Chapter 18
ADELAIDE
Something is pressed against my face, and it takes three full seconds to identify it as a pillow.
I shove it off, only to notice another one tucked under my left arm. The duvet is somehow both underneath and on top of me, the sheet wound around my legs, and when I attempt to roll over, I find I’ve got a complete nest around myself. I’m a full burrito.
I lie in the ruins of it and blink at the ceiling, which doesn’t belong to my shack.
Right. I had incredible sex with Luca and Ace, then we fell into bed, and I grin at the delicious memory.
I reach for the clock on the side table. Nine forty-seven and it’s bright and sunny outside. It’s morning. I do the math. Then I do it again because the math seems wrong.
Oh, crap, I’ve been asleep for fifteen hours. “Oh my God.”
I sit up so fast the blanket nest collapses completely around me, and I’m sitting in the bedroom, alone, light pouring through the blinds in long pale stripes. I press both hands over my face, rubbing my eyes to wake up.
Then I climb out of bed, my bare feet finding the cool floor, and glance around.
No clothes. The bikini and shorts are somewhere in the living room from yesterday, and by the scent in here, this must be Luca’s bedroom, with his wardrobe three feet away, a dresser, and a guitar in the far corner. I had no idea he played.
I stumble over to the wardrobe, purely out of curiosity, and pull it open.
Shirts hang in a line. I run my hand along the fabric, cotton and linen, all of it soft and clean. Then I push my face in. I take a deep inhale, his scent undiluted, right there, and my shoulders drop two inches. The tightness in my chest unfurls.
“I could retire,” I tell the clothes. “Bottled Alpha scent for Omegas. Complete wellness empire. The scented candle industry has nothing on this.”
I pull open the drawer below. Tees in neat rows. Socks actually paired. Very Luca, apparently. Then, farther back, tucked under a stack folded with suspicious care, I spot a small stash of magazines with very specific cover art.
I pick one up. Blonde. Fair-skinned. Big chest. Not very subtle.
I close the drawer and stand there for a second.
Then I open it again, because evidently I enjoy hurting my own feelings in weirdly specific ways.
I flip through just enough to confirm that, yes, Luca has a type, and, yes, it is irritatingly close to my appearance.
Two pages are stuck to each other, and I snap the magazine shut so fast I nearly take my own thumb off.
“Hm,” I say to the drawer, because that feels like the only available response.
Trying not to laugh and absolutely not thinking about those women and Luca, I shove the magazine back under the stack, grab the blue tee from the top of the folded pile, and head for the shower before my brain can make any of this worse.
The bathroom is enormous and boasts a rainfall shower.
I stand under water that’s almost too hot and let it work my muscles, yesterday’s extraordinary afternoon, and fifteen hours of deep unconsciousness.
By the time I’m out and standing in front of the steam-clouded mirror, wiping it clear with one hand to look at myself—damp-haired, bare-faced, and wearing his tee that hits mid-thigh—I tell my reflection with complete seriousness, “This is completely normal.”
I end up in the kitchen, drinking most of the water in a bottle while standing at the open fridge because my body is urgently demanding it.
I load a plate with leftover salmon, fruit, and the good cheddar and crackers from the pantry, then wander the house barefoot, eating, because apparently I’m hungry enough to graze like a mildly feral heiress.
“Hello?” I call out around a mouthful of cheddar. “Any giant Alpha men lurking in expensive corners of this house?”
Nothing.
I pause by the hallway and listen.
“North? Ace? Luca?”
Still nothing.
The house stays quiet around me, and after a second, I figure I must actually be alone. The French doors are straight ahead, and beyond them the beach, so I push them open to go looking.
Something small and fast shoots through the gap between my ankles, into the house, and keeps going.
I squeal and spin around so hard I nearly throw my food.
A rooster is currently in the living room, seemingly conducting a full inspection.
Thin, the way all the wild chickens on this island are, rust-red feathers, white patch at his throat, bright orange legs, and absolutely no respect for private property.
He walks around a slow, deliberate circle with his head high, like he’s been invited to assess the place before making an offer.
He spots the dropped piece of salmon on the floor, studies it with one beady eye, and then eats it.
“Not for you,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
He keeps walking.
I set my plate down on the table, spread my arms wide, and try for authority. “Out. You came in that way; you go back out that way.”
He changes direction immediately.
I go left. He cuts right.
