Then I hold my breath, waiting for him to wake. His hand moves back to my leg, and then drops away. But he doesn’t wake. Neither does Korbin.
Slowly, I scoot off the bed, making sure not to touch any of them, knowing they need their sleep. My eyes drop back to Korbin when I stand up, and a small part of me wants to help him onto the mattress. But I don’t. Instead, I let him sleep and make my way to the restroom on shaking legs.
I don’t realize how fatigued I am until I stand up and attempt to walk. My first heat was a success. And I regret nothing about it. There’s a deep, tender ache in my core. And I can’t help but blush knowing why it’s there.
I tiptoe across the hall, looking back just before stepping into the bathroom. My fatal flaw since I’m not paying attention, and hit the edge of the door with my arm. My hand goes to my mouth, covering any sound I may make, and step inside, shutting the door behind me.
After relieving myself, I wash my hands, getting the first glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is a tangled mess, and my face looks flushed, yet there’s a thoroughly fucked aura around me. I pick up my toothbrush, quickly cleaning thecardboard taste from my mouth, before running a brush through my hair. The bag my mom packed for me sits in the corner with fresh clothes.
Shower. I need a shower.
Reaching inside, I turn the water on, giving it a moment to warm up before I step under the spray and let the heat melt into my sore muscles. My wet hair clings to my shoulders, I brace my hands on the cool tile and let the water run down my spine. I tip my head back and work my fingers through the mess of red curls, massaging my scalp as I rinse them clean. I pick up Lincoln’s body wash, squirt some into my hand, and scrub my skin and hair gently, washing away my scent and the last remnants of my heat.
When I’m finished, I turn the water off and step out, wrapping a towel around my torso. I step back into the bedroom, expecting to see one of the guys awake. But all three alphas are still dead asleep, their bodies shifting closer to each other as if they were seeking me out.
I cross over to the dresser, pull open a drawer, and grab the first soft fabric I see—one of Lincoln’s shirts. I could put on my own clothes, the ones my mom sent over in a bag, folded and waiting. But the remnants of my heat still cling to me, restless and needy, and I don’t want to smell like myself.
I lift the shirt to my nose and inhale. I smell the detergent they use instead of him, but still, it’s his. And that feels right.
Since the neck is stretched from years of use, I can tell it’s well worn as I pull the oversized shirt over my head, and I laugh at how the hem drops almost to my knees. I don’t bother with underwear. There’s nothing else I need other than their scents and their mark.
This is home. And I want to stay here with them. I just need them to want me here.
Home. It’s so weird that this place feels like it to me. No, not the place, the men.
My gaze drifts over to the three sleeping forms in the nest again—hair everywhere, limbs splayed, blankets kicked off in rebellion—and my heart swells so much it almost hurts to breathe.
Mine.
They’re mine.
Taking a deep breath, I head out of the room, making my way to the kitchen. The house is warm, and there’s only a twinge of chill in the air. My eyes look around the space the men call home, and I soak everything in. There’s just enough clutter to make the house feel lived-in. A hoodie tossed over a chair. Lincoln’s laptop, open on the table. Milton’s sneakers abandoned under the counter like he’d kicked them off mid-step.
I flip on the kitchen light, my eyes blinking at how bright it is.
My omega instincts are tugging at me, reminding me to take care of my pack. The feelings are hitting me so hard that I can barely breathe.
So, I decide to do what feels natural. I cook breakfast for them, knowing they’ll need nourishment when they wake. Not because of obligation. But because it feels right.
I rummage through the refrigerator, pulling out everything I need, and turn the coffee pot on. Biscuits go into the oven first. Bacon sizzles in a pan, and I have to dodge the popping grease. I whisk some eggs, adding in some cheese, remembering how Lincoln said eggs aren’t made correctly unless there’s cheese mixed with them.
The smell of food fills the kitchen, the aroma causing my own stomach to growl.
As I start to make gravy for the biscuits, I feel an arm slip around my waist.
Grapefruit.
Milton.
Turning around in his arms, I see his hair sticking up in three directions, eyes half-closed, shirtless and pouting like a child.
“You were gone when I woke up,” he says slowly.
I’m sorry,I sign.
He looks at me, and then over my shoulder at the bacon, then back at me. His whole face lights up.
He pulls me in closer to him, pressing a soft kiss on my forehead, then my cheek, and lastly on my lips. When he pulls away from me, he steps over to the coffee pot, pulling four cups from the cabinet and starts making them.
