Burning
Lyra
It feels like it’s been hours since I made that damn phone call. I’m not sure how much actual time has passed, but each second makes my gut twist tighter and tighter.
Anxious, I burrow deeper into my nest, pulling my blanket up under my chin. I can’t seem to get warm. I've got nothing on but my underwear and one of Adrian's shirts, the red flannel one, but I keep shaking like I’m freezing to death.
"Lyra?" Owen whispers into my hair. His chest is against my back and one arm heavy over my waist. "Did you hear me, baby?" He hasn't stopped talking since I hung up.
His voice has stayed low and easy against the back of my neck, and I love him for trying, but I’m too wound up to focus.
Where the hell are my alphas?
"We’re going to have a garden," Owen says. His thumb moves in slow circles against my hip. "And a few big oak trees where we can hang a hammock between them." A soft laugh moves through his chest and into my spine. "And a big front porch. Do you want a big porch?"
"Porch," I say, trying to swallow a pained whimper. A sharp, twisting cramp rolls through my gut, stealing my breath. I press my face harder into my pillow, forcing my muscles to relax, determined not to let him know my anxiety is this bad.
"It’ll be really big." He gathers me in a little closer. "With five rocking chairs lined up all in a row."
I try to picture it. A yard with morning sun.
Dirt under my nails. A version of my life where I get to want small, ordinary things and then simply have them.
For half a second, I almost see it, but then the ache clenches down low and mean, and my mind slides right off the garden and back down into that garage.
Mack is there right now, trying to talk some sense into Crispin.
Or maybe he’s already headed home.
Or maybe Crispin killed my alpha, and he’s trying to get rid of Mack’s dead body.
I don’t want to question my alphas. I really don’t. But having Mack beat up Crispin isn’t going to convince the asshole to let me go.
Crispin Maleth is a vicious, bloodthirsty alpha who would sooner die than not get his way.
"Hey." Owen's palm flattens on my belly, warm through my shirt, and he must feel how tight I've gone, because his voice drops lower still. "Lyra. You’re shaking."
"I’m just worried," I lie as the next cramp makes heat bloom in my gut. It spreads out, rushing down my legs and up my chest.
I’m suddenly way too hot.
"Mack knows what he's doing," Owen says softly.
"He's just going to rattle him. He’ll make it real clear what happens if Crispin ever comes near you again.
" His lips press to the back of my head.
"He'll be home before you know it, complaining that his knuckles hurt and eating everything in the kitchen. "
But I don’t believe any of it.
My body is burning now, sweat blooming along my sides and chest.
A pained groan tears out of me before I can stop it, and I curl away from Owen, trying to get out from under the weight of his arm and the heat rolling off him.
"Lyra?" The ease drops out of his voice all at once. "Hey, hey, what is it? What's wrong?"
I can't answer him.
The next cramp slams into me, folding me in half around it, and there's no room left in me for words, no room even for air. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. All I can do is claw at the sheets.
It feels like my whole body is trying to turn itself inside out, and all I can do is ride it, silent and shaking, my eyes squeezed shut against the dark.
"Okay. Okay, I've got you." Owen's voice rises with panic. "I'm getting you out of here, come here, I've got you."
He gets his arms under me and starts to lift.
Panic slams into me, and my hand shoots out, closing around every blanket within reach.
I hold on to them as he stands and carries me out of the closet.
The blankets come with us, torn loose from where I'd tucked and layered them so carefully.
And I feel the whole thing come apart in one ugly rush.
The sound that rips out of me isn't crying. It's worse than crying.
It's a high, broken wail, the sound of something precious being destroyed, and I can't stop it any more than I could stop the groan.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Owen says over and over again as he carries me the few feet to the bed and lays me down on it as gently as he can.
"Shit. Lyra. What’s happening? Are you okay?
Oh, fuck." He goes quiet as she sees the line of blankets stretched between the bed and the closet.
"Your nest." His voice falls, shock gripping him.
Half my nest is here on the bed with me, dragged out in the blankets still fisted in my hand, and the other half is back there in the closet, wrecked, scattered, and wrong. The neat little den I built is torn clean in two.
A fresh sob wracks through me, and I reach back toward the closet with my free hand, fingers spread, grasping at nothing.
"Do you want," Owen starts, and I hear how lost he is, how scared.