I go right. He cuts left.
Gasping, I try to come at him from behind, but he reads that move before I’ve even committed to it and shoots under the coffee table, which I cannot do because I am, tragically, not a rooster.
He reappears on the other side while I’m still trying to get around the furniture without humiliating myself further.
He heads for the couch.
“Do not—”
He gets on the couch, scratching at it.
“Hey, you’d better stop that.” I snatch a cushion and wave it at him. “Absolutely not. That is not your couch. You’re a beach bird and don’t need upholstery.”
He hops sideways along the cushions, then steps onto the armrest, and then onto the coffee table, where he stands with his chest puffed out before releasing a crowing sound like he’s claiming the place.
“Fine,” I state, pushing my hair back. “You want the table, have it, but you’re leaving this house. I already temporarily live here with three very large Alpha men. I don’t need a fourth cock in the house—”
“Another cock?” Luca’s voice streams into the room, and I glance up to find the three of them entering through the French doors in surf shorts, towels around their necks, hair still damp. They stop dead.
North is already chuckling as he stares at the rooster, Ace grinning too happily, while Luca is shaking his head.
The rooster ruffles its feathers as if he’s been formally introduced.
“He broke in, ate some salmon, ignored all instructions, and has now claimed the living room.”
Ace is already losing it, laughing. “You were arguing with him?”
Luca’s mouth twitches. “How’s that working out for you?”
I gesture at the rooster, who pecks calmly at a cracker crumb and then gives me a look that clearly suggests I’m the one who wandered into his house. “Read the room.”
Ace crouches to the bird’s level. “You’re causing a scene, brother.”
The rooster lifts his head all the way up and lets out a sharp, aggressive bwark that sounds alarmingly opinionated.
Ace straightens slowly. “Right. That was my warning.”
Luca, who has apparently decided this is beneath him, starts across the room with all the confidence of a man who thinks he’s still the apex predator here.
The rooster notices. The neck lengthens, chest puffs, feathers flare at the edges, and it makes a strange rattling sound that starts in the little maniac’s throat like he’s winding himself up for violence.
North, watching this with his usual criminal calm, says, “He’s picked one.”
Luca keeps walking. “He’s two pounds.”
The rooster launches.
One second he’s on the coffee table, and the next he’s a rust-red missile with wings, flying straight at Luca’s face.
Luca yelps and throws himself sideways into the armchair so fast the towel flies off his neck.
The rooster lands exactly where Luca had been standing, spins in place, and fixes him with one blazing orange eye.
Ace turns away, shoulders shaking, one hand over his mouth.
I point at the bird. “That is what I was dealing with.”
Luca, from the chair, lifts both hands. “I’d like it noted that I was ambushed.”
The rooster hops once toward him.
Luca immediately pulls his feet up off the floor.
North folds his arms. “Interesting. He doesn’t respect you.”
“I don’t respect him either,” Luca mutters.
“Terrible time to announce that,” I say, because the bird is clearly listening.
The rooster gives Luca another furious bwark.
Ace finally manages, “He really hates you.”
“I don’t know what I did,” Luca says, offended now.
That’s when the rooster makes his move. He shoots across the room before any of us can cut him off.
North goes left. I go right. Ace tries to circle around from the couch.
Luca, in a move that suggests panic has overtaken dignity, grabs a decorative throw blanket and attempts to herd the bird toward the open doors.
But the pesky thing spins sharply and cuts past Ace’s bare feet, heading for the hallway.
“No,” Luca says, breaking into a sprint. “Absolutely not. You are not getting the bedrooms.”
North gets there first, stepping neatly into the bird’s path with a speed that feels unfair. The rooster brakes, flares up again, and swivels toward the kitchen instead.
Ace lunges for him, arms outward to catch him in a swoop, and gets nothing but air.
Luca tries the throw blanket again, tossing it at him, but misses. “Why is he this athletic?”
“Because he’s fighting for his life,” I say. “And apparently winning.”
The rooster darts between my ankles, I stumble, Ace catches my elbow before I go down, and North disappears into the open kitchen.
A second later, he comes back with a plate.
Cucumber. Fruit. Leftover vegetables. He sets it outside on the deck through the open French doors, then steps away.
We all go still.
The rooster turns his head. One orange eye on the plate. One on Luca. Then, with all the arrogance of a mob boss accepting tribute, he strolls toward the open doors like this was his decision all along.