Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mia
My boxes are unpacked. My clothes are integrated into the closet next to Rhys’s black t-shirts and Declan’s hoodies. We have a routine: coffee in the morning, work during the day, dinner together, and a pile of warm, heavy bodies in the nest at night.
It is everything I wanted. It is the definition of the dream.
So I have no idea why I’m crawling out of my skin.
The feeling starts on Tuesday morning, exactly one week and two days after my official move-in.
It’s subtle at first. A faint, low-grade buzzing just under the skin where my neck meets my shoulder. Like a phantom tag on a t-shirt rubbing the wrong way, or a stray hair tickling me.
I check the mirror. Nothing. No rash, no bug bite.
But the buzz won’t stop.
I’m standing in the kitchen, staring at the coffee maker, trying to vibrate the feeling out of my system. The house is warm, smelling of dark roast and the cinnamon rolls Declan made.
It’s sweet. It’s home.
It makes me want to scream.
Rhys saunters in wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants, bringing the smell of shower steam and espresso with him. He crosses the kitchen without a word, wrapping his arms around me from behind and burying his face in my hair.
“Morning,” he rumbles, the vibration of his chest pressing against my back.
I lean back into him, seeking the solid weight of his body. I need…pressure. I feel light, like gravity is slowly losing its grip on me.
“Morning,” I murmur.
I reach up to scratch at the spot on my neck, digging my nails in slightly to relieve the buzzing sensation.
Rhys catches my hand, pulling it away. “Stop clawing at yourself.”
He replaces my hand with his mouth, pressing a hard, open-mouthed kiss to the spot. It’s possessive. It’s hot.
It makes my skin heat and itch even more. It’s like an accelerant, making the nerves fire hotter. I suppress a shiver.
“Come eat,” he says, giving my hip a squeeze before guiding me toward the island where the others are already waiting.
My gaze flicks across each of them.
They’re normal. They’re joking, eating, checking emails.
Knox looks up from his tablet and grins at me, a wicked glint in his eye. “You look like you slept on a rock. Hair’s a disaster.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, sliding onto a stool. “You look like you slept in a dumpster.”
He winks. “Only the best dumpsters.”
Declan slides a cinnamon roll onto my plate. “Ignore him. Eat sugar.”
Eli touches my back as he passes to refill his mug. It’s a grounding, heavy hand.
They’re treating me like pack.
So why am I…unmoored?
Floating.
Every time they touch me, I’m a balloon that’s slipping through their fingers.
I take a bite of the cinnamon roll, trying to pacify my omega, who is currently unsettled inside my chest, grumbling. I rub my neck again, harder this time, unable to stop myself. The itch intensifies. Is it allergies? Did I change detergent?
“You okay?” Eli asks, watching me from across the island. His eyes are sharp.
“My neck.” The frustration leaks into my voice. “It’s driving me crazy. It feels…itchy.”
Eli frowns, setting his mug down. “Let me see.”
He leans over, tilting my head to the side. He inspects the skin, his thumb brushing hard over my skin.
“It’s fine,” he says. “A little pink from you scratching, but nothing else. Maybe dry skin?”
“Maybe,” I say, though I know that’s not it. Dry skin doesn’t make you want to jump out of a window.
“I’ll grab some lotion later,” Declan says. “Use the shea butter in the meantime.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
By evening, the itch is a throb.
I’ve spent the day working, trying to focus on deadlines, but my concentration is shot. Every time I stop typing, my hand goes to my neck.
I check my cycle app for the tenth time.
NEXT HEAT: 3 MONTHS (ESTIMATED).
It’s not my heat. It can’t be my heat. I just finished one.
But my body is restless, edgy, unsatisfied. Like I’m waiting for a dropped shoe that never hits the floor.
I unlock my phone and scroll through my messages. I’d texted Sierra earlier, giving her the “I moved in” update she’d been screaming for, but I’d left out the part where I feel like I’m losing my mind.
Sierra: So? You’re in. You’re living the dream. Why did you text me “I feel weird” at 2 PM?
Me: I don’t know. I feel… jittery.
Sierra: Jittery how? Like caffeine jittery or “I live with four hot men” jittery?
Me: Like…floaty. Unsettled. My skin hurts.
Sierra: Oh. Maybe it’s the drop? Post-heat blues? Sometimes your hormones go haywire for a week or two after a big one.
Me: It’s not blues. I feel like I need to run a marathon or scream.
Sierra: Are they…satisfying you?
Me: Sierra!
Sierra: Valid question! Maybe you just have leftover energy. Are they treating you right?
I think about waking up this morning on top of Declan and exactly how thoroughly he took care of me before the sun was even up. My cheeks heat at the memory.
