was wrong.

“OK.”

Chapter 3

Eleven days later, Ilya panted for breath as he skated across the center ice, shaking hands and listening to the chorus of, “Good game. Good game. Good game.”

Then Hollander was next and he said, “See you later.”

That was when Ilya admitted to himself that this was happening. He had lost the game. His coach and his team were boarding the plane back to Moscow tonight and Ilya was not. He was never going back to Moscow again. He would never see his father again. His father would never again tell him to stop being lazy, to win gold. His brother would never take him drinking and complain about his work and ask for a loan. He would never see his mama’s grave again.

By the last day of the International Prospect, Ilya’s father had disconnected Ilya’s phone service and closed his bank accounts. Even on the ice, his team had ignored him, playing around him instead of with him. Ilya’s passport was the only thing he had that proved that Rozanov Ilya Grigorievich existed. Afraid that someone would take that too, Ilya had hidden it before the game.

In the locker room, no one would meet Ilya’s eyes. It was as if he was already a ghost. Already like his mama. Ilya lingered over undressing, so he was the last one in the showers. When he came back, everyone else was gone, and he was alone. Slowly, Ilya dressed, shivering in the cold room. When he went left, it would be real. He would be alone in Canada.

Just outside the door, Hollander’s mama stood with a serious face and a clipboard. Next to her was an older man, reading a book. Hollander was not there. He had won the game and was probably out celebrating with his team.

“Hi. I’m David.” That was Hollander’s father, with greying hair and a scent like autumn woods.

Or so Ilya imagined. He knew only cities.

As old as he was, the man was still powerfully built, and Ilya half-expected him to crush Ilya’s hand as they shook. Instead, David smiled and said, “You must be starving, after a game like that. Let’s get you back to the house.”

Before Ilya quite understood what had happened, the Hollanders had bundled him into the car. Yuna uncapped a waiting thermos of hot, sweet tea and poured him a cup. David turned on the radio and it wasn’t the post-game recap, but the BBC world news. Heat came pouring out of the vents and Ilya was warm inside and out. Everything was strange and luxurious and Ilya kept waiting for the hook inside the bait.

At the house, Yuna pointed him to a door. “This is yours. The bathroom is across the hall. I’ll let you settle in while David finishes dinner.”

Before he could say anything, Yuna hurried down the hall to the kitchen, where a pot clanged. Ilya was alone in Shane Hollander’s house with Shane Hollander’s parents and this was not something he knew how to do. Swallowing down the rock in his throat, Ilya pushed open the door.

Inside was a plain bedroom, with a bed as big as the one in the hotel room. The bed had a blue blanket and white sheets and at least a half-dozen pillows. The walls were a deep green, like a forest, and on one side were two windows, covered by long heavy curtains. On either side of the bed, small metal lamps threw gold circles of light into the room. Someone had aggressively applied scent neutralizer, so the room was empty in Ilya’s nose.

There was another door on the other side of the room and Ilya opened it to find a small closet with bare wire hangers for shirts that Ilya had left in Moscow. He had only packed a few clothes for this trip. He hadn’t needed more because he had spent most of his time on the ice.

Ilya dumped his bag of dirty clothes in the closet and sat on the side of the bed for a long time. He did not cry. Or rage against the unfairness of it all. Or weep for his homeland. He waited, because he had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go and no one to speak to. This was the end and Ilya felt scraped out, as though he were a shell over everything that had made him.

When Yuna came to fetch him, Ilya was honestly surprised. As he followed her, he saw that the rest of the house was the same as the bedroom, almost austere in its simplicity. But the rooms were filled with warm light shining on glossy wood floors, and soft, rich fabrics, and quiet music that Ilya did not know. Ilya could see through the entrance to the dining room, and the dining table was covered with heaping plates of food. Ilya recognized basmati rice, naan, and an enormous dish of dal, red-gold under the light. A small bowl of raita was placed next to a big bowl of kachumber salad.

At the entrance to the dining room, Ilya almost tripped over his own feet.

Out of sight from the hall, Shane Hollander sat at one of the chairs, straight backed and clearly nervous. His hair was still damp and he smelled like he had in the hotel gym. The metal of newly sharpened skates, the warm spices of mulled wine, and something immovable that Ilya now recognized as solid stone. Ilya took a long inhale, drawing Hollander into his body.

Gleaming under the light, Hollander tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Rozanov.”

“Hollander.” Ilya put a grin on his face. “Exciting night! Here with me!”

Yuna made a short, sharp huff of laughter and said, “You can sit next to Shane. I’ll be right back.”

That left the two of them alone in the room. Hollander looked down, straightening the silverware beside his plate.

“I am sorry,” added Ilya. His chest hurt and he told himself it was from the slam against the boards in the last period. “You should be with team. Win big game.”

As his capable hands folded and refolded his napkin, Hollander shook his head. “It’s fine. I don’t really drink, anyway.”

“Boring,” pronounced Ilya. Following directions like a good boy, Ilya sat next to Hollander. This close, the heat of Hollander’s thigh burned against Ilya. “Napkin is folded OK, I think.”

“Yeah,” whispered Hollander, and stopped folding.

That was interesting, thought Ilya. So easy, this one. In that moment, Ilya felt a swell of emotion rise up in him, unfamiliar and hot. Yuna and David should take more care with their son. He was—what was the English saying?—”easy pickings” for someone like Ilya.

Ilya had no illusions about what he was. Unnatural. Wrong. Deviant. A mistake. All true. Worse, Ilya enjoyed it when someone shuddered under his hands, begging. Shane Hollander, so soft, so pretty, would suffer beautifully, even if he was an alpha. Ilya was a terrible person and a worse omega, and Yuna and David had invited him into their house, put him next to their son, and then walked away. His own father would never be so foolish. Ilya knew his place.

Blyat. Hollander was picking at his neatly trimmed nails and now one was bleeding, the ferrous scent heavy on the air. Ilya bit back a curse and then put a hand over Hollander’s. The bones of Hollander’s hand were delicate under Ilya’s fingers.

“Stop.”

Hollander froze, and glanced up at Ilya through thick, dark lashes.

Ilya squeezed, not too hard. “Is OK, Hollander. You good.”

“Fuck you,” muttered Hollander, and jerked his hands away. But his mutiny was only on the surface. Ilya watched the silent sigh and the way Hollander’s shoulders lowered a tiny amount.

Ilya’s stomach let out an embarrassing growl just as Yuna and David came back into the room. David held a big serving platter of curry, and he smiled gently. “Sounds like you’re hungry. Sorry about the wait. Yuna reminded me that you needed extra protein after a big game.”

Maybe he was sick. That would make sense. Shane’s skin was on fire where Rozanov had touched him—had held him—and Shane couldn’t think about anything else. No one had ever done that, had taken his hand and casually told him what to do, like it was their right.

Shane took a bite of dinner. The lentils and rice were soothing on his stomach, which was always on edge after stressful events like big games. Shane liked the dish so much his dad had started adding extra naan so Shane could use it to scrape the last of the lentils off his plate. His mom had added the salad because ‘you need fresh vegetables’.

Next to him, Rozanov watched as Shane’s dad ladled a big spoonful of red lentils onto the rice and offered it across the table.

“Thank you.” Rozanov traded his plate for the full one, and his dad nodded approvingly.

Shane blinked and looked down at his hand, at the ghost of Rozanov’s touch. He felt like there should be a mark where Rozanov had touched him, like everyone could see it. But the conversation flowed around Shane, his parents used to making conversation for him.

“Eat, Hollander. You need to stay strong, keep up with me.” Rozanov smiled at his mom. “Is very good. I clean my plate. Maybe ask for seconds. Thirds.”

Laughing at Rozanov’s chirp, his mom picked up a serving spoon. “I helped, but this is David’s specialty, for Shane. Low fat, lots of fiber. Did you get enough chicken? Protein helps build muscle.”

While his mom put another serving of chicken on Rozanov’s plate, Shane’s dad tore a piece of naan in half and handed it to Shane. Nodding his thanks, Shane dipped it in the lentils and took a bite. Cumin and coriander, tempered with lemon and salt, exploded across his tongue, and Shane hummed in pleasure.

Next to him, Rozanov coughed and reached for a glass of water. “Sorry. Swallowed wrong.”

“Went down the wrong way,” said Shane, brain on automatic. “In English, it’s “went down the wrong way.”

Rozanov frowned. “Like wrong way on street? Backward?”

Hard apple cider scent filled the room as the corner of Shane’s dad’s mouth turned up. “Sort of.”

His dad mimed as he spoke, hands moving over his plate. “Forward. Backward. Sometimes, backward is wrong. One way streets only let you go forward.”

Rozanov nodded as Shane’s father kept talking, their joint attention utterly focused. When Shane had read the Lord of the Rings books, he’d immediately understood the Eye of Sauron. His father was often lost in thought, intent on his work or his hobbies. But when Shane fucked up, the Eye of Sauron gazed upon him and found every single thing Shane had done wrong. When his dad was focused on Shane, he missed nothing. Now, all that weight of attention was turned on Rozanov.

“When you swallow, it should only go down one way, to your stomach. Your lungs are the wrong way. So we say, ‘It went down the wrong way.’”

Gold curls gleaming in the light, Rozanov repeated, “It went down the wrong way.”

“Just like that.” His dad nodded once, short and sharp, at Rozanov. “We’ll get you up to speed on English in no time.”

The rest of the meal went the same way. Rozanov sitting beside Shane, filling the room with his scent and making his parents laugh. Rozanov was big on the ice, but he was big here, too, like all the air belonged to him.

Shane felt heavy and hyperaware of Rozanov at the same time, and he kept forgetting to breathe. Every so often, Rozanov would poke at him (“Drink, Hollander. Dehydration make you slow and boring.”) and then Shane would be startled enough to take a deep breath.

Shane felt stupid for not recognizing that the hinoki and pond ice and cinnamon scent belonged to Rozanov. He consoled himself with the knowledge that no one else had figured it out. Rozanov had fooled them all.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

(We’re going to pretend the CHL Import Draft doesn’t exist, and that Yuna possesses magical powers to do this mid-season. OK? OK.)

“Ah, no.” Ilya winced. He didn’t need any more than Yuna Hollander had already offered.

Ilya had quickly figured out that Hollander’s family was comfortable by Canadian standards, but not anywhere close to his own father’s wealth. He did not intend to act the spoiled princeling to the old couple who had opened their home to him. He’d heard enough fairy tales as a boy to know that would not end well.

