Chapter thirteen #3
The door is half open. Inside, the nest is as we left it—built up, blankets high, the center cratered from years of use.
I step inside and breathe in. The scents are as familiar as my own name: the base note of Gabriel’s cedar and smoke, the dry spice of Cyrus, the sweet-and-bitter twist of Miles’s burnt sugar.
There’s even a little of my own scent in there, faint and easy to miss because I’ve been more absent since she came.
Miles is in the nest, cocooned in blankets. He’s on his side, knees tucked up, an old t-shirt pulled to his chin, hair a mess. There are no glasses, no scowl, none of the armor he puts on for the world. Just him, soft and small, like he was when we first brought him home.
Seeing him like this—unguarded—makes the guilt flare hot. He trusted us to keep him safe, to never do what his last pack did. And twenty minutes ago, I was holding another omega’s hand and wishing the drive would last forever.
I hesitate at the door, but the instinct to join the nest is too strong. It’s the only place I want to be. I strip down to my undershirt and crawl in slow, careful not to jostle him.
The warmth is immediate, the collective comfort of years of scenting and building and loving. I relax for the first time all day.
Miles stirs a little. He makes a tiny sound, the sort he’d never let anyone hear if he were awake. I smile, even as my heart twists.
“Hey,” I whisper. “It’s only me.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
I let the nest hold me. I could almost fall asleep, except—
Miles’s whole body goes rigid.
He lifts his head, eyes open, blinking hard. He’s alert in a second, the way feral animals are, ready for anything. His nose wrinkles. He sniffs.
“What is that.” It isn’t a question.
I freeze. “What’s what?”
He turns, eyes locked on me. “You smell like her.“ His voice is small but growing, each word a stone in my gut. “Why do you smell like her?”
I try to think of the right thing to say. There isn’t one.
“I drove her to her appointment,” I say. “That’s all.”
He sits up. Fast. The blankets slip off his shoulders. “You smell like her. You reek of her.”
Miles’s scent spikes, going from sweet to acrid in a heartbeat, the chemical signal of fear and fury and betrayal.
“Get out,” he says, quiet and deadly. “Get out of my nest.”
I reach for him, but he recoils like I’ve burned him. “Miles, please—“
He shoves me. Both hands, right to my chest. I don’t fight it. I let myself tumble back from the core of the nest and into the heap of extra blankets.
“This is mine,” he says. “This is the one place that’s mine and you brought her into it.” His hands are fists in the bedding. He’s clawing at the blankets, pulling them away from where I touched, trying to separate them. He looks up, eyes wild. “You didn’t think. You didn’t fucking think.”
I did think. Deep down I did. And I did it anyway.
The air is full of panic and ozone and the sour edge of heartbreak.
“Miles, I’m sorry, I—“
“Don’t.” His words crack. “Don’t pretend you’re sorry. Just get out.”
He’s unraveling, right in front of me. The edge I saw before—now it’s a chasm. He’s shaking, rocking a little, like he does after a nightmare.
He grabs a pillow and throws it at me. Then another. “GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT—“
I crawl backward, out of the nest, out of the room. I’m shaking too. My hands are numb, my heart is pounding, and the guilt so heavy it feels like it’ll swallow me whole.
I hear heavy footsteps in the hall. Cyrus.
He sees me from the doorway, takes one look at the state of the room, at Miles destroying the nest, me breathing hard. He doesn’t hesitate. He moves to Miles, scoops him up, and holds him tight even as Miles fights, thrashing and sobbing.
“Stop, stop, stop—“ Miles’s fists are hitting Cyrus’s chest, but Cyrus holds on, murmuring something low. The words don’t matter. The arms do. The purr does too.
He carries Miles down the hall, into his own room, and shuts the door. The screaming keeps on, but it’s quieter now, muffled. Then it fades to crying. The kind of crying that doesn’t stop, even when you’re too tired to breathe.
I stare at the wreckage in the room. The nest is torn apart, blankets everywhere, the pillows battered and bent. I can still smell Lily on my skin, on my clothes. I hate that it’s comforting.
I go to the bathroom. Turn the shower on as hot as it’ll go. I strip, get in, and scrub my arms and chest until my skin stings. Then I turn the water cold, let it punish me for as long as I can stand.
But even when I’m shaking with the cold and my skin is raw, I still feel her hand in mine. I hear the sound she made when she let go of the pain. I see Miles’s face when I brought that into his nest. Into the only place he ever felt truly safe.
But if Lily needs me tomorrow, if the pain comes back and she asks for help—I’ll do it again.
I know I will.
That’s the problem with being an alpha. You can’t turn it off, no matter how hard you try.
I towel off, put on fresh clothes, and go to the kitchen. There’s still some soup in the fridge. I heat it up, sit at the table and wait for someone to come find me.
I hate that I feel this way. Torn between two people I crave to help.
But Gabriel’s right. We made a promise to Miles.
Lily has to go. As much as I ache to rip that thought right out of my head… it’s still true. Still lingers.
Lily has to go. And soon.
Before I do something I can’t come back from.