Chapter Twenty-Two
Tomas
He carries Charlotte into the nest she's allowed them to arrange for her in their guest room.
The nest that, until now, was still not slept in.
She had slept with them every night since she's come to live with them, in his bed, surrounded by him and his pack.
It's done a tremendous amount to soothe the instincts that had been getting so far out of control.
When Silas had asked if she wanted to be carried to her nest tonight, it was in the hopes that she would say she wanted to continue the arrangement.
But his brother was always checking in with her, making sure she was comfortable, offering her space if she needed it, even if they hoped she wouldn't take it.
Tomas could not fault him for it. He was grateful for the nurturing quality. .. daddy, indeed.
But no matter how much they wanted her between them, they would always give her a choice. They would always respect her wishes, as much as their instincts would allow. His own pseudo-ruts brought him indescribable shame that he could lose control, that he could hurt her.
She looks impossibly small amidst the pile of pillows and blankets as he sets her down.
She had felt like almost nothing in his arms, his protective instincts surging in response.
The light from the hallway falls across the curve of her cheek and makes the tangle of light brown hair escaping from her bun gleam.
She's nearly asleep, the afterglow of taking the three of them riding her hard.
Her breathing is shallow, her little hands closing into fists at her side, as if.
.. could she be scared of him? After his lapses in control?
With the oppressive dominance of him? It had sent every other omega who had shared their bed running.
Yet... a scent catches his nose, woven in around the pillows and coming from beneath the blankets she's chosen. Clear as day, his own scent and that of his pack brothers has made it into her nest.
His lips twitch as he looks more closely and sees a tiny corner of what he is quite sure is his old Oxford rowing sweatshirt that he'd worn to the gym earlier this week peeking out from under a pillow. And that, he was sure, was the shirt that Alex had worn yesterday.
The little magpie was stealing their clothes, wanting their scents in her nest. An omega instinct that could not be denied. Charlotte wanted them. She saw them as hers. Her... mates? Could he hope for such a thing from her? From this sweet, vibrant, intelligent omega?
"Goodnight, Charlotte," he says. He presses a kiss to her forehead, and she nearly melts beneath his touch.
Fine. He could let her have her moment to herself. He could let her put some distance between them if she had to, if it helped her to feel more comfortable.
His eyes catch on her unmarked throat and his teeth ache to mark her. No, not yet. But she would be his. Soon.
Before he has even straightened up, she is already drifting off, cheek pressed to the pillow, her little hand reaching and open as if searching for something to hold.
Without a second thought he strips off the shirt he is wearing, the base layer he has worn all day and is now thoroughly saturated in his scent, and presses it into her palm, watching as she instinctively grasps it, bringing it up to her face and curling her body around it.
She will wake in the morning with it, and she will remember whose omega she is.
Even if she still can’t say it out loud, even if she asks for space.
There’s a strange satisfaction in the act, primal and tender all at once.
He allows himself to linger for just a moment more before forcing himself to leave and let her rest.
∞∞∞
The following evening, Tomas suggests they go out for dinner to celebrate Charlotte’s new research grant and her first week at the company.
As they walk into the Michelin rated Italian restaurant uptown, Charlotte practically glues herself to Silas’ side.
Her eyes dart around to the full tables around them and anxiety rolls off of her in tufts.
He suspects she has not had the opportunity to enjoy such fine dining.
He wants her to enjoy it, not panic over the other patrons whose presence he barely gives more than a cursory glance.
The chef greets them personally at the door with rapid-fire Italian, welcoming them back after so long.
They haven't been here since... well, since they started seeing Charlotte.
The beta male nods respectfully at Charlotte before returning to them, quick and polite, to not set off their alpha instincts.
He sees Charlotte relax a little at the respectful gesture as well, the little omega clearly not enjoying the attention of other males.
Good, his instincts purr. She should only want theirs.
The owner doesn't bother giving them a menu and Tomas orders for the table, as was his custom. In the same rapid Italian, he orders them pappardelle with boar ragu as their primi and Tuscan steaks for their secondi.
