Chapter 16
Ben had put his fitted sheet on sideways three times before he realized what he was doing.
He stood at the edge of his bed, chest heaving with frustration, and stared at the chaos he’d created.
Pillows—where had all these pillows come from?
—were stacked in a precise arc against his headboard.
Extra blankets he didn’t remember owning formed soft barriers along the mattress edges.
And somehow, inexplicably, one of Sara’s cardigans had found its way into the center of it all, nestled among his sheets like it belonged there.
When did I take that?
He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember acquiring half of these items—the throw blankets in colors he’d never choose, the velvet cushion that smelled faintly of lavender, the cotton quilt with the sunflower pattern that should have been ridiculous but instead made something in his chest purr with satisfaction.
His bed looked like—
His claws flexed, scoring shallow marks in his palms.
His bed looked like a nest.
The realization hit him like a freight train.
He’d seen other rabbit Others do this. He’d watched his cousin spend three delirious weeks building an elaborate structure of blankets and stolen garments before finally claiming his mate.
But he’d never experienced the urge himself, not during his wild years and certainly not during his six celibate years.
Six mating seasons, and not once had he felt the instinctive pull to prepare a space for someone.
Until now.
He picked up Sara’s cardigan, blue wool worn soft and faded, and brought it to his face. Her scent flooded his senses—vanilla and sugar and that warm female scent that was so utterly addictive. His eyes drifted shut as he breathed her in, his whole body relaxing into the familiarity of it.
Mine.
The word rose up from somewhere deep inside, somewhere he couldn’t control. And for the first time, he didn’t try to fight it.
Last night had changed things. Holding her while she slept, waking up to her warmth pressed against him, watching her laugh as he carried her to the kitchen—something fundamental had shifted in his understanding of what he wanted.
Not just sex, though god knew he wanted that.
Not just companionship, though she’d become the best part of his days.
He wanted this. The nest. The claiming. The permanent, irrevocable intertwining of their lives.
He wanted Sara to be his mate.
The admission should have terrified him but instead, it settled into his bones like coming home.
He carefully set her cardigan back in the center of the nest, because there was no point denying that’s what it was, and headed for the shower. He had work tonight, a kitchen to run, and staff to manage. He couldn’t spend the whole evening mooning over bedding arrangements like some lovesick kit.
But as hot water sluiced over his shoulders, his mind kept circling back to the same question. Can I trust myself with her?
She trusted him, that much was clear. She’d looked at him last night with those warm green eyes and told him to stay, to take what he needed, and she hadn’t flinched when his control slipped. She’d welcomed it. She’d welcomed him, in all his possessive, instinct-driven intensity.
But she didn’t fully understand what she was agreeing to.
She knew about mating season. She knew about his past and the careful discipline he’d built around himself.
What she didn’t know was how thoroughly she’d dismantled it.
How completely she’d worked her way under his skin until the thought of losing her made his vision go red and his claws ache to claim.
She can’t leave.
The memory of his own voice—raw and ragged and barely leashed—echoed through his skull. He’d almost scared her last night. He had scared himself. The possessiveness was intensifying, fed by proximity and affection and the growing certainty that she was meant to be his.
And now he was building her a nest.
“Fuck,” he muttered, tipping his head back under the spray.
He was in so much trouble.
The tavern was packed by the time he emerged from the kitchen for his usual walk-through. Saturday nights always drew a crowd, and tonight was no exception—every booth full, the bar three people deep, and Nina weaving through the chaos with her characteristic efficiency.
He’d been distracted all evening. He’d burned a pan of caramelized onions, which never happened. He’d snapped at Annabelle, then had to apologize. He’d frozen in front of the walk-in for five full minutes trying to remember what he’d come for.
His staff had noticed. They’d been giving him cautious looks all night, the kind usually reserved for bears emerging from hibernation. Even George, his bartender, had asked if everything was okay—and George never asked about anything personal.
He leaned against the doorframe separating the back section of the building from the bar, watching the crowd, and tried to make sense of the riot happening inside his own chest.
The back door was three steps away. The porch beyond it, a long wooden platform overlooking the river, was his usual refuge when the noise got to be too much.
Tonight the pull was even stronger than usual.
He needed air and a moment to think without the clamor of voices and clinking glasses drowning out his thoughts.