Yuna sighed, and it was the short, sharp sigh that gave Ilya warning of her irritation. “Ilya. You cannot just wear the clothes you brought with you.”

“Look.” Yuna held up an ivory cable-knit sweater and from the scent alone, Ilya knew it was one of Hollander’s. “Do you like this?”

He stared at her, hoping she’d drop the whole quest. More and more, he’d decided that Yuna Hollander was a fire-bird, like the stories, and Ilya was somehow bound to follow where she led. That didn’t mean he had to go without thought. He couldn’t fool them into thinking that he was needy. He wasn’t their child, to feed, clothe, and house.

“Yes or no, Ilya.”

In the corner of the living room, Hollander looked up from his school work, and there was a tiny smirk in the corners of his dark eyes. “Just answer her, or you’ll be here all afternoon.”

‘Here’ was Yuna’s determination to find Ilya a whole new wardrobe, to replace the one he’d left in Moscow. After the third day in a row that Ilya had shown up for breakfast in the same t-shirt, she’d frowned, opened her laptop, and 20 minutes later, printed a list that she fixed on her clipboard and methodically went through. They were currently on tops > knit > sweater and Ilya was both awed and humiliated. She and Svetlana could rule the world.

“Yes, is OK.” Ilya gave in, and he didn’t need to look at Hollander to know that he was smirking.

Already moving on to the next item, Yuna tapped at her laptop, and Ilya could see that she’d added five identical sweaters in different colors to the shopping cart. For a moment, his heart clenched like a fist in his chest. His mother had done the same thing, one in every color. Ilya blinked it away.

On the other side of the room, Hollander frowned and shifted in his chair. He had a backpack on the floor at his knee, a stack of school books on the low table beside him, and he’d been doing schoolwork the entire time Yuna had been dragging Ilya through the checklist. Restless, Ilya wandered over to him and peered down, noticing the scrubbed out marks on the paper.

“Twenty-four,” said Ilya, because it was true. “Easy math.”

Twisting around to look up, Hollander’s eyes narrowed and a sharp spice filled Hollander’s scent. Ah, ha! thought Ilya. Now he knew what Hollander smelled like when he was irritated. Delightful.

“Did you just do that in your head?” demanded Hollander, voice low and dripping with frustration.

Ilya shrugged. “Russia math better. Everyone knows this.”

Like many of his peers, Ilya had been in math circles since he was small. Hockey came first, of course, but most weekends, there had also been an hour in a stuffy classroom with math graduate students chucking difficult math problems at them. It was where he’d first met Svetlana. Circular permutations were an old trick.

“Look, Hollander, is easy.” Ilya took the pencil from Hollander (Pencil! Spoiled Americans!) and scribbled a circle on the paper. “See, circles have no, ah—what is word? End? Yes? Only one first place. Like draft.”

At Hollander’s low growl of irritation, Ilya felt a smile, a real smile, on his face for the first time in weeks. “One first place, so not—”

Ilya shook his head. He could talk about permutations in Russian with ease, but he didn’t know the English. This fucking language steals scraps from everywhere. Ilya scanned down the page of Hollander’s textbook and Ilya’s reading ability in English was worse than his speaking ability, but he thought maybe he’d found the word.

“This, what this?” demanded Ilya, stabbing his finger into the page as he leaned into Hollander’s shoulder.

Hollander answered, low and slow, “Position.”

Oh, Ilya was going to have to be careful. Just that quick demand had made Hollander’s scent brighter and his eyes softer, and Ilya felt a fizzing heat in his veins. Glancing over at Yuna, Ilya saw she was still absorbed with her checklist.

“Yes, position. Circle has one first place, so take away end position. Or start position. All same.” Leaning down close enough to inhale the dizzying spices at Hollander’s neck, Ilya wrote the formula, and hoped his suddenly-sweaty palms wouldn’t smear the pencil. (5 - 1)!

“Easy math!”

Snuggled into the sofa, Yuna finally looked up from her list. “Ilya, do you wear jeans?”

Freshly sharpened, Shane’s skates slid across the ice like he was flying and he closed his eyes for the joy of it. This was what he loved, what he was meant to do. Shane pumped his legs, going faster and faster, slinging his body around the curves and keeping the puck in front of his skates.

“All you got, Hollander?” Skating in and out of Shane’s path, Rozanov fucking winked at him.

“You’re an asshole.” But Shane felt his mouth twist in amusement and he shook his head, trying to get Rozanov out of his mind.

On the ice, scent glands protected by his gear, Rozanov almost disappeared. To Shane, who’d been breathing Rozanov in for days, the ice became part of Rozanov, with only the faintest hint of cinnamon and cedar on the air. Shane could forget that Rozanov was an omega. (Almost.)

Since his parents had brought Rozanov home, Shane had been caught on Rozanov’s omega status. Shane had known what everyone else did—omegas were weaker, more fragile, slower. It wasn’t like Shane was prejudiced about omegas. Shane’s dad had always made sure Shane knew that omegas were just as smart as alphas and betas. It’s just that there weren’t any omegas in the major juniors because they couldn’t keep up, and because they were emotional, always crying and fumbling the play.

While Shane was busy thinking about omegas, Rozanov stole the puck and took off with it, slapping it into the empty net.

“Goal!”

Shane stopped thinking about Rozanov fooling everyone about being an alpha and started thinking about playing hockey. Passing to Rozanov was a dream. Every time Shane looked for him, he was there. Shane had never played with anyone who could keep up with him like this. It was like Rozanov knew what Shane was going to do before Shane did.

By the time the rest of Shane’s team came filtering into the rink, Shane was grinning so hard his face hurt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been working on drills and it was fun. Rozanov was actually laughing on the ice, loud enough to hear the echo from the boards. The feeling was heady.

Later, taking a sip of water, Shane watched his mom negotiate with the manager.

“We can’t pay him. He’s not here on a work visa.” The manager looked tired, which was not an uncommon experience after dealing with his mom and her checklist.

His mom tapped her clipboard with a ballpoint pen. “That’s fine. We’re hosting him and he has his own gear. We’ll pay his expenses, same as Shane’s.”

Nobody but Shane and his parents knew what was really going on. As far as Shane’s major junior team was concerned, Rozanov was visiting until summer. A Russian playing major junior hockey was unusual, but not that strange. Radulov had done it a couple years back.

Major junior players their age earned a small stipend every week, enough to buy a new stick once a month or so. With all his attention on hockey, Shane hadn’t paid attention to it—he hadn’t needed to. But now he looked at Rozanov, skating in small circles on the other end of the rink, and wondered.

“Back to work!” called the coach, and Shane stopped thinking about Rozanov’s finances and started thinking about Rozanov’s hockey.

Shane had played for half a year with his line and now he started to feel bad for them, because today the coach had put Rozanov on his right wing. Shane hadn’t meant to play like their left wing linemate didn’t exist. Rozanov was just that good, and playing with him made Shane better. When practice was over, he felt like Rozanov was an extension of his own body, always ready for Shane.

Like normal, Shane stayed a half-hour or so after practice, practicing drills and pulling his mind out of hockey and into the rest of the world. Rozanov stayed with him, not interfering with Shane’s process, but circling around the rink in silence. Ordinarily, Shane hated anyone interrupting this time, but something about the way Rozanov kept away was nice.

Mind finally empty, Shane went into the echoing locker room, with Rozanov close behind. Without the warmth of two dozen bodies, the room was cool and Shane shivered as he peeled off his gear.

Shane had started changing in locker rooms almost as soon as he’d begun to talk—in interviews, his mom always made a joke about him being a late talker but an early skater—and Shane had learned the rules early. Keep your eyes on your own stuff. Don’t look at other people being naked, and if you do have to look in a room with naked people, keep your eyes on their faces.

Shane hated looking directly at people he didn’t know well. He felt like they were dissecting him with their gazes. Unless it was a team meeting, he tried not to look at anyone, ever. Sometimes the coach called a meeting before people got dressed and those were the worst days.

Silent, Shane ignored the heated cedar and cinnamon scent that filled the locker room. It was rude to comment on how stinky people were after practice. His lungs felt tight and his skin prickled, so he hurried to the showers. They were hot and the water pressure was good and he buried himself in the water, barely noticing when Rozanov followed him in.

Just peeking wouldn’t hurt. Shane had never seen a naked omega before. Sure, health class had diagrams, and sure, the internet had porn, but watching naked people on screen was only slightly less uncomfortable than watching naked teammates in the locker room. Without scent to guide him, Shane couldn’t help but wonder if the people on screen were really enjoying it. If they wanted to be there. Shane wouldn’t ever put himself on display like that and he didn’t understand why other people liked it.

Wiping the water off his face while Rozanov got under the shower, Shane looked down, and to the side. Just a quick glance, he promised himself. Shit. Shit. Shit. Rosanov’s dick was right there. Shane flushed and turned away, and told himself that Rozanov hadn’t noticed.

Much to Shane’s horror, his own cock stiffened. No, no, no! Frantically, Shane tried to think of anything else. Dead fish. Funerals. Grandmothers. None of it worked. All his brain held onto was Rozanov, wet and pink and warm, his hard curves shining under the water, the room filled with damp hinoki and hot cinnamon, the spice sharp on Shane’s tongue.

Unable to resist, Shane peeked again, and this time, he found Rozanov eyeing him back. Face impassive, Rozanov looked down at Shane’s hard cock and raised his eyebrows. Shane was going to shrivel up and rot from embarrassment. He looked away and hoped for the floor to swallow him.

But his cock was traitorous and the next time Shane looked, it was to see Rozanov methodically jacking himself off, eyes hot as he watched Shane. Rozanov still hadn’t said a word, but his gaze felt like a weight on Shane’s naked body, like Shane’s bare skin was on fire and Rozanov had lit the flames without a single word.

Only when water spilled into his mouth did Shane realize he’d been staring, unable to look away from the motion of Rozanov’s hands on that long, hard cock. Rozanov was practically offering himself to Shane and Shane wanted, down to the marrow of his bones. He felt like his blood was both all in his dick and boiling from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet.

“We can’t.” The words felt thick in Shane’s mouth, like his tongue didn’t belong to him.

Rozanov snorted. “Why not?”

“Because.” Shane couldn’t remember any reasons. His whole world was filled with Rozanov’s scent. “I. You. This is public.”

