I don’t think any of us could.
We’re already too far gone. Too attached. Too convinced that this storm might have shown us the missing piece we didn’t know we needed.
And there’s not a damn thing we can do about it except wait for the storm to end.
And hope like hell she chooses to stay.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Malik
Iwake to the soft glow of the emergency lights and the feverish, sugary heat of omega so thick it feels like drowning.
For a moment, I’m disoriented. There’s warmth pressed against my side. Then memory floods back and I freeze.
Sierra.
Heat.
Everything that happened last night.
I turn my head slowly, careful not to wake anyone, and take in the scene around me.
We’re a tangle of limbs in the nest. Sierra is curled between Jalen and me, one of her hands pressed against my chest, the other stretched across to rest on Cole’s. Dax is on her other side, one arm draped protectively over her hip. We’ve unconsciously formed a protective circle around her even in sleep, our bodies instinctively shielding our omega.
Our omega.
The possessive thought should concern me. Sierra isn’t ours, not really. This is just heat and rut, biology and circumstance. Ina few days, when the storm passes and her heat breaks, she’ll leave. Go back to her life. Probably never speak to us again.
The thought makes my chest tight.
I study her face in the dim light. She’s peaceful in sleep, all the tension smoothed away. Her lips are slightly parted, her breathing deep and even. There are faint marks on her throat from Dax’s mouth. Close enough to look like a claiming bite that makes my alpha rumble with satisfaction.
She’s beautiful.
I’ve always known she was attractive. You’d have to be blind not to notice Sierra Smith’s appeal. But this is different.
This is something that makes my chest do uncomfortable things. Something that feels dangerously close to attachment.
This feels too good to be just heat sex.
The realization hits me hard, and I have to close my eyes against it. This is supposed to be simple. Biological. Temporary. We’re helping her through heat because it’s the decent thing to do, because our ruts respond to her need, because we’re pack… and she is our…friend?
Except friends don’t usually make your heart stutter when they smile sleepily at you. Friends don’t usually make you want to wrap them up and keep them safe from everything. Friends don’t usually make you think about futures and possibilities you have no right to consider.
I’m in trouble.
We all are.
My mind drifts back without permission, pulling up a memory I’d rather forget.
Two years ago. The Sweetwater Event Planners Conference.
I’d just gotten off a panel about the Sweetwater Art Gala—this massive corporate thing we’d pulled off that had everyone talking. I was feeling good. Maybe too good.
That’s when I saw her.
She was in this little cluster of people, hands moving as she talked, completely animated. I caught fragments as I got closer. Something about a neighborhood festival, about bringing people together. Her whole face was lit up.
