4. Sky #4
She lifts her head a fraction. “Is that still happening?”
“Yes. It's just my brothers.”
“Are you answering? It might be important.”
“It's not. This is.” I curve my hands around the arc of her ass and thank every lucky star there is that earth men are so blind.
Her cheek settles back against my chest. “Good.”
For a while, that is all. The knot softens slowly, but the rut does not release me.
Her scent deepens after the first claiming, changed by me and still unmistakably hers.
It calls to the oldest part of my body, the part that knows a mate must be kept close, warmed, fed, touched, brought to pleasure until fear has no room to live.
When I slip free, she makes a sleepy protesting sound.
I kiss it from her mouth. Then I taste her again, because she is tender and swollen and mine, because the aphrodisiac in my tongue can soothe as well as arouse, because her thighs part for me even while her eyes stay half-closed.
The second time is slower.
The third is not.
By dawn, she has learned how to stroke my ears until I lose every polished piece of myself.
I have learned how her pussy grips harder when my mouth closes around her nipple, how her breath breaks before she asks for more, how her body accepts the knot more easily when I hold her hips and feed her my tongue first. The bedroom loses its clean lines.
Sheets twist. Pillows fall. Her blouse ends up under her cheek because she reaches for the nearest soft thing when the rut rises too fast.
That is when the nesting starts.
I do not recognize it until I am already doing it.
The bed is wrong. Too flat. Too exposed.
My mate needs warmth at her back, softness at her knees, my scent around her.
I leave her only long enough to open every storage cabinet in the room.
Thermal blankets. Spare sheets. My shirts.
A heavy Layn wrap made for cold transit.
I bring all of it to the bed and build around her while she lies naked, sated and watching me with one eyebrow raised.
“Are you making a fort?”
“A nest.”
Her eyebrow rises higher. “For me?”
“For us.”
She looks at the mound of blankets, then at my very serious hands arranging them. A soft laugh leaves her, worn out and affectionate enough to make the bond tighten. “I’m sorry. I know this is probably very meaningful, but you look like a hobo, carrying all of your precious possessions.”
"Laugh away. Nothing's more precious than you."
She reaches up with one trembling hand and touches my lower lip. “That was…” She swallows. “This is a lot.”
A laugh almost breaks me in half. “A lot,” I repeat.
“I mean, wow. I'm a journalist, and I don't have the words.” Her eyes soften, and the humor fades into a whisper. “I can feel you.”
Everything in me goes still. “Yes.”
“It’s weird.” She gives her little half-smile. “And hot. And terrifying.”
“Yes. Yes. And yes.”
She frowns faintly. “You’re not supposed to agree with all of those.”
“I won't lie to my mate.”
She stares. Then she laughs. Hard. The sound goes straight through the fresh bond and nearly kills me.
“Beatrice,” I warn, voice wrecked.
“I’m sorry.” She is absolutely not sorry. Her body shakes again. “It’s just once again you leave me wordless. Loora would drop her snacks and tell you I'm never speechless.”
She laughs until tears slip from the corners of her eyes.
I endure it because I am the eldest son of Layn, heir to the crown, trained in negotiation, combat, and patience under torture.
When she finally settles, her cheek rests against the nest. Her hand curls in the fabric. “It smells like you,” she murmurs.
“Yes.”
“That helps.”
My heart does something stupid. I tuck the cloth closer around her and settle in beside her. “Good.”
She settles again, unconvinced, already drifting. I do not move. Would not move if the building caught fire. I would carry her out still wrapped around me and deal with evacuation protocols afterward.
The ring on my hand pulses.
Once.
Then again.
Of course.
Zymlor. Bryklor. Possibly Father if the bond registered through channels I did not think could reach Earth. The claim will have consequences. Family. Formal notice. Ring rights. Ceremony. Titles. The whole beautiful, inconvenient machinery of Layn recognizing my princess.
Later. All of it later.
Beatrice sleeps with my shirt under her cheek, my scent around her, and my mark on her throat. Her breathing steadies. Her aura glows softer now, gold banked low and warm. She looks young like this. Not in years. In trust.
I should think of Layn. The coffee strains. The children. Bryklor’s shipments. Zymlor’s cure research. The story that could expose more than she knows.
I think of none of it.
I think of nine seconds after she left my office the first time and how proud I was to have survived them. Now she is in my bed, in my arms, marked by my teeth, and I have no interest in surviving her at all.
I lower my mouth to her hair and breathe her in until I no longer think at all.