Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wren
The clarity comes sharp and cold the second I come down, like a slap of reality after being carried away on a tide. My whole body jerks as the last wave rolls through me, and I collapse against Simon’s chest, breath ragged, my thighs trembling.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word raw, half curse, half prayer.
He doesn’t let go. His mouth is hot at my throat, licking, kissing, dragging shivers up my spine. His stubble scratches lightly against my skin, making me twitch, oversensitive. His hand, the one that just wrung me out, slides up, pressing his slick fingers against my lips.
I freeze, but then he nudges gently. “Open.”
And I do. I part my lips and suck his fingers into my mouth. The salt-slick taste of myself coats my tongue, humiliating and heady all at once.
He watches me with those dark, sharp eyes, like he’s dissecting every flick of my tongue, every hollow of my cheeks as I draw on him.
“Better?” he asks softly. His voice is rough velvet, a sound that makes me weak in places I shouldn’t be weak.
I nod, unable to meet his eyes—my pulse still races.
Slowly, he pulls his fingers free, wet and shining, then bends down to adjust my panties back into place, tucking me in like he’s sealing away the evidence of what just happened. His carefulness makes it worse somehow, more intimate than if he’d just left me bare.
“I’ll call you as soon as your results are in,” he says, adjusting his glasses like the last two minutes didn’t happen. His voice is steady, clinical.
I nod again, my throat tight.
“I’ll handle your bill,” he adds. “Don’t worry about it.”
That makes my head snap up. “Simon—”
He cuts me off with the slightest shake of his head, no room for argument. I swallow whatever protest was forming.
“Thank you,” I manage, and it comes out quiet, uneven.
My legs are shaky when I slide off the exam table. I steady myself with a hand on the edge.
And then he does something that makes my chest stutter. He steps close again, closer than he should, and bends down to kiss me. This time, it isn’t desperate or hungry. It’s soft. Too soft.
His lips linger against mine, warm, achingly gentle, and I can feel just how hard he is pressed against his slacks, rigid and insistent. My breath hitches, but he doesn’t push.
“You can come here whenever you need help,” he murmurs. “Any kind of help.”
The implication slices right through me. My body betrays me by heating again, my thighs clenching, but I nod like I understand.
“Is there anything else you would like us to discuss before you leave?” he asks, his smile soft and reassuring.
“I’m good,” I say.
He watches my movements, and I don’t miss the way his eyes linger on my lips. My skin grows hot.
If I stay here one more minute, I might beg him for a second round on his fingers.
“I think I should go.” I can barely recognize my own voice.
“I’ll fill in your file. In case there’s anything else I need, I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“No problem, Wren.”
And then I leave.
The automatic doors hiss open, spilling sunlight over me. My legs carry me forward, but my mind is a tangled mess.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I let him—why did I want him—?
My cheeks burn as I step outside, hugging my arms around myself like that could hide what I just did.
I wave down a taxi. The driver barely glances at me as I slide in and mumble my address.
I lean my forehead against the glass as the town rolls by, too bright, too alive. My reflection stares back at me, flushed cheeks, messy hair, the sundress that suddenly feels too thin, too revealing.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I tap Norah’s name before I can overthink it.
She picks up on the first ring. “Hey! You okay?”
Her voice is warm, grounding.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Where are you?”
“With Pancake. Little menace nearly shredded my curtains.” There’s a laugh in her voice, muffled by some sound in the background. “Want me to bring him over?”
“Later,” I say quickly. My chest tightens. “I think I’m just going to head home and nap.”
There’s a pause, but she doesn’t push. “Alright. I’ll bring him by tonight.”
We hang up, and I let my phone drop into my lap. The taxi pulls up in front of the café, and I pay the fare with stiff fingers.
The place still smells like plaster and dust, like fresh sawdust and old brick. Repairs everywhere, scaffolding leaned against one wall, half-finished paint on the frame. I push open the door and step inside, my sandals clicking on the concrete floor.
“Afternoon, Wren.”
Ryker looks up from crouching near a toolbox, his forearm smeared with dust. He’s been my contractor since the day I signed the lease, reliable, steady, older than me by maybe ten years, but sharp-eyed enough to notice things before I do.
“Hey,” I say, already bracing.
