Chapter 20
Emery
If I had a dollar for every time I thought being an omega would be all about fuzzy socks and warm packs and the kind of sex you only see on private message boards, I’d have enough to buy myself a new body right now.
A body that wasn’t strung out on a heat cycle with every nerve ending humming like an electric fence but somehow still nowhere near “satisfied.”
Instead, I have a battered paintbrush, a cup of cold instant coffee, and a canvas that’s already started to warp from the humidity in my room.
I drag the brush through a smear of cobalt and try to remember what it was I wanted to paint. Something bright and honest, maybe a field at dusk. What comes out is a fractured mess of blue slashed through with red jagged lines colliding in the center like a car crash.
The air in my bedroom is a solid block of sugar and salt.
I changed the sheets this morning—twice—but my scents linger, clinging to the curtains and pooling in the corners.
I crack the window to let in a little city noise and fresh air.
It helps, but not enough. My nest, which last night was ground zero for a very public, very loud meltdown, is now a crime scene.
There are two pillows on the floor and one of Wyatt’s sweatshirts balled up under my comforter like a secret lover.
I stare at the canvas and try to remember how to breathe.
A knock rattles the door.
I don’t move. The last time someone knocked, it was Wyatt, and I’m not sure either of us recovered from what happened next. The thought makes my pulse spike. I wonder, for a split second, if it’s Ranier, come to personally evict me for the sin of existing.
But the voice that comes through the crack is Bastion’s. “Emery? You awake?”
I consider playing dead, but then he says, “I have coffee and a muffin,” and all at once the part of me that still wants to be alive sits up and takes notice.
I try to fix my hair in the reflection of my phone screen. Hopeless. I wipe paint off my face with the inside of my wrist and then call out, “Yes, you can come in.”
Bastion pushes the door open with his elbow.
He’s balancing a tray in one hand. His arm is still in a sling, but he’s ditched the bandages and looks almost healthy, if you ignore the bruises fading to yellow under his eyes.
He smells like pine needles and honey, a sharp, clean note that makes the rest of the world drop away for a second.
“Nice look,” he says, eyeing the paint on my face.
“You should see the other guy,” I say, which makes him smile.
Bastion sets the tray on my desk and looks around like he’s expecting to find something broken, or maybe just checking to see if I’m broken. “I heard you survived. Wyatt said you might have eaten him alive.”
I bark a laugh. “He got out alive, but just barely.”
Bastion sits on the edge of the bed, just outside my nest, and offers me the coffee.
I take the coffee and let the steam burn my lips. “Is this a wellness check, or are you actually happy to see me?”
He looks up, surprised. “Both, maybe? You kind of scared us, you know.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not dead. I’m not even sick. I just—” I gesture vaguely at my body, at the nest, at the world. “Heat is stupid. That’s all.”
Bastion nods, then drops his gaze again. “Sorry I didn’t come by yesterday. Or the day before. I… should have.”
I swallow, hard. “It’s fine. You’re here now.”
Bastion licks his lips, then lets out a breath that smells like nerves. “You know, I thought about it. Coming here. But Ranier—” He trails off, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“No, what?”
He shrugs, which looks awkward with the sling, but he powers through. “Ranier said you needed space. Said it was best if we let you ride it out.”
I snort. “That sounds like him.”
Bastion’s jaw works. “I don’t like being told what to do. Especially about you.”
I look at him, really look, and it hits me how tired he is. Not just physically, but the kind of tired that lives in your bones. “I’m not a problem to solve,” I say, soft.
Bastion meets my eyes. “I know. But I also know what it’s like to need something and have nobody give it to you. You’re not the only one who’s desperate around here.”
That lands. Harder than I expect.
I set the coffee down, hands shaking, and pick at a fleck of paint on my thigh. “Is that why you ghosted after… you know.”
He goes still. “After what?”
I stare at him, then laugh. “Are you for real? After you kissed me and then pretended it never happened. After you looked at me like I was going to bite you if you got too close.”
Bastion doesn’t deny it. “I thought it was a mistake.”
“Was it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then he says, “No. But I didn’t want to mess things up with the others. With the pack.”
“Too late for that,” I say, but there’s no venom in it. I don’t have the energy for venom.
