Chapter 15 #2
He drags his mouth down my jaw and I tip my head for him without thinking, offering my throat.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against my pulse, hands splayed wide on my hips like he's trying to relearn the map of me.
"Teeth. Leave me something to look at. Not a claim. Just—remind me that I'm yours."
A low sound rolls out of him, pleased and possessive. "I can do that."
He does.
Careful at first, testing pressure, then firmer when my breath stutters. His mouth seals over where my heartbeat flutters; tongue, a slow lap, then the precise press of teeth. The sting is bright and electric. I make a noise he swallows, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head.
"Here," he says, and marks the other side to match.
Heat floods through me, instinct singing, that simple satisfaction of mine mine mine written in little half-moons.
"Let me," I breathe, tugging at his hair until he tips for me.
He bares his neck without theatrics, trust easy. Not the gland. I nose around that forbidden place anyway, just long enough to feel both of us shiver, then I choose lower, safe. I scent him, slow and greedy, then I set my teeth.
He jolts, a hiss that slides into a laugh that isn't really a laugh. I keep it careful—more bruise than break—then do it again, and again, an uneven necklace stamped into warm skin.
"Vee. God, Omega. Look at you."
"Look at you."
Barriers go fast after that—his shirt tugged over his head, my shorts caught in his fingers, the nest swallowing us when he rolls until the blankets cradle my back. He pauses there, braced over me, breathing hard.
"Yes," I say. "Please."
We fit.
We always have. The first push is a stretch that steals my breath, an ache edged with relief. It's been a while. I hear the sound that tears out of me and don't recognize it as my own.
He goes still, forehead to mine. "Tell me if it's too much."
"It is," I pant, laughter caught in it, "and not enough."
The smile that flickers across his mouth is bright and wrecked. He starts to move.
It's not frantic. It's not slow. It's a rhythm that finds us like a heartbeat. The nest creaks under us; the room swims in our scent, Eli's careful calm layered under the fizz and salt of what we're doing now.
I reach up, palm to his face, thumb tugging his lower lip, and he sucks it into his mouth on instinct. I arch into him, mouth open, unpretty sounds catching in my throat.
"Vee. Vee, baby, you have to be quieter or—"
"Make me."
He swallows my next noise. It doesn't help. The control I've been clinging to slips; my hips chase his. I bite his shoulder, shameless, and drag my nails down his back. He shudders.
"Again. Do it again."
I do, teeth set just so, and feel him lose the thread, his rhythm breaking before he catches it again, harder now, deeper. Heat gathers low and sharp.
"Drake. I'm—"
"Give it to me."
He changes his angle just enough that something in me snaps.
I come with a sound that's not fit for polite company, loud and wrecked and relieved. The walls won't hold it. The house will hear it. I can't make myself care.
He follows me down. I feel the shiver run through him, and then the unmistakable swell at the base of him that my body answers with a helpless clutch.
"Okay. I've got you."
The catch steals any hope of quiet. The way he thickens and seats us flush, the way my body yields and then grips—it pries another sound out of me. My hands fly to his back. His scent floods my head.
He swells even more, a slow bloom that holds us. The stretch burns for a breath, bright and hot, then my body gives, melts around him. Everything low goes tight and soft at once. The pulse there is his heartbeat knocking at my own. We can't chase anymore. The lock demands stillness and closeness.
"Easy. That's it. Breathe."
I do. The edge turns from sharp to something round and deep. Every tiny shift sends a ripple through me.
In this moment, all I feel is needed.
***
Morning is softer.
We wake tangled, my cheek stuck to his chest, his arm dead asleep under my neck. The nest smells like us now—citrus and sweat and my omega sweet, layered over Eli's calmer thread.
For once the mix doesn't hurt.
It feels like something whole.
Drake blinks blearily. "Ow. You elbowed me in the night."
"You snored in my ear."
He grins, sleep-soft. "Worth it."
Warmth spreads through me. I tuck myself closer, savoring this brief illusion that nothing outside this nest exists.
We emerge eventually, because real life doesn't care about my nest fantasies.
I'm still a little sore in that smug, secret way. Drake is rumpled but relaxed, hand resting on the small of my back as we head down the hall.
The house is too quiet.
A bad quiet.
My instincts prickle as we round the corner into the living room.
Eli is on one end of the couch, posture tense, hand wrapped around a mug he isn't drinking from. Ragon is seated beside him.
Marie is between them.
Her eyes are red-rimmed. Her cheeks blotchy. She's wrapped in one of the pack's big throw blankets, shoulders shaking with occasional sobs.
