Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mia
Iwake up with my face buried in a pillow that doesn’t belong to me.
It smells like fresh laundry, sunlight, and faintly, dangerously, like pack.
For a disorienting second, my brain tries to file it under “new detergent” in my own house. Then it all slams back in hard and fast.
The flood. The fans. Eli carrying my laptop like a conquering hero. Rhys pacing my fence line. The nest. Their nest. My body sinking into it like I’ve belonged there forever.
And then…Rhys’s hand on my neck. Knox’s arm banded around my waist. The rough promise in Rhys’s voice when he said, “We’d take it from the source.”
I sit up so fast the room tilts.
Soft morning light filters through pale curtains I don’t own, throwing rectangles onto unfamiliar walls. The pack’s nest. I’m in it.
The house is quiet. Not silent, not like mine gets, but quiet in that alive way. The low hum of servers somewhere deeper inside. The soft, rhythmic rush of the AC.
I reach for my phone tangled in the blankets around me.
8:47 AM.
I never sleep this late in a strange bed. I barely sleep this late in my own.
For a moment, I just lie there on my back, staring at the ceiling, letting the last fog of sleep burn off.
I should be able to go home today. The fans have been blowing uninterrupted so I should be able to turn them off now.
Relief and disappointment tangle up in my chest.
I can go home. I should go home.
The idea of being back in my own space, with my own things, with no one in hearing distance when I mumble in my sleep…that should sound like heaven.
It doesn’t.
It sounds achey. Hollow.
I swing my legs out of bed, bare feet hitting cool hardwood. I’m still in Declan’s hoodie, the fabric gone warm and soft with sleep and saturated with their scent. Declan mostly, but underneath that, everyone. The hoodie smells like the nest.
I should give these back. I should fold them neatly, set them on the nest, write a nice, normal thank-you note and then go back to my own chronicles of chaos.
Leave before I get comfortable.
Except.
My skin feels…weird.
Heavy and restless at the same time. There’s a low simmer under my skin that wasn’t there the day before.
I press the back of my hand to my forehead automatically. I don’t feel feverish, just over-warmed. Over-aware. My muscles feel like I half-ran a marathon and half-slept on clouds. When I shift, there’s a tug low in my belly that makes my breath hitch in my chest.
Stress, I tell myself. Your house flooded, you fell asleep in a nest like a romance-novel heroine, and you woke up in an alpha’s hoodie. Your nervous system is throwing a tantrum. That’s all.
I grab my duffel and slip out of the guest room, padding down the hall on bare feet.
The kitchen is empty, sun slanting over clean counters and a sink without dishes. There’s a note propped up against the coffee maker, weighed down with a mug.
The handwriting is blocky and neat.
Coffee’s fresh. Help yourself. We had to rush to the office. Knox is here if you need anything.
—E
Something inside my chest flutters.
I pour a mug, fix it with cream and sugar like muscle memory, and lean against the counter while it warms my hands. Through the archway I can see into the living room.
The monitors are dark. The office chairs are empty.
On the couch, sprawled like a ragdoll, is Knox.
He’s out cold.
One long arm dangles off the edge of the sectional, knuckles brushing the rug.
His t-shirt is twisted up a little at the waist, exposing a sliver of tan skin and the waistband of his sweats.
His head is tipped back, lips parted just enough to show the edge of teeth.
I creep closer, unable to stop myself from watching him sleep, when he lets out a rough, entirely un-sexy snore.
It is the most endearing thing I have ever heard.
I creep a few steps closer, mug cradled to my chest, my footsteps silent on the rug.
In sleep, his whole face changes. The cockiness softens. The lines around his eyes smooth out. He looks…vulnerable.
Pack, my omega sighs.
I swallow.
The ache under my skin spikes, heat rolling low in my gut. My thighs press together of their own accord.
“No,” I whisper to myself. “Not right now.”
I grip the mug harder, fingers tightening so much the ceramic creaks.
I need to leave.
I need to go back to my own house, with my dry floors and my sad, nest-less bed and my sensible, adult emotional boundaries.
Because if I stay here one more minute, looking at a sleeping alpha who knocked the air out of my lungs just by existing next door, I am going to do something catastrophically stupid.
Like set the mug down, kneel next to the couch, and thread my fingers into that messy hair. Like wake him up with a kiss and see what his voice sounds like when it says my name first thing in the morning.
I swallow hard.
“That’s not you,” I remind myself under my breath. “You are not feral.”
Knox mumbles something in his sleep, turning his face slightly toward the back cushion. The motion sucks his t-shirt up another inch, showing the sharp cut of his hip.
Oh, for—
I chug the rest of my coffee in three gulps, rinse the mug in the sink, leave it upside down to dry.
I do not write a note.
If I write a note, I’ll overthink the wording, and then I’ll stand there imagining them reading it, and then I’ll never leave.
Instead I grab my duffel, slip quietly out the back door, and make a beeline across the damp grass to my own.
I don’t look back.
If I do, I’m afraid I’ll see Knox at the window, hair mussed from sleep, t-shirt riding up, watching me leave.
By the time I unlock my front door, some of the warmth from their house has faded. The cooler, faintly chemical smell of mine hits me in the face. Drywall dust, paint, lemon cleaner. And under it, the ghost of flooding: that damp, metallic scent of recently soaked wood.
The fans are gone. The big dehumidifier that was roaring in the hall last night is missing. My rug is back on the floor, though it’s stiff and slightly discolored around the edges. And my couch is back where it belongs.
There’s a printed note on the dining table with my property manager’s letterhead.
Dryout complete. Please monitor for any additional leaks or moisture intrusion and inform us immediately.
—Management
I set my duffel down and look around. It’s fine. Objectively, my house is fine.
But the silence is loud.
There’s just me, and the echo of water that’s no longer there.
I force myself into motion.
Unpack the duffel. Put the clothes back into drawers. Straighten pillows. Wipe down the kitchen counter even though it doesn’t need it.
But my body won’t settle.
There’s a constant hum under my skin now. The house feels too small and too big at the same time.
By eleven, I’m pacing the hallway.
By noon, I’m sweating.
I yank off Declan’s hoodie and it feels like trying to peel off a second skin. I waddle to the fridge and yank it open, standing and letting the cold air wash over me.
It barely helps.
“What is wrong with you,” I whisper to the condiments.
The answer curls up from inside me. My own scent has thickened. It’s not the light, faint strawberries I’m used to. It’s deeper. Sweeter. Filling the small kitchen until I’m half drunk on it.
My thighs clench when I shift my weight from foot to foot. There’s a slickness there I absolutely did not authorize. A low, gnawing ache in my belly pulses in time with my heartbeat.
No.
Nope.
I slam the fridge shut and lurch for my phone on the island.
Cycle app. I tap it open with shaking fingers.
HEAT DUE IN: 14 DAYS.
Fourteen. My pulse pounds in my ears.
“Exactly. Fourteen days,” I whisper. But my body doesn’t give a single shit about the nice, tidy tracking software I use to plan my life. There is a heat in my belly, a heavy, slick heat gathering between my thighs that absolutely shouldn’t be there two weeks out.
Stress, I tell myself, gripping the edge of the counter until my knuckles hurt. It’s just stress. It’s the flood. It’s sleeping in a nest that wasn’t mine.
I close the app and down a glass of water, forcing myself to breathe.