He slipped outside without anyone noticing.
The night air hit him like a benediction—cool and damp, carrying the green scent of the river.
He took a deep breath and felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders.
The porch was dark, lit only by the spillover from the tavern’s windows, and he settled into his usual spot against the railing.
“Rough night?”
His ears swiveled towards the voice before his eyes found the source. The river below was quiet and still, its surface black and glossy in the darkness. But near the shore, barely visible in the dim light, a massive shape broke the surface.
Sam.
The kraken emerged slowly, tentacles coiling around the dock pilings for balance as he rose from the water.
In this form—partially surfaced, torso bare and gleaming—he was an impressive sight.
Broad shoulders, skin the color of moonlit silver, bioluminescent markings pulsing faintly along his arms. His eyes, bright blue and ancient, watched Ben with his usual calm.
“Something like that,” he admitted.
“Your scent’s different.” Sam’s voice was deep and unhurried. “Agitated, but not… unhappy.”
“You can smell me from there?”
“Of course.” A tentacle gestured vaguely towards the tavern. “Along with forty-three Others, twelve humans, and one very anxious brownie in the storeroom.”
“Shit, the brownies are back?” He rubbed his face. “I thought we’d gotten rid of them.”
“This one’s new. Smells apologetic.”
He filed that away for later. Right now, he had bigger concerns than mischievous household spirits.
A familiar silence stretched between them. Sam wasn’t much for small talk, and Ben had always appreciated that about him. Their friendship had developed over shared silences and occasional, meaningful exchanges.
“The schoolteacher,” Sam said eventually.
His hands tightened on the railing. “What about her?”
“She’s the source of your agitation.” It wasn’t a question. “I’ve seen her walking by the river. She smiles at the water and waves sometimes.”
“That sounds like Sara.”
“You want her.”
Again, not a question. Sam had a disconcerting way of stating the obvious like it was a revelation.
“It’s more than that.” He heard himself say the words before he could stop them. “I’m… nesting.”
Sam’s tentacles stilled. Even the pulsing of his bioluminescence seemed to pause. For a kraken, that was the equivalent of shocked silence.
“Nesting.”
“I built her a goddamn nest, Sam. In my bed. Without even realizing I was doing it.” He laughed, the sound harsh and humorless. “Six years of control, and she’s undone all of it in a few weeks.”
“Hmm.” Sam sank a little lower in the water, considering. “My kind doesn’t nest. But we do… hoard. Precious things. Claimed things.” His blue eyes glinted. “I understand the impulse.”
“How do you handle it?”
“Poorly.”
Despite everything, his mouth twitched. “Helpful.”
“I never claimed to be a source of wisdom.” Sam’s tentacles resumed their slow, contemplative movement. “But I’ve watched this town. I’ve watched Others find their mates. The pattern is always the same—a loss of control, fear, and then the eventual surrender.”
“Surrender.”
“To the inevitable,” Sam said calmly. “You built her a nest. You’ve marked your territory. You have made your choice. What remains is whether you’ll fight it or accept it.”
“And if I can’t trust myself? If the possessiveness—” He stopped, jaw tight. “I almost scared her last night. She mentioned moving, and I lost it. Completely lost it.”
“Did she run?”
“No.”
“Did she seem afraid?”
He thought about it. Her face, patient and understanding. Her hands on his cheeks, gentle and grounding. Her voice, steady as bedrock. I’m not going anywhere.
“No,” he admitted. “She wasn’t afraid.”
“Then perhaps you should stop being afraid for her.”
Before Ben could respond, the back door banged open and heavy footsteps announced a new arrival.
“There you are.” Eric Grayson, the town’s werewolf sheriff, stepped onto the porch with two beers in hand. He was a big man—nearly as tall as Ben, broader through the shoulders—with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to command. His amber eyes flicked to the river. “Evening, Sam.”
“Sheriff.”
“I thought you’d be out here brooding.” Eric handed one of the beers to him and he took it without comment. “Nina said you’ve been in a mood all night.”
“Nina talks too much.”
“Nina’s worried. We all are.” Eric leaned against the railing, taking a long pull from his beer. “I heard you burned the onions.”
“One pan.”
“You haven’t burned anything since you opened this place.”
He didn’t respond. Eric wasn’t wrong, and they both knew it.