“Ah.” Rozanov gave himself one last tug. “Somewhere else, then.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Shane, but he didn’t sound believable, not even to himself. “You don’t even like me.”

“What has ‘like’ to do with it?” Rozanov grinned, and Shane could see the hunger in his sharp teeth. “You want and that is better.”

The hell of it was, Shane did want. Rozanov wasn’t pretty, or dainty, and he didn’t laugh like silver bells or have soft curves, but in that moment Shane wanted him more than he wanted anything else in the whole world. Maybe even more than hockey. Shane wanted Rozanov so much that he could barely breathe for wanting.

“Yeah. OK.” Shane could do this. He was seventeen years old and he could do this.

Rozanov’s grin was bright and Shane had the startling thought that he was beautiful, in the same way that Kakabeka Falls was.

“Tonight. After—” and Rozanov waved his hand. “Everything.”

“Tonight,” agreed Shane.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Earning that multiple POV tag today.

(Shh. David is a very competent skater, no one else on the ice, and he’s planning on falling forward. Also, the tales of what my parents used to do would give you nightmares—today we have very different ideas about infant safety than we did 30, 50, or 70 years ago.)

“Look at them,” Yuna messaged. Across the room, buried in a tax law journal, David paused and picked up his phone. Putting one finger on the journal page, David met her eyes. Without moving her head, she glanced at the sofa, where Ilya and Shane were fighting over a videogame controller.

Bright and gold like a new-minted coin, Ilya raised the controller in the air and Shane leaned against him, reaching up. Yuna had been watching Ilya tease Shane all evening, sharp little digs, and if she’d thought for a second that Shane was bothered, she’d have put a stop to it. Another parent, watching, might have thought Shane angry, but she knew better. If Shane was upset, he’d get up and walk away. Instead, he stayed and gave as good as he got, and Yuna blinked back tears.

When Shane was angry, he didn’t want to be touched. At best, he tolerated other people in his space. Even as a nursing infant, he had growled and grumbled his way through each feeding, pushing away from her breast. At first, Yuna had thought he was hurt, or sick, and she’d brought it up to the doctor. But he’d been a big, healthy baby and he’d been gaining weight as he should, so the doctor had brushed her concerns away.

When Shane was three months old, Yuna had come in the door from work and the nanny had thrust Shane at her like a sack of rotten potatoes. ”I can’t do this anymore,” the nanny had said. Yuna was left holding a screaming Shane while the nanny grabbed her purse and walked away. Deep in her heart, Yuna hadn’t been surprised. The nanny hadn’t known what to do with an infant that didn’t want to be held.

So Yuna had quit her job as a forensic accountant and David had picked up all the extra work he could find and they’d figured out how to care for Shane. By accident, they’d discovered that Shane loved being on the ice. When Shane woke screaming in the small hours, David had packed their infant son on his back and taken advantage of a friendship with an old teammate, now a rink manager. For years, David had skated until dawn with Shane on his back.

Then they’d swapped off, David to work and Yuna struggling with an infant who had been so determined to move that before he’d had the strength to hold his head up, he’d shoved himself along the floor face first. The skin on his delicate round face had been red and irritated for months before he’d started walking. After doing the rounds of mommy groups, Yuna knew better than to say anything when Shane had started walking at seven months.

That Christmas, David’s parents had given Shane a toy hockey stick and puck, and an indoor net, and Shane had become obsessed. He’d slept with the stick, and had spent hours every day making goals in their living room. He’d had only a handful of words and the speech therapists had refused to work with him, saying he was too uncooperative. Yuna had put photos on the wall and let Shane choose—and he’d always chosen hockey.

At fourteen months, Shane had stopped napping, and the only way Yuna had been able to take a break in the afternoon was to put on a hockey game. For those, Shane had sat rapt, watching the game. Even then, he’d still refused to be comforted by a hug. If he fell and hurt himself, and Yuna had picked him up, he would scream and fight her. She’d had a bloodied nose and a black eye before he was two.

But he had hated sleeping by himself, and desperate for sleep, Yuna and David hadn’t been able to bring themselves to let him cry, so at night, he’d curled up between them. For years, Yuna had woken with Shane sleeping on her back—she was not allowed to hold him, even in his sleep—and she’d stayed in bed as long as she could, feeling the weight of his small body against hers. This had been the only time she’d been able to offer him comfort, and she wouldn’t take it from him.

Shane had been kicked out of the first preschool they’d tried, losing his words and hiding under a table when he’d been frightened by the noise of a big classroom. Yuna’s parents had stepped up and paid for a small, private preschool at their church, and Yuna had never felt more like a failure than when Shane had attended. Shane hadn’t been able to ask to go to the bathroom, hadn’t chattered with the other students, or sung the alphabet song. Halfway through the year, he’d suddenly begun speaking in complete sentences, as if he’d been hiding his words until he could say them exactly how he wanted. He still spent most of his time in preschool playing quietly, by himself.

Yuna’s breaking point had been Shane’s fourth birthday party. She’d sent invitations to the entire preschool class, and not one of Shane’s classmates had shown up. The director had brought her two grandchildren, and Shane had played with them—when they wanted to play with the toy hockey equipment at the play space. Shane had already been fluidly ice skating. After that day, Yuna had known her son was never going to be like other children. They simply didn’t like him, and he was cheerfully oblivious to most of their overtures.

When Shane had started speaking, the pediatrician had told her he was fine. Shane had been growing, he had been talking, and he’d hit all his physical milestones. ”What about friends?” Yuna had thought, but everyone had told her that he was just shy. And it had been true that Shane had mostly grown out of his tantrums, that he had been quiet and never run off, not like other boys. The older he grew, the more withdrawn he became, until Yuna bit her tongue so hard it bled.

Hockey was Shane’s joy and his passion, and aching to make her quiet, serious boy happy, Yuna did everything she could to give him hockey. On the ice, he was just another boy, with teammates who cared less about his lack of jokes and more about his puck handling ability. Eventually, other teenagers had noticed Shane’s skill. After Shane had presented as an alpha, there were a few girls and boys, betas and omegas both, that had fought through Shane’s natural indifference.

Yuna hadn’t liked any of them.

By the time Shane had turned twelve, everyone had agreed that his hockey was something special. He had been destined for the NHL. And the betas and omegas who followed Shane home after school had eyed him the same way their parents did, as an asset to be acquired. Shane had been oblivious.

More than once, Yuna had walked into a room to find Shane reading a book and a visitor staring at him in disbelief. When they had been more obvious about touching him, flinging an arm across his shoulder or leaning into him, he’d scooted his chair away, or backed across the room. Sometimes, Yuna had seen them try to kiss him, ignoring to the way his eyes had gone wide and the cold metal of his scent had flared in distress.

None of them had lasted long. Yuna had done more reading, about asexuality and late bloomers, and eventually she’d stumbled on neurotypes, but nothing told her how to help her son make a friend outside of a hockey team. Hockey could not be everything for Shane.

“No, Hollander, is my turn!”

Ilya arched off the side of the sofa, his golden curls almost touching the floor, and Shane climbed on top of him, eyes brimming with amusement as he reached for the controller with both hands. Shane’s scent was bold and happy, the icy metal sliding to warm spices on hot stone, and Yuna looked at her husband and thought, Do you see it too?

David’s eyes widened as Shane straddled Ilya’s waist, their scents mixing. They were well fed and a little silly with it. After practice, Yuna had made a tall stack of okonomiyaki, and the boys had eaten their fill, Ilya displaying better table manners than Shane. As was their habit lately, they’d bumped elbows all through the meal, and Yuna had wondered then. Now she was sure.

“Rozanov, you’ve had it for the last two games!” Shane fought for the remote, cheeks flushed and hair messy from Ilya’s laughing defense. “Give it!”

Yuna looked at David and he looked at her, and she knew what he was thinking. Shane never let anyone this close, never touched anyone like this, never played like this. Ilya was special, and Yuna felt determination settle in her gut. They were going to keep Ilya. Maybe it was selfish, to steal someone else’s child to be her son’s mate, but she didn’t care. Shane had so few people in his life that Yuna would do anything to add one more. She had spent the last decade accumulating favors across Canada, and now she flipped over the clothing list on her clipboard and began a list of favors she would spend for Ilya.

First things. Ilya was here on a temporary travel visa, obtained for the International Prospect, and the clock was ticking on its expiration.

Yuna tapped out a message. “Can we extend Ilya’s visa?”

“I’ll look into it.” David frowned, and closed his journal. “Boys, I’m going to go get some work done in my study. Please try not to break the sofa.”

“Yes, David,” agreed Ilya, breathless with laughter and mischief in his eyes. “I cannot say for him.”

Ilya pinched Shane’s side and Shane let out a growl before launching himself at Ilya. The two of them tumbled off the sofa and onto the floor, Ilya’s chortle filling the room. Yuna pressed her lips together to hide her smile, and looked at David. He nodded at her and went to make some calls.

Yuna watched Shane, her heart walking around outside her body, and made plans. Ilya Rozanov was not the omega she’d planned for Shane—he was not quiet and soothing, and had little interest in managing Shane—but he had far more valuable qualities. Yuna hadn’t said anything, but she’d noticed the way Ilya put himself between Shane and other people, circling Shane at hockey practice while Shane untangled his thoughts. Yes, Ilya’s humor was rough, and yes, he could be an asshole, but that was not a bad thing.

In most conversations, Shane was always half a beat off, a step out of sync—too earnest, too sincere—and so many times someone had used that to hurt Shane. It was why Yuna handled all his brand management. She’d gone back to school for it, knowing that Shane could be injured at any time, that he needed to save his money and set boundaries. Yuna glanced at them, side by side on the floor, trash talking each other’s play. Nobody was going to push Rozanov Ilya Grigorievich around, and if Ilya was Shane’s, then that was another worry off Yuna’s shoulders.

Perhaps best of all, Ilya could keep up with Shane, on and off the ice. Yuna loved her son, but being the best at hockey had made him an arrogant little shit, an observation she kept firmly behind her teeth. Ilya was unimpressed by Shane’s skills, able to challenge Shane on and off the ice. They would keep each other humble, she decided. Or push each other to greater heights of skill. Either one was fine.

Yuna picked up her clipboard and began making another list, this one for Ilya’s hockey career. First was Ilya’s draft contract. He’d signed it before the news of his omega status had come out. According to Yuna’s contacts, Boston still wanted him, as long as he kept his omega status secret and took heavy duty suppressants. Tapping her pen on the paper, Yuna considered the pros and cons of one son in Montreal and the other in Boston.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Note the archive warnings, folks!

