Chapter 36 Nests, Books, And Forever
Nests, Books, And Forever
~ROSEMARIE~
The snow is still falling when we pull into Tank's driveway, fat white flakes drifting down from a sky the color of pearl.
Elias's surprise hotel getaway had been everything I didn't know I needed and more than I ever dared to dream.
Two days of absolute bliss: room service breakfast in bed with champagne and strawberries, bubble baths that lasted for hours in a tub big enough for two, lazy mornings tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets that probably had a thread count higher than my old apartment's rent.
We'd wandered through the Valentine's market in the town square like characters in a romance novel, collecting treats and trinkets like children on a treasure hunt, stopping every few feet to kiss under strings of fairy lights and heart-shaped decorations.
My arms are full of heart-shaped balloons that bob and sway with every step, their ribbons tangling around my fingers in a cheerful mess of red and pink and gold.
There's also a bag of artisan chocolates from a little shop that smelled like heaven, a hand-knitted scarf in shades of lavender that Elias had insisted on buying when he saw me admiring it, and approximately seventeen different snacks from various market vendors that we'd been too stuffed to eat but couldn't resist purchasing anyway.
I feel light. Floaty. Like the balloons might actually carry me away if I'm not careful. Like happiness is a physical thing and I'm currently drowning in it.
The front door barely opens before a familiar blur of gray and white fur comes barreling toward me, tail wagging so hard his entire back end is wiggling in a ridiculous way that only a giant malamute can achieve.
The scent of home washes over me immediately: cedar and pine from Tank's preferred candles, the lingering warmth of a fire that's been burning in the hearth, and underneath it all, the combined scents of my Alphas that has started to mean safety and belonging in ways I never knew I needed.
"Sasha!" I crouch down as best I can while juggling an armful of balloons, letting the giant malamute cover my face with enthusiastic, slobbery kisses.
His happy yelps echo through the foyer, and I can't help but laugh at his pure, uncomplicated joy at our return.
"I missed you too, buddy. Yes, I did. Yes, I did.
Oh, you're such a good boy. I brought you so many treats from the market.
So many. Fancy dog biscuits shaped like little hearts.
You're going to be the most spoiled boy in all of Oakridge Hollow, I promise. "
Sasha responds by attempting to lick the inside of my ear, which is both disgusting and adorable.
Elias comes in behind me, arms laden with our luggage and even more balloons.
He looks like a man who's been used as a pack mule and has made peace with his fate, shopping bags hanging from every available limb.
He takes one look at Sasha eyeing the floating decorations with predatory interest and sighs.
"Don't even think about it," he warns the dog, his voice stern despite the smile tugging at his lips. "These are not toys. They are romantic souvenirs from a romantic getaway. No popping. I mean it, Sasha."
Sasha's tail wags harder, his eyes never leaving the bobbing balloons. This is absolutely not a reassuring response.
I straighten up, brushing white fur off my coat, and call out into the house. "We're home!"
Tank's voice drifts down from somewhere above us, deep and familiar and immediately comforting. "We're upstairs."
I glance at Elias, curious. "What are they doing up there?"
He's already moving toward me, his hands finding the buttons of my heavy coat.
The thing is gorgeous--a vintage-inspired piece with a dramatic faux fur collar that makes me feel like a glamorous snow queen from a 1940s Hollywood film--but it weighs approximately a thousand pounds and generates enough heat to power a small village.
I've been dying to take it off since we got out of the car.
Elias works the closures with practiced efficiency, sliding the coat off my shoulders and hanging it on the rack by the door with the kind of casual attentiveness that still makes my heart flutter.
"Probably trying to beat each other at some video game," he says with a chuckle, straightening the coat on its hook. "You know how competitive they get. Last week Julian accused Tank of screen-peeking during Mario Kart and they didn't speak for three hours. Tank slept on the couch out of spite."
"Grown men," I say fondly, shaking my head. "Acting like children over cartoon racing games."
"It's part of their charm." He leans in and kisses me--soft and sweet, tasting faintly of the hot cocoa we'd shared on the drive home, his hands finding my waist and pulling me close for a moment of quiet intimacy.