Me: They are. They’re…Sierra, they’re perfect.
There’s a pause before her next message comes in.
Sierra: Go for a run. Or go find one of your alphas and sit on him until you feel grounded. That usually works.
Me: You really think it’s just excess energy?
Sierra: I think you’ve had the most intense few weeks of your life and your nervous system is still firing on all cylinders. Give it time. Take a hot bath. Steal a hoodie. You’ll settle.
I stare at the screen.
You’ll settle.
I don’t feel like I’m going to settle. I feel like I’m going to vibrate apart.
I toss the phone on the couch and stand up.
Eli and Declan took the truck to pick up takeout twenty minutes ago. The house is quiet without them. Too quiet. The silence makes the buzzing under my skin louder.
I need to do something. Sierra said steal a hoodie, and my instincts latch on to that like a lifeline. I need…weight. I need something heavy and thick to stop this floating feeling.
I head upstairs but instead of heading straight for the shower, I detour into the walk-in closet, reaching past my soft sweaters to snag one of Knox’s heavy black sweatshirts. Even holding it, the heavy scent of him hits me, and the buzzing in my neck quiets by a fraction.
It helps. I don’t know why, but it helps.
Carrying it into the bathroom, I close the door and turn the water on hot.
I scrub my skin until it’s pink, trying to wash away the feeling of being untethered, but the water doesn’t help.
Once I’m dry, I slip into the stolen shirt.
The fabric swallows me whole, exposing the curve of my cleavage and keeping my legs bare.
I look at myself in the mirror.
Messy hair. Flushed skin. Wearing nothing but an alpha’s sweatshirt.
I look distressed.
I look exactly how I am.
I take a breath, steeling myself to go downstairs and find them. I don’t have a plan. I just know I can’t be alone in this room anymore.
But when I open the bathroom door, I nearly run headfirst into a wall of muscle.
I gasp, stumbling back.
Knox is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world like he’s been standing there for twenty minutes.
And right next to him, mirroring his stance against the opposite wall of the narrow hallway, is his mirror image. Rhys.
They look up at the same time. Identical dark hair, identical sharp jawlines, identical slate-gray eyes that go dark the second they land on my bare legs.
“We were just…” Knox starts, pushing off the wall. He gestures vaguely at the door. “Checking the…hinges. Squeaky. Very annoying.”
“Right,” Rhys murmurs, his gaze dropping to the curve of my cleavage visible in the neckline of the sweatshirt. “Hinges.”
They are such terrible liars.
My heart gives a traitorous little kick.
“You’re hovering.” My voice comes out like this hot, breathy thing that I can’t control.
“We’re observing.” Knox steps into my space. The room is suddenly very small. He smells like molasses and heat, overpowering the steam from the shower. “You’ve been in there a long time.”
“I was showering.”
“You were scrubbing,” Rhys says quietly. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing the pink, irritated skin of my arm. “Trying to wash the itch away?”
The question lands too close to home.
“It didn’t work,” I whisper.
Rhys’s eyes darken. “Oh, sunshine.”
They’re staring at me with this raw, hungry intensity that makes my knees weak. They’re looking at me like they smell blood in the water.
“You’re staring,” I say.
“Can you blame us?” Knox’s voice drops to a growl. He reaches out, hooking a finger in the neck of his sweatshirt, tugging me a step closer. “You’re wearing our clothes. You smell like soap and distress and us. It’s confusing the fuck out of me.”
The itch on my neck throbs violently.
Instead of keeping rooted in my spot, I step in.
“Then do something about it.” The words slip past my lips before I have sense to stop them.
Knox’s eyes go darker. He shoots a glance at Rhys, a silent command in the tilt of his head, before he moves.
I’m swept up before I can blink, a surprised gasp torn from my throat as we leave the bathroom tile for the shadows of the nest. But he doesn’t carry me to the bed. He drives me back against the wall, pinning me there with his heavy, solid weight.
“You want us to do something?” Knox murmurs, his hands sliding up my bare thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh.
“Yes,” I breathe.
Rhys is there, too, behind Knox, his presence looming, then he moves to my side. His hand tangles in my damp hair, tilting my head back.
I am trapped between them. Two sets of hands. Two intoxicating scents wrapping around me.
Knox’s lips find mine, and he kisses me.
It’s messy and desperate. He tastes like molasses and hunger. I open for him immediately, my tongue meeting his, my hands fisting in his hair to pull him closer.
Rhys attacks my neck.
His mouth is hot, wet, sucking at the sensitive cord of muscle. He licks my skin, dragging a groan out of me that Knox swallows.
I’m lost in them.