Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
LANI
I wake drenched.
Not from the bath. Not from rain. From heat – thick and clinging, like the air itself has turned against me. Sweat slicks my spine, mats my hair to my neck, soaks the sheets beneath me. My skin feels too tight, too full, like it doesn’t quite fit anymore.
I gasp and curl in on myself, a sharp cramp twisting low in my belly.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper, clutching at myself as another wave rolls through me. Heat, then cold. A deep ache that pulses and pulls, not pain exactly, but something insistent. Demanding.
My legs tremble.
My breath comes out in shallow pants, chest fluttering like I’ve just run miles instead of lying still. My heart won’t settle, skidding too fast, too loud.
This is worse.
Much worse.
I press my face into the pillow and moan softly, the sound torn from me before I can stop it. My body feels wrong in a way I don’t have words for – overstimulated and hollow at the same time. Like something inside me is waking up and I’m not ready for it.
I try to sit up.
The room spins violently, nausea surging hard enough that I gag and clutch the duvet. Spots dance across my vision. My head throbs, a deep pressure right behind my eyes.
“Nope,” I mutter weakly, collapsing back.
That’s when I smell it.
Salt. Warmth. Something dark and grounding beneath it – clean skin, iron-warm, unmistakably male. It’s faint, but it’s there, clinging to the pillow, the sheets, the oversized t-shirt I’m wearing.
Sol.
The second the scent hits me, something inside me eases.
Not all the way. But enough.
My breathing stutters, then slows. The ache in my belly dulls from sharp to heavy. The frantic edge of my nerves softens, like someone’s turned the volume down just a notch.
I whimper quietly and turn my face into the fabric at my shoulder, inhaling deeper without meaning to. The relief is immediate and shocking enough that tears sting my eyes.
“Oh,” I breathe, dazed. “Oh.”
That shouldn’t have worked.
Nothing has worked like that.
I shift and it becomes crystal clear to me: a wave of smoked Oud – deep, dark, and primal, like embers burning low. Salted Driftwood – rugged and weathered, evoking stormy shores. Tempered by the soft sweetness of toasted Marshmallow – a soft contrast, hinting at warmth beneath the roughness.
He smells like danger wrapped in something deceptively comforting.
Another cramp rolls through me – stronger this time – and I make a broken sound before I can bite it back, fingers fisting in the sheets.
The door creaks open.
“Lani?”
A voice. Soft. Careful.
Not Sol.
I blink, struggling to focus as footsteps approach the bed. The mattress dips slightly, weight settling near my legs.
Koa.
His scent reaches me a second later – lighter, breezier, familiar in a way that doesn’t snag so hard inside my chest. It’s…intoxicating.
Sunlit, effortless, and addictive, like sea salt on warm sand, with a lingering, soft smokiness that clings to skin. Campfire smoke, I realise. And under it all, a deliciousness that could be mistaken for chocolate. Warm, slightly sweet, with a vanilla-almond depth. Tonka bean.
“You alright?” he asks quietly. “You were making noises.”
Embarrassment flares weakly, but it can’t quite cut through everything else. I try to answer and fail, a breathy whine slipping out instead as another wave of heat washes over me.
His hand hovers, unsure. “Hey…okay. Okay. Don’t move.”
He presses the back of his fingers to my forehead and swears under his breath. “Jesus. You’re burning up.”
I curl instinctively toward the pillow again, chasing that other scent, that steadiness. Koa notices.
His brows knit together. “Sol went downstairs for a minute,” he says slowly. “Do you want me to get him?”
Yes!
The word screams through me so loudly it almost hurts.
But all that comes out is a small, hoarse sound as my body curls tighter, thighs pressing together, heat pooling low and needy and confusing.
Koa stiffens, just a fraction.
“…okay,” he says carefully. “Yeah. I’m gonna get him.”
He doesn’t touch me again. Just stands quickly and leaves the room, footsteps retreating down the hall.
The door closes.
I’m alone again, trapped with the heat, the ache, the scent soaked into the bed.
My body shifts restlessly, chasing comfort, chasing something I don’t understand yet. I clutch the pillow to my chest and breathe Sol’s scent in like it’s oxygen, like I might break apart without it.
Something is wrong with me.
Something is waking up. Clamouring for attention. Clawing to get out.
And the worst part?
My body already knows exactly who it wants.
The door opens again.
This time, there are too many footsteps.
My eyes flutter open, unfocused, the room swimming in heat and shadow. Shapes blur together at the foot of the bed – tall, broad, doubled. Tripled.
I frown weakly.
There’s…more than one of them?
That can’t be right.
Koa…and Sol. I remember. But a third…? It’s not Finn.
I’m so confused but thinking makes pain flare behind my eyes.
Voices overlap – low, urgent, trying not to sound like panic – but my head can’t quite separate them. One sounds sharp. One softer. One…familiar.
“I told you,” someone says. “She doesn’t look right.”
“She’s worse,” another voice mutters. “Way worse.”
I try to track the sound and fail. My stomach twists hard and I make a broken noise instead, clutching at the sheet like it might hold me together.
Then—
him.
I don’t need to see him to know.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up, a sharp pull low in my gut that makes me whimper and turn my face into the pillow. Relief crashes through me so fast it almost hurts. My breath shudders out, tension easing just enough to make room for the ache underneath.
The doubled shapes blur again.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath.
The mattress dips as he moves closer – too close, but somehow exactly right. I feel him before he touches me. Heat. Weight. That steady, grounding presence that makes my spine loosen despite myself.
“She’s burning up,” one of the others says.
“I can see that,” my him snaps – then softer, tighter, “Lani?”
I try to answer. My throat won’t cooperate. Another cramp tears through me and I make a small, broken sound instead.
He swears again, quiet and vicious but it’s not aimed at me. I don’t think.
His hand hovers, then lands at my shoulder, firm and solid. Not gentle exactly. Careful. Like he’s afraid I’ll shatter.
“She’s shaking,” another voice adds. “Look at her.”
“I know,” he says, rough now. Controlled, but only just. “I’ve got her.”
And somehow – god help me – that makes everything ease another notch.
His hand slides from my shoulder to my back, broad and warm through the fabric of my borrowed shirt. My body leans into it without permission, chasing the contact like it’s oxygen.
I hear one of the others inhale sharply.
“…That’s not normal,” he murmurs.
He goes very still.
“What?” he says flatly.
“She settled,” the other replies. “The second you touched her.”
Silence stretches thin and brittle.
My head throbs.
Why are they all looking at me like that?
Why does he feel so right when everything else feels wrong?
Another wave hits – heat, pressure, that awful crawling awareness under my skin – and I cry out softly before I can stop myself, hips shifting restlessly.
“Okay,” he says, sharper now. “You—out.”
“What?” one of them protests.
“Out,” he repeats. “Now. Both of you. Go do something useful. I’ll shout if I need you.”
There’s hesitation. Then footsteps retreat.
The door closes.
We’re alone.
He adjusts me without comment, pulling the duvet higher, bracing me with his body close but not pressing. His scent wraps around me, thick and grounding, and I melt into it with a shaky sigh that I don’t bother fighting.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, low and steady. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
My forehead presses into his chest without me deciding to move. His shirt is warm. Solid. Real.
“Sol?” I whisper, half question, half plea.
His breath catches. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m here.”
My body finally stills. Not fixed. Not healed. But calmer. Less like it’s tearing itself apart from the inside.
I don’t understand why.
But somewhere, deep down, something inside me does.
And it clings.