Chapter 8
JESS
Ishould not be this aware of three men whom I’ve barely met and spent less than eight hours around.
Or noticing anything with a bed under me, a door I can lock, and quiet that isn’t the metallic buzz of a fluorescent light burrowing into my skull.
I was only at Nexus one night, but I swear I can still hear that sound.
I throw the robe on the chair and crawl under the duvet. My body sighs like it’s been waiting for permission. My brain refuses to follow.
It just keeps flickering through today like a broken projector: Eli’s steady hands over mine as he showed me how to lattice the pie crust, the way he grinned at me like he’s pocketing pieces for later; Rowan’s voice wrapping my name in desire and longing; Cassian’s lazy grin and how I could feel his gaze on me like a brand.
I tell myself to stop. To be sensible. To remember the plan: survive the ninety days and don’t get attached to anyone who can break me.
I think about Eli’s knuckle brushing my wrist—barely a touch—and the spark finds something low inside me and catches. Not fireworks. A pilot light finally getting fuel.
My throat goes tight. I haven’t felt wanted in so long, I forgot about the tax it charges…
the stupid hope that maybe I could be someone’s choice instead of a charity case.
That they might look at me and see something worth keeping, not another broken Omega to fix for a season and set back on the shelf.
“Annoying,” I tell the ceiling, because if I don’t say it out loud, I’ll start believing it.
The ceiling is a good listener.
I roll to my side, nose in the pillow. Their scents are here, faint as fingerprints: Rowan’s sandalwood-and-rain calm, Eli’s clean bergamot with linen, Cassian’s warm leather laced with amber and black pepper.
I pull a breath in like a thief. It hits me like a drink on an empty stomach.
My muscles unlock one by one: shoulders, jaw, the tiny place at the base of my skull that’s always braced for impact.
My skin feels too tight. Too sensitive. The sheets are suddenly a rumor of texture I can’t stop noticing. Heat climbs my neck even though the room isn’t hot. My pulse lives everywhere at once—temples, wrists, sex—and the ache there is new and old at the same time.
Maybe it’s the shower, the tea, or that I’m horizontal and safe and my body finally believes me. Or maybe I’m just thirsty and not for water.
I slide a thigh over the other. The smallest drag of fabric has me exhaling too fast.
No, I should sleep.
Instead, my palm skates under the duvet, restless, like I’m checking the borders of myself. My covering shifts down with the movement, and cool air kisses my stomach. Goosebumps rise and then melt as warmth rolls through me in waves that don’t crest, but just keep building.
Don’t think about Cassian’s full, perfect lips. His tattoos run up his arms in thorns and skulls. Or about Eli’s easy nature when he made that delicious pie. How Rowan leaned his hip against the counter and watched me win at cards like it was his favorite sport.
I think about all of them anyway.
My fingers trace the line of my pelvic bone, not going lower, just playing with the idea.
My breath hitches. There’s a hum under my skin now—quiet but constant, like a generator coming online.
I drag my palm up, cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple, and sensation spikes.
I bite my lip to keep the sound in, and that just makes the need sharper.
This is stupid. It’s reckless. It’s my hand, not Cassian’s, Rowan’s, or Eli’s.
I push the sheet down to my hips. The room smells like them again, and it feels like they’re closer, even if that’s just my ridiculous brain doing what it does best.
“Okay,” I whisper to no one.
I slip my fingers lower and desire answers, slick and honest. The first brush over my clit knocks a breath out of me.
I press the heel of my hand there, slow, testing, learning the new edges of this wanting.
It’s louder than usual. Needier. Every pass is too much and not enough, and I’m greedy for it.
Eli first, because the softness kills me.
I picture him saying my name like he did—careful, like it’s a glass he means not to drop.
I imagine his palm where mine is now, big and warm, the way he’d ask with his eyes before he asked with his mouth.
My hips tip into my hand, and the sound I make is embarrassingly grateful.
Rowan’s next because he feels like competence and praise, and the exact pressure I didn’t know I needed until he gave it. I imagine him braced beside me, mouth at my ear, murmuring what he’s doing to me and what he wants to do. Tell me if you want more. Good girl, there you go.
The words hit something low and make the whole circuit go brighter. I circle faster, then lighter, chasing the edge and backing off because the edge feels razor-sharp tonight and I want it to last.
Cassian crashes into my mind. Messy, grinning, hand around my wrist pinning me to the mattress with just enough force to make my body quiver.