Ilya knew how to be patient. He waited for an hour after David and Yuna had closed their bedroom door, listening to the house settle. The click and hum of the heat, the creaking of the joists on the foundation, and the wordless murmur of conversation drifted down the hall and so Ilya lay in his bed and thought about the way Hollander had eyed him in the showers that afternoon.

Ordinarily, Ilya would have shrugged it off. He was used to admiring looks from teammates. Ilya had got his height earlier than most and he knew what he looked like. Alexei never let Ilya forget how pretty he was, with his curls and his mouth. Ilya had worked hard to put on muscle, to be strong enough for hockey—and though he never said it aloud, for self-defense. When Ilya walked into a room, people noticed.

The look Hollander had given him in the showers was not envy for his muscles, nor a sneer for how pretty he was. No, Hollander’s eyes had been hot with a mix of desire and embarrassment. And he hadn’t been subtle, for all that he’d been sneaking glances at Ilya’s naked ass. Replaying the moment in his mind, Ilya stifled a snicker at Hollander’s dark eyes and open mouth. Hollander had practically been drooling over Ilya’s cock.

A strange anger filled Ilya’s chest, then. Yuna and David were so careless with Hollander, letting Ilya do whatever he liked with their alpha son. Didn’t they know how sly omegas were, how they tricked alphas into panting after them? Hollander would do anything Ilya asked, he was sure of it, and his parents just sat in their lounge and ignored the way Ilya had made Hollander crawl all over him.

No, Ilya would not ruin Hollander in their house. Yuna and David were too trusting, which meant Ilya had to be careful with Hollander for them. He let out a long, explosive sigh and allowed himself a few seconds to wish it was Sasha waiting across the hall, someone who only wanted Ilya for his innate cruelty. Such an absurd situation Ilya had found himself in, an alpha panting after him and Ilya the only person who knew what honor was. If she knew of Ilya’s quandary, Svetlana would laugh herself sick.

When Ilya judged enough time had passed, he dressed in an old, soft t-shirt and boxers, both cast-offs from Hollander’s own closet. Ilya told himself he was annoyed by the way Hollander’s scent floated around him. Then he crept down the hall to Hollander’s room and scratched once, twice on the door, like a mouse. Hollander had been waiting, because he yanked the door open with the same speed he showed on the ice. Not eager to be caught, Ilya slipped inside.

“Did I wake you?” he asked.

Hollander was soft and rumpled, skin gleaming warm in the dim light from his bedside lamp. Ilya had never been in this room, never seen that it was a mirror image of the room he’d been given. Unlike Ilya’s room, it was perfectly tidy, everything was put away. Except Hollander himself, standing awkwardly in front of the door. The heat of his scent gave Ilya the courage to step past Hollander into the room.

“No.” Hollander’s tone was defensive, perhaps irritated, but when Ilya turned to face him, his body said otherwise. Hollander kept talking. Words, words, words. “I … we didn’t really discuss this.”

So funny, Hollander was. Ilya stepped into his space and Hollander put a hand on Ilya’s elbow, pulling him closer. Hollander’s mouth said one thing and his body kept saying another.

“Oh, we agreed talk?”

Mirroring Hollander’s body, Ilya put his hands on Hollander’s waist, the heat of Hollander’s firm body almost scalding under Ilya’s palms. His scent was dizzying.

“I don’t remember talk.”

Hollander inhaled sharply, mouth tilting toward the mating glands at Ilya’s neck. Honor enough for both of them, Ilya reminded himself. Daring now, Ilya put one hand on Hollander’s jaw, tilting his head up and away. Hollander still wouldn’t look at him, eyes cast down. For a long moment, Ilya studied Hollander, the flush on his face highlighting his adorable freckles. The enormous inky pools of his eyes were sheltered by dark eyelashes. Then Hollander slid his hands up Ilya’s ribs and Ilya thought, Yes. This.

Very gently, more gently than Ilya had ever kissed Sasha or Svetlana or anyone else he’d fucked, Ilya pressed his lips to Hollander’s. He gave Hollander plenty of time to jerk away, to run from the desire simmering between them. After that first dry press, Hollander gasped and melted into Ilya, and Ilya was lost. He had to taste Hollander, had to chase down the metal and stone and warm spices on his tongue.

Dreadfully in need, Ilya ran a hand up through Hollander’s thick black hair as they kissed. He’d been speculating for weeks whether it would be rough or soft, whether Hollander would enjoy Ilya’s fingers tracing the lines of his skull. Ilya was delighted to learn that Hollander’s hair was like silk under the hockey calluses on his fingers, and that Hollander moaned at his touch.

Ilya’s blood heated. I am an idiot, thought Ilya and then he swayed as Hollander fell into him, fingers scrabbling at Ilya’s shirt and then sliding into his boxers. Strong hands gripped Ilya’s cock, which jerked under Hollander’s dry touch. Too much, too fast, because Ilya was going to come in his pants like a little boy. He leaned back, trying to put some distance between them, and put his hand on Hollander’s face to keep him from following, but Hollander turned his head into Ilya’s hand and sucked Ilya’s thumb into his mouth.

It should not have been as hot was it was, this simple little gesture, and Ilya knew then that he was fucked. Хуево. Overcome, Ilya leaned forward and pressed a tiny kiss where Hollander’s mouth pressed against Ilya’s thumb, and Hollander darted away, dropping a kiss on Ilya’s chest before dropping to his knees and mouthing at Ilya’s bare cock. Hollander was terrible at this, taking too much into his mouth and choking, but Ilya was desperately, horrifyingly into it.

Ilya glanced up, away, because just the sight of Hollander’s reddened mouth spread wide around his cock was enough to ruin Ilya’s vows. Using what little self control Ilya had remaining to him, he threaded his hands through Hollander’s hair and put another on Hollander’s sharp jaw, tracing the way Hollander’s cheeks hollowed as he struggled for breath.

“Stop,” gasped Ilya, and he gripped Hollander’s skull as he pulled out, but it was too late, because Ilya came all over Hollander’s face, striping him from those winged eyebrows to his chin. Hollander sighed, face peaceful and scent soft. His wet pink tongue darted out to taste the warmth on his face, and Ilya felt something weird twist in his chest.

Such a sweet, sweet alpha for Ilya. Pulling off his shirt, Ilya knelt and used it to wipe Hollander clean. Hollander leaned into each stroke of the soft shirt, humming with contentment. Ilya could not resist peppering little kisses over his face as he cleaned, their scents mixing on Hollander’s skin like a drug.

When Hollander was clean, Ilya sat on the floor, back to the wall, and pulled Hollander into his lap. Without even a hint of resistance, Hollander went where Ilya put him. Greedy, lazy, Ilya knew, and yet he could not help taking off Hollander’s shirt so that the heavy muscles of Hollander’s back pressed against the hollow space behind Ilya’s own breastbone. Without thinking about it, Ilya spit into his hand and took Hollander’s weeping cock into his hand. It was strange, circumcised, and so Ilya nestled his own face into Hollander’s neck, breathing deep, and used the smallest changes in Hollander’s scent to guide him through making Hollander feel good.

After Hollander gasped and trembled in Ilya’s arms, Ilya couldn’t resist tasting the warmth splattered across his knuckles. So good, so sweet, so perfect. Ilya waited until Hollander was on the edge of sleep before urging him back to his own bed. The floor was cold and unforgiving. After Ilya had redressed Hollander, and stolen another shirt for himself, Ilya drew the blankets around Hollander’s still form.

“Don’t…don’t leave.” Hollander’s voice was faint and sad, a crease marked between his eyebrows.

Пиздец. Honor enough for both of them. Ilya took Hollander’s hand, settled onto the rug beside the bed, and promised himself he would leave before dawn.

“The burgers are pretty good here.”

The expression on David’s face was calm, maybe a little amused, but Ilya didn’t trust it. David was buttoned up, scent blockers in place, and the politics were different than in Russia. There, a graying bureaucrat in boring clothes was easy to overlook.

After the days and weeks in David’s home, Ilya had begun to understand how strong David was, in ways that had nothing to do with how much he benched, or how many enemies he could send to prison. There was a solid inner core to the man who cooked and cleaned and smiled softly at his wife with her clipboard. And now, recommended burgers to Ilya.

Ilya swallowed over the lump in his throat and nodded. “Sure, OK.”

Yuna had found them that morning, Ilya curled up on the floor next to Hollander’s bed. Thank fuck he’d let go of Hollander’s hand when he’d fallen asleep, but there was no way Yuna and David had missed the way their scents mixed in the room.

After the server had taken their order, David leaned back in chair and sighed. “You don’t have to do this.”

“OK.” Agreement was safe.

“Ilya, know you might feel obligated to us, to Shane—” Scrubbing his hand across his face, David groaned. “I’m not saying this right. Let me be clear. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Look, you don’t have to stay with us. You can have your own apartment, if you want it.”

Ilya blinked. This was not exactly the conversation he’d been expecting, but he heard the important part. “You want me leave?”

“I want you to know that you can leave.” David took a sip of his coffee. “Shane can be … a lot when he wants something. Yuna is the same way. Not everyone is comfortable saying ‘no’ to them. Ilya, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. We can put you up somewhere else.”

Picking his way through the tangle of English, Ilya uncovered something unexpected and awful. “You think he—how say—forced me?”

“You’re vulnerable, Ilya. Ah—” David fumbled with his phone, typing into it before turning the screen around to show Ilya the shitty translation.

Ты уязвим, Илья. Это несправедливо по отношению к тебе, что Шейн за тобой ухаживает.

Ilya had to read a couple of times before he understood. "You are vulnerable, Ilya. It's unfair to you that Shane is pursuing you."

Ilya started laughing, but when the customers a couple tables down turned to stare he put a hand over his mouth and quieted, gasping out, “Sorry, sorry.”

“Mr. Hollander. I am Ilya fucking Rozanov. I am famous on two continents.” Ilya waved a hand in the air, trying to draw a picture for this sincere, misguided man. “Nobody make me do anything I do not want. Trust. Papa tried.”

With beatings, withholding food, and threats to his mama, but Ilya was stronger than that. He skated because he wanted to, not because anyone made him. He fucked who he wanted—man, woman, alpha, beta, omega—and he felt no remorse. The only person who could make Ilya do anything had died when he was twelve. And Hollander? Ilya shoved that lying voice down.

