Valek
Thane is at the counter with his laptop open, his hair shoved back off his face, sipping from a mug of coffee despite the evening hour. The moment I step into the room, his eyes come up over the rim of the mug and stay there.
I go to the cabinet and take down two glasses.
He keeps staring.
I fill the first with warm water at the tap, humming.
He sets the mug down. "So, uh." He clears his throat. "What did I just overhear?"
"Plague having an orgasm."
Thane closes his eyes.
I set the first glass aside and fill the second with filtered water from the fridge.
Thane says nothing, but I feel him watching me as I open the drawer beside the stove and glance over the folded dish towels.
Hmm. No. He won't like these. They're ratty.
The linen closet in the hall has the good ones. He rotates those on a schedule.
I take two. And a fresh flat sheet from the second shelf, because I know exactly what he's going to be upset about when he regains his energy.
"What are you doing, exactly?" he asks, his brow furrowing.
"Aftercare." I look up. "I'm not a barbarian."
He snorts.
I go into the pantry for the chocolates Whiskey bought and hid behind the rice, believing nobody would find it. Everyone found it. I take three.
I balance both glasses in one hand, the towels and sheet over my shoulder, chocolates in my teeth, and go back up the stairs.
Plague is exactly where I left him, on his side under the duvet, one arm folded beneath the pillow, his dark hair spread across the pillowcase. His breathing is slow and even, full lips slightly parted.
I set the glasses of water on the nightstand with the chocolates beside them. Then I kneel on the mattress with one of the towels and a glass of water, wet the corner, and peel back the duvet start on the mess.
He stirs when the cool cloth touches his stomach.
"Mm—what—"
"Shh."
His eyes crack open. He looks down at what I'm doing and looks utterly mortified. Adorable. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Cleaning you," I say, shoving a chocolate between his slightly bared teeth to silence him. "Don't you like to be clean?"
"Give me that," he grumbles, swallowing the chocolate and snatching the towel from my hands.
I let him, sitting back to watch. "Do you need the new sheet?" I ask, nodding to the flat sheet on my shoulder.
He looks at it.
Then at the mattress.
"No. I'm too fucking tired." He drops the towel over the edge of the bed onto the floor, and I watch his eye twitch as he does it. "Besides, you… licked most of it off. So."
"I did," I confirm, handing him the second glass.
He drinks half of it in one pull and hands it back with a reluctantly muttered "thanks."
I set it aside and stretch out next to him.
He doesn't protest or try to struggle all that much when I hook my arm around his waist and drag him back against my body, which tells me exactly how far gone he is. But he does make an irritated little sound.
"You're warm," he mutters, accusatory, already half asleep again.
"Mm."
His breathing evens out within the minute. I lie there in the dark and listen to it, thinking about how completely unarmed I am right now, and how little I mind, and how much that should frighten me.
And somewhere, off in the mountains, I feel the slight warmth of Ivy humming in our bond. Faint because of the distance, which is a torment in and of itself, but ever present.
I can feel all of them.
The loudest, the equivalent of a thunderstorm, roils closer by the second.
The door bangs open.
Light from the hall floods across the bed and Plague jerks awake with a snarl, and I have him pinned against my chest with one hand before he can go anywhere.
Whiskey stands in the doorway with a bowl of dry cereal.
"Bro."
"Get out," Plague croaks.
Whiskey looks at us, at the arm around Plague's waist and Plague glowering at him like he's going to kill him if he keeps looking at this, and a huge grin spreads across his face.
"Aww."
"Whiskey!" Plague grits out.
"You guys are cuddling!"
Plague thrashes with renewed vigor. I let him go and he sits up, panting, tugging the duvet uselessly even though he's already covered.
Whiskey sets the cereal bowl on the dresser and strips his clothes off with alarming speed for an alpha his size. He vaults onto the bed on Plague's other side hard enough that something snaps and sets Plague off into a muttering, cursing rage.
"Move over, Christmas," Whiskey grunts at me, shoving against us.
"Christmas," I repeat flatly.
"It's your birthday, so it's your name now, ice bro." He shoves himself in harder and throws one enormous arm over both of us, crushing Plague between us enthusiastically. "Sandwich formation. Squash the doctor!"
"I'm not a doctor," Plague growls. "I never completed—oof! Whiskey. I can't fucking breathe."
"That's the point." Whiskey kisses his forehead, squeezing him. "Shhh. Only sleep now."
He presses a finger against Plague's lips to silence him.
Plague makes a sound like a punctured tire, but he drops his head back against the pillow in defeat.
I look over the top of his head at Whiskey, who is already settling in, his deep resonant purr rumbling through his body and into the entire bed.
"How was Ivy?" I ask him.
"Great," he says, grinning. "You wanna stay up so we feel the bond complete? Like waiting up for fireworks?"
I blow a puff of air through my nose. "I was already planning on it."
"Perfect," he whispers, grinning at me and shifting closer.
I don't love his arm being partially over me, but I tolerate it.
This pack truly has domesticated me.
Terrible.