Page 2 of Eight Count Heat
Bo Strickland behind him in seven, built like a wall with a Southern drawl that belies his fierce reputation.
Beckett Monroe in six, the golden boy with the troublemaker grin.
Tyler Wu in five, methodical and focused, already recalculating my added weight.
Zane Hollis in four, the only one who seems remotely welcoming.
Jackson Reed in three, barely making eye contact, muscles tight with tension.
Eli Stone in two, watching me with assessing eyes.
And at bow, Cameron Blake, silent and observant, something almost predatory in his dark hair and severe posture.
Eight Alphas. One shell. And me, an Omega masquerading as a Beta, about to command them all.
I slide into the cockpit, feeling the familiar curve of the boat embrace me. This is where I belong. This narrow space of power where my voice controls eight bodies, sixteen oars, and the cutting path through water.
"Arms only to start," I say, my coxswain voice dropping into the lower intonation I use on the water. Firm, clear, commanding. "Half slide after ten, full slide at twenty. We'll take it easy since you're not used to my calls."
Gray makes a scoffing sound but says nothing more.
I grip the rudder lines, feeling their tension. "Sit ready at the catch."
Eight bodies shift forward, oars positioned.
"Row."
Like magic, they respond to my command. The boat lurches forward, then settles into rhythm as blades dip and pull. Within minutes, I learn their patterns: Gray's metronomic precision, Bo's raw power, Beckett's fluid strength, Tyler's efficiency, Zane's easy flow, Jackson's tense energy, Eli's careful technique, and Cameron's adaptability.
"Power ten in two," I call. "One, two—"
The boat surges as they drive harder, and something settles in my chest. This could work. This could actually work.
Then Gray deliberately shifts his timing, throwing off the rhythm.
"Seat eight, you're rushing the catch," I call out, keeping my voice neutral. "Match seven's pace."
He ignores me. The boat wobbles as the synchronization fails.
Two can play this game.
"Let it run," I command.
The rowers lift their oars from the water, allowing the boat to glide.
"Seat eight," I say, my voice quiet but carrying across the suddenly silent boat. "When I give a command, I expect it to be followed. You want to challenge me? Save it for land. On this water, my word is law."
Gray cocks his head, eyes locking with mine. The challenge in them makes my pulse quicken, not with fear, but with something that has no place on this boat or with these men.
"And if I don't?" he asks.
"Then you'll lose," I say simply. "Not just this trial run, but Riverside. Nationals. Everything you've worked for. Your call, Lockwood."
The air between us crackles with tension. Seven other Alphas watch, waiting.
Finally, Gray turns back to position. "Let's run it again."
I smile, just slightly. Round one to me.
