17. Lark
LARK
“This one. And this one. And—wait, feel this one.”
I thrust the charcoal duvet at Conor, already reaching for another. The fabric section of the luxury bedding store sprawled before me like a treasure trove. My instincts had unlocked in my chest the moment we’d walked in. I wanted to touch everything, feel everything, take everything home.
“Baby, that’s the fourth duvet,” Conor said, but he was grinning, the fucker.
“They’re all different.” I clutched the fabric to my chest. “This one’s heavier. And this one—” I grabbed another “—has a different texture. Feel it.”
Emile obligingly tested both. “Lark, they’re both lovely.”
“Right?” I beamed at him, then turned back to the displays. “I need pillows.”
“How many pillows?” Conor asked, amused.
“All of them.”
I loaded our cart with pillows—firm ones, soft ones, body pillows, and decorative pillows that served no purpose except to look pretty, but felt amazing against my skin. Then I started on blankets, mountains of blankets in charcoal and navy and deep forest green.
“What about this?” Emile held up a cashmere blanket, carefully tucking the price tag away, as if he hoped I wouldn’t notice.
Joke’s on him. Conor was a billionaire who could afford to kit out my nest however the fuck I wanted.
I touched the blanket and nearly moaned. “Yes.”
“We’ll take one in each color,” Emile told the hovering sales associate.
“Three?” I asked.
“You deserve choices,” Emile said, his expression softening as he held them out to me.
‘My heart did complicated somersaults in my chest as Conor kissed my forehead.
“What else?”
Sheets. More pillows. A weighted blanket Conor insisted on. Silk pillowcases that Emile snuck into the cart when I wasn’t looking.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stop rubbing your alphas on the merchandise,” the manager said, appearing beside us.
I looked up from where I’d draped Conor over a display of throws because I wanted to know which ones smelled better with his peppermint and chocolate scent.
“I’m comparison shopping,” I said, wondering if I looked as unhinged as I felt.
“Ma’am, your alphas have scented twenty-three items.”
“And I’m very close to a decision.” I studied the throw currently wrapped around Conor’s shoulders. “This one’s perfect. We’re taking it.”
“We’re taking all twenty-three,” Conor said, pulling out his wallet.
“Conor—”
“Baby, you’ve been living in a shithole apartment with almost nothing to your name for ten years.” His expression was soft but determined. “If you want twenty-three throws, you’re getting twenty-three throws.”
“I don’t need—”
“You’re building your first real nest.” Emile wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed my forehead. “It’s necessary, and it makes us happy.”
When we were done shopping, Conor handed over his black card without even looking at the number.
“We’ll need these delivered,” he told the manager. “Today.”
“Sir, that’s—”
“Today. I’ll make it worth your while,” he said, and slipped a couple of very large bills across the counter.
An hour later, we’d hit two more stores, at Emile’s insistence, because “you deserve luxury, chérie.” By the time we finished, I’d chosen enough bedding to supply a small hotel.
“I may have gone overboard,” I said in the car, slightly dazed, but unable to wipe the smile from my face.
“You went perfectly board,” Conor said. “That’s not even a phrase but I’m making it one.”
“We spent—”
“We spent money on making you happy,” Emile interrupted gently. “That’s what money is for.”
“Our money is your money,” Conor said. “If you want to buy out three stores, we buy out three stores.”
“Four,” Emile corrected. “You haven’t looked at lighting yet.”
I blinked at him. “Lighting?”
“For the nest. Ambiance.” He was completely serious, and goddess, I thought my heart would explode in my chest with love for the man.
“Is that a thing?” I asked, embarrassed at the wonder in my voice.
Emile squeezed my fingers. “Do you want bright lights, so you can see every detail, or twinkling fairy lights to make it cozy?”
“Emile—”
By the time we got home, delivery trucks were already arriving.
I stopped in the doorway and stared.
Bags and boxes covered every surface. Stacks of pillows obscured the couch. The dining table had disappeared under a mountain of throws and blankets.
“Oh my goddess,” I breathed. “This is too much.”
“This is perfect,” Emile corrected, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “It’s all for you, ma belle. All for your nest.”
I turned in his arms, overwhelmed. “I don’t deserve—”
“You deserve everything,” he stated. “And more.”
Conor appeared beside us, his expression soft. “Come on, baby. Let’s get started.”
We hauled everything into the empty room we’d designated as my nest, with a large round mattress in the middle of the floor.
My nest. My first real nest. And enough materials to build something truly spectacular.
“Okay,” I announced, surveying the chaos. “Strip.”