“If you want me leave,” Ilya shrugged, deliberately careless. “I leave. Is fine. I handle. I work, skate until Boston camp. You go now. All OK.”

Thanks to Yuna, Ilya’s visa had been extended for another year, and Ilya had enough contacts here to figure something out. Ilya had been figuring his own shit out for a half a decade at this point. He could do it for a couple more months. The cold in his gut grew, and Ilya noticed, somewhat distantly, that his hands were cold.

“Ilya. Ilya.” David stood and came around the table, crouching beside Ilya’s chair, a complicated expression on his face. “No one is saying you should go.”

Sleet fell outside the cafe window, a gray day in a series of gray futures. His face was wet and cold. “No. Not when. Fuck. Not when you not want.”

“Ilya.” David put a warm, dry hand on Ilya’s shoulder, and the weight felt like the world. “We do want you, more than you know. But we don’t want to trap you.”

Too late, thought Ilya. He’d been trapped since that first night, when they’d brought him tea and blankets and Hollander’s lying ‘fuck you’ with a silent sigh. Since David had stopped the meal to be kind and teach him English. Since Yuna had brought him light in the dark, a жар-пти́ца.

“Лучшелбетелнесчастным, но знать, чем счастливым и жить в дураках,” said Ilya, and in that moment, he believed it.

David’s phone was still open and when he looked over to see the translation, his mouth twisted. "’It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool's paradise.’ You’ve got this all wrong, Ilya. We. Want. You. Here.”

David was so rarely emphatic that Ilya didn’t recognize the quiet, determined force of the bedrock of David’s strength. When David put both hands on Ilya’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug, Ilya was too shocked to resist. It had been so long since Ilya had been hugged by a father that he didn’t know what to do or how to act. But David was warm and strong and resolved, and after a while, Ilya hugged him back. This close, the woods were comforting and Ilya was so very, very tired.

“OK,” agreed Ilya, throat tight and painful, eyes burning. “I stay.”

Chapter End Notes

Alas, liminal week is over, and I have other obligations. I'm hoping to wrap this story up this weekend.

I treasure each and every one of your kudos, comments, and subscriptions. All the hugs Yuna can't give Shane, I give to you.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Forgive me my punctuation, for I have done bad things.

When the house phone rang, Shane was buried in French translation. “Quel est le thème principal?” According to who? Did Aubin mean what the author intended? Or what Shane thought was the theme? The best answer was the one Aubin wanted, and Shane didn’t know what Aubin wanted.

Dimly, Shane was aware that the answering machine had clicked on. No one ever answered that line—it was purely for emergencies and his mom’s parents, who refused to remember that his mom’s cell phone existed.

“This is Sam Marlowe and I have been hired to find the son of Grigori Alexandrovich—”

Shane leaped out of his chair. “Hello?”

“Ah, hello there. To whom am I speaking?” Shane didn’t recognize the voice, but the speaker was calm and a little amused, as though Shane’s urgency was funny.

“This is Hollander. Why are you looking for Rozanov?” Shane’s heart raced. Over the last months, Shane had learned more than he wanted to about Russia, and he didn’t trust that an American accent wasn’t working for the FSB. The house number was the one Shane gave on forms. It could have been compromised.

“Mr. Rozanov has a, ah, a friend who is interested in his whereabouts.” A sigh came over the line. “If you know where he is, let him know that Svetlana Vetrova is angry with him.”

“Svetlana is looking for him?” Shane was greedy for any scrap of information about Rozanov and he’d cradled the rare mentions of Rozanov’s oldest friend in his heart. “I mean, he’s not here but I’ll let him know.”

“You do that, Shane.” A chair creaked in the background. “You do that. I will inform Ms. Vetrova that her friend has been found.”

When the line clicked off, Shane was frozen, staring into the backyard. The daffodils were in bloom, bright yellow flowers bursting open. The yaburan wasn’t up yet. His grandmother had imported them from Japan and now Shane wondered if she missed seeing them bloom, here in her daughter’s garden.

The front door opened and Shane looked to see Rozanov carrying groceries, two bags in each hand. His dad had made a run for the weekly shop and Rozanov had gone with him. Shane had stayed to finish his French homework, and now he wished he’d gone too.

“Uh, Rozanov? Svetlana is looking for you.”

A muscle ticked at the corner of Rozanov’s jaw and his eyes widened slightly.

“She hired someone to find you?” Shane’s chest hurt. “And he called the house. The landline.”

“Sveta–”

Rozanov closed his eyes, and Shane took the forgotten bags out of his hand. Rozanov’s scent changed in quick succession, the cold North wind, fresh-cut hinoki, and finally, the spice of apple cider. Shock, thought Shane.

“The guy on the phone, he said he’d tell her you’re here.” Shane glanced at his dad, who’d followed Rozanov in. Had Shane done the right thing? His dad nodded, almost too small to see.

That evening, Rozanov retreated, turning into the guarded, almost cruel hockey player Shane had first known. He’d gone into his bedroom and come out with his scent blockers on, neck and wrists, and Shane’s eyes had prickled, hot and blurry.

When the landline rang again, everyone jumped, but his mom raised a hand. Wait. Her face was smooth and still as she picked up the phone, the gold light from the side table lamp warming the silver in her hair. Her scent was all fire and metal. Shane knew that mood and he caught his breath.

“Hollander residence. Yes, I’ll hold.” Shane’s mom raised her eyebrows and mouthed, “An assistant?”

Rozanov shrugged, one shoulder rising and falling under the thick hoodie. His eyes were cold and Shane regretted sitting next to him on the sofa. Maybe he should move, let Rozanov have his space.

“Miss Vetrova,” greeted his mother, all professional courtesy. “Let me see if he is available.”

Silent, his mom offered the cordless phone to Rozanov, who stared for a long second before wrapping a hand around Shane’s wrist, pointer and index finger over the delicate veins on the inside of Shane’s wrist. Swift as his pivots on the ice, Rozanov rose and took the offered phone. He pulled Shane with him, his grip implacable. Shane’s heart thumped so loudly he was sure everyone could hear it.

Precise and correct, Rozanov inclined his head at Shane’s mom. Then Rozanov put the phone to his ear and said, voice cold and formal, “Прогноз погоды в Москве.”

Turning on his heel, Rozanov began walking. Shane followed, pulled along by the relentless hold Rozanov had on him. Close enough that Shane could feel the warmth of Rozanov’s skin, but terribly far away from where Shane wanted to be, Shane studied Rozanov’s broad form. His shoulders were squared, his spine straight, his head up. Rozanov had closed a door Shane hadn’t known was open.

The response on the phone line was practiced, the code word a routine gesture. “На улице солнечно.”

Closing his bedroom door behind them, Rozanov locked it and kept going, opening the door to his closet and tugging Shane inside. Breathless, Shane went into the dark and closed the closet door behind them. As though his strings had been cut, Rozanov sat in a corner and brought Shane down with him, holding Shane in the circle of his arms. Shane didn’t understand any of this, but he trusted Rozanov, and so he curled up against the familiar, broad chest and listened to the beat of Rozanov’s heart.

Finally, Rozanov spoke, and to Shane’s surprise, it was in French. << It has been so long. I thought I would never hear your voice again. >>

A low chuckle. <<You think so little of me, Ilyu'kha. I am not without resources.>>

Quiet, in the dark, Rozanov ran his fingers through Shane’s hair. << Yes, but … I could not come home. I did not wish for you to be tainted. >>

<< Le Rosey is a long way from Moscow, and I know how to be careful. >> A pause. << Are you safe, there? >>

Rozanov buried his face in Shane’s hair, taking a long, hot breath. << Would you believe me if I told you that I had an alpha? >>

<< No. Are you hurt? Did you take a blow to the head? >>

A laugh, bouncing Shane on Rozanov’s chest. << Not recently. It’s true. He is here, listening. I want for nothing. His mama and papa—Sveta, they keep me in their home. >>

<< Now I know you’re lying. Not even an American would be so foolish. >> But the accusation was fond, her voice warm. << Fine, don’t tell me. But do not think for an instant that I will let you get away with this nonsense, Il'yushka. >>

They spoke for hours, teasing, fond as siblings. Shane learned many things. Rozanov’s mother and Svetlana’s omega mother had been best friends, newly married to much older men. They’d borne children, Svetlana and Rozanov, in the repressive sphere of old-fashioned, wealthy Russians. As a mere athlete, Svetlana’s alpha father was less wealthy and less influential than Rozanov’s own father, who was a high-ranking officer of the internal police. Svetlana’s mother was from France and worked as a model in Paris. Apparently, she was famous in her own right, and Shane made a mental note to look her up. When Rozanov’s mother had died, Svetlana’s mother had left Russia, moving back home to France to resume her modeling career. Svetlana had been at boarding school in Switzerland for years before Rozanov had gone to work in the Superleague.

Eventually the phone gave a low-battery warning and Rozanov sighed. << It’s late here, Sveta, and the phone is dying. >>

<< Ilya. I am so glad I found you. I will see you soon. >> A long sigh and a yawn, and Shane felt sluggish and tired himself. His mind was dark and dim, the thump of Rozanov’s heart keeping the time.

<< No, no. Sveta, your father will be angry if you leave the school. >> Rozanov managed to sound pleased and scolding at the same time.

<< Pah. I have my ways. Good night, Il'yushka. >>

If Shane hadn’t had his face buried at the base of Rozanov’s neck he might have been jealous of the softness in Rozanov's voice. << Good night, Sveta. >>

The next evening, Shane and Rozanov lay tangled together on the sofa, watching a hockey game. Shane’s dad was half watching the game, half reading another boring journal on international taxes. Unable to sit for a game, his mom was pacing behind the sofa, leaving a vague whiff of burnt herbs in her wake.

“I cannot believe he didn’t see that!”

Warm in one of Rozanov’s sweaters, Shane looked over. “She’s right.”

“Yes,” agreed Rozanov, the corner of his mouth curling up in amusement. “But we do not have to tell her.”

“I can hear you.” His mom leaned over the back of the sofa, strands of silver falling into her face.

Rozanov gave a mock gasp, hazel eyes wide. “You can?”

Shane felt as though he was made of light, and dizzy with it. Everyone he wanted was here in this room.

Then the doorbell rang.

