Chapter 25 Silas #2
She hangs up without saying goodbye properly, staring at the phone like it might bite her. The silence in the kitchen is heavy, all of us processing what just happened. I can see her spiraling, see the panic starting to build behind her eyes.
"Hey,” I say, catching her attention. “Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe."
"Hospital records," she whispers, her eyes unfocused. "Concussion. Fractured rib. I don't... I don't remember all of it. How can I not remember?"
"Your brain protected you," Hunter says, his voice gentle despite the fury still simmering underneath. He crosses to stand beside me, both of us creating a wall of support without crowding her. "It's a survival mechanism. You don't have to remember everything to know it was real."
"Tomorrow," she says again, like she's trying to convince herself. "I'll deal with it tomorrow."
Then her eyes land on the shopping bags Hunter brought in, and some of the tension in her shoulders eases. The distraction is welcome, needed, and I see Hunter register that too.
"Did you buy the whole store?" she asks, her attempt at lightness not quite masking the distress in her voice. But she's trying, and that's what matters. "I have a nest at Dylan's place. I don't need..."
"We were hoping you'd make one here too," I say gently, moving closer but still not touching. Not yet. "A permanent one. Your nest at Dylan's is fine for visits, but if you're going to be here, if you're going to be part of this pack, you need a space that's truly yours."
Her eyes fill with tears, the emotional whiplash of the conversation about Vincent followed by this gesture clearly overwhelming her. "Where? There's no room. You guys all have your own spaces and I can't just take over somewhere. I know I’ve been sleeping in the guest room sometimes but…"
"Anywhere," Wyatt says, appearing in the kitchen doorway.
He must have heard us talking and come to investigate, leaving the kids absorbed in their movie upstairs.
He moves to stand behind Amelia, his arm wrapping protectively around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. "You can nest anywhere in this house that feels right to you. We'll make it work."
Amelia looks around like she's trying to picture it, trying to figure out where she'd fit in this house that's already full of memories and established routines. She grabs a couple of the pillows from Hunter's bags, holding them against her chest like she needs something to ground her.
"Anywhere?" she asks, her voice small and uncertain.
We all nod, and I can see the exact moment something shifts in her.
Some decision being made, some certainty clicking into place.
She starts walking, moving through the kitchen and into the living room, past the study, down the hallway.
We follow at a distance, letting her explore, letting her feel out the space.
She pauses outside Wyatt's room, considering it for a moment before shaking her head. Then mine, where the door is open, showing the bed we shared last night. But she moves past that too, continuing down the hall until she reaches the door at the very end.
Hunter's room.
She stops in the doorway, looking inside with careful consideration.
It's the most private room in the house, tucked away from the main living areas, the farthest from the kids' rooms. The windows face the backyard instead of the street, making it darker and quieter than the other bedrooms. The space is neat but sparse, Hunter's military precision evident in the way everything has its place.
"It's perfect," Amelia whispers, stepping inside. "It's darker than the other rooms. Quieter. Not facing the street where anyone could see in. It feels..." She trails off, struggling to find the right word.
"Safe," Hunter finishes for her, his voice rough with emotion. "It feels safe."
She turns to look at him, at all of us standing in the hallway watching her, and nods. "Is that okay? Can I nest here? I don't want to take over your space if you're not comfortable with it."
Hunter crosses the room in three long strides, his hands coming up to frame her face. "This room has been waiting for you," he says simply. "I just didn't realize it until now."
The kiss he gives her is soft and thorough, taking his time, showing her without words that she's wanted here. When they finally break apart, Amelia is flushed and breathless, leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping her upright.
"We should probably move my stuff out," Hunter says, looking around at his dresser and closet. "Give you room to build properly."
"No." Amelia's response is immediate and firm. "I want your scent here. It helps. All of your scents help, but yours especially. It makes me feel protected."
The admission clearly affects Hunter, his expression going soft in a way I rarely see. "Then I'll stay. My clothes, my scent, whatever you need."
"Can I?" Amelia gestures toward the pillows still in the hallway, asking permission even though we've already given it.
