Chapter 13 #2
We sit in that quiet, the only sounds the clink of Levi’s fork in the container and the low hum of Simon checking the flow of her IV. She’s drifting, the fever-dream edge fading, and for the first time since this started, I feel the weight of calm settling in the room.
But I also know—the second my knot loosens—she’s going to need more. And judging by the look on Levi’s face as he licks butter from his thumb, none of us is done yet.
It’s been hours. The sun must’ve shifted across the sky outside, but in here it’s just bodies and scent and the slick drag of skin on skin.
Clothes are long gone, kicked into corners or tangled at the foot of the bed. The dishes from earlier are empty on the nightstand, abandoned mid-bite because Wren had decided she wanted someone again, and once she chooses, there’s no stopping it.
Right now, she’s tucked between Simon and Levi, both half-asleep but still draped over her like they’re trying to keep her in place with the weight of their bodies alone. She’s breathing slowly, her hair damp and messy, that faint heat-sweet scent still clinging to her skin but softer than before.
I wipe myself down with one of the towels we’ve been cycling through, scraping up the last of the mess on my stomach. My cock’s finally softened enough that it doesn’t ache, though I know that’s not going to last—not with her in arm’s reach.
I tug on my boxers, the fabric catching a little on my thighs, and glance over at the bed. She doesn’t even stir. Out cold.
It makes me smile. I’ve never had this much sex in my life, not like this—intense and unrelenting, sure, but also… different. It’s like we’ve all been caught in the same current, pulled under by her heat, and the only way to breathe is to keep touching her.
We take turns drifting off, but she always wakes one of us, and then it’s over again—back in it, back in her, until none of us can tell how much time has passed.
I stretch on my way to the door, my shoulders popping. My legs are pleasantly heavy and sore. I’m halfway down the stairs before I remember why I got up in the first place—water.
The air feels cooler down here, less saturated with heat scent, and I pull in a deep breath. The kitchen’s clean enough now that the renovations are starting to show; it’s finally looking like a place people can eat out of, not just a construction project.
I’m digging through cabinets for glasses when there’s a knock at the front door. It’s sharp, insistent—not the polite little tap you’d give if you thought the person inside was asleep.
My brow pulls down. Who the hell is knocking like that here?
I pad over, still just in my boxers, and open the door.
Norah’s standing there.
It takes me a second to place her because I’ve never seen her outside the flower shop—no apron, no handful of blooms—but then she shifts, and I spot the crate at her feet. Pancake blinks up at me from inside, tail curled tight around his paws.
“Oh,” I say slowly. “So that’s where the cat was.”
Norah’s eyes widen a little at the sight of me, her gaze flicking—quickly, but not quickly enough—over my bare chest and down to my boxers.
“Beau,” she says, and there’s a mix of surprise and something sharper in her voice. She steps inside without asking, like she’s already decided whatever she came here for is too vital for pleasantries. “I’m here to check on Wren.”
Before I can answer, a noise carries down from upstairs—low, breathy, feminine. Then another, higher, unmistakable. The rhythm of it is enough to make my jaw flex. She’s up… and she’s fucking someone.
Norah freezes.
I scratch the back of my neck, feeling the heat rise under my skin. “She’s… occupied.”
“I can hear that,” she says, and there’s a faint flush creeping into her cheeks. She’s trying to keep her voice level, but there’s a stiffness there now.
She holds up a paper bag, like that’ll reset the conversation. “I brought breakfast.”
It’s then that I notice the bag—the smell of baked bread, maybe eggs. My stomach gives a faint growl. “I’ll give it to her,” I say, reaching for it.
Her grip tightens just a fraction before she lets go. “I’ll be back this evening, then.”
“Actually,” I say, adjusting the bag in my hand, “it’d be better if you came by tomorrow instead.”
Her expression shifts, tightening. “Look, she’s one of my best friends,” she says, each word clipped. “And you—and whoever else is upstairs—better not hurt her.”
“Why would you automatically assume that we were going to hurt her?”
She brushes her curly hair back. “Because everyone in town knows you, Beau. You have a reputation.”
Something in me bristles at that. I straighten up, my voice going harder. “You don’t fucking know me.”
The edge in my tone lands—I can see it in the way her spine stiffens, the faint widening of her eyes. I’m still riding the last of the heat haze, that primal edge that makes my voice drop low and sharp without me trying.
She feels it too, as evidenced by her backing down a step, the defensiveness in her shoulders softening into something more cautious.
“I just… worry,” she says finally.
I let out a slow breath. “I won’t do anything to hurt her.” And I mean it—not just because she’s in heat and vulnerable, but because it’s Wren.
Norah studies my face for a moment, then nods. “Just tell her I came by… and I’ll keep Pancake safe for her.”
I nod back. And then, because I know she needs something in return, I add, “How about you bring a bouquet in the evening? I’ll tell you how she’s doing then.”
Her features settle at that, the tension easing out of her mouth. “Alright.”
She turns toward the door, and I watch her go, closing it behind her and flipping the lock. The house is quiet again, save for the faint thrum of movement from upstairs. I grab a pitcher, fill it with cold water from the tap, and start back up.
Closer to the bedroom, the scent in the air thickens again—hers, mingled with ours, heavy and warm and addictive.
By the time I push the door open, I can see the three of them together, the blankets half-off the bed, her bare skin catching the afternoon light as they press into her from either side.
Yeah. Tomorrow’s a better idea.