Conor paused mid-step, hopeful. “Baby, I love where this is going—”
“I need you to scent everything before I build the nest.”
His expression shifted from hopeful to delighted. “Oh, even better.”
“Everything?” Emile looked at the mountains of fabric. “This is going to take—”
“Hours,” I confirmed. “I know. But I need every piece to smell like you. Like us.”
“Then hours it is,” Conor said, already pulling his shirt off.
What followed was the most absurd and wonderful afternoon of my life. My alphas threw themselves into scenting with dedication that would have been touching if it wasn’t so absurd.
Emile approached it methodically, working through each item with careful attention. Conor treated it like a game, rolling across the bed with armfuls of fabric.
“More,” I directed, pointing at a pillowcase.
“You’re very exacting,” Emile observed, but he was smiling as he refreshed his scent on it.
“This is important.” I picked up a blanket, inhaling deeply.
When everything was thoroughly scented—smelling of peppermint and chocolate and salt and sea—I shooed them both out. “I need to build now. Alone.”
“You’re kicking us out?” Conor asked.
“It’s instinct. I can’t—” I struggled to explain, hating the disappointment on his face, but unable to fight the instincts that drove me to need solitude. “I need to do this part myself.”
Understanding flooded the bond, and they each kissed me on the forehead before filing out.
For ten years, I’d been alone. Feral. Dangerous. I’d convinced myself I didn’t need soft things, safe spaces, people who cared—that I didn’t deserve them.
I’d been lying. I needed Conor and Emile like I needed life itself.
I started with sheets—organic cotton that felt like clouds. Then came the layers of blankets. I built the nest up slowly, carefully, each layer positioned exactly right as I created high walls around the edges, a deep protective bowl in the center.
But something was missing.
The fabric smelled like them, yes, but it wasn’t them. It was too new, too perfect. I needed—
I yanked open the door, my breathing ragged. “I need—” My voice cracked. “I need your clothes. Please. I need—” I couldn't finish, couldn't articulate the desperate, clawing desire.
Conor and Emile looked up from where they’d been sprawled on the couch, waiting for me.
“What kind of clothes?” Emile asked gently.
“Old ones. Worn ones. Things that smell like you.” Urgency clawed at me, my omega instincts screaming that the nest wasn’t complete without this. “I need you,” I whimpered.
They moved immediately. Conor reappeared a moment later with an armful of clothes—worn t-shirts, a beloved flannel, and a sweatshirt I could have sworn I’d already stolen from him. Emile added his own to the pile—a soft sweater and the button-down he’d worn to court yesterday.
“Take this too,” Conor said, handing me the shirt he’d been wearing, still warm from his body, saturated with his scent.
Emile pulled off his own shirt and added it to the pile, smiling at me with pride, not indulgence, and I loved that too. “Anything else?”
I clutched the clothes to my chest, breathing in their scents. “This is perfect.”
I retreated into the bedroom and went back to work with renewed purpose. I tucked Conor’s flannel along the edge where I’d rest my head. Emile’s sweater got positioned near the pillows.
I added more—pillows, blankets, my alphas’ worn clothes, layers and layers of softness.
When I finally stepped back, the nest was magnificent. Dark and deep and complex, every layer serving a purpose. My new luxury purchases provided the base, but Conor’s and Emile’s clothes made it home.
Carefully, I hung the fairy lights Emile had helped me pick out.
He’d been right about the lighting, damn him.
By the time I finished, I’d transformed the room into safety and comfort.
My nest was deep enough to disappear into, structured enough to feel protected, and made of dark colors that made me feel hidden and safe.
My nest.
I climbed into the center and pulled a blanket around myself. The scent of my alphas surrounded me from every direction, mixed with my own lilac and vanilla. Safe. Soft. Mine.
Hot tears pressed at my eyes, and I let myself cry, not from pain or fear or rage, but from relief and joy and the overwhelming realization that I had a home, a pack, and more softness and safety and love than I’d ever dreamed possible.
A soft knock at the door broke through my tears. “Lark? Can we come in?”
I wiped my eyes. “Yes.”
They entered carefully, and their awe flowed through the bond before they said anything.
“It’s perfect,” Emile breathed. “You’re perfect.”
They hovered at the edge, waiting. Why were they waiting? Why weren’t they joining me? Tendrils of reassurance floated through the bond, silencing my panic. “Please come in,” I whispered, holding my arms out to them.
They approached like the nest was sacred, and when they climbed in on either side of me, their love hit me through the bond so hard I gasped—devotion, pride, bone-deep satisfaction. They were honored to be here.
Conor’s hand found the tears still wet on my cheeks. “Happy tears?” he asked.