5. Vayda
Iwake up with a loud gasp, my fingers tangled tight in the bedsheets. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I kick the blankets away to expose my cold, sweat-slicked skin to the air. The bedroom sits dark, with Monday morning light bleeding through the gaps in the cheap plastic blinds.
A couple of days have passed since the game, yet my brain clings to the memory. I sit up and drag both hands down my face to clear the lingering images burned into the back of my eyelids.
The dreams were relentless. They played on a brutal loop all damn night.
Wally Nelson, Kel Lars, and Simon Clark.
The Reapers' star first line. Watching every single game turns them into untouchable celebrities on a screen, but my traitorous brain took that terrifying moment we realized we were a scent match and spun the professional athletes into a vivid, explicit sex dream.
Rough hands pinned my hips to the mattress. Teeth scraped against my scent glands. The sheer size of them stretched my limits while their names tore from my throat.
The ghost of their combined scent still coats the inside of my nose.
Crisp bergamot, rugged leather, amber, and sea breeze.
My mouth waters. The guilt hits hard, but the memory leaves my core throbbing with an intense, confusing ache.
I'm soaked, my underwear ruined by a desperate, hungry reaction to just the phantom trace of their pheromones.
I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. My skin feels raw and hypersensitive. The air in the room brushes against my arms and stings.
Pushing upright, I walk into the small guest bathroom attached to my bedroom. I moved out of the master suite three years ago when sleeping next to Bren became too much of a risk.
I turn the shower on cold. After peeling off my sweat-soaked pajamas, I kick my ruined underwear into the corner.
The freezing spray shocks my system. I grab a bar of pheromone-suppressant soap and a washcloth, scrubbing until my skin turns pink.
I have to wash away the scent of arousal.
Walking into Bren's room smelling like sex and panic will trigger his Alpha instincts in a heartbeat.
Once I'm scrubbed clean, the throb in my core fades to a manageable ache.
I yank the shower curtain back and stop midstep out of the stall.
My wet foot hovers an inch above a pile of calico fur.
Cali sits right in the middle of the bath mat, her tail wrapped around her paws.
Her bright green eyes stare up to judge my cold shower.
"Stop looking at me like that." I step around her to reach the towel rack. "You have no idea the kind of morning I'm having. Keep your judgments to yourself, please."
Cali blinks in a slow, unimpressed rhythm.
I dry my shaking body with the rough towel.
Back in my bedroom, I pull on a clean pair of worn-out yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt.
I sink onto the edge of the mattress and take deep, calming breaths to force my heart rate back to normal.
I shove the guilt and arousal into a locked box in my mind.
Staying calm and focusing on the routine keeps me from losing my grip on reality.
I walk down the short hallway to Brendan's room. I push the door open, taking in the scent of clinical antiseptic wipes and his faint, familiar smell of rain and driftwood.
Bren is awake, lying flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling fan with a blank expression. His left hand twitches against the quilt.
I move to the side of the hospital bed and force a cheerful smile. "Happy Monday morning, Bren. Did you sleep okay?"
He blinks and turns his head. His mouth curves into a crooked smile while a small, contented hum vibrates in his chest. He recognizes my voice and my scent. The relief washes over me. Some mornings pose a massive challenge, but today he seems calm and present.
"Alright, let's get you cleaned up and into your chair." I pull the thick quilt down to the foot of the bed.
The familiar motions of the morning routine take over.
I check his brief. It held up fine since his middle of the night change.
Waking up at three in the morning to swap him out is just part of the schedule, but sometimes he needs an extra change before dawn.
I swap the damp brief for a fresh one, then get him strapped into the canvas Hoyer sling.
Once the loops hook onto the metal cradle, I press the up button on the remote.
The machine whirs, lifting his body weight into the air.
I pivot the lift to position him right over his wheelchair.
A gentle descent lands him in the seat. I secure the chest harness and adjust his footrests to keep his circulation steady.
"Vinny gets here in a few hours. He plans to help you get a shower today. You like it when Vinny helps with the shower."
Bren makes another happy noise. His fingers tap an uneven rhythm on the armrest of his chair.
Lifting him out of the wheelchair without the Hoyer lift is impossible.
