Chapter Twenty-Four
Rhea
T hey leave me alone after.
Not before Theo kisses my cheek like he's the last soft-hearted alpha in existence, hands cupping my face like I’m some ancient artifact on loan from a museum. Then he presses something into my hands - food , because of course the man who just made me sob on his tongue is also bringing me a sandwich like a responsible post-orgasm butler.
“This was why I came in the first place - to give you this. But... Anyway. You okay?”
He hovers in the doorway like he’s afraid sudden movement might spook me.
“I’ve never been better,” I tell him.
And it’s true.
I’m sore, slick, a little bit spiritually unhinged, but better
Oh yeah.
He smiles - warm, golden, Theo - and then he’s gone, closing the door behind him like this is a hotel room and not a sex cave full of sweat, slick, and alpha scent.
And then?
Silence.
The room is very much still giving post-pack-heat-chamber-of-sin. There’s a pillow on the floor that I’m pretty sure someone kicked during a climax, a towel stained with evidence of two different alphas, and I’m... leaking. Still.
Lexi would die .
No, seriously - she’d die. Fully flatline. Haunt me from the beyond levels of ghostly judgment, and then probably high-five me for the chaos.
Maybe slap Ash on the ass, too, just to feel included.
I strip the sheets first. Not because I’m domesticated or anything, but because I keep catching whiffs of my own slick and thinking, wow, someone should clean up in here .
Then I realize that I’m someone.
The drawer under the bed has spare linens, which feels criminally fancy, and I go to make it - just make it - but then something clicks.
I build it instead.
Ash called it a nest earlier. Not with judgment, but with that deadpan reverence of his, like; yes, this is normal, I’ve seen far worse in the army, including a guy who tried to turn a sandbag into a body pillow.
And now that he’s said it, I can’t unsee it.
I layer the pillows carefully, plump the softest ones, arrange them around the head of the bed like a fortress. I double-fold the blanket, then redo it because the symmetry is wrong.
I drag the armchair a few inches closer, because I liked it there earlier -
Because Ash sat there earlier.
It matters.
I even find a spare throw blanket in the closet and place it just so across the end of the bed, smoothing it down like I’m curating a vibe for my old social media accounts.
It’s... comforting. Centering.
It’s not just about tidying anymore. It’s instinct.
I crack the bathroom door to let in some cool air, and the steam swirls out like even the air itself is sighing after what’s just gone down in here. I pick up my robe, sniff it, gag, and throw it directly into the hamper like it insulted my ancestors.
And then I step back.
The room looks different now. Still full of scent and sex and Alpha energy, sure - but it’s not foreign anymore. It’s not a cell or a quarantine chamber or some rich man’s glorified panic room.
It’s mine.
And for the first time since this whole heat started… I feel safe.
Not because they gave it to me, but because I made it.
I sink into the middle of the bed - my bed - wrap the new throw around my shoulders, and breathe deep.
Lexi would probably call it gross. But me?
I call it home.
*
The shower is hot. Scalding. Rinse-your-sinuses-and-possibly-your-soul hot. And honestly? That’s exactly what I need.
I brace my hands against the tile, forehead against the cool wall, and let the water pound down on me like I’m trying to wash away not just the sex ( so much sex ), but every last drop of confusion that still clings to me.
I spent so long terrified of this - of what I was, of what it meant.
Suppressants. Scent blockers. Lying through my teeth like it was a sport.
Because the story in my head was always the same: me, chained to a cold alpha with a boring voice and a necktie fetish, stuck in a house I didn’t choose, pushing out pups and casseroles until I died of beige decor and emotional repression.
But no one told me it could be like this. No one mentioned orgasms that felt like they were rewiring my spinal cord. Or the way they’d look at me - like I was sacred, not fragile. Like I was powerful. Deserving. Holy.
I let out a helpless sound - somewhere between a sigh and a whimper - and press one hand between my thighs.
Still sensitive. Still aching.
Still a goddamn live wire.
The second I so much as brush my clit, my legs buckle a little. I lean harder into the wall and bite my lip, gasping as my brain short-circuits into The Rhea Highlight Reel: Theo’s mouth, Ash’s hands, Kai’s voice, Lucian’s -
Nope . I don’t even get to finish that thought.
I come in record time, one palm over my mouth, water rushing down my back, legs shaking like I just ran a 5K in heat-haze stilettos.
Ash was right. I’m insatiable.
Apparently, this is just who I am now.
Omega. Scent-drunk. Wrecked.
Somewhere, Lexi is screaming into a pillow.
I rinse off, scrub myself down like I’m prepping for a medical exam, and towel off with shaky arms. There’s a folded pile of clothes near the sink; and in top?
A hoodie.
Kai’s hoodie, to be precise.
Gray, soft, big enough to camp in. It smells like him, of course - citrus and spice and ozone and what I assume is chaos in cologne form.
I slide it on, and promptly disappear inside it.
The sleeves dangle past my hands. The hem hits mid-thigh. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and laugh out loud.
I look like a very cozy cult member.
