Chapter 19 Naomi
Chapter nineteen
Naomi
My eyes flutter open, and for a second I don’t remember where I am.
I turn my face into the pillow and inhale.
There's faintest trace of something warm and alpha that makes my muscles want to melt and stay here forever.
…which is not ideal.
I stop mid-rub, eyes snapping fully open.
Wait. How am I smelling anything at all? The DuoBlocks should have my senses locked down tight. I should not be luxuriating in any kind of "mmm, alpha" vibe right now, no matter how faint.
Maybe it's just my omega brain filling in the blanks. Yeah. That must be it. Aftershocks from last night, my first truly good sex in… way too long. My brain and body are probably doing some kind of chemical victory lap, conjuring phantom scents or something.
I push the thought away and sit up.
My bikini’s on the floor. Someone has folded a sweater and leggings and set them neatly on the armchair.
The little gesture does something strange and fizzy in my chest.
I dress, running my fingers through my hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it, and as I cross toward the door, I notice another one half-open off to the side.
It's an en suite bathroom. A folded washcloth and toothpaste sit on the sink, and if this room's stocked like mine was, there'll be a new toothbrush in the drawers.
Alright then. Let's get ready for the day.
* * *
I crack the bedroom door open, and that's when I smell it.
Coffee.
Bacon.
My stomach answers before my brain does, growling loud enough to echo in the hall, and compelling me to follow the aroma.
I turn the corner and stop.
The dining table looks like it’s auditioning for a brunch spread.
A tower of pancakes, golden and imperfect but beautiful. A platter of crisp bacon. A big bowl of fresh fruit. A small dish of whipped cream, a ramekin of chocolate chips. The coffee carafe sits in the middle like a crown jewel.
Propped against it, a folded piece of paper.
Naomi,
Eat. We went to check on our generator. Be back soon.
I just stare at the words, then at the feast.
They made this, for me.
I pull out a chair, sit down, pour myself coffee, and cut into the top pancake. It's still warm. Maple syrup waits in a little ceramic jug. I drizzle, take a bite, close my eyes.
Fluffy. A little lumpy. Slightly too much vanilla.
Actually perfect.
I swallow past a sudden thickness in my throat.
I wonder how much of the pantry they burned through to do this. The roads are supposed to be passable soon, but still. This is really, stupidly sweet of them.
I’m reaching for the whipped cream when the front door opens.
"—telling you, it's holding fine now," Silas is saying. "Could've waited."
"Better to double-check," Liam replies. "Last thing we need is an outage."
"You just wanted an excuse to poke at machinery," Felix laughs. "Admit it."
I stand up to greet them, smiling already—
And freeze.
So do they.
All three of them stand in the doorway, snow still clinging to their hair and shoulders. Their heads snap toward me in perfect unison.
Their pupils blow wide.
Their nostrils flare.
Then three overlapping, low, chest-deep growls fill the room.
A combined scent slams into my senses. Leather and amber… Honey and vanilla... Black tea and old books…
My knees actually buckle and I grab the back of the chair to keep from crumpling to the floor.
No. No, no, no.
I swallowed a DuoBlock yesterday. This shouldn't be happening. This can't be happening. And yet every omega instinct I've spent my adult life suppressing snaps awake and starts screaming in capital letters.
YES.
Silas moves first.
He closes the distance in three sure strides until he's in my space.
One hand lands on the back of the chair beside mine, the other hovers near my hip like he wants to grab me and is barely holding himself back.
He dips his head, nose brushing my temple, the line of my jaw, the hollow just beneath my ear.
He's smelling me.
The growl that rumbles out of his chest vibrates through the inch between our bodies. “Fuck,” he says, voice wrecked. “Naomi.”
Felix is there a heartbeat later, on my other side. He leans in, nose skating up the side of my throat, and inhales deeply.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” he blurts, but he doesn’t pull away, only presses his forehead lightly to my shoulder. His voice is rough, frayed. “You smell—I can’t even—”
Liam hangs back the longest, but his control eventually shatters.
His breath is uneven, pupils huge, hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
When he finally steps in, he lifts one hand, cups the back of my head, and tips my face toward him.
He runs his nose along my cheekbone, then lower, to the corner of my mouth, inhaling.
A quiet, broken sound escapes him. “This shouldn’t be possible,” he whispers.
I should shove them back. I should demand space and ask what the hell is happening.
Instead, I turn into Silas and press my face against the side of his throat and inhale like a feral omega.
Leather and amber, again. Dark and grounding and so intensely alpha my entire nervous system short-circuits. My fingers clutch at his t-shirt, pulling him closer without conscious thought.
Then, a noise I have never heard from my own mouth slips out, high, cracked, needy.
An omega whine.
Felix makes a low, possessive rumble and nuzzles harder against my neck. Liam's grip in my hair tightens, then gentles, his thumb stroking slow over the nape of my neck. Silas's arm closes fully around my waist, and a deep, resonant purr vibrates from his chest into mine.
“Fuck,” Felix breathes, groaning, his face pressed against my pulse. “Is everything okay, angel? Talk to us.”
"I—" My voice cracks, and my instincts take over again. I turn blindly, seeking, and find Felix's throat. I press my nose to the warm skin there and breathe him in.
Honey and vanilla. Heat, sugar and sunshine.
I shiver, a full-body tremor. “Felix…”
He shudders. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s—god.”
But then instinct pulls me again and I turn toward Liam. My hand shoots out, fisting in his shirt before I can think. He steps in immediately until my shoulder presses against his chest, and I tilt my head, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.
Black tea and old books. Clean, steady, homey.
We’re pressed together in a messy, three-sided knot, breathing each other in like we’ve never inhaled air before.
Silas’s hand strokes up and down my spine once, twice, stopping at the small of my back.
Felix’s fingers circle my hips. Liam’s thumb rubs slow circles over the racing pulse at my wrist.
They murmur against my skin, and the words thread together.
“Peaches,” Felix says, voice rough with awe.
“Jasmine,” Liam adds, dazed.
Silas swears under his breath. “Jesus Christ, Naomi.”
“This—this can’t be right,” I manage even as the three of them flood my senses. "This is—we can't be—"
“Scent matches,” Liam finishes. “Four-way.”
The words drop like a bomb.
"What the fuck," Silas mutters.
A sharp knock at the front door cuts through our scent-induced haze, and we all jerk toward the sound.
“Hello?” a male voice calls through the wood. “This is the rescue team!”