I add a second finger and roll it low, slow.
My thighs tremble, but I spread them anyway.
The duvet skims my knee, sparks jumping everywhere it touches as I imagine it’s them.
I can’t get quiet. Every exhale leaves me on a little gasp. Sweat beads at my temple. I thumb my nipple until it goes hard and mean under my touch, a sweet little ache that answers the pulse between my legs.
The rhythm finds me: press, circle, lift. I keep almost breaking and then easing back, riding it like a tide. My stomach tightens. The world narrows to where my fingers move and the way my body chases them.
Rowan, patient and reverent. Eli, focused and kind. Cassian, reckless and sure.
My hips can’t; my hand slips lower, fingers sliding through wet heat before I come back up to circle where I want it most. The pressure builds too fast to hide from.
I picture Rowan’s mouth on my throat, Eli’s breath against my breast, Cassian’s voice saying she’s ours as he pumps in and out of me like I’m something he found and won’t lose.
I moan on a ragged whisper, and then I’m gone.
Release hits hard—tight, pulsing, rolling through me. I clamp a hand over my mouth and still the other only enough to ride it longer, deeper, until the trembling in my thighs turns to aftershocks and the bed feels like a boat.
I lie there, panting, palm cupped over the soft place I’m still throbbing, the sheets bunched under my ribs, the pillow damp under my cheek. The room is quiet again. My heart isn’t. It beats at my fingertips like it wants out.
Warmth buzzes under my skin. Not Omega heat or anything stupid like that—just… relief, even though it feels like the beginning of everything I shouldn’t want.
Or maybe the suppressant shot they gave me is messed up. Either that or my body’s done pretending it doesn’t notice the two gorgeous Alphas down the hall or the Beta who watches me like he already knows how I taste.
I pull the sheet up and curl on my side. Their scents are softer now, like the tide went out and left me with the good parts—salt, warmth, the shine in my blood that says stay.
“Annoying,” I murmur, but there’s no teeth in it.
I fall asleep with their three different voices calling my name inside my head.
Morning sneaks in like it’s breaking and entering with a bird shouting like it’s a car alarm.
I surface slowly. The clock on the dresser reads 9:42. I stretch, and my body answers with that satisfying heavy-limbs feeling. There’s a low, warm pull low in my belly that has me yearning for things I shouldn’t.
Climbing out of bed, I put the white robe back on and crack the door open, but the house is quiet.
Outside my door lay my clothes from yesterday, washed and folded.
I stare at it for longer than I should.
One of them touched my underwear. My throat does something stupid and tight. I pick up the bundle, run my thumb over the perfect fold. Who the hell folds underwear so neatly?
Someone who thinks you might stay whispers a voice I don’t trust. Had to have been Eli. I don’t see Cassian or Rowan folding underwear. The gesture that Eli took to take such care of my clothes has me pulling the bundle inside the bedroom before I do something ridiculous like cry over laundry.
And I need a shower before I get dressed, as my skin feels tacky. Not to mention, I don’t want them smelling the musk from me masturbating last night.
The shower blasts too hot when I crank it on. I twist the tap down, then farther, until the spray turns brisk enough to bite. Cold is honest. Cold doesn’t lie. Cold reminds me that this is temporary.
After I towel off and pull on the clean crop top and jeans, I feel…upright. Not fixed, not new. Just me, minus the grit in my eyes and the sand in my joints. I run my fingers through damp hair, shove it into a messy knot, and follow the smell of breakfast.
The kitchen is a whole mood with soft music playing low and Eli at the stove with a spatula in black sweats and a white ribbed tank, bare feet planted like a line cook.
He’s mid-omelet flip, wrist neat, no drama.
Rowan’s at the island with a newspaper; he’s already murdered with half the crossword inked.
He sips tea and hums under his breath like he’s negotiating with the clues.
“Good morning,” Rowan says, warm enough that my shoulders forget to be up by my ears.
“Debatable.” I sniff the air. “What’s the bribe?”
Eli glances over, eyes quick, mouth curving at the edges. “Spinach, mushrooms, sharp cheddar. Also, there’s salsa.”
“That last part is a shame, it’s not homemade,” I deadpan, and he huffs a quiet laugh like I handed him a gold star.
He plates an omelet. Steam curls up, carrying butter and pepper, and my stomach does the feed me lurch. He gestures at the stool across from Rowan. “Sit. Coffee?”
“Yes,” I say, alarming both of us with the speed. “Please.”