He's crouched over me with his hands hovering like he's terrified to touch me.
"Baby, tell me. Do you want me to put you back in the closet?
Or do you want all your nesting stuff out here?
Tell me what you need, and I'll do it, I swear, just tell me. "
I can't tell him anything. The words won't come. All that comes is a snarl, low and bared-teeth, and I stab my hand toward the closet again, toward my blankets and pillows and perfectly tucked in shirts, toward everything that smelled like my pack.
"Out here? Okay. You want it out here. Okay." Owen is already moving. "Okay, I can do that, I'm doing it right now."
He goes to the closet and starts hauling armfuls of blankets out to me, and he doesn't stop talking the whole time, the words tumbling fast and frightened.
"Here, this one, this is the soft one you like.
And the gray pillow, I know, I've got it.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry I pulled you out, I panicked, I didn't know what was happening and you weren't breathing right and I just." His voice cracks.
"I'm probably making this so much worse. God, tell me if I'm making it worse."
But I can't get a single damn word out. I can only snarl and grunt, and breathe through the pain.
Owen drops the last armfull right in front of me, and I immediately press my burning face into Nico’s old pillow. My body shakes, and I reach for the next thing Owen brings, and then the next.
Then my hands take over and my head goes quiet.
I don't decide to build. I just move, up on my knees in the middle of the mattress, dragging blankets into place and shoving pillows where they need to go, and it's like watching somebody else's hands do it.
I adjust blankets and fluff pillows, my body refusing to stop.
Make it safe. Make it right. Make it mine.
Owen takes a few steps back, giving me room. I catch him in the edge of my vision, standing off to the side in nothing but his pajama pants and his glasses, his chest bare, and his arms hanging useless at his sides. He's watching me build with his eyes gone wide behind the lenses.
The bruise under his face is so dark now, a deep purple-black, smudged all around his eye socket. The white of the eye itself gone pink at the corner. And he looks scared half to death as he watches me work.
I hate that I’m scaring him right now, but I can’t stop to explain myself.
Plus, my nest is almost there. I've nearly got the shape of it, the walls curved up around a soft hollow in the center, and I sit back on my heels for half a breath to check it.
And that's when my body lets go.
A cramp grips my belly right as a hot rush of slick pushes out of me all at once, soaking through my underwear.
It pours down the insides of my thighs, and the smell of it blooms up thick and sweet into the small space.
Everything stops. I go still on my knees, and the truth of it drops through me all the way to the floor.
I'm in heat.
I look up at Owen and watch him understand it in the exact same second I do. His nostrils flare and his whole body goes rigid. His eyes snap to mine, blown wide, and he takes one helpless step toward the bed, drawn on instinct, reaching.
And I immediately snarl at him.
It rips out of me ugly and sharp, teeth bared, and he freezes mid-step and rocks back onto his heels. Not yet. It isn't ready. It isn't perfect yet, and nobody comes into my nest until it's perfect, not even him.
Owen lifts both hands and eases back to the wall. "Okay," he says softly. "Okay. I'm right here. Take your time."
I turn back to the nest.
I'm burning alive now. The slick keeps coming, and the flannel is stuck to my back with sweat, and every inch of my skin is screaming to be free of this shirt and my underwear. I want to tear it off, but I can’t spare a second until this nest is perfect.
Pillow. Blanket. Corner. Fold.
And then I hear the front door open, and my whole body locks up.
Boots move through the house. Two sets, walking fast.
Then Nico and Adrian come through the bedroom door and pull up short. Their eyes go to me first, up on my knees in the middle of my new nest, and then down, to the slick soaking dark through my underwear and streaking the insides of my thighs.
"Lyra," Nico growls as one hand grips the hem of his shirt. He drags it off over his head and drops it on the floor. His eyes flash as he drinks me in, his whole body pulling in my direction.
But the second he takes a single step, I growl high in my throat. "Don’t touch me!" I snarl, hating how crazed I feel.
Nico freezes in his tracks.
The pack alpha's jaw works, but he lifts a hand and eases his weight back, giving me space. His desire to touch me is all over his face, but he manages to hold himself still. "It’s okay," he whispers softly. "We’re here. Let us tend to you."
I shake my head, balling up fists full of my once perfect nest.
"What’s wrong, omega?" Adrian says from the doorway, one hand grips the frame, clearly struggling to hold himself back.