39. Syn
39
SYN
Consciousness returns to me like a slow tide washing over sand. My body feels heavy, sated, yet strangely weightless. I’m suspended in a moment of perfect clarity between heat waves. A lucid island in a sea of primal need.
The light filtering through the curtains tells me it’s day time, though I’ve lost track of which day. My limbs are tangled with those of my alphas, our bodies close together in the nest like puzzle pieces designed for each other.
I should feel trapped. Instead, I feel protected.
A dull ache throbs through my muscles, letting me know this isn’t over yet, but I’ve got time to eat. So hungry. My throat is parched, my stomach hollow with hunger. As if sensing my awakening, Tarquin stirs beside me, his icy blue eyes opening to meet mine with surprising softness.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. His fingers trace my cheekbone with unexpected tenderness. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” I whisper, my voice a rasp. “But in a good way.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in that half-smile that makes my stomach flutter. “You need food, water, and a bath. Not necessarily in that order.”
Tristan wakes at our voices, his gaze finding mine immediately. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching to brush a strand of hair from my face. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
Declan’s arm tightens around me. “Food.” His voice rumbles against my back, comforting in its directness.
I try to sit up, wincing at the protest from my overused muscles. Three pairs of hands immediately move to support me, and I can’t help but laugh at their synchronicity. “I’m not made of glass,” I say, even as I lean into their support.
“No,” Tarquin agrees, “but you are precious.”
The simple statement hits me with unexpected force. For so long, I’ve been nothing but a means to an end—for clients, for Jeremy, even for myself. To be valued for simply existing feels foreign, dangerous even.
“Bath first,” Tristan decides, sliding from the nest with graceful efficiency. I hear water running in the adjoining bathroom, steam soon drifting through the doorway.
Declan helps me stand, his hands steady as my legs wobble beneath me. “Easy,” he murmurs, his usual sharpness tempered with concern. “You’ve been in heat for two days.”
“Two days?” I gasp. “Amélie! Have you?—”
“We’re closing in,” Tarquin assures me, rising to his feet beside us. “My guy is working on it around the clock. We’ll have news soon.”
I nod, trying to quell the panic rising in my chest. Two days lost. Two days when I could have been searching, planning, doing something—anything—to find my daughter.
“The bath is ready,” Tristan calls from the bathroom.
Declan sweeps me into his arms before I can protest, carrying me as if I weigh nothing. The steam-filled bathroom is a sanctuary of warmth and fragrance.
Declan lowers me into the water with unexpected gentleness, and I can’t suppress the moan of pleasure as the warmth envelops my aching body.
“Does that feel good?” Tristan asks, kneeling beside the tub.
“Divine,” I sigh, sinking deeper until the water laps at my collarbone. “I didn’t realise how sore I was until just now.”
“Heat takes a toll,” Tarquin says, entering with a bottle of water. “Drink,” he commands.
I obey, the cool water soothing my parched throat. I drain the bottle and reach for another, suddenly desperate to quench my thirst. Tarquin watches with approval as I empty the second bottle as well.
Tristan rolls up his sleeves and reaches for a bottle of shampoo. “May I?” he asks, his eyes meeting mine with a question that goes beyond washing my hair.
I nod, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in my chest at his consideration. He pours the shampoo into his palm and begins to work it through my tangled locks with careful fingers. The sensation of his hands massaging my scalp draws another involuntary moan from me.
“That feels incredible,” I murmur, eyes fluttering closed.
“Tilt your head back,” Tristan instructs, scooping water in his hands to rinse the shampoo from my hair. The care with which he shields my eyes from the soapy water strikes me as unbearably tender.
Declan returns and presses a sandwich against my lips. “Bite.”
I snort and open my mouth to take a big bite out of a cheese and ham sandwich. “Oh, God,” I groan, my mouth full. “That tastes so good.”
Tristan works conditioner through my hair as I let Declan feed me between torrents of water being poured over my head. His fingers methodically untangle knots with a patience I wouldn’t have expected from any alpha, let alone one who’s been through the intensity of a shared heat.
“You’re good at this,” I observe, tilting my head to look up at him.
His smile is soft but slightly off-kilter. “I can be whatever you need me to be,” he murmurs. “Only this time, I want to be that for you, Syn. I need to be everything you need.”
The revelation, simple as it is, feels like a gift—a piece of himself offered freely.
Tristan finishes up as the water cools around me, and Tarquin reaches for a large, fluffy towel. “Ready to get out?”
I nod, and he helps me from the tub, wrapping the towel around me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, clutching the towel around me.
Tarquin’s gaze softens. “There are clean pyjamas on the bed. We’ll give you a moment to yourself.”
They file out, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I dry off slowly, savouring the quiet moment of solitude. My reflection in the mirror shows someone both familiar and strange—my face is the same, but there’s a glow to my skin, a new light in my eyes that wasn’t there before.
