Chapter 20 – REGINA
Chapter
Twenty
REGINA
S hit. How long have I been asleep?
The living room is dim, with only a single lamp lighting the space. It’s an ugly as fuck lamp, too. Something feels off. The cushions around me have multiplied, and there's a literal mountain of blankets tucked around my body.
What the hell?
I sit up slowly, pushing aside what has to be at least three new fuzzy throws that weren't here before.
The conversation pit has been transformed into what can only be described as a nest. There are pillows arranged in a perfect circle around me, blankets layered with care, even a couple of hoodies tucked strategically near my head that smell faintly of laundry soap and the pack.
Gingerbread, earth and bourbon, old books, and the beach.
Did these four giant idiots seriously build a nest around me while I was sleeping?
At least the fucked up side of my face was against a pillow, and I don’t tend to move much when I sleep.
The house is quiet, but I know they're nearby. I can feel them somehow, like a subtle awareness humming just beneath my skin. Another point for the whole "mate" theory, I guess, although I'm not ready to admit that out loud.
A cramping sensation low in my abdomen makes me wince. Great timing, universe. I stand up carefully, making my way to the bathroom attached to the living room. My suspicions are confirmed within minutes.
"Fuck," I mutter, staring at the unmistakable evidence in my pants. My period. Of course it would start now, when I'm already magically depleted and living with four male shifters who can probably smell every hormonal shift in my body.
Hopefully blood doesn't have the same effect on wolves as sharks.
This really couldn't get any worse.
The cramps intensify, a familiar dull ache blooming across my lower back. I somehow resist the urge to groan. I haven't had cramps this bad in forever. Must be a side effect of running on fumes.
Thankfully, Sean's shopping spree included every feminine product known to mankind. I grab what I need and take care of business, then splash cold water on my face without looking in the mirror. I couldn't focus through the pain enough to put on the glamour right now if I tried.
When I return to the living room, I find a pair of oversized gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt with the fraternity letters—LT, stylized with slash marks behind them—stitched on the front folded neatly on the couch.
They weren't there when I went to the bathroom, but I'm beyond questioning the wolves' stealthy movements at this point.
I pick them up, catching the warm, gingerbread scent clinging to the fabric.
Micah's.
I check to make sure no one's looking before bringing the soft fabric to my face and huffing it like a rockstar snorts coke off a stripper's ass.
Once I accept the fact that I've truly sunk to never before seen lows, I take them back to the bathroom, slipping out of my jeans and into the sweatpants.
They're ridiculously large, hanging low on my hips even after I pull the drawstring as tight as it will go, and I have to roll up the legs several times.
But they're soft and comfortable and smell faintly like cinnamon and sugar and something distinctly male.
I notice a bottle of ibuprofen that's magically appeared on the edge of the sink, another gift from the shopping expedition. I take two tablets, swallowing them with water from the tap, then steel myself to face the world outside.
As I step back into the living room, I hear movement in the hallway—the subtle shift of weight, a floorboard creaking slightly. Someone's lurking just around the corner.
"You can come out," I call, trying to keep my voice light as I keep my face carefully turned away. "I know you're there."
Micah slinks into view, a sheepish grin on his face. His glasses sit slightly askew on the bridge of his nose, which I notice for the first time is slightly crooked, no doubt from fights.
"Sorry," he says, rubbing the back of his head. Must be why his brown hair is tousled. It’s one of his nervous tics, and he has a few. "Didn't want to disturb you. How are you feeling?"
I consider lying, but what's the point? "I've felt better."
His eyes drift to the clothes I’m wearing, and his expression shifts to something almost... possessive. "Those look good on you. Way better than they do on me."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Thanks for letting me borrow them. I didn't exactly pack a extensive wardrobe."
“Trust me, if the others saw, I'd have had to fight them for the privilege.” He laughs nervously. “Are you hungry? Rowan went out for food, but he should be back soon.”
My stomach rumbles loudly, answering for me. Micah grins. "Guess so."
"Can I get you anything while we wait?" he asks, hovering nearby like he's afraid I might shatter if he moves too quickly.
It occurs to me with a cold clench of my chest that he hasn't said anything about the fact that my glamour isn't on. He didn't flinch when he looked at me, or even look away like most people do. If I didn't know better, I'd think he really didn't give a shit.
