Chapter 26
Emery
The trick to painting after a massive emotional hangover is just let the chaos happen.
So I drag my brush through a glob of green paint and let the pigment tear itself across the canvas.
My bedroom studio smells like acrylics, paper, and the ghost of cotton candy, all softened by the sheer bliss of victory.
I won Ranier over. I did it. And I am still alive. I am still here, and for the first time, there’s nothing left to prove.
The bites on my neck are high and obvious, a matching set now. They don’t hurt. They’re just warm and a little sore. I touch them sometimes, just to feel the way my heart slams under my skin, but today I keep my hands busy with paint.
Outside the nest, everything is quiet. Ranier is at a Council meeting, probably ruining someone’s morning with his glare and his flawless suit.
Bastion took the bike out for a joyride.
Wyatt… well, I can hear the faint clatter of his fingers on a laptop in the next room.
He’s probably making memes about the mayor again.
If there’s anyone in the world who could turn “accidental omega matriarch” into a trending hashtag, it’s Wyatt Whitlock.
The painting isn’t going anywhere. It’s many lines away from being good, but I don’t care. There’s a lightness in my chest that makes it impossible to focus, like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because there’s always another.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Come in,” I call, already grinning. By process of elimination it must be Wyatt.
Wyatt pokes his head around the door, eyebrows raised. He’s not wearing a shirt, but there’s a cardigan wrapped around him like a bathrobe, and he’s holding two mugs, both steaming. He clocks the mess, the paint, and the slightly unhinged look in my eyes, and doesn’t even blink.
He balances the mugs while stepping over art supplies. “Good morning. Did you sleep?”
I stretch my arms over my head and yawn so hard my jaw cracks. “Define ‘sleep.’”
Wyatt sets one mug down on my makeshift table and hands me the other. “Caffeine. Sugar. And I may have spiked it with that syrup you like.”
I sniff the cup. “Is this… blueberry?”
He looks deeply offended. “It is artisan-crafted, locally sourced blue raspberry syrup, thank you.”
I sip, savor, and then make a noise that’s part-moan, part-giggle. “You are too good to me.”
“Lies.” Wyatt sits cross-legged on the floor, just outside the border of my nest. He stares at me, not in a creepy way, but like I am a sculpture he’s trying to memorize for a test. “Do you know you look like a work of modern art right now?”
I glance down. There’s more paint on my thighs than on the canvas. My shirt is a size too big, half off one shoulder, and the hem of my shorts is sticky with something neon and probably permanent.
“I hope it’s my good side.” I let the brush rest on the rim of the palette.
“It’s all good side.” There’s a softness in Wyatt’s tone that makes my face go hot.
We sit for a second, the silence easy. The only real sound is the background music.
“Ranier’s gone?” Wyatt asks, voice casual.
I nod. “Council stuff. I just know he’s super happy about that.”
Wyatt snorts. “That tracks.” He runs a hand through his hair and his gaze drops to my neck. To the new mark, right above my collarbone. Wyatt grins, broad and a little wolfish. “So it’s official. You’re the most claimed omega in city limits.”
I touch the spot and can’t help smiling too. “Was there ever any doubt?”
“Only every second until last night.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees and eyes bright. “Are you okay? Really?”
I nod, more certain than ever. “I’m better than okay. I feel… I don’t know. Like I finished the final exam and now there’s nothing left to study for.”
Wyatt’s smile softens. “Good. You deserve to feel that way.”
We sip coffee in tandem.
Wyatt then taps his mug. “Are you going to show me what you’ve been working on for the exhibition?”
I choke. “The what now?”
He laughs. “Don’t play dumb. Bastion said you’ve been prepping for weeks. I want to see what you’re going to hang in the gallery.”
I grin. “Most of it is… I don’t know. Stuff I’ve never shown anyone. Except Eloise, of course.”
Wyatt’s look turns serious. “Will you show me?”
I hesitate, the old embarrassment prickling, but then I remember: I am unbreakable now. I have nothing to lose.
I stand, nearly tipping the paint water, and pad over to the wall behind my bed. There’s a stack of canvases, none of them framed yet, all just leaning in a lopsided row. I pull out three: one large, one medium, one so small it’s barely bigger than a postcard.
I hand him the smallest first. It’s a sketchy, fast portrait of all three of my alphas standing on the roof of the manor, staring at a smudgy sky. They’re not holding hands, but they’re close enough to. At the bottom I’ve written, “Nobody wins unless we all do.”
