28. Syn
28
SYN
Staring at the inside of the massive wardrobe, it becomes clear what I have to do.
Build a nest.
I’m spiralling. I have nothing to cling to. I made this situation with Jeremy worse by being too confident he would take what I had to offer and now, I’m even further back from square one than I was when all this shit started. My desperation made me careless. I brush away the tears, not daring to moan my daughter’s name in case someone is listening.
I stand in front of the wardrobe with trembling hands. The urge to nest is primal, overwhelming—a biological response to the stress crushing me from all sides.
With a shuddering breath, I turn to the bed and pull the covers and pillows off, along with the cashmere throw.
Layer by layer, I create a small sanctuary in the bottom of the wardrobe. The omega in me purrs with each addition, even as my rational mind screams that this is a waste of precious time, and I should be thinking of ways to get more money fast.
But I need this. Just for a moment. Just to think.
I tuck the blankets into a circular formation, creating a hidden pocket in the centre where I can curl up. I pick up the damp towel and sniff it delicately, catching the faintest whiff of the ocean clinging to it from when Tristan held me tightly, whispering promises he doesn’t mean.
It shouldn’t comfort me. But his scent—god, his scent makes the omega in me settle instantly.
With my nest complete, I crawl inside, closing the door of the wardrobe enough to plunge me into darkness, but leave a gap for air. I pull the cashmere throw over me, cocooning myself in gloom and the scent of Tristan fading from the towel as I clutch it to me. Dinner is in less than an hour, but I just need this comfort. This omega instinct of protection before I go down and face them all after what they’ve done, what I’ve done.
I press my face into the towel, trying to steady my breathing. In the darkness of my makeshift nest, I can finally let the mask slip. No facade of strength. No brittle sarcasm. Just me—terrified, desperate, and running out of options.
The darkness of the wardrobe is comforting, womb-like. In here, I can pretend I’m somewhere else entirely. Not in a mansion with three dangerous alphas who see me as a plaything. Not being forced to pay as I’m separated from the one thing who makes me not end all of this. Not failing my daughter with every passing hour.
Amélie. The thought of her little face makes tears spring to my eyes again and I close them, letting my mind go as blank as I can, just to get some rest.
The wardrobe door creaks open suddenly, flooding my sanctuary with light. I blink up, disoriented, to see Tarquin staring down at me, his face unreadable.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice oddly quiet.
I clutch the blankets around me, shame burning through my veins at being caught in such a vulnerable, primal state. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“This doesn’t look like fine,” he says, gesturing to my nest.
“Well, clearly you have no idea what fine means,” I snap, though my voice wavers traitorously. “Please close the door.”
Instead, he crouches down, bringing himself to my level. His apple spice scent washes over me, and I curl tighter into my nest, trying to block it out. In this vulnerable state, any alpha scent feels invasive, even as my treacherous omega instincts respond to it.
“I came to escort you to dinner,” he says, his voice unnervingly gentle. “I didn’t expect to find you hiding in a wardrobe.”
“I’m not hiding,” I lie. “I’m nesting. It’s an omega thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
His eyes soften fractionally. “I understand more than you think, Synthia.”
The use of my full name, spoken without its usual cold formality, catches me off guard. I clutch the towel closer to my chest, suddenly aware that I’m still holding onto Tristan’s scent like a lifeline.
Tarquin notices. His nostrils flare slightly, and something dark flashes across his face before he schools his expression back to neutrality.
“Nesting can be a stress response,” he says quietly. “You feel unsafe.”
“Brilliant deduction,” I mutter, but there’s no real bite to it. I’m too exhausted for our usual verbal sparring.
He surprises me by sitting down on the floor beside the wardrobe. Not crowding me but not leaving either.
“What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously.
“Creating a comfort zone,” he says simply. “You need it. I can smell your distress.”
I want to snap at him, tell him to leave me alone, but something about his expression stops me. He’s not looking at me with pity or judgment—just a quiet understanding that feels more unsettling than his usual cold superiority.
“Dinner can wait,” he continues, leaning his back against the wall. “The others will understand.”
We sit in silence for several minutes. I remain curled in my nest, and Tarquin stays perfectly still, respecting the boundary of the wardrobe threshold. The quiet between us isn’t comfortable, exactly, but it lacks the usual crackling tension.
“When I was young,” he says suddenly, his voice so soft I have to strain to hear it, “my mother used to nest. Not just during pre-heat, but whenever my father went into one of his rages.”
I say nothing, startled by this unexpected revelation.
He doesn’t look at me, his gaze fixed on some distant point. “She would take me with her sometimes. We’d hide in her wardrobe. She’d make a nest and tell me stories to drown out the sounds of him destroying things downstairs.”
The revelation stuns me into silence. This isn’t the cold, calculating alpha I’ve come to know. This is something else entirely—a glimpse behind the mask that makes my chest ache in unexpected ways.
“Why are you telling me this?” I finally ask.
His eyes meet mine then, blue and penetrating. “Because I want you to understand that I recognise what true fear looks like. And you, Synthia Fuller, are terrified of something far worse than me or my pack.”
I swallow hard, fighting the sudden urge to confess everything. The years of extortion, Jeremy’s threats, Amélie’s existence—all of it threatens to spill from my lips. But I’ve learned the hard way that these are not his problems.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You’re not,” he counters softly. “But I won’t force your secrets out of you. Not tonight.”
“But you will, is that what you’re saying?”
“If I must.”
“I’m not going to dinner.”
“Figured. I’ll have food sent up.”
“You aren’t going to force me?”
“Not tonight.”
“Why the reprieve?”
He doesn’t reply. But he doesn’t move either. If anything, he settles more comfortably.
“You can go now.”
“Not yet.”
“You are used to getting your own way, aren’t you?”
“Not always.”
“Is that why you are the way you are now?”
“Which way is that?”
“A control freak.”
The barest hint of a smirk plays on his lips. “Perhaps.”
“Was it your dad?”
“You don’t get any more out of me unless you start talking about you.”
“Ouch,” I grumble, but I can’t deny it’s fair enough.
I curl deeper into my nest, watching him warily. He’s different tonight—the sharp edges of his personality dulled to something almost... human. It makes him more dangerous somehow.
“You were supposed to be a distraction. Entertainment.” His jaw tightens. “A simple transaction.”
“And now?”
“Now you’re a complication.”
I laugh softly, the sound brittle even to my own ears. “Story of my life.”
“Get some rest, Ms Fuller. I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take that as a comfort.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I clutch the towel tighter, inhaling the fading scent of Tristan while Tarquin’s spiced apple aroma gradually fills the space around my nest. I close my eyes, and sleep drags me back under.