When he pulls back, his amber eyes are warm.
"Go check on the boys. I'll put the frozen stuff from the market in the freezer and come join you. "
"If they're playing video games, we need beer," I point out. "It's practically a rule."
His grin widens into something mischievous. "Beer for the boys. Luxury wine for the Omega of the house." He winks, grabbing the bags of market goodies and heading toward the kitchen with Sasha trotting hopefully at his heels. "Go on. I'll be right behind you."
The Omega of the house. It still sends a little thrill through me every time one of them says it like that. Like it's already true. Like it's already permanent. Like I'm not just a temporary arrangement anymore but something real, something lasting.
I skip toward the stairs, still riding the high of the past two days.
Everything about this trip had been perfect--the surprise of it, the romance of it, the way Elias had looked at me across candlelit dinners like I was the most precious thing he'd ever seen.
I'm giddy in a way I don't think I've ever been before, light and happy and full of a warmth that has nothing to do with the heating system and everything to do with finally, finally feeling like I belong somewhere.
The stairs creak softly under my feet as I climb, the familiar sounds of this house that's started to feel more like home than anywhere I've ever lived.
Tank's place is beautiful in that understated masculine way--dark wood and clean lines and furniture that's built to last generations--but it's started to feel like mine too.
My things are scattered throughout now: a cardigan draped over the back of a living room chair, a stack of romance novels on the coffee table, my favorite mug with the chipped handle taking up permanent residence by the coffee maker because I refuse to drink my morning coffee from anything else.
I belong here. I actually, truly, genuinely belong somewhere. After all those years of feeling like a guest in my own life, I finally have a place that feels like home.
"Are you guys in Tank's room?" I call out as I reach the top of the stairs.
"Down the hall, Sweet Ditzy," Julian's voice responds from somewhere to my left.
I huff, striding toward the sound of his voice. "I swear we agreed, Sweet Queen is bett--"
The words die in my throat.
I've stopped in the doorway of a room I don't recognize. A room that definitely did not exist--or at least, did not look anything like this--the last time I was in this house two days ago.
It's... it's a Pinterest board come to life.
No--it's better than a Pinterest board. It's every cozy aesthetic dream I've ever saved on my phone, every screenshot of "dream room" inspiration I've hoarded in secret folders, every whispered wish I thought no one was listening to manifested into physical reality.
The walls are painted a soft lavender that catches the light from the fairy lights strung in delicate cascades across the ceiling like captured starlight.
Those fairy lights--they're everywhere, warm and twinkling, transforming the space into something magical and intimate, the kind of ethereal glow that makes everything look soft and dreamlike.
Against one wall sits an enormous bean bag chair, easily big enough for three or four people to sink into together, draped with the most gorgeous knitted blankets I've ever seen in varying shades of pink, purple, black, and cream.
The textures are luxurious even from here--chunky cable knits, soft fleece, something that looks like it might be cashmere.
A bookshelf dominates another wall--not just any bookshelf, but a floor-to-ceiling masterpiece painted in matte black and filled with books I recognize.
Books from my Tbr list. Books I've been saving up to buy for months, dog-earing pages in my mental catalog of "someday when I can afford it.
" Cozy fantasies and slow-burn romances and atmospheric thrillers and everything in between.
They're all here. Every single one, arranged with care and obvious attention to aesthetic--some stacked vertically, some horizontally, interspersed with candles and small decorative objects.
And the decorations. Oh god, the decorations.
Melody and Kuromi plushies are arranged artfully on floating shelves that line the walls.
Not just a few--an entire collection, ranging from tiny keychain-sized figures to plushies as big as my torso.
A Kuromi lamp sits on a small bedside table, its purple glow adding to the ambient lighting, casting soft shadows in the shape of the mischievous character.
My Melody pillows are scattered across the bean bag and the bed--because there's a bed too, a daybed with an ornate white frame that looks like it could expand into something larger, piled high with the softest-looking blankets and more character pillows than any adult should reasonably own.