Extended Epilogue
PHOENIX
The midmorning sunlight is already bright enough that my eyes already hurt before I even open them.
My heat will start today.
Which probably explains why it's almost noon and I'm just now waking up for the day. Heat-induced lethargy and my body's need to conserve energy is already getting the best of me.
I stretch my arm across the vast expanse of mattress, knowing the rest of the bed is going to empty. Everyone else has probably already been up for hours.
The ridiculous mega-nest that Mason and I have been building over the last week is basically perfect.
The sheets on Mason's side are cool, but is pillow still holds the indent of his head.
When I press my face into it, the chamomile and black pepper scent of him makes something low in my belly clench.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the blanket canopy overhead. My skin hums. A low current running beneath my sternum, electric and restless, like the air before a summer storm rolls in off the Pacific.
But I've never felt this relaxed going into a heat cycle.
It's been building for days. The heightened senses came first. Yesterday I could smell Dom's leather jacket from two rooms away, could hear Mason's pen scratching against paper from the far end of the hallway.
Then the skin sensitivity kicked in, turning every brush of fabric against my body into a full sensory event.
Last night, Judah's hand on my lower back while we watched a movie sent a shiver through me so violent that Atticus paused the film to ask if I was cold.
I definitely wasn't cold.
My fingers drift to the spot on my neck where Atticus's last bite has faded to a pale crescent. The skin there tingles with phantom pressure, anticipating what's coming.
For the first time in my life, I'm actually looking forward to a heat.
The thought sits in my chest, warm and comforting. There isn't any dread dread coiling in the pit of my stomach. And definitely no locking myself in a hotel bathroom with a vibrator and a bottle of wine with the hope I can just get it over with as quickly as possible.
I have a pack. I have a nest that smells like the four people I love most in the world layered together in the sheets, blankets, these and this ridiculous tower of pillows that Mason and I spent weeks engineering into a structural marvel.
Gerald Jr. watches me from the nightstand, his googly eyes rattling as I reach over to give him a pat. He's wearing the custom tuxedo I had made, with tiny satin lapels and a miniature bow tie.
"Wish me luck, Gerald."
The door clicks open.
Mason appears in the doorway with a tray balanced on one forearm that's covered with sliced fruit, nuts and cubes of cheese. In his other hand he has a bottle of that fancy electrolyte water that only comes in glass bottles and even I know is a marketing gimmick.
Then I notice the little squares of dark chocolate.
I sit up eagerly. "Ooh, gimme gimme."
He sets the tray down on the nightstand, angling it so the chocolate is in easy reach. "Pre-heat nutrition protocol, as discussed. Do you need anything else right now?"
I give him my best pout. "You're not staying?"
"We talked about this. You told me how you wanted this to go. Do you still remember that?"
I do remember discussing a number of finer points related to this heat that all seem entirely unimportant now. "No idea."
His clinical gaze passes over me. "Eat your cheese, Phoenix. I'll be back in a little while."
Except there's nothing clinical about the way his pupils dilate when they reach the bare skin of my shoulders.
I lift the edge of the blanket, revealing that I'm wearing nothing under the bedsheets. "Or you could stay."
"Get in."
Mason's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Phoenix—"
"Don't Phoenix me." I pat the mattress beside me, letting the sheet slip a little lower. "Come join me the nest. It misses you."
"The nest doesn't have feelings."
"Well, I have feelings. And right now my feelings want you horizontal and within easy touching distance."
He picks up a strawberry from the tray and holds it out to me instead of moving closer.
I bite into the strawberry, licking the juice that runs down off her fingers.
"We talked about how this was going to go," he reminds me. "Remember? The schedule?"
"The schedule can get fucked." I lick strawberry juice from my lower lip and enjoy the way his throat bobs with a hard swallow. "As hard as me, hopefully."
Mason closes his eyes briefly, like he's asking some higher power for patience. "You said you wanted Atticus first. Remember?"
Damn it.
I did say that. In fact, Last week, I'd expressed a strong preference for Atticus to be with me when the first wave hit. And I do remember really wanting that to be how this goes.
Now that just seems like an obstacle between me and Mason's hands on my body.