Still. I curl up in the middle of the bed - my nest, really - freshly showered, skin clean, legs still buzzing from round seventy-five, and tuck the hoodie tighter around me. And for a few minutes… it’s peaceful.
Until it’s not.
The hum is back. That low, bone-deep pull. Not hunger exactly. Not need. Just… him .
I nibble on a crust of bread from the tray Theo left, chewing like someone pretending food will help when I know damn well it won’t. It tastes like nothing.
Because I don’t want food.
Not Theo, with his gentle hands and mouth that could end wars.
Not Kai, with his hoodie and his smirk and his yes, I’ll absolutely talk dirty to your kneecaps if that’s what gets you of f energy.
Not even Ash, who literally watched me get railed and offered towel service afterward like a very buff hotel concierge.
No.
I want him.
Lucian.
The moment I think his name, it’s like my body buzzes in response. My thighs press together beneath the hoodie, and my breath stutters.
He’s not even here, and I can already hear his voice in my head.
You don’t get to stand there soaking through that robe and then pretend you don’t want someone on the other side.
I shiver.
No matter how many times I’ve come today - I’ve lost count somewhere between the armchair and the second sheet change - he still lives under my skin like a goddamn ghost with a superiority complex.
But this time?
This time, I’m done pretending. Done hiding behind some outdated fear of losing control when that ship sailed four orgasms ago.
I want him. Have wanted him.
And tonight, I’ll say it.
I set the tray aside. Shift the pillows. Angle myself toward the door like I’m not waiting, like I didn’t just stage my entire body like an invitation.
And I know he’ll come.
He always does. He feels it, too. That bond, that pull, that unholy tension that practically hums through the air whenever we’re within twenty feet of each other.
He’s the storm, the steel, the one I tried so hard not to want.
And now, I’m finally ready to burn for him.
So. I wait.
Hair still damp. Skin still flushed.
Wrapped in another Alpha’s hoodie, yes - but still hoping the one who can ruin me with a whisper decides to open that door.
And when he does, I’ll say it.
Come in.
Touch me.
I’m yours.
*
The minutes stretch.
The house creaks. The radiator lets out a hiss like it's mocking me. Somewhere off in the distance, a door shuts.
My ears perk up, and I sit straighter. My pulse starts fluttering in my throat like an emotionally unstable moth.
I know you're out there. Come on.
Just open the door.
Be dramatic about it. Rip it off the hinges, even. That’s kind of your thing.
… Nothing.
The hallway stays silent. No footsteps, no dominant shadow looming in the doorway like an arrogant, six-foot-three problem with control issues.
The silence grows teeth. Bites a little.
I shift, pulling the blankets tighter around me. The nest I built earlier - so instinctive, so perfect - feels less like a sanctuary now and more like a pillow fort of emotional instability.
There’s still a dumb part of me - small, unreasonable, 100% the drama queen in me - that expects him to crash through the door, shirt half-undone, voice full of gravel, and just take me.
But the door stays closed.
Still. Still. Still.
The ache that rises up in me isn’t heat this time; it’s something colder. Sadder . The hope within me deflates like a balloon losing air and dignity at the same time, and I pull Kai’s hoodie tighter around myself and breathe it in like it’s going to fix anything.
It doesn’t. It just smells like mischief and sweat and like a guy who probably owns way too many protein shakers.
It’s nice. It’s comforting.
It’s not what I wanted.
I didn’t think Lucian would tear down walls, exactly, but I thought he’d feel me. That weird almost-bond between us still hums under my skin, faint and flickering, like a radio signal I can’t quite tune in.
I stretch toward it instinctively - just a little. Just enough to say: I’m here. I need.
But there’s nothing.
No answer. No pressure.
Not even the emotional equivalent of a voicemail beep.
The emptiness where he should be cuts deeper than the silence ever could.
Maybe he’s busy. Maybe something came up. Maybe Ash and Kai are wrestling shirtless in the hallway and Lucian’s too annoyed to deal with it.
…Or maybe it’s me.
Maybe I crossed some invisible line. Maybe seeing me with the others was too much. Maybe he thinks I’ve already been claimed - too messy, too marked, too late.
And god, I hate that that thought makes my chest ache.
I tuck myself deeper into the nest like it’ll protect me from rejection, or reality. Pillows are piled against my back, one under each arm like they might form a makeshift boyfriend if I squint hard enough.
I bury my face in Kai’s hoodie and take a deep breath, because if I cry again, I’m blaming the heat and the hormones and not the fact that I just got ghosted by my favorite brooding alpha in the middle of an emotional vulnerability spiral.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
This is fine.
I mean, is it sad that I almost let myself imagine something permanent? That I thought maybe, just maybe, he felt it too?
Probably.
But that’s where I am now. Naked in a blanket fort of my own desperation, having a full existential crisis over a man who growls for a living.
I roll over, drag a pillow against my chest, and cling to it like it owes me comfort. It’s not Lucian. It doesn’t smell like steel and command and ruin-your-life sex appeal. But it’s soft. It’s here . It’s something.
And right now, something will have to do.