The feeling of being filled again so soon makes me gasp, pleasure and the edge of too much mixing together. But Silas is gentle despite the intensity, his movements controlled as he works me toward another peak. Wyatt is beside us, his hands on both of us, touching and caressing, adding to the overwhelming sensation.
When Silas's knot forms and locks us together, I'm already coming again, my body oversensitive and responding to everything with heightened intensity. He holds me through it, murmuring praise against my skin, telling me how perfect I am, how good I feel, how much he wants me, how right this is.
Eventually we all settle, exhausted and satisfied, still tangled together in the nest. Hunter is at my back now, his solid presence a wall of protection. Silas locked inside me, his knot still pulsing occasionally. Wyatt curled against Silas's back, his arm reaching across to rest on my hip. We're a pile of bodies and blankets and contentment, and I've never felt safer in my entire life.
"We should sleep," Hunter murmurs against my hair. "You're going to need your energy. For this afternoon with Dylan, and for when your heat hits."
"Then I just want to stay here," I whisper. "Just like this. For as long as we can."
"Then that's what we'll do," Wyatt promises, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my hip.
Hunter
The drive to the police station feels too short. Amelia spent the whole ride in the back of Dylan's car, wedged between me and the door, trying to convince herself she could do this. That signing paperwork would somehow make Vincent go away, would somehow make her safe.
It won't. We both know it won't. But we have to try.
Dylan insisted on coming. As her brother and closest family, the police said his presence would strengthen the restraining order application. Plus, Amelia needed him. She needed all ofus, but the station has rules about how many people can be present for these meetings, so it's just the three of us. Silas and Wyatt fought to be here, wanted to support her through this, but they're back at the house, probably pacing holes in the floor with worry.
Now I'm sitting in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs at the police station, the kind designed to make you want to leave as quickly as possible, and I'm so angry I can barely see straight. The fluorescent lights overhead are too bright, the air conditioning too cold, and everything about this situation makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
We shouldn't have to be here. Amelia shouldn't have to sit across from a police officer and sign paperwork detailing every horrible thing her ex did to her. She shouldn't have to relive trauma just to get a piece of paper that might not even keep her safe. But with her heat less than twenty-four hours away at most, if we don't get the restraining order filed now, it'll be hell trying to do it later.
Amelia is sitting between me and Dylan at the table, both of us flanking her like bodyguards. My hand is wrapped around hers in her lap, her fingers gripping mine so tightly I'm losing circulation. Dylan's hand is on her other side, and I can see the white-knuckle grip she has on him too, anchoring herself between us like we're the only things keeping her from flying apart.
The officer across from us is mid-thirties, balding, with the kind of tired eyes that say he's seen too much of humanity's worst. He's going through the report with methodical precision, explaining each charge, each incident, each protection the restraining order will provide.
"This will last for three months initially," he's saying, his voice flat and professional. "Then we'll need to go before a judge to get it converted to a full protective order, which can last up to a yearor more depending on circumstances. Given the severity of the documented incidents and the threat level, I don't anticipate any issues with the judge approving the extension."
Amelia nods, but I can feel her trembling beside me. Her rose scent is stronger than usual, the blockers completely failed now, mixing with something acidic that speaks to her fear and distress. My Alpha instincts are screaming at me to get her out of here, to take her somewhere safe and protected, to eliminate the threat that's causing her this much pain.
But we have to do this first. We have to get this paperwork filed.
The officer pulls the stack of documents closer. "Now, I need to walk you through the documented incidents so you understand what you're signing. This is standard procedure to ensure—"
"Okay," Amelia interrupts, her voice thin and strained. "Where do I sign?"
The officer blinks, surprised. "We haven't gone through all the incidents yet. I need to explain each one, make sure you understand what you're signing, that you agree with the documentation."
He starts reading from the first page. "Incident one, dated March 15th, 2023. Hospital visit documented contusions consistent with—"
"Stop." Amelia's voice cuts through his recitation, sharp and strained.
The officer pauses, looking up. "Ms. Sterling, I need to—"
"I don't want to hear it." Her grip on my hand tightens to the point of pain, and when I glance at her face, there's something fierce and desperate in her expression. Her jaw is set, her eyes blazing with determination that looks like it's taking every ounce of strength she has to maintain. "I don't want to go through what he did to me. I don't want to relive it or rehash it or rememberit. I lived through it once. I don't need to hear it read back to me in clinical language like I'm a case file instead of a person." Her voice gets stronger with every word but edged with panic. "I want it to go away. I want him to go away. So where do I sign?"
She glares at the officer with such intensity that he actually leans back in his chair, clearly taken aback by the vehemence in her voice. There's steel underneath Amelia's softness, a survivor's determination that Vincent tried to break but never quite managed to destroy.
The officer recovers quickly, clearing his throat and pulling the documents closer. His expression has shifted from bureaucratic efficiency to something more human, more understanding. "Right. Of course. I understand." He starts pointing to different lines scattered throughout the paperwork. "Here, and here, and initial here. Then a full signature at the bottom of each page."
Amelia releases my hand and Dylan's to pick up the pen, and I immediately miss the contact. She signs quickly, her handwriting shaky but legible, working through the stack of papers with single-minded focus. I can see her breathing getting faster, shallower, the telltale signs of a panic attack building. Her hand trembles with each signature, each initial, but she doesn't stop until she's done.
The moment she signs the last page, I stand and pull her up with me, guiding her away from the table and toward the corner of the room where there's slightly more privacy. Her chest is heaving, gasping for air that won't come, her hands trembling violently. The pen clatters to the floor, forgotten.
"Hey, you're okay," I murmur, my hands on her shoulders, trying to ground her. But she's shaking her head, her eyes unfocused, clearly spiraling into a full panic attack.
"I signed it," she gasps out, the words barely coherent between hyperventilating breaths. "I signed that I know what he did tome. But I don't. I don't remember all of it. What if I'm lying? What if the records are wrong? What if—"
