Chapter 18
I woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the pleasant weight of three werewolves surrounding me.
Somehow during the night, we’d shifted positions—I was sprawled across Logan’s chest, with Keir pressed against my back and Cade’s arm thrown over both of us.
The king-sized bed that had seemed enormous last night suddenly felt woefully inadequate for four grown men, especially when three of them were oversized alphas who apparently considered personal space an optional concept.
Not that I was complaining.
I carefully extracted myself from the tangle of limbs, earning a disgruntled noise from Keir who immediately rolled into the warm spot I’d vacated.
Logan’s arm twitched as if to pull me back, but he settled again without waking.
Cade—ever the lightest sleeper—opened one eye to track my movement before seeming to decide I wasn’t making a break for it and allowing it to close again.
My feet had barely touched the floor when Mochi’s head popped up from his spot at the foot of the bed, his tail already wagging in anticipation of breakfast. Boba remained a potato-shaped lump among the pillows, one eye cracking open just enough to communicate his utter disdain for morning people before closing again with a dramatic sigh.
I padded across the plush carpet to my en suite bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me.
The reflection that greeted me in the mirror was…
different. My hair was a disaster, of course—a combination of beach, sleep, and three pairs of hands running through it had left it sticking up in directions that defied physics.
But beyond that, there was something changed in my face.
My eyes seemed brighter, my skin had a healthy glow that had been missing for years, and the perpetual shadows beneath my eyes had faded.
After taking care of the more pressing morning necessities, I splashed cold water on my face and made a half-hearted attempt to tame my hair. It was a lost cause, but at least now I looked less like I’d been electrocuted and more like I’d just had a particularly vigorous pillow fight.
A knock at the bedroom door startled me as I exited the bathroom. I froze, glancing at the three very asleep werewolves sprawled across my bed. Thankfully, the layout of my room meant the bed wasn’t visible from the doorway—a small architectural mercy I’d never appreciated until this moment.
“Finn? You alive in there?” Drew’s voice called through the door.
Drew stood in the hallway, fully dressed in jeans and a button-down, car keys dangling from his fingers. His eyebrows shot up as he took in my appearance.
“Well, well.” He smirked. “Looks like someone had an interesting night.”
“Did you need something?” I asked, trying for dignified but probably missing by several miles.
“Just letting you know I’m heading into Seattle for the day,” he explained. “Jake and Tyler convinced me to check out that new exhibition at the Glass Museum, then lunch at Pike Place. Might hit a few shops after.”
“On a Sunday?” I asked, suspicious of this convenient disappearance.
Drew rolled his eyes. “Yes, on a Sunday. Some of us have social lives that extend beyond being claimed by three alphas.”
I felt my face heat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, you don’t.” Drew grinned. “Your bedroom door isn’t soundproof, you know.”
If possible, my face grew even hotter. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best and you know it,” he countered. “That’s why I’m giving you the house to yourselves for the day. You’re welcome.”
“I hate you,” I muttered.
“Love you too, little brother,” Drew replied, already heading down the hallway. “I’ll be back around six. Try to be dressed by then!”
I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart racing with a combination of embarrassment and… anticipation? The thought of having the entire mansion to ourselves for the day sent a thrill through me that I wasn’t quite ready to examine.
I turned to find all three brothers awake, watching me with varying degrees of hunger in their eyes.
Cade sat against the headboard, the sheet pooled around his waist doing little to conceal his impressive physique.
Logan had propped himself up on one elbow, his torso bare and distractingly perfect.
Keir lounged at the foot of the bed, already scrolling through his phone, though his eyes flicked up to me with predatory interest.
“You heard all that?” I asked, not sure if I should be mortified or relieved.
“Every word,” Logan confirmed, his eyes tracking my movement as I crossed back to the bed.
“Come here,” Cade said.
It wasn’t a request. The alpha command in his voice sent a shiver down my spine, my fox responding instinctively to the authority in his tone. I moved toward the bed before I’d consciously decided to do so, drawn by something deeper than physical attraction.
I hesitated at the edge of the mattress.
“Second thoughts, little fox?” Logan asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
“No,” I said, climbing onto the bed with more confidence than I felt. “Just… processing.”