Wyatt blinks. “You made this?”
I bristle some. My nerves are on fire from being so closely studied so suddenly. “I was thinking about what Bastion said the other day. About how we’re only a pack if we don’t leave anyone behind.”
He runs his thumb over the edge, reverent. “You’re really good, you know?”
I blush, and shove the next canvas at him. This one is more abstract: a tangle of blue, green, and honey yellow, the colors mashed together until they bleed. If you squint, you see three birds in the swirl, but it’s not obvious. I call it “Flight Pattern,” but I don’t tell Wyatt that.
Wyatt stares for a long time. “Is this us?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, and I believe him, because I can see how much it takes him to admit it. Almost as if he’s never really considered art and its meaning before, and then to be faced with pieces inspired by he and his closest friends. It’s a lot, I’d imagine.
The last piece is the biggest, and I hesitate before showing it. But then I think, fuck it, and hand it over.
It’s a painting of my nest, messy and unmade, with three indents in the blanket and a fourth, smaller one at the very center. There are four hands reaching in, holding each other, but only one is painted in full color. The rest are unfinished, but you can tell by the shape whose is whose.
Wyatt exhales, a little shaky. “Is that…?”
I nod. “You. Me. All of us.”
He grins. “Even Ranier?”
“He has feelings. They’re just very pointy.”
Wyatt laughs, then stands and sets the paintings back, careful not to smudge the wet edges. He looks at me, and I see the same awe that’s always been there, only now it’s naked and unashamed. “You’re going to kill them at the exhibition.”
I know that’s true. I’ve put in so much work for it to not be true. Yet still the nerves still get to me. “Only if you come with me. All of you.”
He bows, dramatic. “It would be my honor.”
I snort, and then he’s close, so close, and we’re both laughing, and then we’re not laughing, because his mouth is on mine. Warm, easy, hungry in a way that’s not desperate but just right. I melt into the kiss, the way I always do, and his hand finds my waist, smearing blue paint across my shirt.
“Wyatt,” I murmur, but it’s not a protest. Not even close.
Wyatt kisses my neck careful to avoid the fresh bites. “Do you want to paint with me?” he whispers.
I laugh, delighted. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”
He grins, sharp as ever. “I’m not. But I’m really good at making a mess.”
Wyatt moves fast, but gentle. He pulls the tarp from the corner and lays it on the floor, right over the nest. Then he yanks down a big, blank canvas—so new it still smells like packaging—centered on top.
He tugs his cardigan off, flicks paint across my legs, and in one smooth motion, peels my shirt up and over my head.
The air is cold, but Wyatt’s hands are hot, painting streaks of blue and green down my back and across my ribs. He kisses every patch of skin he uncovers, humming softly like he’s following a map.
I shiver, but it’s not from the temperature. It’s from him, the way he makes me feel like there’s nothing in the world except this moment, this color, this sensation.
Wyatt guides me down onto the canvas and arranges my limbs until I’m sprawled across the white like a starfish. Only then does he drop beside me, our bodies pressed together. The paint squelches, smears, stains us both.
Wyatt is half-hard already, the outline of him visible even through the streaks of pigment on his jeans. He slides a thigh between my legs, grinding slow and steady. My breath goes sharp.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low.
I nod. “I want you.”
Wyatt grins and then presses his mouth to mine, tongue slick and sweet, tasting of sugar and caffeine. His hands roam, painting me with color and touch until I’m buzzing everywhere.
He unbuttons his jeans and kicks them off, and then we’re skin to skin, only the thinnest layer of paint between us. His cock is hard and hot against my thigh, smearing streaks of green as he shifts.
Wyatt slides a hand between my legs where he finds me already wet and wanting. “God, you’re perfect,” he whispers, and the sound of it almost undoes me.
I arch, desperate for more, and he gives it. His fingers work me open with a precision that makes my vision blur. I’m greedy, rocking against his hand, wanting to cum before we even start.
Wyatt moves down, kissing the inside of my thigh. He drags his tongue up my slit, lapping up the taste of me, and I moan loudly. He teases, circling my clit with his tongue, slipping a finger inside, then another, until I’m pulsing around him, my body begging for more.
“Wyatt,” I gasp. “Please. I need—”
He grins up at me, face smeared with blue, and then he lines up and pushes inside, slow at first, letting me feel every inch.
Tears prick my eyes. Happy ones. It feels so good.