Chapter 23 #3
His jaw flexes. His thumb ghosts over the mark like he wishes he could erase it. All the humor drains out of him. He goes still, his scent darkening until the room feels charged with a sudden, sharp intensity.
“Too much?” he asks, voice low.
I shake my head, the movement small against Rhys’s chest. “No.”
“We mark hard,” Declan murmurs from the counter, his gaze on my shoulder where the bite is fading to a dusky rose. “Sorry, love.”
“Don’t apologize,” I whisper. I look at Knox, at the way he’s staring at the bruise. “I…like it.”
Knox’s head snaps up, the slate in his eyes darkening immediately. A shudder runs through the room, shared by all of them.
“Good,” Knox growls. He leans down, pressing a reverent kiss to the bruise before continuing with the sponge.
Behind me, Rhys’s hands rest flat on my ribcage, holding me above the water with almost no effort at all. Eli’s washcloth follows in their wake, sweeping away stray suds along my throat and the curve where neck meets shoulder, his touch so careful, like he’s writing down every flinch.
“Tip your head back a little,” Declan says from above.
He’s leaning over the back of the tub now, the handheld sprayer already in his hand.
I let my head fall against Rhys’s shoulder.
Declan tests the water on his wrist, then angles the spray over my hair.
Warmth cascades over my scalp, trickling down the back of my neck.
Rhys grunts as a stray jet hits his shoulder, but he doesn’t move.
Instead, he adjusts position as Declan pumps shampoo into his hands and slides his fingers into my hair.
Strong fingertips work the soap in from roots to ends, massaging my scalp in slow circles that melt the remaining tension right out of my neck.
Every pass drags the tension out of my muscles.
Rhys tips my chin a fraction so the suds don’t run into my eyes, watching as Declan reaches out blindly, and Eli is already there, pressing a bottle of conditioner into his hand. They crowd the small space without ever bumping elbows, moving with a kind of eerie, silent synchronization.
Pack. The word whispers through my mind, supplied by my omega.
I smile a little. Pack.
“Good?” Declan asks after a minute, thumbs pressing gently at the base of my skull.
All I can manage is a humming sound that might be agreement, might be gratitude.
He huffs a quiet laugh and rinses my hair, shielding my eyes with his palm while the water sluices away the foam. Knox shifts closer, drawing the sponge up along my flank, over my shoulder, down my arm. He’s careful with every pass, checking my face each time he crosses a sore spot.
“Clean,” he says finally, voice rough like the word means more than just soap.
The drain snakes a little whirlpool around my knees as the tub empties. The moment the water drops past my hips, Rhys moves. He stands, bringing me with him in one smooth lift, barely giving gravity a chance to notice.
The air hits my damp skin and goosebumps race up my arms, but Eli is already there.
He steps in close, a massive towel spread wide between his hands, allowing Rhys to lower me just enough for Eli to wrap me up, tucking the terry cloth around my shoulders, chest, thighs, sealing in the heat before the chill can bite.
“Hold on,” Eli murmurs, sliding a second towel over my hair. He pats gently, then rubs in brisk, efficient strokes, coaxing out the worst of the wet while his other hand runs firmly up and down my arms, generating friction and warmth through the layers.
By the time he’s finished, my muscles feel like they’ve been replaced with warm putty.
“Done,” he says quietly, more to the room than to me.
Rhys carries me out again, settling me in my spot on the couch like a piece being returned to its proper place. My weekender bag is already unzipped on the coffee table, contents fanned out in a neat line: leggings folded on top of underwear, my oversized t-shirt, fuzzy socks.
I let the towel drop. Cool air kisses my damp skin for a second. Just long enough for all four of them to see me, bare and marked and shaky.
No one makes a sound.
The air in the room goes thick again with something heavy.
Something like awe. Rhys stares at the bite mark on my shoulder, his jaw ticking.
Knox tracks the faint red lines on my hips.
Eli’s gaze lingers on my face, soft and devastatingly open.
Then he takes a shuddering breath and tips the collar of my t-shirt over my head.
Cotton whispers down over my shoulders, his knuckles brushing my ribs as he feeds my arms through the sleeves.
The brief drag of skin on skin makes something low in my belly flutter, but his focus stays on getting the shirt to fall right, smoothing it over my sides, tugging the hem straight.
“Better?” he asks, hands settling lightly on my shoulders.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Yeah.”
Underwear and leggings go on next. Knox has the fuzzy socks waiting. He cups my heel, slides each one on, thumb tracing the curve of my ankle before letting go.
“Now we’re talking,” he says, mouth quirking. “World’s not ending if your toes are warm.”
A weight settles over my lap. Declan’s draped a gray blanket across my legs and is tucking the edges in around my hips, snug and secure, like he’s making sure not a single draft can find its way in.
Eli reappears from the kitchen, carrying a steaming mug that smells sharply of mint.
He sets it on a coaster within easy reach of my right hand.
I tuck my feet under the blanket, fingers closing around my Kindle.
The familiar weight is somehow different now that it’s here, in this house, on this couch.
Rhys returns a moment later, dressed in fresh joggers and a dry t-shirt, hair damp and smelling of sandalwood soap. He drops back onto the cushions behind me without a word, his arm hooking around my waist and drawing me in until my spine fits against his chest.
Knox stays on the rug by my feet, turning so his cheek rests against my knee.
Declan slides onto the cushion at my other side, his hand finding mine under the blanket, lacing our fingers together.
Eli drags the armchair close enough that his knee bumps the couch and doesn’t bother to move it away as he reaches for the remote and flicks the TV on.
“Crash if you need to,” Rhys murmurs into my hair. “Read if you don’t. We’re right here.”
I look up from the Kindle at the circle they’ve made around me. Towels already in the hamper. Bath drained. Tea steaming. Clothes laid out, blanket tucked, socks on.
I curl closer into Rhys’s chest, bring the mug to my lips, and let the peppermint slide over my tongue.
It tastes dangerously like home.
But as I watch the steam rise, my stomach tightens. The heat is over. The biology is done.
Tomorrow, I have to figure out if I’m brave enough to keep them.