He wipes his hands on a rag and stands. “Listen, we ran into a bit of an issue downstairs.”
I frown. “What kind of issue?”
“Pipes.” He grimaces. “A couple of them burst. We managed to stop the leak, but the pipes are too corroded to patch. You’ll need replacements.”
My stomach sinks. “How much?”
He scratches the back of his neck, rattles off a number that makes my pulse lurch. Way higher than what I have in my account. Way more than I can cover with the meager savings I’d set aside for finishing touches, not emergencies.
I force my face into something neutral, nodding like I’m absorbing it. But inside, panic claws at me.
There’s no way I can ask my mother. No way in hell. I just don’t have the funds to make this happen at the moment.
“Ryker…” My voice comes out thinner than I want. “Do everything else. Just… shut off the water to the café. I’ll still have water upstairs, right?”
“Yeah, we can reroute. Might take a couple of days, but we’ll rig a temporary line from one of the upstairs taps.” He studies me carefully. “You sure?”
I nod quickly. “Yes. Just… make it work for now.”
His shoulders ease. “Alright. We’ll handle it.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. My voice feels small.
I head upstairs, my legs heavy. Each step feels like climbing through syrup; my body drags with exhaustion.
When I unlock the apartment and step inside, it’s quiet, almost too quiet. I shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a long second, closing my eyes.
Today was not at all what I was expecting.
I came into the hospital for a stupid check-up, thinking it would be simple. A scrape, a bruise, some antiseptic, and gauze.
Instead, I walked out with Simon’s taste still on my tongue, his words still echoing in my head, his promise—you can come here whenever you need help—like a brand I can’t scrub away.
Now there’s the café, bleeding money I don’t have, pipes bursting, repairs piling up. My whole life feels like it’s teetering on the edge of a cliff, and I’m too worn out to hold on properly.
I kick off my sandals and drop onto the bed without even changing. The mattress sighs under me.
My body aches everywhere—not just from climbing trees or scraped knees, but from the pack, from heat, from three days of being undone and rebuilt in their arms. My clit still aches faintly, sore in a way that makes me flush.
I roll onto my side, staring at the bare wall, and hug the pillow close. For the first time in days, the room smells like only me. No Alpha musk, no shared heat. Just me.
And it feels lonely.
I press my face into the pillow, trying to drown the thoughts clawing at me. Simon’s hands. Beau’s smirk. Levi’s steady warmth. Their voices, their scents, their bodies wrapped around mine.
I shouldn’t want that again. I shouldn’t miss it. But God, I do.
I close my eyes and breathe out, the exhaustion finally dragging me under.
The grease on my fingers makes the notebook on my lap feel even more out of place, like I should be taking notes on something that matters instead of licking tomato sauce off my thumb.
Norah sits cross-legged across from me, the box of pizza balanced between us, her flower-print pajama pants dotted with little crumbs.
“I swear this is the best thing I’ve eaten all week,” I mumble around a mouthful of melted cheese.
She smirks, reaching for another slice. “That’s because you’ve been living on coffee and those sad croissants you try to pass off as meals.”
I groan, flopping onto my back against the pillows. “Don’t shame me. I’m fragile.”
“You’re something,” she says with a grin. “But definitely not fragile.”
The comfort of it, of being here with her, is almost enough to make me forget everything else. Almost.
But the truth has been pressing harder against my chest all week, and maybe it’s the salt and grease and the fact that I’m finally not alone—I don’t know. Either way, the words spill out before I can stop them.
“I need to tell you something.”
Norah freezes mid-bite, a string of cheese dangling from her slice. Her eyes flick to mine, green and sharp. “Okay…”
And then I do. I tell her everything. I keep my voice low, the words halting, shame laced through every sentence, but Norah listens without interrupting, her expression unreadable.
By the time I finish, my face is hot, and the silence stretches too long. “Say something,” I whisper.
She sets her slice down, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “Okay,” she says. “First, thank you for trusting me with that. Second…” She tilts her head, considering me. “You’re not in trouble, Wren. You’re not broken. You went through heat. They helped. And clearly, you wanted them to.”
I press the heel of my palm against my forehead, embarrassed. “‘Wanted’ is an understatement.”
Her lips twitch. “Then own it.”
I shoot her a look. “Easy for you to say.”