Chapter 29
Grayson
The next morning, I'm making coffee when Bea appears in the kitchen.
Alone.
She's wearing one of River's shirts and sleep shorts, her hair messy from sleep, and she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Morning," she says, her voice still rough.
"Morning." I pour her a cup of coffee, remembering exactly how she likes it. "Sleep well?"
"Yeah." She takes the cup, our fingers brushing. The contact sends electricity through me. "River's a bed hog though."
"He always has been."
She leans against the counter, studying me over the rim of her mug. "You've been drawing."
I glance down at my hands—there's ink smudged on my fingers. Always is. "How'd you know?"
"You have that look. Intense. Focused." She smirks. "Also the ink. Dead giveaway."
"Observant."
"I try." She sets down her mug. "What were you drawing?"
I hesitate, then pull out my sketchbook from where I'd left it on the counter. Flip to the page I'd been working on since three in the morning when I couldn't sleep.
It's her.
Not stylized or abstract—realistic. Her face, that exact expression she gets when she's concentrating on work.
One eyebrow slightly raised, lips curved in the smallest hint of a smile, hair falling over one shoulder.
I've captured the exact shade of her hazel eyes, the constellation of freckles across her nose.
She stares at it, her mouth falling open. "That's... that's me."
"Yeah."
"Grayson, this is—" Her fingers hover over the page, not quite touching. "This is beautiful. I didn't know you could draw like this."
"I'm a tattoo artist. Drawing's kind of part of the job."
"No, I mean—" She looks up at me, eyes wide. "This is incredible. The detail, the shading, the way you captured..." She trails off, touching her own face. "Is this really how you see me?"
"Every day."
Her cheeks flush. "What are you going to do with it?"
"Get it tattooed. Probably on my ribs, opposite side from this one." I touch the existing piece on my left side through my shirt.
"You're getting me tattooed on you?" Her voice goes up slightly. "On your body? Permanently?"
"I was always going to." I close the sketchbook. "You're important to me. You're pack. That's permanent."
"Grayson—"
"I called my buddy in Missoula last week. He owes me a favor. I'm driving up next Saturday."
She's quiet for a long moment, just looking at me. Then: "Can I see your tattoos? The ones you have now?"
That catches me off guard. "You've seen them before."
"Not really." Her eyes drag down my chest, and I feel it like a physical touch. "You're always wearing shirts. I've only seen glimpses. Your hands, your neck, that bit on your ribs that one time..."
"You want to see my tattoos."
"I want to see all of them." Her voice drops slightly, and I smell the shift in her scent. Honey-sweet arousal mixing with her cinnamon-apple. "Take off your shirt."
Fuck. When she uses that tone, commanding and breathless at the same time, my cock takes immediate notice.
I pull my shirt over my head slowly, watching her watch me.
Her eyes go wide as she takes in the full canvas—the pieces covering my chest, ribs, shoulders, arms. Black and gray work, mostly. A few pieces of color. Each one means something, tells a story.
"Holy shit," she breathes. "Grayson, these are—you're—"
"Like what you see?"
"Are you kidding?" She sets down her coffee and moves closer, her hand reaching out then hesitating. "Can I touch?"
"Yeah."
Her fingers trace the design on my chest—geometric patterns flowing into organic shapes. She follows the line down to my ribs, where a detailed piece wraps around my side. Her touch is feather-light, reverent, and it's taking everything in me not to grab her and kiss her senseless.
"This one?" She traces the roses and thorns on my ribs.
"Got it when I opened my shop. Represents new beginnings. Growth through pain."
"And this?" Her finger follows the piece on my shoulder—a geometric wolf.
"The lone wolf I used to be." Before I found pack. Before I found her.
She traces each piece, asking about them, and I tell her the stories. Her scent gets sweeter with each touch, honey overwhelming everything else, and I can tell she's getting turned on just looking at me.
"You're staring," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
"You're hot." She's not even embarrassed about it. "Like, really hot. Have you seen yourself?"
"Bea—"
"And you're going to put me here?" She touches the empty space on my ribs, right over my heart. "Permanently?"
"Yes."
Her eyes get suspiciously shiny. "That's—god, Grayson—"
"Too much?"
"No." She shakes her head. "Not too much. Perfect. You're perfect."
Then she's kissing me—soft, sweet, full of promise.
When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed and her scent is pure honey. "I should get ready for work."
"Yeah." I'm still holding her, not quite ready to let go.
"But Grayson?" She touches my chest one more time, right over my heart. "Thank you. For this. For being patient."