Both alphas are angled toward her, scent thick with concern.
The air reeks of distress and comfort.
Drake's hand drops from my back like I burned him.
"Marie?"
Her head jerks up.
When she sees him, fresh tears spill over. "Drake," she chokes, like his name hurts.
He's across the room and at her side before I can blink.
"Hey, hey, hey. What happened? What's wrong?"
Stupid question.
I know before anyone says it.
My stomach drops.
"I heard you," she says, voice small and wrecked. "All night. I heard you with her."
She doesn't look at me.
She doesn't have to.
Heat floods my face.
Guilt slams into the place where contentment was.
Drake's scent spikes—shame, confusion, self-reproach. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I didn't think—"
"No. You didn't."
He flinches like she slapped him.
Ragon's jaw is tight. Eli's eyes flick to mine, full of apology he hasn't earned.
I hover in the doorway, suddenly unsure if I'm allowed in this room.
Marie clutches at Drake's shirt. "I know I said I could share. I know. I meant it. I just— I've had you so much, and then hearing you with her, it felt like you were being taken away. Like I was back there."
There meaning whatever hell she came from before us.
I should feel empathy.
I do.
It's buried under a mountain of hollow, embarrassed hurt.
Drake scoops her up without thinking, strong arms tucking under her knees and back. He stands, cradling her against his chest.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
He doesn't look at me.
Eli does.
His expression says I'm here and I'm angry for you and I understand all at once.
I wrap my arms around myself.
"What did I do wrong?" I ask, and my voice sounds very far away.
Ragon looks up at me.
For once, his eyes aren't hard. They're tired.
"You didn't do anything wrong. Marie's having a hard time sharing Drake after having so much of his attention. That's not on you."
"It feels like it is."
"Her reaction is about her history. About scarcity. Not about you stealing. You and Drake are allowed to be together."
Marie sniffles against Drake's shoulder.
The timing of his reassurance feels off.
"Maybe. But I'm not the one being comforted and loved right now."
Drake's scent wavers, torn.
"Vee—"
"Go. She needs you more."
He hesitates.
Then he goes.
Of course he does.
He carries Marie toward her room, murmuring comfort, her fingers fisted in his shirt.
My hands curl into fists.
Ragon stands slowly. "He'll come back around."
"Sure."
Ragon sighs. "I'll have him take her out later. A movie or something. It might help to get her out of the house. They can have some alone time."
"A date," I translate. "To make up for him cheating on her with his other omega."
No one corrects me.
My ribs feel too tight.
"I'm going to the garden."
No one tells me to stay.
The dirt is easier to manage than feelings.
It doesn't talk back. It doesn't ask for balance. It doesn't tell me to share what I don't have enough of.
I kneel between beds, hands buried wrist-deep in soil, pulling weeds that have the audacity to grow where I don't want them.
I'm ankle-deep in my own thoughts when a familiar voice cuts through them.
"Hey, basil witch. You got room for more garden gnomes?"
I look up, startled.
Finn is leaning on the fence, chin hooked over his crossed arms, glasses askew. Behind him, Alex stands with his hands in his pockets, Malcolm a step back with a mug.
All three of them smell like blockers and cardboard and the faint outline of something my instincts want and can't quite see.
"Always. Get in here."
Finn makes a delighted noise and navigates the gate. Alex follows with that measured stride; Malcolm takes a slower route, pausing to glance around the yard.
They step into my patch of dirt and my omega brain does that rude inventory: height, breadth, hands.
Alex is a lot. Broad through the chest, sleeves pushed up. Malcolm is narrower but carved, the kind of fit that comes from actual work. When he squats to examine the calendula, his shirt pulls tight over his back and my mouth goes dry.
My omega, the traitor, hums: good providers.
Guilt hits immediately. I have alphas. Mine smell like pine and tea and citrus and bad decisions.
"Bringing an entourage today?"
Finn spreads his arms. "They were bored. Alex was reorganizing the tool shed alphabetically. Malcolm was about to alphabetize the spice rack. I rescued them."
"Spices do not need rescuing. They need order."
"Sure, Malcolm. Live your truth."
Alex's mouth twitches. "I thought we might see how your garden's doing. Offer free labor, if you need it."
The idea of anyone doing anything for me without strings still hits weird.
"I'm not going to say no to free labor. Grab a trowel."
Finn dives in with enthusiasm and very little technique. Malcolm listens carefully while I explain where things are going. Alex mostly watches, occasionally taking over heavier tasks without making a show of it.
It's nice.