Chapter 20 Etienne
Etienne
I stood in the doorway of Presley's room, my shoulder pressed against the frame, watching her sleep.
She'd built a nest. Not just an omega nest that they liked from day to day. The kind with soft blankets, a million cushions and soft lighting all around. It was more than that.
This was her natural instinct preparing for her heat.
I hadn't helped her. Hadn't even suggested it. But sometime between the bath and now, her omega instincts had taken over. The bed was piled with blankets and pillows, arranged in a careful circle with a hollow in the center where she'd curled up like a cat.
She wore my shirt again. The green rugby one. It had ridden up in her sleep, exposing the curve of her hip, the pale skin that I'd touched, tasted, worshipped just hours ago.
And there under her head were more clothes. Shirts, sweatpants, tee-shirts all spread around the nest.
I groaned, but didn’t want to wake her. Her face was peaceful now, but that peace wouldn't last.
Omegas in heat were feral creatures. Sweet and soft one moment, demanding and desperate the next. Presley would be no different, no matter how gentle she seemed when she was lucid.
I'd seen heats before. I'd helped omegas through them. But this felt different.
Because she was ours.
Or she could be, if we didn't mess this up.
Her scent filled the room. Rain and vanilla, thick and intoxicating, calling to every alpha instinct I had. My body responded immediately, heat pooling low in my stomach, my cock stirring despite having been inside her twice already today.
I wanted to go to her, but forced myself to stay in the doorway.
She needed rest. Her body needed to prepare for what was coming.
And I needed to not be a bastard who woke a sleeping omega just because I wanted to bury myself in her again.
Footsteps behind me made me turn.
Hastings and Fritz stood in the hallway, both looking like they'd run a marathon. Hastings' tie was gone, his shirt wrinkled, his hair mussed in a way I'd never seen. Fritz's jacket was slung over his shoulder, his eyes dark and hungry.
"You made it," I said quietly.
"Barely." Hastings moved to stand beside me, his gaze finding Presley in the nest. His jaw tightened. "How is she?"
"Sleeping. For now."
"And her heat?"
"Building. The spray and a nice bath bought us time, but not much." I looked at him, at the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were clenched into fists. "She'll wake soon. And when she does, it'll hit hard."
Fritz joined us at the doorway, the three of us crowding into the frame like we couldn't bear to be more than a few feet from her.
"She built a real nest," Fritz said, something like wonder in his voice.
"She did."
"Has she nested before?"
"I have no idea. I didn't ask." I should have. I should have asked her a thousand things. But there hadn't been time, and now she was asleep and we were standing here like idiots, staring at her like we'd never seen an omega before.
Hastings stepped into the room.
I caught his arm. "Don't wake her."
"I'm not going to wake her." He shook me off, moving closer to the nest. He stopped at the edge, his hands going to his pockets like he didn't trust himself not to reach for her.
He breathed in deeply, his chest expanding, his eyes closing.
"Her scent," he said, his voice rough. "It's really strong."
"Her heat's close."
"No, I mean—" He opened his eyes, looking at me. "She smells like a new car. That leather interior smell. Rich and clean."
I stared at him.
Fritz moved closer, inhaling. "I don't smell leather."
"You don't?" Hastings frowned. "It's everywhere."
"I smell earth," Fritz said slowly. "Rain and something woody. Like cedarwood."
"Cedarwood?" Hastings turned to him. "I don't smell that at all."
My heart started to pound.
"I smell vanilla and rain," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos in my head. "That's all I've ever smelled on her."
The three of us stood there, staring at each other.
Then I smiled.
"That means she has four scents."
Hastings went very still. "Four?"
"I can smell rain and vanilla," I repeated.
Fritz's eyes widened. "And I can smell rain and cedarwood."
Hastings breathed in again, deeper this time, his whole body tense. "And I can smell rain and leather."
The words hung in the air between us.
Four scents.
Rain was the common thread, the one we could all smell. But each of us also smelled something unique, something that called to us specifically.
Vanilla for me. Cedarwood for Fritz. Leather for Hastings.
I looked at Hastings, at the way his face had gone pale, at the way his hands had started to shake.
“She has my scent profile.” He was a rare alpha. One of the few born with four scents instead of the usual two or three. It made him powerful, dominant, but it also made him lonely as an alpha who made work his life because he never thought he’d ever scent with an omega.
Because what omega could ever match four scents?
Apparently, Presley could.