“Process later,” Keir suggested, setting his phone aside and reaching for me. “Feel now.”
I allowed myself to be pulled between them, immediately enveloped in their combined warmth and scent. Cade’s hand found my hair, fingers threading through the strands with surprising gentleness.
“I’m starving,” I announced, breaking the moment with all the grace of a bulldozer through a china shop. My stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly, as if to emphasize the point.
Logan burst out laughing, the sound so unexpected and genuine that I couldn’t help joining in. Even Cade’s lips twitched with amusement.
“Always at the most inconvenient times,” Keir sighed dramatically, though his eyes danced with mirth. “Your stomach has the worst timing.”
“Sorry,” I offered, not feeling sorry at all. “Apparently sleeping surrounded by werewolves makes me hungry.”
“Can’t have that,” Logan said, pressing a kiss to my temple before sliding from the bed. “French toast?”
“French toast?” I perked up immediately.
His military precision extended to the kitchen, where his cooking was one of the few skills that even Cade acknowledged superior to his own.
His French toast was legendary in the Sinclair household—one of the few culinary bright spots during our teenage years when Elena had her annual two-week vacation.
“With the cinnamon-vanilla custard?” I asked hopefully, already sliding off the bed.
“Is there any other way to make it?” Logan replied.
“I’ll assist,” Cade offered, also rising from the bed.
“By which he means he’ll stand around looking pretty and occasionally hand me ingredients,” Logan clarified with a smirk. “But I’ll take what I can get.”
Keir remained sprawled on the bed, showing no inclination to move. “I’ll stay here with Finn,” he offered magnanimously. “Make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”
“Nice try,” Cade said. “Everyone helps.”
“I don’t cook,” Keir protested. “Remember the Great Pancake Disaster?”
“We agreed never to speak of that again,” Logan said solemnly, though his eyes glittered with amusement. “You can set the table.”
I snorted, remembering the infamous incident that had resulted in a kitchen ceiling so thoroughly splattered with batter that Elena had banned Keir from cooking duties for life.
“He’s not even allowed to operate the toaster anymore,” I reminded them.
“Elena put a sticky note on it that just says ‘No Keir’ with three exclamation points.”
Twenty minutes later, I was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, watching in fascination as Logan moved around the kitchen with surprising efficiency. For someone so physically imposing, he had an unexpected grace in this environment, his movements precise and economical.
Cade did indeed mostly stand around looking pretty, though he occasionally handed Logan ingredients or stole kisses when he passed. Keir had set the table with exaggerated care, as if expecting a formal inspection, before settling beside me at the island.
“He’s showing off for you,” Keir murmured in my ear, nodding toward Logan who was currently whisking eggs with far more flourish than necessary. “He never makes this much effort when it’s just us.”
“I heard that,” Logan called without turning around. “And I always make an effort. You’re just too busy inhaling food to notice.”
Mochi had positioned himself strategically between the stove and the table, his eyes tracking Logan’s every movement with the focused intensity of a dog who knew treats were imminent.
Boba had finally emerged from the bedroom and was now flopped dramatically at my feet, emitting occasional sighs as if the very concept of morning was personally offensive.
Pixel, who had been conspicuously absent until now, suddenly appeared on the counter, her one eye fixed judgmentally on the proceedings.
“No cats on the counter during food prep,” Logan said without even looking at her. “House rules.”
Pixel stared at him for a long moment, clearly communicating her opinion of both him and his rules, before deliberately knocking a spoon onto the floor and jumping down with offended dignity.
“She likes to assert dominance,” I explained, hiding a smile. “It’s a cat thing.”
“Reminds me of someone else I know,” Keir commented, nudging me with his shoulder.
Before I could protest this unfair comparison, Logan placed a plate in front of me with a flourish. The French toast was golden and perfect, dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon, with a side of fresh berries and real maple syrup.
“This looks amazing,” I admitted, picking up my fork.
“Taste it before you get too excited,” Cade advised, accepting his own plate. “He experiments.”
But the first bite was nothing short of revelatory—crisp on the outside, custardy within, with hints of vanilla and something else I couldn’t quite identify.