Everyone does, though.
He’s just… very good at hiding it.
"I'm fine, really," I insist, though "fine" is a stretch. I feel weak, my limbs heavy and my head slightly fuzzy. The cramping has dulled to a persistent ache, but I can tell it's just the calm before the storm.
I lower myself back onto the couch, nestling into the ridiculous mountain of blankets. It's absurd how comfortable they've made this space, like they've channeled all their protective instincts into cushion arrangement.
Alpha wolves acting like birds.
Kind of funny, actually.
Micah hovers, clearly unsure whether to join me or maintain a respectful distance. Before he can make up his mind, two sets of heavy footsteps sound from the front hall, and Killian and Sean appear, each carrying more blankets.
Caught wool-handed.
They freeze when they see me awake, then Killian's nostrils flare. His eyes widen in alarm and I turn my head fast, afraid he’s looking at me like that because of my scars.
"I smell blood," he says sharply.
Oh. Guess that wasn’t why.
I groan, burying my face in a pillow. This is truly the pinnacle of mortification. My face burns hot enough to catch fire.
"Are you alright? What happened?" Killian presses, rushing to the makeshift nest and dropping the blankets into it.
I groan, burying my face in a pillow. This is truly the pinnacle of mortification. My face is burning so hot, I’m surprised I don’t fucking spontaneously combust.
That would be too merciful for the universe.
"She has her period," Sean informs him, dropping his own blanket bundle onto the others. " Now who's the dumbass?"
"Oh," Killian mutters, cringing. "Sorry."
Micah approaches, studying me with concern. "That explains why you're even more drained. Monthly cycles affect a witch's energy, right?"
I want to deny it out of principle, but he's right. Menstruation does impact magical reserves, especially for siphons. I've never had a period without the coven's energy to draw from since becoming Bonded. I’m sure that’s at least part of why I’m feeling so depleted.
"You might have a point," I admit grudgingly.
"Want a massage?" Sean offers. "I've got magic fingers." He waggles said fingers demonstratively.
I snort. “It’s okay. I’ll take your word for it.”
"Do you still want us to leave you alone?" Killian asks, still looking slightly embarrassed. "We can give you more space."
The question catches me off guard. Do I want them to leave? The version of myself I was a few days ago would say yes. I would want solitude, peace, and distance from these overwhelming wolves.
But that's not what I want at all right now.
"Actually, I don't mind the company," I admit.
You'd think I'd just announced Christmas morning from the way all three wolves light up.
"We could watch a movie," Sean says.
"Fine with me," I say. "Whatever you want to watch."
This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. The wolves immediately launch into a heated debate over film selection with the passion of film critics at Cannes.
"Horror," Sean insists. "The new 'Vengeful Nights' film just dropped on streaming."
"She doesn't want to watch people getting dismembered right now," Killian argues. "How about that historical drama about the Viking settlement?"
"Boring," Sean groans. "Regina, back me up. Horror's better than some three-hour snooze-fest about bearded dudes building log cabins, right?"
I can't help but smile. "I do actually like horror."
As they continue setting up the movie, I find myself strangely drawn to them. Their scents, at least. They’re pulling at something instinctive inside me. I shift closer almost unconsciously, like a plant bending toward sunlight.
Sean notices first, his nostrils flaring as he leans in and sniffs me. “Dude, Micah, your scent is all over her. That isn’t fucking fair.”
Micah smirks. “ Your pants would have fallen off her, bubble butt.”
“So you finally admit you can fit into girl pants,” Sean snaps back without missing a beat.
Micah’s smirk flattens. “That is definitely not what I said.”
Sean throws his hands up in the air. “Hey, if you wanna roast yourself like that, be my guest.”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, but it catches on a wave of cramping that makes me wince. This period is definitely going down in the history books.
Sean's expression softens instantly. "You sure you don't want that massage? Might help with the cramping."
I hesitate. The offer is tempting. My lower back is killing me, and I've been carrying tension in my shoulders for so long, I’m going to need an alignment.
The magical kind, not just a human chiropractor.
Sometimes I wonder if I should just lay on one of those medieval stretching torture devices some witches use as kitchen tables and let it go to town.
"Well... maybe."
If I'm seriously considering Bonding myself to this pack, what's one little massage?