Chapter 20
Cole
I settle her into the Nest Suite like she’s made of glass. She doesn’t stir too deep in sleep, her breathing soft and slow, her cheeks still flushed from the last wave of Heat. I brush a stray curl away from her face, jaw tightening at the sight of the faint shimmer of sweat at her temple. Her scent clings to the air like honeyed peaches and warm earth, rich and unmistakably Omega now.
I don’t let myself linger. Not the way I want to. I pull the softest blanket we have over her body, tuck it in lightly around her hips, and step back. The heated floor radiates low warmth through the space, soft golden light casting everything in a glow that feels more sacred than sensual.
Mine!
The thought comes unbidden. Unrelenting. But I push it down. Laurent jumped at the chance to join Massimo and Sébastien. No hesitation. Not because they needed help, hell they’re both capable, but because he’s been dying to meet Rowan ever since he realized she was the Rowan Hart from ClipStream.
“I’ve watched every single one of her nest-building videos, Kingston. Every one. You want her to have the best? You let me help build it,” he’d begged.
I couldn’t argue with that. Hell, I didn’t even try. So now the three of them are at 30 Hudson Yards, raiding the vault for nesting supplies like they’re staging an Omega intervention.
It’s my job to handle the rest. I step out of the Nest Suite and pull the door gently shut behind me. Then I start making calls.
First: food. High-protein, nutrient-rich meals. A week’s worth delivered on a rolling schedule. I know her cravings will shift fast and hard. We’ll be ready.
Next: HR. I pace through the great room, my phone pressed to my ear as I smooth over what I can’t explain. Veronica picks up after one ring.
“She’s safe,” I say before she can speak. “She needs time. So does Sébastien. Consider them on medical leave for an undisclosed duration.”
I pause, then add, “Massimo and I will be out as well. Pack business. If anything comes up, route it through my assistant.”
I end the call and immediately dial Marcus. The guy’s a machine, always three steps ahead, but even he deserves a heads-up when half the executive team suddenly disappears.
“Sloane,” I say when he picks up. “Reschedule everything for the week. No exceptions. And get a message to PR: minimal noise, no press. You know the drill.”
Sébastien
M ASSIMO SLOWS, GLANCING over his shoulder at me. “This floor holds everything we’ve ever prototyped or sourced for Omega nesting. Sheets, scent boosters, soft goods. Anything you can imagine.”
I nod, my steps slower as I take it all in. The shelves are endless, organized chaos of comfort and design. Laurent whistles low behind us, already eyeing a stack of blush-toned silk throws with wide-eyed appreciation.
“I’ve only been down here a handful of times,” Laurent says, running a hand over a shelf stacked with velvet bolsters.
“Still can’t get over this place,” Laurent mutters. “Been here two years and it still feels like stepping into a dream catalog.
I’m silent as we turn into the next aisle, running my fingers over a folded quilt infused with wild chamomile. It’s perfect. Rowan needs grounding scents. Calming textures. Something to ease the fire she’s burning through.
“Grab what you think she’ll like,” Massimo says, pausing beside me. His voice is softer now. “But Sébastien, you should think about picking things for yourself, too.”
I glance at him, uncertain.
He holds my gaze. “You’ll need a nest of your own. It doesn’t have to be today, but... soon.”
A soft breath escapes me. He’s right. My own body’s humming with residual need, my Omega instincts screaming for space and scent and safety. But Rowan comes first.
“I will,” I say quietly. “After hers is set.”
Laurent throws a roll of pale gold fleece over his shoulder like a prize. “You guys figure out who gets what corner yet?” he grins, trying to ease the tension. “Or do we have to arm wrestle over nesting placement?”
Massimo snorts. “That’s not how any of this works.”
“Speak for yourself,” Laurent says with a wink, then points at a set of cloud-soft pillows. “I’m claiming that pile as an offering. She likes various textures in her nests. I’ve seen her videos.”
I blink, surprised. “You follow her?”
“Oh, yeah. Been a fan for years,” Laurent says, not even pretending to be sheepish. “Didn’t expect her to smell like my soulmate, though. That part’s still blowing my mind.”
Massimo goes quiet, his hand resting lightly on a stack of cedar-scented weighted blankets. “She’s not the only one,” he says quietly.
I don’t need to ask who he means. We all feel it. The tangle of instincts, the pull of scent and fate and uncertainty. My chest tightens, not with fear, but with the weight of something I’ve long stopped believing in.
A true pack. A real one. And maybe... maybe it’s already starting.