Episode 27 Blanket Forts and Broken Rules
“Now then, omega, tell us what you have planned,” Forsythe orders, but gently. Like he can tell I need someone else to be in control, but I also need a soft hand.
Uncertainty floods my system. I had been so sure that this was the right move. That this is what they needed as a pack. But now I’m doubting my instincts.
Well, I’ve been doubting them all day.
I look at the pile of carefully arranged pillows and blankets, the canopy hanging from the ceiling around the couch blocking out the rest of the room, then over to the food spread out on the small counter.
“It's… it's not much,” I say, shifting my weight nervously.
“I just thought… I imagined you might get tired of going out, of always being on, you know. Especially now. Here. Where none of us really get a break.”
I glance around at them, still feeling uncertain as hell, and wishing I had more confidence that this is the right move. Though at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter.
This was my date night. And this is what I wanted to do with them.
“So I know that a lot of the other omegas have planned really fancy dates, helicopter rides and five star meals and limos and nights to the opera or whatever… but to me all of that is just… noise. Not important. When you’re a part of a pack,” I hope they don’t notice how my voice cracks on the word pack, how my chin wants to wobble, because I’m realizing more and more that a pack isn’t something that will ever be in my future.
No matter how much I might want it to be.
Because now that I’ve met this pack—one that is so fucking far out of my league, that I know will never be mine—I’m pretty sure I’m never going to find one that compares.
Ever. “When you’re part of a pack, the times that matter the most are when you’re all together, when you can just relax and be yourself.
When it’s okay to be a little aggro about losing at Mario Kart or being greedy and eating all of the peanut butter M&Ms. Let your mask slip and be real for once. ”
I wave a hand at the pillow fort weakly.
“And I’m an omega so I couldn't resist adding pillows and blankets to the mix.” I really fucking hope that they don’t read this as me building a nest for us, even if I’d attacked this set up with the same obsessiveness I set up my little closet nest at home.
They don’t need to know that. But I’m pretty sure I’ll have a meltdown if even one of them scoffs at the fort.
No matter how much I tell my omega side that this pack is not mine, she just will not listen.
Courtland wanders over to the fort looking down at the bundles of fabric tied with ribbon lined up at its entrance. “These for us?”
My cheeks flare bright pink, and I fidget with my fingers in front of me. “Ye-Yes. I um, I actually made them for you.”
When no one moves to open them, I scurry over to the bundles and start to hand them out. Each of the alphas take them, but don’t make a move to open them, like they’re waiting for me to give them the go ahead to open them.
When I shove a package at Piers his brows jump in surprise. “For me?”
I flick my eyes up to the camera in the corner. I want to tell him he’s part of the pack too, so of course he should get a present, but for whatever reason they want to keep that under wraps and so I just smile at him and nod.
When I turn around the rest of the pack is just staring at me, expressions I can’t quite decipher on their faces.
I flap a hand. “Open them.”
When they look at the presents and away from me, I let out a relieved breath. I’ve avoided having all of their attention fixed solely on me for most of the show. There have only been a few instances, but this, this close proximity, the smaller space, the intimate setting?
It’s too much.
“You made us… pajamas?” Forsythe drawls, drawing my attention to him.
“And matching ones at that,” Courtland says happily.
“I did.” My nose wrinkles. God, this was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have-
“This is fucking awesome,” Courtland practically crows and when I look at him, he’s tugged his t-shirt over his head and, oh my god, he’s shirtless.
In my little cabana standing a few feet away from what amounts to a nest that I built for them.
My omega purrs, and just the flash of all the warm tattooed skin has me clenching my thighs together. Fuck. This was a bad idea.
I spin back around, face flushing eyes squeezing closed as I try to get my omega instincts under control.
“This is the Ashbourne tartan,” Forsythe states.
“It is.”
“Did you make some for yourself, bubbles?” Grieves asks, low and deep.
I keep my eyes closed, as I shake my head.
“I did.” So presumptuous of me. So very…
I shouldn’t have done it, but I’d been unable to stop myself.
Gotten wrapped up in the idea of us matching and being a pack and before I knew it I’d sewed some for myself.
But I’d determined not to wear them. Tonight isn’t about me, it's about them.
About Piers. About reminding them that they are a pack.