On the other side of the coffee table, Shane’s dad lowered his glasses and put his journal down. “Are we expecting someone?”

“No,” said his mom, certain. “I’ll get the door. It’s probably a delivery for someone else.”

When she opened the front door, it wasn’t a lost driver. Parked in front of Shane’s house was a long black limousine. The passengers were waiting at the door.

A short older white woman of immense dignity stood on the doorstep. She had perfectly curled silver hair, and wore a royal blue hat with a wide brim, a spray of jewels in the shape of spring flowers fastened snugly to the brim. At her ears were enormous pearl earrings. They matched a double-strand necklace and complemented a diamond brooch in the shape of a bear. Buttoned to the neck, her thick coat was a matching blue. One gloved hand held an ivory-headed cane.

The older woman’s elbow was steadied by one of the tallest, thinnest, most elegant women Shane had ever seen. Her skin was dark and her hair was thick and curly, pulled up in a sophisticated style that left curls spilling down to her shoulders. She wore long, wide pants and a slouchy sweater with an enormous bag over her shoulder. Spotting Rozanov on the sofa, her face did something complicated. Rozanov sprang off the sofa as though he’d been electrocuted.

Before Rozanov reached the door, the older woman blinked at his mom. Then she bowed, very slightly, and spoke in Japanese, her voice thready with age. << Gokigen-yō. >>

The greeting was deeply formal and old-fashioned, Shane knew.

<< Konban wa. >> said his mom, matching the formality. She bowed deeper, a sign of respect for the elderly woman. << Omotenashi no kokoro o taisetsu ni shiteimasu. >>

Rozanov rushed forward, and it was as though he’d shapeshifted. He was somehow the man who took up all the space in a room, shoulders squared and broad. In the blink of an eye, he’d covered over the soft-spoken omega who’d hidden in a closet and held Shane to his chest. Now he was a severe, closed-off stranger, once again the taciturn Russian who’d frowned in an alley and beaten Shane at World Juniors.

Ushering in the strangers, Rozanov began introductions in English.

“Tante, Svetlana, this is Mrs. David Hollander. Ah, Yuna Hollander.” Turning to the side, Rozanov did a kind of little bow. “And Mr. David Hollander, and my—my Shane Hollander.”

Eyes narrowed, Svetlana pressed her lips together, and inclined her head in acknowledgement. Her scent was muted, hidden under ornate bracelets and thick gold necklaces, a heavy, complex floral musk.

Rozanov went on. “Mrs. Hollander, this is Mrs. Olga Malkin, and my very good friend, Svetlana Vetrova.”

“How lovely to meet you,” said his mom. Her scent was bright and knife sharp, blending with his own father’s bedrock steadiness.

Shane’s heart was in his mouth, and he couldn’t speak. This was Sveta? This tall, beautiful, elegant woman? All the years of watching other people know what to say flooded over him. Shane knew he was meant to speak something gracious and welcoming, but his lips were numb and his hands were freezing and his mind was filled with a high-pitched buzzing.

Fortunately, Rozanov knew what to do. In short order, Olga, Svetlana’s great-aunt, was seated by the fire with a warm cup of tea in her unsteady hands. As they spoke, Shane learned that Olga was Svetlana’s chaperone for the trip, and this visit was a small detour from their planned shopping in Montreal. With great calm, Shane’s parents made quiet conversation about the weather, the indignities of commercial air travel, and overindulged young people.

Rozanov, Svetlana, and Shane sat for precisely one round of tea and cookies before Svetlana expressed a need for the facilities, and the elegant stranger with Rozanov’s face rose to escort her. He paused.

“Hollander, your house.”

Shane felt a surge of heat cross his face. “Oh. Sure. Yeah.”

They fell into a silent line as Shane led them down the hall. The instant they were out of sight, Rozanov wrapped his fingers around Shane’s wrist, taking Shane’s pulse. With a tilt of his head, Rozanov led them all into his bedroom, locking the door behind them.

“Hey, uh—” This wasn’t the bathroom.

Whirling around, Rozanov shut him up with a kiss. As usual, Shane forgot where he was for a second, but he was roused by the sharp sound of Svetlana clapping.

<< Very pretty, Il'yushka. >> Switching languages, Svetlana raised a severe eyebrow and continued, “You were serious. About an alpha.”

Shane managed to cough and blush at the same time. “I speak French.”

“I know, Hollander.” Rozanov was himself again, his smile tender and warm. He ran a thumb across Shane’s jaw, and Shane let himself lean into it. “I wanted you listen.”

“Oh,” thought Shane, thoughts tangled around the sensation of Rozanov’s callused thumb on his cheek. Almost, he opened his mouth for it, but he couldn’t forget that Svetlana was in the room.

Shane opened his eyes to find Svetlana staring at them, eyes wide and shining. He said, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know why he was apologizing, but it seemed like a safe thing to say. She smiled and it was not kind, but neither was it cruel. He felt like Svetlana and Rozanov were having an entire conversation that he couldn’t understand, but Rozanov’s hand was heavy on his face, and Shane couldn’t bring himself to care too much.

“I bring gifts!” announced Svetlana, placing her bag on Rozanov’s bed. “Really, I should take up a career as a thief. I’m quite good. Ilya, I thought you might want this.”

Dangling from her manicured fingernails was a thin gold chain with an odd crucifix. It had two bars across the top, and a slanted bar at the bottom. Both the chain and the crucifix were worn, the gold darkened with age, and imbued with a delicate floral scent.

“My mama’s cross! Sveta!” Rozanov held out a proprietary hand. “How you do it?”

Ignoring Rozanov’s waiting hand, Svetlana stepped close and draped it around his neck. “Papa insisted I attend New Year’s at your father’s Moscow apartments. Without you there, I had to make my own fun.”

After patting the cross into place on Rozanov’s chest, Svetlana leaned in, and Shane thought she was going to kiss Rozanov. Instead, she placed a firm kiss on Shane’s cheek, a finger's width from Rozanov’s hand. This close, her floral scent was heavy and Shane felt overwhelmed by it.

“You’re perfect,” she announced.

“Thanks?” managed Shane. He didn’t understand Svetlana at all, but he was obscurely proud to have pleased her.

With his free arm, Rozanov brought her close, and for a long moment they stood all three together. Svetlana’s scent thickened with salt tears, but when she pulled back, her face was dry and impassive. Trying to copy her blase attitude, Shane attempted to stand on his own, but Rozanov wrapped an arm around his waist, and Shane was suddenly uninterested in moving away.

“More important,” said Svetlana as she turned to her bag, “I was right.”

“Oh?” asked Rozanov, dryly amused. His eyes were gold, shot through with the light from the table lamp, and Shane lost himself in the striations of Rozanov’s iris.

“You said that leaving me with a copy of your bank account numbers was silly,” Svetlana sing-songed the words. From the depths of her bag, she had pulled a thick sheaf of paperwork and now she brandished it at him. “But I had the news from my papa before your father found out, and before he could take what was yours, I put everything in my bank, in Switzerland.”

Tapping the papers on Rozanov’s shoulder, she smirked. “Even your mama’s portion, Ilya. It’s all there.”

“Sveta!” breathed Rozanov. The room filled with the comforting scent of newfallen snow on an iced over river, leavened with the robust strength of hinoki, and heated with cinnamon and nutmeg. Not quite sweet, but unambiguously delighted, and Shane couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to the curve of Rozanov’s jaw.

Shane wanted to be sure. “This is good, right?”

“Oh, yes.” Rozanov was bright-eyed as he took the papers from Svetlana and read over them with his free hand. “My mama was, how to say—”

“An heiress. And when she died, she left the bulk of her fortune to Ilya,” said Svetlana. She was serious for a moment, her scent going dark and poisonous. “Shane Hollander, it is important for you to know this. Ilya is a wealthy man. If you want to eat bonbons for the rest of your days, you could do this. But he loves to play hockey, and he is very good at it. If you keep him from hockey, I will cut off your balls and feed them to you.”

Then she twisted her wrist, two slim stilettos sliding free from each of her thick bracelets. “Do we understand each other?”

Shane was often irritable, but he’d learned to hide it behind a blank face. Alphas like Shane, half-Japanese, always seen as foreign—they couldn’t afford the luxury of bad days. Especially when playing hockey, the whitest professional sport in North America. As Svetlana emphasized her words with stilettos, Shane’s fury hit him like a freight train and sank him in a flow of anger, a furious mirror of the way he played on his best days, all instinct and reflex. He shoved Rozanov behind him.

“Fuck you. I would never keep Ilya from playing hockey. It would be criminal to keep someone that good, who loves it so much, off the ice. He’s beautiful.” Shane sucked in a furious breath, feeling the heat of Ilya’s body at his back. “When we play together, we’re halves of the same whole. Keeping Ilya from that? I’d be cutting out my own heart.”

Silence filled the room for a beat. Then another. Shane burned with fury, and it was only that Ilya was safely at his back which kept him still. Svetlana shrugged, a crooked smile on her face, and tucked the stilettos away. “See that you keep your word.”

Rozanov leaned on Shane, nestling his chin on Shane’s shoulder. “Too much, Sveta. Hockey Hollander’s raison d'être. << He could no more think to make me quit hockey than he could stop breathing. >>

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Montreal was strangely hot, Ilya decided. He took a sip of cool water and watched as everyone settled at the tiny, wobbly cafe tables, the sound of the metal scraping across concrete making Hollander wince. He was sensitive like that, Ilya had noticed. And he wouldn’t ever say anything, so Ilya ran a finger up the inside of his thigh, to distract him.

“Ilya!” came the stifled, indignant whisper, and Ilya didn’t even try to resist the smirk that spread across his face. If Hollander minded, he’d shift away, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and opened his thighs. If someone searched for “relaxed man,” Hollander would make the photo galleries. Not video, though—Hollander’s movements were stiff, precise, as though he thought about where to move all the time.

Ilya supposed he probably did, off the ice. It was terrible. Ilya had been ensnared by the most boring man in Canada. He’d walked eyes wide open into the trap and let the Hollanders close the lock, because after his team had left him in Regina, Ilya had understood that a trap was also protection. He glanced at Svetlana. Are you seeing this?

Svetlana had dressed with her usual unerring fashion sense, and she wore one of her purchases from her “shopping trip to Montreal,” a gauzy top with a sleek undershirt. And her signature wide bracelets. She caught his look and smiled wide. You’re the one who wants him.