Our tiny master bathroom shower lacks the space to fit the massive metal machine, the shower chair, and his wheelchair without risking a serious injury to both of us.
Vinny is strong enough to manage a standing pivot transfer in the tight quarters.
I push Brendan into the kitchen and park his chair at the edge of the small dining table.
"Breakfast time. I bought the good fruit yesterday."
Bren loves mangoes. The sweet treat guarantees a good mood.
I grab a cutting board and a small knife to peel the tough skin away.
I slice the bright orange flesh into very tiny pieces to prevent any choking hazard.
After scooping a generous amount of yogurt into a plastic bowl, I reach into the cabinet for his morning medications and vitamins.
I drop the pills into a small crusher and grind them into a fine powder.
I sprinkle the chalky dust over the yogurt, using the mango to hide the bitter taste.
I take the seat next to him and pick up the spoon. Feeding him takes time, but watching him enjoy the sweet fruit provides a quiet highlight for my morning. His eyes light up with every bite, showing a spark of genuine joy breaking through the haze of his brain injury.
With the bowl empty, I use a damp paper towel to clean his mouth. Pushing his chair into the living room comes next. I grab the TV remote and navigate to the Disney app on the smart TV.
"I'm putting The Lion King on." I press play, letting the familiar music fill the room. "Maybe we'll go for a walk later and get some sun, okay? It's supposed to be nice out. After your P.T."
He focuses on the bright colors flashing across the screen, safe and content.
Back in the kitchen, I tackle the breakfast mess. I drop the sticky plastic bowl into the sink and turn on the hot water. My eyes lock onto the windowsill above the sink.
An old, framed picture sits right next to a dying potted succulent. It shows my first pack during a messy breakfast on a random Tuesday morning. Me, Emmett, Hale, and Brendan all crowd around our old kitchen table, with half-eaten plates of pancakes between us.
Perched sideways on Emmett's lap, I lean my weight back into his chest. His arms loop around my middle to secure my balance.
My head tilts back, caught mid-laugh with one hand resting on his forearm.
He always radiated so much warmth, his deep cocoa skin a beautiful contrast to mine in the morning light.
His wide smile shows off the chipped front tooth he refused to fix.
Hale grins, his hand resting flat on Bren's shoulder during an attempt to steal a piece of bacon.
He sports messy dark hair and the permanent stubble that used to scratch my cheeks when he kissed me.
Brendan looks young, his Alpha presence radiating confidence and strength.
His golden blonde hair sits styled to perfection, and his bright blue eyes look clear like the ocean.
Staring at the glass frame makes my breath hitch. Tracing the lines of their familiar faces offers a brief comfort. The vibration from the dream continues, my skin buzzing with an endless hunger. I force those graphic images back into my head, putting Emmett, Hale, and Brendan into the roles.
Picturing Emmett’s large hands on my waist, Hale’s rough stubble against my throat, and Bren’s weight pinning me to the sheets sparks another flare of heat in my core. Wanting them feels safe. Screaming their names in my head keeps me from feeling like a total traitor.
The dream is a stubborn, vivid thing. It refuses to accept the lie.
The faces in my mind begin to shift and blur.
Emmett’s warm skin and wide smile morph into Wally’s intense, dark stare.
Hale’s playful grin turns into Kel’s aggressive scowl.
Bren’s golden hair and blue eyes vanish, replaced by Simon’s focused, hungry expression.
The hands on my hips shift from Emmett’s to the thick, powerful grip of the Alphas from the arena.
The worst part hits right as the throb in my core intensifies. The arousal spikes for the strangers who made my skin crawl with recognition two days ago. It acts as a greedy thing, ignoring my loyalty and my grief. It just wants to be claimed.
The guilt hits like a blow to my heart. My legs give out, and I slide down the front of the cabinets. The handles catch on the back of my shirt until I crumple onto the cheap linoleum.
I pull my knees up to my chin and wrap my arms around them, squeezing until my knuckles turn white.
I tuck my head down to hide my face in the corner between the dishwasher and the counter.
My teeth chatter against the violent shakes.
I bury my face in my hands as the first ragged sob breaks through.