The pjs waiting on the bed are soft cotton, modest yet comfortable. I slip them on, combing my fingers through my damp hair before staring at the nest. It has been stripped of the soaked sheets and blankets, with a fresh set piled up next to it. With a smile, I set to work rebuilding the nest, making it cosy and comfortable for all four of us. I spot the pile of clothing on the nearby chair and pick it up, inhaling each of their scents before I lay the shirts and hoodies around the nest.
I curl up and enjoy the quiet moment before Tarquin bursts back into the room, his face urgent. “We have a lead.”
My heart leaps. “What kind of lead?”
“The Hart Foundation. It’s registered in Germany, but the money trail shows recent activity in Edinburgh.”
“Edinburgh?” I repeat, my mind racing.
Declan brandishes a laptop at me, dressed only in black joggers, while Tarquin and Tristan are still naked. “And we’ve tracked IP addresses accessing the foundation’s accounts to a specific location.”
Hope, dangerous and intoxicating, blooms in my chest. “You think she’s there?”
Tristan sits beside me, his warmth steadying. “It’s the strongest lead we’ve had. My guy is sending a team to surveil the area discreetly. Hired mercenaries. The best at what they do. They won’t act but will be thorough.”
“I want to go,” I say immediately, moving to stand. “Now.”
Tarquin’s hand on my shoulder is gentle but firm. “You’re still in heat, Synthia. The next wave will hit soon.”
“I don’t care,” I insist, though my body betrays me with a tremor that has nothing to do with determination. “I can’t sit around here hours travelling from near London to Scotland in full heat, I doubt the IPP will be quite as accommodating as the last time they arrested me.” I sink back onto the bed, tears of frustration welling in my eyes. “I’ve been away from her for two years. Every minute matters.”
Tarquin kneels before me, taking my hands in his. “We know. But rushing in with you in heat could jeopardise everything. We need to be certain, to have a plan that involves you in your right mind and us three not worrying about you.”
“We need you at full strength, so we can focus on eliminating Jeremy,” Tristan adds quietly. “Do you understand?”
“Eliminate?” I croak, my hand going to my throat.
“He doesn’t get to live,” Tarquin says coldly. “Scum like him will always be back. Amélie and you won’t be safe if he isn’t taken out.”
“What about jail?”
“What if he doesn’t get arrested? Or he does but gets out in a year or two?” Declan states. “What then?”
I look between the three of them, these alphas who’ve become my unofficial mates in such a short time. Their faces show determination and commitment. A unified front formed for my sake, for Amélie’s. I nod. “Okay. I won’t stand in your way.” I’ve given my permission for them to kill Jeremy, and I feel nothing, except relief. It raises the question of who these alphas really are under their suave, sophisticated exteriors, but it doesn’t even matter. I trust them with my life, and more importantly, I trust them with Amélie’s.
“Promise me,” I whisper, gripping Tarquin’s hands tightly. “Promise me we’ll go as soon as my heat breaks.”
“We will,” he vows, his blue eyes never leaving mine. “All of us, together.”
Declan sets the laptop aside, coming to sit on my other side. “No matter what it takes,” he says quietly.
“She’s ours now too,” Tristan adds. “Part of our pack.”
Our pack. The words settle over me like a warm blanket. For so long, I’ve been alone, fighting, surviving, enduring. The concept of belonging, of sharing my burden, is almost too overwhelming to comprehend.
“You should eat more,” Tarquin says, breaking the moment with practical concern. He releases my hands and stands, retrieving the tray Declan had brought.
I accept a sandwich, forcing myself to eat despite the emotions threatening to choke me. As I chew, Tarquin moves behind me, brushing my damp hair with careful strokes, working from the ends up to avoid pulling.
The simple domesticity of the moment strikes me with unexpected force. This care, this tenderness—it’s more intimate than anything we shared during the height of my heat. It speaks of commitment beyond biology, beyond the temporary insanity of pheromones and instinct.
“I used to comb my mother’s hair,” he murmurs, sensing my questions. “Before she died.”
“She died? Oh, Tarquin. I’m so sorry.”
“My father killed her,” he says steadily.
My heart thumps, and I have no words for him.
None of the alphas say anything. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s shared pain.
“Rest while you can,” Declan advises, his usual sharpness softened with genuine concern. “The next wave will come soon.”
Warmth pools low in my belly, a familiar tingling spreading through my limbs. Not urgent yet, but it will be soon enough.
I lean back against them in my nest, surrounded by their strength, their scents mingling in perfect harmony. For the first time in years, I allow myself to hope—not just for Amélie’s return but for a future I never dared imagine.
“Mine,” I murmur, the word both a claim and a surrender.
“Ours,” they answer, the promise echoing in the quiet room like a vow.