Starting months ago, Yuna had planned the trip with all the precision of a military operation, coordinating with the front office at Montreal. With her usual efficiency, the trip served many functions. The city had a fierce hockey fan base—when the new arena had been built, they’d auctioned off named bricks in the construction. Naturally, the management had decided to hold a press conference to introduce their latest acquisitions. Yuna had picked the dates.

Partly, the trip was a celebration for Hollander, for his high school graduation. Ilya had left academics behind when he’d begun playing for the Superleague. Hollander had not, and his scores were perfect. Deeply irritating. Hollander didn’t smoke, drank only a single glass of wine at a time, and spoke three languages perfectly—and always with lovely fucking manners. To obtain top scores as well? It couldn’t be borne.

Helpless to do otherwise, Ilya turned a hand up so that Svetlana saw his surrender. I love him.

When Yuna had discovered that Ilya’s irritability was not entirely innate (They put you on heat blockers at twelve? I’m making you an appointment with my specialist.) Ilya had been introduced to the difference between blockers injected by the team doctor and tablet suppressants provided by an omega specialist. At his appointment, the doctor—a wizened omega—had given Ilya the packet of tablets, and Ilya’d had a choice for the first time in his life.

David and Yuna, Hollander—even Svetlana and Tante Olga—he could trust them to keep all parts of him safe. David and Yuna had kept Ilya even knowing that he was an omega, had kept him when he’d been penniless and homeless. Then they’d kept him through the agonizing weeks of night sweats and sleeplessness, withdrawing from the blockers. Yuna’s cool fingers on his brow had become almost as familiar as Hollander’s warmth at his back.

After some thought, Ilya had decided to spend his first heat with Hollander. One morning, he’d left his tablets in the bathroom and that evening, he’d watched as Yuna had added an item to one of her ever-present checklists. The next day, he’d listened as Yuna had adjusted the date of the trip. It was not a honeymoon, exactly, but when the group had checked into the hotel, Ilya had been handed the key to a heat suite.

Ilya tried not to think about how his father would have approved of his relationship with Hollander. Sometime around Hollander’s eighteenth birthday, his scent had changed. Deepened and solidified enough that opposing players almost flinched at the hyper focused alpha readying himself for the face-off. But then Ilya called on a memory of Hollander at their last game, oblivious to the way the opposing players reacted, putting every piece of himself on the ice, and Ilya’s nerves settled. What he and Hollander were to each other was no one else’s business.

Now Ilya ignored the sweat trickling down his back and watched as Tante Olga adjusted her glasses. Tante Olga had been placed at Hollander’s right and Ilya was looking forward to the old harridan’s interrogation.

“I am an old woman, and young people do not listen to old women. So, I say nothing when they are foolish,” Tanta Olga began. “Unless, of course, they are under my care. Then they must listen to me, at all times.”

Ilya glanced at Svetlana, who had buried her face in her disgusting green juice. The sharp green aroma almost covered her heavy floral scent. She winked at him, and Ilya contemplated the odds that Tante Olga was joking. Very slim odds, he decided.

“Svetlana, for instance.” Tante Olga examined Hollander with a flinty eye, then waved her gloved hand in dismissal. “No, you’re too poor for her. Shame, that. You’re handsome enough, for an alpha.”

Delighted, Ilya watched as Hollander’s face went pale and then scarlet, damp limestone overlaid with sharp metal. Hollander said not a word, taking a long gulp of his water. Then he began fiddling with the napkin, unfolding and refolding it. Hollander’s beautiful fucking freckles and his perfect fucking smile and his serious fucking manners and his earnest fucking promises were all as dear to Ilya as this secret tell.

“Are you ready to order?” The server came from behind them, a pad in her hand. She was pretty enough, if you liked blonds, and Ilya did. What he didn’t like was the way she stood too close to Hollander. Her eyes widened, and her scent, imperfectly hidden behind wide cuffs in her long-sleeve tee, bloomed sweet like toasted sugar. “Are you Shane Hollander?”

This was not a hockey game and Ilya could not physically shove the server out of the way. Then she put a hand on Hollander’s arm, and Ilya saw the shudder roll down Hollander’s spine. Ilya knew that a blank-faced Hollander could not say what he needed to say, which meant Ilya had to say it for him. Ilya did not mind. He smiled, and he knew it was a little mean.

<< The menu, if you please. >>

Spots of pink rose on her cheeks as she reached for the menus in her apron. The pink made her prettier, Ilya could admit.

<< Me, as well, >> snapped Yuna. The server moved down to the other end, and Hollander breathed again.

In one of the most horrible parts of Ilya’s new life in Canada, Yuna had folded Ilya’s career into her checklists. Ilya didn’t want to know what treasure she had offered in return for Montreal’s management initiating a complicated three-way trade that ended with Boston swapping Ilya’s contract north. Hollander was to be their new star center, and Ilya his right wing.

Ilya suspected Yuna had agreed to keep running the major-junior parent organization. She should have given that up, and yet more paperwork kept being delivered. There had been no good way to pay his debt, and the whole situation had been infuriating. Yuna did not wear any jewelry but her wedding band, did not go on vacations, and drove a sensible car—boring was genetic.

In the end, Ilya had settled his debt with something both easier to give and less important than money. Hollander had given up the key information not long after Svetlana’s first visit, and Ilya had held onto it, knowing that it would be useful.

Ilya shifted in his chair, the metal damp from his sweat. Spring in Montreal was not supposed to be this warm. Ilya ignored it. He could be strong for Hollander and Yuna. After all, Yuna had melded the celebration of Hollander and Ilya’s birthdays into this trip, and they hadn’t yet had their dessert.

“I might consider adding somewhat to Ilya’s portion,” Tanta Olga said slowly, turning a gimlet gaze in Hollander’s direction. “Perhaps that would be sufficient to overlook his…status.”

Always loyal, Svetlana broke in. “I’m not sure Ilya has begun looking for a partner, quite yet.”

“Ridiculous,” scoffed Tante Olga. “Everyone of Ilya’s persuasion is looking for an alpha. Whether they wish to admit it to themselves or not.”

Warm spices came back to Hollander’s scent and he put down his water glass with a quiet thump on the metal tabletop. “Ilya doesn’t need money to attract a partner. Anyone would be lucky to have him.”

No, it was the opposite. Ilya was lucky to have Hollander. For better or worse, whether he’d thought Ilya poor or rich, whether he’d thought Ilya healthy or known him laid low by sickness, Hollander had cherished Ilya in his bed and his home. Ilya could do no less than return his regard.

Earlier in the spring, after the news of the trade had come out, Ilya had hired Sveta’s investigator, Marlowe, to find Yuna’s parents. Then Ilya had made a trip to Montreal and introduced himself to her parents. The visit had ended with him on his knees, vowing to support Hollander through attending a four-year university, after Hollander’s hockey career ended. They’d had no doubt this was a passing fancy of Hollander’s, a year or two at most.

So Ilya had sent Hollander’s grandparents a copy of the financial trust for his education. Easy enough. Ilya’s vows, combined with Hollander’s solid, steady presence at playoff press conferences, had convinced Yuna’s parents that Hollander’s devotion to hockey was not ideal, but minimally adequate for one of their grandchildren. “At least he is decent at it,” his grandmother had murmured, pursing her lips.

Adjusting the brim of her hat to keep the sun from her eyes, Tante Olga leaned toward Hollander. Ilya found himself leaning in as well. Tanta Olga whispered, “I like you, Shane Hollander.”

Hollander blinked. “You do?”

“I said so, didn’t I? Keep up,” advised Tante Olga. As she spoke, her scent, a complex, almost powdery floral that had faded and thinned with age, floated in the air. “Because I like you, I will grant you some wisdom.”

Tante Olga nodded in Svetlana’s direction. “Feel free to pass it to my niece, when it is time.”

Svetlana composed her face. Briefly, Ilya wondered why on Earth Svetlana put up with the old woman. Well, he knew why he was here, on this infernally hot spring day.

Ilya looked down the row of rickety tables. Yuna’s parents were seated at the other end, holding a solemn court. They lived in Montreal, and the reason Ilya was sitting in the burning early summer sun was that this was their favorite cafe. In truth, Ilya was feeling quite smug about this.

Next to Yuna’s father, David was nodding as Hollander’s grandfather spoke, solid as the bedrock under their feet and just as implacable. Ilya knew in his bones that David would disapprove of Ilya’s gift. David never wanted Ilya to do too much for Yuna and his son, as though the gift of their home and his career was a gossamer seed, gone and forgotten. No, Ilya paid his debts.

“Few people have the constitution to disagree with me,” observed Tante Olga. Her manner was magisterial. “You have backbone.”

He does? Ilya felt his eyebrows rise. Hollander looked as befuddled as Ilya felt.

“Thank you?” Hollander’s scent was muddled, as confused as his question.

“Yes, it was a compliment,” Tante Olga clarified. The barest smile passed her lips.

Hollander took a fortifying sip of water.

“I meant what I said. Anyone would be lucky. Ilya is honest and few people are. He can be an asshole—” Awkward as ever, Hollander looked down at his plate. “But that’s why I like him. Ilya doesn’t change for anyone. Not even me. He is who he is, in public and private.”

To his horror, Ilya felt his eyes burn. He patted his face with a napkin. The weather really was unseasonably hot.

“Very good,” applauded Tante Olga. “Svetlana, remind me to draw up the paperwork for Ilya.”

Oh, no. Ilya rushed to speak, but Tante Olga raised a single imperious finger.

“Settle yourself, Ilya Grigorievich.” Tante Olga patted Hollander’s hands, which were busy with napkins again. He stilled. “You may never find another alpha like this one. << Your mother would agree with me. Do not be a fool. It does not suit you. >> ”

Tante Olga went on. “Shane Hollander, take this ridiculous boy back to the hotel. He thinks we cannot tell that it is his time. Take him to your bed and keep him well.”

Ilya tried to find it in himself to be angry, and he could not manage it. His throat was thick. “Shane.”

“Ilya.” Shane smiled and his dark eyes were enormous and liquid.

Ilya ached, every muscle sore with need. The sun was burning—no, it was Ilya that was burning—but when Ilya reached out, Shane’s skin was cool and soothing.

“You shouldn’t,” said Ilya, because at least one of them needed to be sensible. “You won’t be able to leave.” Everyone leaves me. You will want to leave me too. You’ll hate me when you’re made to keep me.