"It's your space now," Wyatt says. "You don't have to ask. Just build what feels right."
We spend the next hour bringing in the bags, watching as Amelia starts to arrange things with careful precision.
She's particular about placement in a way that speaks to deep Omega instincts, positioning pillows and blankets in specific patterns that probably make sense to her on some fundamental level even if they look random to us.
She works quietly, occasionally asking one of us to move something or hold something, but mostly lost in her own process. Her movements are methodical, almost ritualistic. This isn't just arranging bedding. This is creating a sanctuary.
It's meditative watching her work, seeing her create this nest that will be her sanctuary.
The physical manifestation of safety and security that she's been lacking for so long.
Wyatt leans against the doorframe, his expression soft in a way I rarely see.
Hunter watches from his position by the window, arms crossed but eyes tracking her every movement.
The bed becomes the center point, elevated with extra pillows and the mattress from the guest bedroom that Hunter helps her lift and position.
She piles it high with additional pillows and blankets in varying textures, her hands smoothing over each one like she's testing for something only she can feel.
Soft fleece and silky satin, rough wool and smooth cotton.
She's creating layers, different options depending on what she needs in the moment.
"The satin goes on the outside," she murmurs, more to herself than to us. "For when I'm too hot. The fleece underneath for when I need weight and warmth."
Around the edges she builds walls of pillows, creating a cocoon effect that makes the whole thing feel enclosed and protected. She positions the firmest pillows at the foot of the bed, the softest ones near where her head will rest. There's logic to it even if we can't fully understand the pattern.
She pauses periodically, pressing a hand to her lower abdomen where I know she must be feeling the cramping that comes before heat.
But she doesn't complain, just keeps working with single-minded focus.
The flush on her cheeks deepens, sweat beading at her temples despite the cool air coming through the window.
When she reaches for one of Hunter's worn t-shirts from his dresser, she pauses. "Can I?"
"Take whatever you need," he says roughly. "It's all yours now."
She tucks the shirt under one of the pillows near the center, then does the same with items from me and Wyatt.
A flannel shirt that still smells like rain.
A workout hoodie that Wyatt wore yesterday.
Things that smell like us but aren't actively being used.
Creating a scent profile that includes all three of us, marking this as pack space instead of just hers.
"You're making it for all of us," I realize aloud. "Not just you."
She looks up, her eyes meeting mine. "It's our nest. Our space. That's how it should work, right?"
The casual way she says 'ours' makes something in my chest settle. This is real. She's really here, really building a life with us, really planning for a future that includes all of us.
By the time she's finished, it's past ten and the nest takes up most of Hunter's room. It's elaborate and beautiful, clearly the work of an Omega who knows what she needs and how to create it. She stands back to survey her work, something like pride crossing her face.
"It's perfect," she says softly, and I can hear the emotion in her voice.
"You're perfect," Hunter corrects, pulling her against his side. She melts into him, exhaustion and emotional overload finally catching up with her. A few beats of silence settle between us before Hunter gestures to the nest. “Can we enter?”
Amelia’s face scrunches up as she twists to look up at him. “Did Dylan say something to you?”
Hunter shakes his head. “No, why? Should he have?”
“It’s just that… I… didn’t really have a nest with Vincent, no real space of my own. When I got to my brother’s, it was my sacred place and they always asked permission to get in so I was just wondering…” She starts chewing her bottom lip, twisting around further to look at the three of us.
It takes me entirely too long to realize what the problem is.
I step closer, trying not to crowd her. “Amelia, Hunter’s asking because this is your safe space.
Dylan didn’t say anything but we weren’t just going to step inside without you giving us permission.
It might be for all of us but that doesn’t mean we have unfettered access. ”
She throws me a small smile and then nods.
“You can enter.” Her words are barely above a whisper as she climbs in, settling into the center of all those carefully arranged pillows and blankets, and we follow.
Hunter behind her, his larger frame creating a wall of protection.
Wyatt in front, his arm draped over her waist. Me beside them, close enough to touch, to scent, to protect.
In her nest, surrounded by her Alphas, Amelia finally lets herself relax.