Charlotte smiles in response, surprising them all with her own Italian as she requests her steak to be cooked as well done as the chef will allow it.
The man tuts at her, but at Tomas' sharp look, quickly agrees, despite his own sensibilities being slightly offended that someone might want their meat cooked well done.
She couldn't be entirely perfect, he reminded himself. Everyone needed at least one flaw. And Charlotte's was liking her steak overcooked. He'd have to remember this.
“Parli Italiano, amore mio?” Silas asks her, his eyes boring into her with the adoration that tended to leak out of every pore when he was around her.
She blushes that pretty shade of pink under his attention. "Certo, Signore Sterling. Dopotutto sono una medievalista."
Of course she spoke Italian. Tomas' heart does a ridiculous little skip at this new little piece of information he could covet from his omega.
"Brava," Tomas murmurs to her, and she practically beams in response.
When dinner arrives, he is pleased to see that it is good. Better than good. The little omega relaxes at last, sipping a glass of Barolo and laughing at Alex’s story about requesting the restaurant's chef to make him fettucini alfredo and nearly getting a lifetime ban.
Silas listens along, a hand resting lightly on the small of her back, his chair angled towards hers and his eyes rapt upon their omega as they watch her slowly relax.
When Tomas asks her about the libraries she wants to visit in Italy, her nervousness evaporates entirely. Their omega positively lights up, telling them all about an incorrectly catalogued manuscript at a Milanese library that had led her to a new possible research topic.
He sees the makings of a doctoral thesis there. They could make that happen, he thinks. They could ensure she received all the funding she needed. Already, the back of his mind is idly planning to allocate funds for a doctoral award that she might (would) be granted.
As a ma?tre d' comes by to take their plates, Tomas notices the change in their omega. She flinches back from the beta male as he reaches around her, and all three alphas snarl in response, their instincts picking up on the shift before their conscious minds do.
Charlotte's scent has changed, sharpening and filling out with something teasing and cloying.
The sweetness is almost cutting. His head feels dizzy and lightheaded, as if he'd been exposed to a gas leak or– an omega's heat spike.
The realization cuts through the wave of omega pheromones clouding his senses.
"Charlotte," his voice is little more than a growl. She looks at him, eyes glassy and dazed.
"I-I’m sorry. It's just—" She stumbles over her words, her brows furrowing as she looks down at the still half full glass in front of her. "Am I drunk?"
When none of them respond, she bites her lip nervously, shame flooding her scent. "I don't usually drink, I-I'm so sorry–"
Her pupils are blown wide when she glances between the three of us before swiftly lowering her gaze to her lap. A tremor runs through her body, and her scent pulses out, wild and urgent.
Every alpha in the room would notice it soon, would be able to sense the pheromones rolling off her, even though she still had not properly perfumed.
May never perfume. But that doesn't matter.
She doesn't need to have a scent for him to know that she's theirs.
The word echoes through his mind in a desperate, feral snarl.
His jaw tightens as heads turn towards them. Silas’ hand moves to her knee under the table, attempting to offer reassurance, while Alex’s gaze sharpens and his scent surges with protective pheromones.
Tomas slaps one of his cards on the table, uncaring about leaving it behind. Every instinct in him screams that he needs to take his omega somewhere safe, away from these foreign alphas and back into her nest where she can be safe and tended to by his pack.
"We're leaving," he growls. Charlotte begins to cry, and he cannot stop himself from lifting her out of the chair and into his arms, his hands clutching her to him like she's his prize.
She trembles but doesn't fight him, despite the tears still running down her face. "I don't feel very well, Mr. Front," she mumbles. "I-I'm really sorry–"
"You're safe, sweetheart," he finally manages to lower his voice to something soft and soothing, just for her. "You're having a heat spike. We're right here, you're okay. We're going to take you home."
Silas takes the lead with Alex bringing up the rear, snarling at anyone who even looks at them. In any other scenario, their behaviour would have shamed them. But none of them will feel shame for this. For protecting what's theirs.