"But, Atticus isn't here," I point out, hearing the petulance in my own voice.
"He'll be right in." Mason leans over the bed, close enough that his breath ghosts across my cheek. "I texted him when I heard you moving around."
I grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer.
Our mouths meet in a kiss that's more demand than request. I pour every ounce of pre-heat frustration into it. All the ache and the restlessness that's been building for the last few hours.
Mason makes a sound against my lips that might could be protest or surrender. His hands find my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin there, and for one glorious moment I think he's going to give in.
Then he pulls back.
"Phoenix." His voice is rough now, edges fraying. "We made a plan."
"God, you're a tease." I release his shirt with a dramatic sigh and flop back against the pillows. "I hate that I let you talk me out of syncing our heats. At least then you'd be as desperate as I am."
His expression softens as he lifts my hand to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to my knuckles. "Next time, I promise."
Then he's gone, disappearing through the door with one last lingering look over his shoulder. I watch him go, already counting the seconds until I can drag him back into this nest.
The door opens again before I can spiral too far into anticipatory frustration.
Atticus fills the doorway, dark hair sleep-mussed and green eyes already heated with intent.
"Heard you were asking for me."
Fucking finally.
I don't waste time on words.
I throw back the blanket and lunge for him, grabbing fistfuls of his soft henley and yanking him toward the bed. He laughs—this low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine—but lets himself be pulled, knees hitting the edge of the mattress.
"Someone's eager."
"Someone's been waiting for you to get your ass in here for twenty minutes." I'm already working at the hem of his shirt, shoving it upward to reveal the lean muscle underneath. "Mason wouldn't stay."
"Mason follows the rules." Atticus catches my wrists, stilling my frantic movements. His green eyes search my face, suddenly serious despite the heat building in them. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I'm going to combust if you don't touch me in the next thirty seconds."
"Phoenix." His voice drops, taking on that particular velvet quality that always makes my spine melt. "I'm serious. First wave?"
I force myself to take a breath. To actually assess what's happening in my body instead of just reacting to it.
The heat sits low in my belly, a warm weight that's steadily growing heavier.
My skin feels too tight, every nerve ending hyperaware of the rough cotton of his shirt against my palms, the cool air from the vent brushing my bare shoulders, the faint rasp of his five o'clock shadow as he tilts his face toward mine.
"Building," I admit. "Not cresting yet. But close."
"Good." He releases my wrists and reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. "Then we have time to do this properly."
The sight of him—all golden-brown skin and defined abs and the trail of dark hair disappearing below his waistband—makes my mouth go dry. I've seen him naked dozens of times now, but it never stops hitting me like a punch to the solar plexus.
"Properly?" My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
"Properly." He crawls onto the bed, forcing me backward into the nest of pillows and blankets. His body brackets mine, knees on either side of my hips, arms braced beside my shoulders. "I've been thinking about this for weeks."
"Thinking about what?"
"About making you feel so good you forget your own name." He dips his head, mouth finding the sensitive spot below my ear that always makes me shiver. "About taking you apart piece by piece and putting you back together."
I arch into his touch, hands sliding up his bare back. "Then stop talking and start doing."
His laugh ghosts across my skin. "Impatient."
"Always." I dig my nails into his shoulder blades, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make a point. "It's part of my charm."
"It really is."
His mouth traces a path down my neck, pausing at the spot where my pulse hammers against my skin. I feel his tongue trace the faded mark of his last bite—the one that's nearly invisible now after weeks of healing—and my whole body jolts.
"Atticus—"
"Shh." His hand slides down my side, over the curve of my hip, along the outside of my thigh. "I've got you."
The first brush of his fingers between my legs makes me gasp. I'm already wet—have been since I woke up, since the heat started building in earnest—and his touch glides through the slickness with ease.
"Fuck," he breathes against my throat. "You're soaked."
"Been thinking about you." The words come out stuttered, broken by the slow circles he's tracing around my clit. "Been thinking about this."
"Yeah?" His fingers dip lower, teasing at my entrance. "What specifically?"
"Your hands. Your mouth." I rock my hips against his touch, chasing more friction. "The way you look at me like you want to eat me alive."