Bastion stands, restless, and paces to the window. He fiddles with the latch, then gives up. “Ranier’s scared,” he says. “He’s not mad at you. He’s scared he’ll lose everything if he lets you in.”
“I don’t want to take anything from him.”
Bastion nods, then comes back and sits, this time closer. “He thinks love is a zero-sum game. But you’re proving him wrong.” Bastion looks at me with this naked, searching expression that I’ve never seen on him before. “Are you okay? Really?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but it sounds like a lie. Because it is. Because I wanted an unrealistic fairytale and instead got this: a pack with fractured feelings about me and my place here.
Bastion he leans in. “You’re still in heat.”
It’s not a question.
My face goes hot. “It’s almost done.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I asked.”
I want to argue, but I don’t. I look down and then back at him. “I’m trying to paint through it.” It sounds stupid even to me. How the hell does painting help relieve heat symptoms?
It doesn’t. It never would.
“Is it helping?” Bastion asks.
“No.” The word hangs there, heavy and desperate.
Bastion looks at my hands and then at the streaks of paint on my legs. Very much not the only liquid in the area. “Can I help?”
It takes me a second to process. “You mean—”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing, but his eyes are fixed on my mouth. “It’s not like we haven’t already crossed that line.”
I want to make a joke, but all the jokes are gone. All that’s left is the ache. The hollow in my chest and lower, and the longing that never really goes away. I nod, just once, and he moves.
Bastion kneels at the edge of the nest with his good arm steadying himself on the comforter. “Tell me what you need.”
My voice comes out small, but clear. “Just… don’t leave.”
He reaches out and wipes a streak of paint from my cheek. His hand is warm and a little rough. “Not going anywhere.”
I sigh, relieved. “Good.”
Bastion slides into the nest beside me, careful, like I’m made of glass.
Maybe I am. I don’t feel real anymore this deep into my heat.
He cups my face in his hand and kisses me, soft at first, then harder, like he’s been waiting for permission.
The taste of him is different than Wyatt.
Less sharp and more smoke, a slow burn that creeps under your skin and takes its time.
I kiss him back—hungry and desperate. My hands claw at his shirt, then at his hair.
Bastion breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to mine. “If you want me to stop, just tell me.”
I laugh, giddy. “Not possible.”
He grins, then slides his hand down over my collarbone, tracing the edge of the tank top. He watches my face as he slips his hand under the fabric, palming my breast with a gentle squeeze. I gasp, the sound loud in the small room.
“Still good?” he asks as he kisses my ear.
I nod, and then he’s kissing my neck, working his way down. He pulls the tank top off, slow and deliberate, and I shiver in the cool air. My nipples are hard, aching, and he pinches one, then the other, rolling them between his fingers. The sensation is so sharp it makes my toes curl.
I grab his wrist and drag his hand lower, under the elastic of my shorts. I’m wet already—soaked, really—and the heat flares up as soon as his fingers brush me. He strokes my clit, gentle at first, then harder as I grind against his hand.
“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he whispers, voice hoarse.
“Don’t stop,” I beg.
He doesn’t.
Bastion moves his hand without hesitation, trailing down my body with a silent confidence that makes me ache.
He slips one finger inside me, then two, each thrust smooth and sure, syncing perfectly with the pressure of his thumb circling my clit.
I feel the sudden, merciless rush of sensation, building so quickly I don’t have time to brace myself.
I arch my back hard enough to throw my head into the pillow, teeth sinking into the heel of my own hand to avoid screaming the whole house awake.
Bastion doesn’t look away, not even for a second.
His eyes are locked on mine, blue and burning, drinking in every flicker of pain and pleasure that crosses my face.
The heat of his gaze makes me dizzy, like I’m splayed open for him in every possible way.
He drops his head, groaning low, so close that I feel it in my chest.
“You have no fucking idea how good you look right now.” The dark and hungry sound of his voice makes the air in the room vibrate.
I want to tell him to shut up. I want to tell him to keep going.
I don’t know what I want, except more—more of the way his fingers move inside me, more of the way he never looks away, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks.
I dig my nails into his shoulder, anchoring myself so I don’t actually float off the earth, and I count the seconds until the world splinters.