"And your father called," Dorian finishes. "I didn't answer. Figured you'd want to handle that yourself."
The normalcy of it—of them managing my life while I was incapacitated, not with control but with care—makes my throat tight.
"Thank you," I manage. "For all of it."
"That's what pack does," Oakley says simply.
Pack. There's that word again. But this time it doesn't feel suffocating or forced.
This time it feels like home.
forty-one
Vespera
Iwokeuptosandalwood and the distant sound of someone making coffee downstairs.
My body felt like I'd been through a marathon—sore but satisfied, exhausted but clear-headed in a way I hadn't been in days. The heat had finally, truly broken. Third time through this and I still wasn't used to the aftermath. The bone-deep fatigue. The lingering sensitivity everywhere they'd touched.
Which was everywhere.
I stretched carefully in the massive bed, wincing at the pull of overused muscles. Dorian's arm was still draped across my waist, his breathing deep and even against my shoulder. Asleep. Peaceful. The claiming mark on his throat visible where his head rested on the pillow next to mine.
Three days. Three days of heat where they'd learned—finally fucking learned—how to take care of me without beingcontrolling assholes about it. Where I'd let them. Where I'd chosen to stay instead of biology forcing my hand.
It still felt strange. Good strange, but strange.
The master bedroom—my room, technically, though Dorian had basically moved in after the lake house—was bathed in early morning light. September sun filtering through the curtains I'd picked out myself. My combat boots sat by the closet where I'd kicked them off four days ago. My theater textbooks stacked on the nightstand. Small pieces of myself scattered through this enormous pack house that was somehow becoming home.
"You're thinking too loud," Dorian mumbled against my neck.
"It's six AM. You're not supposed to be conscious yet."
"Can't help it. You smell like you're about to bolt."
"I'm not bolting." I turned my head to look at him. His ice-blue eyes were open now, watching me with that careful intensity he'd been using since his breakdown. Since he'd confessed he loved me and I'd stupidly said it back. "I have rehearsal today. Two weeks until showcase. I've already missed three days."
"I know." His arm tightened slightly around my waist. Not possessive. Holding. "I'll drive you."
"Dorian."
"I know, I know. Respecting boundaries. Supporting not controlling." He pressed a kiss to my shoulder. "But I'm still driving you because you can barely walk and I'm not letting you limp across campus alone."
The concern in his voice was real. Not manipulative. Genuine worry for my wellbeing.
I still wasn't entirely used to that either.
"Fine," I agreed. "But you're staying in the car. No hovering in the theater."
"Deal." He sat up, running a hand through sleep-mussed hair. "How do you feel? Really?"
Loaded question. How did I feel?
Sore. Exhausted. Still angry at him for the three days of silence that preceded this heat, even though we'd talked through it. Still learning to trust that he meant what he said about change. But also... settled. The heat had been good. Healing, even. They'd built me a nest worthy of a queen and hadn't tried to control a single instant of it. Had let me set every boundary. Had proven, at least in the nest, that they were capable of being what I needed.
"Like I've been thoroughly fucked for three days," I said bluntly.
His laugh was surprised. Warm. "Fair assessment."
