37. Chapter 37
Rosalina
Amovie with my captor, instead of escaping, wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had.
I just didn’t want to go back to the cell or deal with the rotting finger yet.
Being here with this wonderful smelling man had no bearing on my decision at all.
Nope, not one bit. And honestly, at this point, what was one more poor decision?
In fact, almost everything I’d done up to this point was arguably very wrong. But God, he smelled so right. His scent seeped into my blood, right down to my bones. I just wanted to roll around in it, and he was offering the chance to do just that.
Who was I to turn down that sort of invitation?
He was inviting me into his nest. That was a big fucking deal for an omega. This was his safe space.
Admittedly, mine was awful, but I was an unusual case.
Looking around his room made me realize something, I’d never really had a nest. I had a tiny hole with sterile sheets, it was nothing like this.
This was an oasis of comfort. Every part of it was tailored, specific, and with intention.
Right down to the jersey sheets, fuzzy blankets, and upholstered walls of the nook his bed was nestled in.
He crawled over the mattress, rummaging through blankets and pillows, making a space near the edge that he patted in invitation.
The way he sprawled out across the navy sheets showed off a strip of tanned skin just above his waistband, and the slight indentation of the V of his hips peeked through.
My eyes lingered, appreciating the long, lithe lines of his muscles.
He was built like a dancer, without an ounce of body fat to be seen.
As much as I wanted to lick that flat plain of muscle, I blinked the thought away and moved to the edge of the bed, sitting gingerly, half on and half off the mattress.
He scooted further back, deeper into the mounds of blankets piled up against the far wall. “You’re not going to sit like that the whole movie, are you?”
I fidgeted with the brush in my hands before sliding a little further onto the mattress. “There. Better?” It wasn’t better, but I had no intention of getting closer to him than absolutely necessary.
“Hardly,” he muttered under his breath before covering it quickly. “What do you want to watch?”
I caught his muffled lapse but decided to ignore it. “It doesn’t matter to me. Whatever you want is fine. I am the prisoner, after all.”
My emotions were in turmoil. I was too distracted to pay attention to anything on the massive screen, anyway.
The brush lay forgotten in my hand, and for lack of anything better to do, I started to comb out my damp hair while my mind struggled with itself.
Lush scents lingering in the air distracted me even more now that I was closer to him.
It was so familiar, it felt like a home I’d never had, but flirted with a memory of something I’d recently encountered.
While my attention wandered, trying to place it, the brush snagged on a tangle. “Damn it. Fucking hair.” Even something as simple as brushing my hair was too much for me to handle, as overwhelmed as I was.
Ollie stopped scrolling, flipped on a streaming service, and turned the volume down. “Gimme that.” He plucked the brush from my fidgeting hands. “Let me help you.”
I held perfectly still as he moved closer to where I perched.
No one in my recollection had ever brushed my hair before.
Not even my mother. She showed me how and then just expected that I’d do it on my own, even as a small child.
Her assumption led to many wild hair days and some near disasters, but I’d managed.
With more skill than I’d expected, he gathered my damp hair and started to brush out the ends.
“I used to do this for my mom,” he said, as if trying to explain his proficiency.
Slowly, the tension in my shoulders eased as he worked his way through my tangles, rescuing me from an errant hairpin and a strand of long grass when I winced.
In the mirror on the opposite wall, I could see the furrow forming between his brows, but he didn’t comment on its cause as he continued to work.
Something deep in my chest that I refused to name urged me to soothe that look off his face.
“Thanks, I couldn’t get them all out on my own.” I found myself nestled between his legs as he continued to sort out the knots.
When I hadn’t picked, he’d put on one of the street racing movies, and the hum of fast cars revving through his speakers was oddly comforting.
Not that I was paying it much attention, but even if I had, the heat of his breath on my neck was distracting me from following the plot.
Warmth crept down my spine and bloomed between my thighs.
The gentle tugging on my long strands sparked like magic across my scalp.
It felt so fucking good, I bit my lower lip to contain a moan that floated on my tongue.
“So, why’d it take you guys so long to get here last night? You had a couple of hours head start, and I still beat you. Nico isn’t that bad a driver.” He didn’t stop brushing.
I wondered if he knew and was just testing me to see how much I’d say.
“I killed a bitch that thought she could kidnap me.” I tried and failed to keep the smug smirk from my lips.
He paused, and I caught a glimmer of his smile in the mirror across the room. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
After he finished with my hair, I was so relaxed that when he set the brush on the side table and moved back to his side of the nest, I melted into the pillows with my legs curled up on the mattress.
Ollie’s scent was all over, invading my every pore, but there was something else.
Subtle notes of spiced amber, sandalwood, cloves, and bourbon clung to the linens.
It smelled like heaven, and my belly tightened as I filled my lungs with it.
It smelled like him, and Nico’s Bentley.
My eyes flickered closed, the speakers rumbling softly as an old muscle car rocketed across the screen.
My mind drifted on a cloud of contentment, distracting me from the stinging scratches on my feet and the whole ‘being a captive’ thing.
If it weren’t for the circumstances, I might even say it was nice. Better than nice.
“Rosa.” The way my name rolled across his lips like satin ignited something in my stomach. “What happened to your feet?”
Oh shit. I didn’t think he’d notice that, or care to ask. I pulled my legs under me, tucking my feet in, sitting up cross-legged. “Nothing.”
“That’s not nothing. Let me look at them,” he said, shifting closer.
They couldn’t stay hidden forever, I supposed. I had to walk out of here at some point.
I stretched out my legs again so he could see my feet in the flickering light from the TV screen. “Fine, you can look, but it’s nothing.”
“What the fuck happened last night, and don’t tell me you killed someone who tried to kidnap you. It takes more than idle threats to scare me off.” He crawled further down the mattress to get a better look.
I held still, waiting for his reaction. “It wasn’t an idle threat. I really did kill some bitch. Bruna something. But then I tried to run from Nico through the woods. Which, in hindsight, I can see was a mistake. I only had on a pair of slippers, and I lost one somewhere caught in a rotten log.”
He chuckled and ran a finger over the arch of my foot. “I can’t believe you tried to outrun Nico.”
No mention of the bitch I shot, maybe he could believe that part at least.
“I had a head start, but not enough of one, apparently.” I flexed the foot he’d touched, enjoying the ticklish warmth that trailed in the wake of his finger.
He climbed over me and ducked into the bathroom, coming out with a first-aid kit. “You’re lucky it was only a few scratches. It could’ve been worse.”
It was worse. Way worse. A bruised ego and a sore pussy on top of the scrapes on my feet. But that wasn’t something I wanted to share with him right now.
I wondered how he’d feel if he knew the whole story.
It didn’t seem like my place to tell, and I was starting to think there was a deeper connection between these men than I’d originally assumed.
Their pheromones all had a magnetic pull, which I’d aggressively ignored because there was no way that they could all be a pack.
But what if?
What if Nico, Cruz, and Oliver were a pack? Then that would mean…
I hissed in a breath as he dabbed a wet, cold piece of antiseptic-soaked gauze over my scrapes. “Fuck. Oww. A little warning next time.”
“Sorry.” He gave me a dimpled grin. “This might hurt.”
This might hurt. Yeah. He’s not wrong.
If they were all a pack, then that would mean they were my scent-matches.
God fucking damn it.