"Always."
She slips away, and I stand there in my kitchen, shirtless, wondering how I got so lucky.
That night, I can't sleep.
Instead of lying in the nest restless, I come downstairs to my makeshift studio in the corner of the living room. Sketching helps when my mind won't quiet.
The fireplace is down to embers, casting a warm glow across the room. I should add more wood, but the heat is still radiating, keeping the space comfortable.
I'm working on her portrait—refining the shading around her eyes, the curve of her smile—when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
"Grayson?"
I look up. Bea's standing at the bottom of the staircase in one of Seth's shirts and sleep shorts, her hair loose around her shoulders, backlit by the hall light.
"Bea? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." She crosses the room, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. "I woke up and you weren't in the nest."
"Couldn't sleep. Didn't want to disturb you all." I set down my pencil. "You should go back to bed."
"I don't want to go back to bed." She stops in front of me, and there's something in her eyes—determination, heat, certainty. "I want you."
My heart stops. "Bea—"
"I'm done waiting. I'm done being scared." She straddles my lap on the couch, her hands on my shoulders. "I want your bond, Grayson. I want to feel you the way I feel Seth and River. I want to be complete."
"You need to be sure—"
"I am sure." And the certainty in her voice, in her eyes, undoes me. "I love you. I've been in love with you for weeks. And I want your bond. Right now. Please."
The words break whatever control I've been clinging to.
I kiss her. Hard, desperate, claiming. She kisses me back just as fiercely, her hands sliding into my hair.
"You're sure?" I ask against her mouth, needing to hear it one more time.
"I'm sure." She pulls back, her eyes clear and certain. "Bond me, Grayson. Make me yours."
"You're already mine," I growl, but I'm already pulling her closer, already lost in her scent. "Have been since the day we met."
I shift us so she's lying back on the couch, me hovering over her. My hands slide under her shirt—Seth's shirt—and she arches into my touch.
"Can I?" I ask, fingers at the hem.
"Yes. God, yes."
I pull it over her head, and she's bare underneath. Perfect breasts, nipples already hard, skin flushed with arousal. I lean down and take one nipple in my mouth, and she gasps.
"Grayson—"
"I know." But my hands are mapping her body, relearning what makes her gasp, what makes her arch. I've touched her during heat, but this is different. This is choosing. This is permanent.
I work my way down, pressing kisses to her stomach, her hips, the inside of her thighs. When I hook my fingers in her sleep shorts and panties, I pause. "These too?"
"Please."
I pull them down, and the scent of her arousal hits me full force. She's already dripping wet, slick coating her thighs.
"Look at you," I murmur, spreading her thighs. "So beautiful. So ready for me."
"Been thinking about this," she admits breathlessly. "About you."
"Good." I settle between her thighs on my knees on the floor. "Because I've been thinking about this too. About tasting you. About making you mine."
I lean in and lick a long stripe up her pussy, tasting her slick. Sweet and perfect and everything I've been dreaming about.
"Fuck, baby. You taste incredible."
I take my time, learning exactly what she likes. The bond isn't there yet, but I can read her body—the way her thighs tremble, the way her breath catches, the way her hands fist in my hair when I find the perfect spot.
I slide two fingers inside her while I work her clit with my tongue. She's tight, hot, absolutely perfect. I curl my fingers and find that spot deep inside.
"There," she sobs. "Right there—please—"
I don't stop. I work her steadily, fingers pumping, tongue circling, until she's gasping and shaking.
"Come for me," I murmur against her. "Let me feel it."
She breaks apart, crying out my name, her pussy clenching rhythmically around my fingers. I work her through it, gentling as she comes down.
When I kiss my way back up her body, she pulls me down for a desperate kiss.
"Need you," she gasps. "Need you inside me."
I stand long enough to strip off my pants, my cock springing free, already hard and leaking. My knot is already starting to swell at the base.
I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock pressing against her slick heat. "Ready for me?"
"So ready."
I slide inside slowly, and we both groan. She's so tight, even after I just worked her open. Her pussy stretches around my cock, gripping me perfectly.
"Fuck," I breathe when I'm fully seated. "You feel amazing. So perfect."
"So full." Her legs wrap around my waist. "You're so deep."
"Good." I pull out slowly, then push back in. The couch creaks beneath us. "Want you to feel all of me."
I start moving—deep, steady thrusts. Not rough, but possessive. Claiming. The wet sounds of my cock sliding into her fill the living room.
"That's it, baby," I murmur. "You're taking me so well."