I grinned. “And she’ll realize we are her scent matches in her heat.”
"I need a drink," Hastings replied.
The lounge was dark, lit only by the lamp in the corner and the glow of the street lamp through the window.
I poured three glasses of whiskey, handed them out, and dropped onto the sofa.
Fritz sat beside me. Hastings stood by the window, staring out at nothing.
"I wanted to make her ours before this," I said. The words came easier with alcohol. "You know that, don't you? This isn't about scent matching to me. This is bigger than that. I want her. I've wanted her since the moment I heard her rambling on the phone."
"I know," Hastings said quietly. "I think we all did."
Fritz raised his glass. "You did."
"She's perfect." Hastings turned from the window, his gray eyes catching the light. "She's funny and brave and so damn stubborn. She doesn't care about our money. She doesn't care about our status. She just—" He stopped, his jaw working. "She's perfect."
I couldn't believe it.
Henry Hastings, the man who'd sworn off omegas after Greta, the man who'd built walls so high I'd thought they were permanent, was standing in our lounge admitting he wanted Presley.
Fritz laughed, the sound sharp and disbelieving. "You’re finally admitting you're not immune?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Fritz gestured at him with his glass, whiskey sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "You would never cancel a meeting for an omega. Never. And yet you canceled the New York meeting to turn a plane around mid-flight."
"I canceled the meeting so we could finally have a baby."
"Scheisse, Henry. That's all?"
"Stop it." Hastings drained his glass in one swallow. "You want her too. Don't pretend you don't."
"I'm not pretending anything." Fritz leaned back, his arm draping over the back of the sofa. "I've wanted her since she made that joke about the helicopter being a spaceship. I just didn't think you'd ever admit you wanted her."
"I'm admitting it now."
"Because you can smell her. Because she might be your match."
"No." Hastings set down his glass with more force than necessary. "Because she makes me laugh. Because she looks at me like I'm a person, not a bank account. Because when I told her she could buy a house with that credit card, she said she only wanted enough money for books and a cat."
My chest tightened.
He was right. She was perfect.
And she was upstairs, sleeping in a nest in our house, about to go into heat with three alphas who were all falling for her in different ways.
"What do we do?" Fritz asked quietly.
"We take care of her," I said. "We help her through the heat. And then—"
"And then what?" Hastings turned to face us. "We tell her we want to keep her? That this stopped being about a surrogate the moment she showed up?"
"Yes."
"She won't believe us. She'll think it's the scent match talking."
"Then we’ll prove to her that she is more than that." I stood, crossing to the window to stand beside him. "We show her that this is real. That we want her, scent match or not."
"How?"
I didn't have an answer.
But before I could figure one out, a sound from the doorway made all three of us turn.
Presley stood there.
Her hair was a mess, tangled and wild from sleep. Her face was flushed, pink spreading from her cheeks down her neck. Her eyes were wide and glassy, pupils blown so large they'd swallowed the blue.
She wore my shirt and nothing else, the hem barely covering her thighs.
And she was staring at Hastings.
"You canceled a meeting for me?" Her voice was small, confused.
Hastings went rigid. "Presley—"
"You turned a plane around."
"You were going into heat."
"You could have let Etienne take care of me. You didn't have to come back."
"Yes," Hastings said, his voice rough. "I did."
She took a step into the room, then another. Her movements were unsteady, like her legs didn't quite work properly.
I moved toward her, but she held up a hand.
"You said I was perfect," she whispered, her eyes still locked on Hastings.
He didn't deny it. Didn't look away. "You are."
"You said you wanted me."
"I do."
She swayed, and I caught her elbow, steadying her.
Her skin was burning up.
"Presley," I said gently. "You should be in your nest."
"I don't want to be in my nest." Her hand found my chest, fingers curling into my shirt. "I need—" She stopped, her breath hitching. Her hand touched between her legs. Only then did I see the slick running down her thighs. "I need to be filled."
The words hung in the air.
Fritz stood, his glass forgotten on the table.
Hastings crossed the room in three strides, stopping in front of her.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "Because once this starts—"
"I'm sure." She looked up at him, then at Fritz, then at me. "I'm sure about all of you."
I'd been worried about damage control, about her overhearing Hastings' confession and panicking.
But she wasn't panicking.
She was reaching for us.
Choosing us.
"Then let's take care of you, Princesse," I murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Let our pack take care of you."
“Please!”