A hand slides onto my shoulder, squeezes gently. “Go put them on, killer,” Thayer says so close to my ear I can feel the words.
I shiver, even as heat blooms low in my belly. I give a quick nod, then scurry away from him, from them, and into the bathroom, shutting the door on the masculine chuckles that chase me.
I drag my feet swapping my clothes, giving the pack plenty of time to do the same.
The last thing I need is to see any more of them in any state of undress tonight.
I pull on the wide necked oversized cream colored sweatshirt, arranging it so it dips off one shoulder, showing the strap of the tartan bralette I have on under it.
Then I swap out my leggings for a pair of tartan shorts, and pull on my favorite pair of soft, cozy thigh high socks, ensuring that my scarred skin is completely covered.
I let down my bun and then scrape my hair back into a new one, that is somehow messier than the first.
There’s a soft knock on the door. “You planning on coming out anytime soon, bubbles?”
A quick glance in the mirror and then I’m pulling the door open and staring up at Grieves, who's hovering just on the threshold, like he’d had his ear pressed to the wood.
I smile up at him, before skimming my eyes down over his body, taking in my work, checking the fit.
For Grieves, I made a pair of navy blue joggers, with the tartan fabric on the cuffs and running up the side seams. He has on a sleeveless hooded navy sweatshirt, with a tartan lining.
On the left side of the hoodie, I embroidered ‘Bruiser’ in silver thread.
His bulky tattooed arms are on display, and I’m only now realizing that might have been a mistake, because I want nothing more than to reach out and run my fingers over all that muscle, all that skin.
He’s running his gaze over me just as intently, his eyes weirdly soft and hungry. “You look delicious, bubbles,” He grits out, reaching forward to tug me out of the bathroom and into the main living space where the rest of his pack is waiting.
All of them in clothes that I made for them.
It sets something alight in me. Something grasping and possessive. Like I’ve claimed them somehow by putting them in clothing I’ve stitched together.
And maybe I have.
I’ve only ever made clothes for people I care about, people I love, that I’ve claimed as my family, if they weren’t already my blood.
My mom. Ginny. Haven. The Calloway pack. Myself. And now them.
The Royal Ashbourne Pack.
For a moment I just take them in, pride roaring through my veins as I check the garments, the way each of them fits perfectly. Which is damn hard to do without having actual measurements.
Forsythe is in a pair of plaid pajama pants, with a navy long sleeve t-shirt and a robe draped over his shoulders with the same plaid used on the lapels and the lining. ‘His highness’ flashes in silver from his chest.
Court is in a pair of basketball style shorts, navy with the Tartan piping along the sides, and a hooded shirt the same as Grieves’ with ‘pretty boy’ in silver thread.
Thay looks freaking delicious in his tight navy long sleeved shirt, tartan on the collar and the cuffs.
‘Professor’ is embroidered over his heart and he’s wearing the same style joggers as Grieves has.
And then there’s Piers. Sweet, gorgeous Piers, looking a little uncertain wearing the Ashbourne plaid pants and a long sleeved t-shirt that matches Thayer’s. Embroidered over his heart is the word ‘dimples’.
“Jesus, pix,” Court says, licking his lips hungrily. His green eyes snag on the skin of my thighs, a part of me only Thayer has seen, I realize. “Did you have to make yourself the tiniest pair of shorts?”
I grimace, tugging self-consciously on the hem of them, like that will magically make more fabric appear. It doesn’t, by the way.
“I only had a little of the tartan left,” I mutter, glancing away from him. “I already had to special order it, there wasn’t a hope of getting more in time. I can put on-”
“No.” Forsythe cuts off that thought. “No, you look… gorgeous, cor mea. We just… have to talk our alphas down from hunting every single person who is going to see you like this and ripping out their eyeballs…”
A surprised giggle bursts from me. “I hate to tell you this, but that would be something like two million people.”
He grins. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t take a while. But I think we could manage.”
Court reaches out drawing my attention back to him as he the words embroidered on the cuff of my left arm.
Pixie, Cor mea, Sunshine, Little bird, Bubbles, Killer.
I think he mutters something like, “adorable.” While Thayer beams at me.
A full on full wattage smile, that I was not in any way prepared for and that absolutely decimates my panties.