"More," she gasps. "Need more."
I give her what she needs, my pace increasing. My knot swells larger with each thrust, catching at her entrance.
"Feel that?" I ask, my voice rough. "My knot's getting bigger. Soon I'm going to lock inside you. Fill you up. Make you mine."
"Want that," she sobs. "Want your knot. Want your bond. Want you."
"Touch yourself for me," I say, one hand gripping her hip. "Want to feel you come on my cock when I bite you."
Her hand slides between us, finding her clit. Within seconds she's gasping, trembling.
"That's it. You're close. I can feel it." My rhythm stutters as my knot swells impossibly larger. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it."
"Grayson—I'm—"
"Do it. Come now."
She shatters, screaming, her pussy clamping down on my cock.
The sensation triggers everything. My knot swells rapidly, popping inside and locking us together as I start to come. She gasps—pleasure and pain mixing—and pulls my face to her throat.
"Please," she sobs. "Need your bite. Bond me. I love you—"
My teeth sink into her throat, right between Seth and River's marks.
The bond explodes into existence.
It's overwhelming. Her emotions crash into me—love and trust and hope and dreams. Everything she is, flooding into me at once.
And through the bond, she's feeling me too. My love for her—deep and intense. My respect for who she is. My pride in everything she's accomplished. My need to protect her, support her, claim her.
I'm still coming—wave after wave—my cock pulsing as I fill her. Weeks of wanting her, needing her, all of it pouring into her now.
Through our new bond, I feel her orgasm too. She's coming again from the bite, from the bond snapping into place, and the feedback loop is devastating. My pleasure amplifies hers, hers amplifies mine.
When awareness returns, we're both shaking, gasping.
"Holy shit," she manages.
"Yeah." Through our bond, I can feel everything—her satisfaction, her love, her joy at finally feeling me. "I can feel you. Everything."
"Me too." She's crying happy tears. "Grayson, I can feel how much you love me. How much you respect me."
Through the bond, I can also feel Seth and River—their happiness, their relief. The pack bonds slot into place, connecting all four of us through her.
Seth's warmth. River's brightness. My intensity. All of it flowing through Bea, connecting us.
"I can feel them," she whispers. "All three of you. Connected to me and to each other through me."
"Pack," I say. "Complete pack."
My knot is still locked deep inside her. I shift carefully to make us more comfortable on the couch, reaching for the throw blanket draped over the back and pulling it over her, tucking it around her shoulders.
"Cold?" I murmur.
"Not anymore." She's smiling, snuggling into both me and the blanket.
"We should move to the nest," I say, even though I know we can't.
"Can't. Your knot. We're stuck."
"Guess we're sleeping on the couch then."
"Worth it." Her fingers trace my tattoos lazily. "You're warm anyway."
I hold her close, feeling her contentment through our bond as she drifts off.
Complete.
I wake to River's voice.
"You bonded on the couch? Really?"
I blink awake, disoriented. Bea's still sprawled on top of me, my knot finally deflated, cum drying on both our thighs. The blanket has slipped, leaving very little to the imagination.
River's standing in the doorway with Seth, both of them grinning like idiots.
"The nest was right upstairs," River continues, thoroughly entertained. "Comfortable. Private. But no, you chose the living room couch."
"Shut up," I mutter, carefully adjusting the blanket to cover Bea more.
Through the pack bonds, I feel their amusement. Their happiness. Their relief that we're finally complete.
"We're just saying," Seth adds, trying not to laugh. "If you were going for romantic ambiance, the couch wasn't it."
"It was spontaneous," Bea mumbles against my chest, still half-asleep. Through our bond, I feel her embarrassment mixed with satisfaction.
"Clearly." River's smirking. "Very spontaneous. And very... thorough, based on the mess."
"River," Seth warns, but he's grinning too.
Bea sits up, keeping the blanket wrapped around herself, and glares at them both. "If you're done being assholes, we need to shower."
"The nest has a shower," River points out helpfully.
"And we're definitely deep-cleaning that couch," Seth adds. "That's where guests sit."
Through the pack bonds, I feel their joy underneath the teasing. They're happy. Happy for us, happy for Bea, happy the pack is complete.
"Come on," I say, standing carefully and pulling Bea up with me. "Let's get cleaned up."
As we head toward the stairs—wrapped in a blanket, covered in evidence of our bonding—River calls after us:
"Next time, use the nest!"
Bea flips him off without looking back, and through all three of our bonds, I feel Seth and River's laughter.
Pack. Complete, chaotic, perfect pack.