“I don’t want to leave,” said Shane, low and urgent. His dark eyes were wide and bright. “I never will.”

Ilya’s hand was burning hot on Shane’s wrist. Too hot. The day was warm, but it was not that warm. Carefully, Shane made himself look, really look, at Ilya, and found that his hazel eyes were glassy with fever. Tante Olga was right.

Shane could do this. He could. He nodded thanks at Tante Olga and oh! That was where Ilya got his wink.

Item one—get Ilya back to the hotel. Shane stood and did not wince at the sound of his chair screeching. “Uh, hey. Mom. Dad? Ilya forgot something back at the hotel. I’m going with him.”

“Wow,” said Ilya, accent thicker than Shane had heard it in months. “You—”

Shane put a finger on Ilya’s mobile, pretty mouth. Quiet. “Sorry, everybody.”

His dad stared, and the eye of Sauron was a weight on Shane’s shoulders. In response. Shane tapped his watch, then his throat, hoping his dad would figure it out.

“Oh.” Shane’s mom hurried around the table and Shane could see the moment she understood what was happening, a hitch in her step. She put both hands on his shoulders. “Go. Now.”

“Thanks.” Shane’s throat felt oddly tight. Ilya was so strong, so capable, and Ilya had let himself be weak for this, trusting Shane to take care of him.

Shane had been thrilled when he’d learned that Ilya would be playing with him in Montreal. In the locker room, people gave Shane shit for being attached to Ilya, like an alpha with an omega. The running jokes had made Shane uncomfortably aware that he was attached to Ilya. Not like they’d thought, that Shane was possessive of Ilya in an alpha way.

If anything, Shane knew that it was the other way around—Ilya was brilliant and beautiful and he could have had anyone, but he’d chosen Shane. Ilya had soothed a longing that had grown so all-encompassing that Shane had taken the pain as simply the way life was. Shane hadn’t known that anyone could fill his hunger. If Ilya had gone to Boston? No, Shane would not have been able to function without Ilya’s hands on his body.

A smile at the corners of her eyes, his mom gave him a little shove. “Now, Shane.”

Shane went, hustling Ilya back to the hotel. By the time they reached the lobby, Ilya was stumbling.

“Rozanov have a little too much?” asked the desk clerk, making a swigging motion with his hand.

Shane fumbled with the key card to the private elevator. “You don’t get to play for Montreal every day.”

“That’s for sure!”

The front desk phone rang and then the elevator arrived, and Shane pulled Ilya inside. Ilya’s hands were like brands, and there was sweat in the fine golden curls at his temples. Shane tried to take a deep breath, to calm himself, but he inhaled Ilya’s scent and the warm spices were almost unbearably strong in his nose.

He could do this. He could take care of Ilya. He’d prepared their scentless suite the first day, making a nest for Ilya with bags of linens and clothes brought from home. It wasn’t traditional, Shane knew, but he didn’t much care. What he had with Ilya was theirs, and no one else’s. If he wanted to build the nest for his omega, he was going to do it. Ilya hadn’t minded, just leaned against the wall and added commentary.

“How many pillows did you bring, Hollander? Are there any left in the house? ”

In the elevator, Shane felt a smile spread across his face, remembering. When the elevator door opened, Shane meant to be good, to help Ilya to his room. Ilya didn’t give him a chance, leaning forward for a kiss. In that moment, Shane knew he could not deny Ilya anything. If Ilya asked for the moon, Shane would find a way to give it to him.

Before they made it to the bed, Ilya leaped, gripping Shane’s head with both hands and sliding his hands through Shane’s hair. Their kiss was fierce, clashing, but Ilya growled and something in the back of Shane’s mind eased. Shane lived with a thread of tension centered in his breastbone, pulling at his spine, taut around his mind. When Ilya touched him like this, everything went soft and Shane could breathe, at ease in his body in a way he never was. He put his hands at Ilya’s waist and he could feel the heat radiating through Ilya’s thin shirt.

Ilya’s curls were soft under his hands, and Shane pulled him tighter, as though he could swallow Ilya down into his center. They swayed together for a moment, unwilling to separate long enough to breathe. Sliding his hand down, Shane pressed along Ilya’s jaw, the swollen glands hard under his palms. Ilya moaned in relief, and the sound echoed down Shane’s spine and settled in his dick. He was rock hard.

Clumsy, Ilya draped an arm over Shane’s shoulder, and Shane brought his shoulder up, holding Ilya’s bicep between his shoulder and his jaw. He wanted all of Ilya, everything that Ilya could give him, as long as Ilya would give it to him. Frantic now, they held each other tight, and then Ilya leaned back. His pupils were huge, his gorgeous hazel irises thin rims of gold and green. He slid his hands down to Shane’s shoulder and Shane slid into the waiting sea, knowing that Ilya would be there for him.

“On your knees.”

Shane’s whole world was Ilya and he went eagerly. Tentatively, Ilya put his hands on Shane’s shoulders, but then he jerked them away and groaned. Almost past words, Shane opened Ilya’s pants, the heavy buckle clattering as it dropped to the floor. Another time, Shane would have flinched from the noise, but right now, he was floating. Everything he wanted was in front of him, Ilya’s heated cypress scent heavy on his tongue.

“So hot.” Ilya tore off his shirt, tearing the thin fabric. Mouth occupied, Shane reached up with one hand to take Ilya’s temperature. His fingers tangled with Ilya’s cross, and Ilya mumbled something. Shane didn’t know what it was, couldn’t understand if it was English, French, or Russian. He was didn’t care.

Wrapping strong, callused fingers around Shane’s hand, Ilya clasped their joined hands to his chest. Then he pulled Shane up, gripping the shoulder of his shirt too tightly. It rubbed uncomfortably against the thin skin on Shane’s ribs, but he was too intent on kissing Ilya to let it distract him. It seemed like Ilya had gotten even hotter, his body radiating heat like a furnace.

Desperate now, Shane pulled Ilya closer, sliding his fingers through Ilya’s curls again. They weren’t as soft as they looked, but each one would wrap around Shane’s finger and on other days, he loved sliding his fingers through Ilya’s hair, watching as each curl unwound over his fingers. Now, though, Shane was being thoroughly kissed as Ilya leaned forward and slid his hands down, over Shane’s ass.

Ilya lifted him up and Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya’s bare waist. The first time Ilya had done this, Shane had broken the kiss, caught between humiliation and desire. Shane wasn’t small, or weak, or fragile. Eventually, Shane had understood that it had nothing to do with how strong Shane was. It was the trust that Shane gave him, to let Ilya hold him and believe that Ilya could take his weight. This, too, became another thing that Shane gave him, and now Shane was practiced enough that he didn’t break their kiss as Ilya brought him to the bed.

Ilya knelt at the edge of the bed and Shane let himself fall backward. It was as though Ilya’s heat was simmering in Shane’s blood. Ilya shed the rest of his own clothes. Before Shane’s shirt was over his head, Ilya was pulling down Shane’s pants. They were panting, both of them consumed by desire. On his back, Shane scooted to the head of the bed and Ilya followed on his hands and knees, gaze heavy as he prowled.

Ilya bit his way down Shane’s chest and stomach, little sparks of electricity lighting Shane up, and Shane tried to lift his head, tried to watch, but as Ilya turned his attention to leaving a bite mark on the inside of Shane’s thigh, Shane’s head flopped back on the pillows. Shane didn’t often scent himself, but their scents were heavy in the room, mixing together. Warm spices, metal and snow, stone and hinoki. They were good together, thought Shane. Compatible.

Satisfied with his efforts on the inside of Shane’s thigh, Ilya turned his attention to Shane’s cock, swallowing it down as though he were starving and Shane was his last meal. A ghost of embarrassment swept across Shane’s shoulders. He should be taking care of Ilya, not…not whatever this was, where Ilya feasted on him. Sensing Shane’s hesitation, Ilya dug a thumb into the fresh bite mark and Shane groaned, mind emptied but for Ilya’s hot, wet mouth and the single point of pain that only made him tremble and shudder. With a hum of satisfaction, Ilya swallowed Shane’s spend down, then pressed open mouth kisses up Shane’s stomach, one broad hand splayed on Shane’s chest.

“Stay. Let me see you,” Ilya murmured, and Shane’s stomach jumped, abs shuddering as that deep voice settled in Shane’s ears. Shane obeyed, though he felt the blush sweep over his face and chest, and he threw an arm over his face to hide it. Predictably, Ilya pulled it away.

“Let me see you.” Ilya kissed him and Shane tasted himself on Ilya’s tongue. It was indescribably erotic. “On your stomach.”

Distantly, Shane knew this wasn’t how it was supposed to work. He was supposed to be fucking Ilya. Omegas got fucked. Only, Ilya had never offered and Shane had never asked. He liked getting fucked. He liked feeling Ilya’s weight on his body. He liked being open and achingly vulnerable to Ilya. He liked that getting fucked wasn’t easy, that little sparks of pain kept him in his body, mind loose and soft.

Wiggling in anticipation, Shane rolled over. Ilya settled heavy and hard on his back, rough hand sliding from Shane’s hip to his ribs.

“Is OK?” Ilya sounded nervous, and Shane wanted to comfort him, but he didn’t know how.

He took Ilya’s hand and squeezed. “Yeah. Make me feel good, Il'yushka.”

And Ilya did. By the time Ilya slid into him, Shane was past words. All he knew was the wet heat of Ilya’s mouth, and the rough caress of Ilya’s hands, and heavy length of Ilya’s cock. Somewhere, Shane’s mind had a thought about doing more for Ilya, but then Ilya put two fingers in Shane’s mouth and the last thin strand of guilt disappeared.

“More,” Ilya demanded, words slurring. “I want all of you.”

Eyes closed, Shane nodded. When Ilya took his fingers away, he pushed skin into Shane’s mouth, insistent, and Shane obeyed, biting down, hard. Blood spilled iron on his tongue, and Shane shuddered. Then there was a searing pain in his shoulder and he gasped around Ilya—because it was Ilya, he’d just mated Ilya—and Ilya groaned and let himself rest on Shane’s chest, like a giant cat.

Instinctively, Shane wrapped his arms around his living heated blanket. They never did this—Shane holding Ilya—but Shane decided that he liked it.

They would keep doing it for a long time.

Chapter End Notes

That's all, folks! Thanks for reading and commenting! Y'all are wonderful!