“I thought you’d stop once she moved into your room. She has free access to your closet now to steal whatever she wants, whenever she wants,” Rhosyn continues. “I can’t remember the last time I saw her in her own shirt. She’s always wearing one of yours.”
I thought Noa might stop collecting things once she settled into my bedroom with me—especially since she’d claimed my closet right along with it for her nest. She hasn’t. Not even close. Jackets. Hoodies. Sweaters. Anything I leave behind, deliberately or otherwise, she sniffs out and keeps for herself. Some as clothes to wear herself, others she entwines in her nest.
“She prefers to wear the clothes she thinks she stole,” I admit, something soft pulling at the corner of my mouth. “I don’t think she realizes it. Which is why I keep leaving things for her to find.”
There’s a deep, animal satisfaction in seeing her wear my things. Her throat may be bare of my mark, but my scent clings to her all the same, soaking deep into her skin. No wolf who crosses her path will mistake her for unclaimed—one inhale and they’ll know she’s mine.
I know it helps her too, dulling the sickness, pushing back against the bone-deep ache.
Rhosyn makes a face. “Gah!You two are unbearably adorable.” Then her expression shifts. Softens. Her smile turns genuine, her small gap tooth flashing. “I may have said I’d pick Noa, but I was always rooting for you both, Nick. I’m glad you found your way back to her.”
“I’m incredibly lucky,” I exhale, knowing the word is woefully inadequate. My eyes track Noa as she disappears down the other hallway that leads deeper into the house, her arms full of her latest loot.
Rhosyn frowns at her back, fawn brows creasing. “Where is she taking that couch pillow?”’
“To my closet—her nest.”
“Didn’t you come home with an entire carload of nesting supplies after your snowy adventure last week?”
“We did.” I nod, keeping my expression neutral despite the anxiety coiling low in my gut. “Omegas nest—almost obsessively so—in the days leading up to their heats.”
I’ve taken the time to understand the instincts driving her, to learn how this works so I can support her instead of failing her when she needs me most. I won’t allow my ignorance to be an excuse while she’s hurting. I’ve learned what I need to know so I can anticipate her needs and help her, not just watch her endure it. I will be there for my omega. Always. If I did anything less, I wouldn’t deserve the title of mate—of that man who’s worthy of her.
She’s been nesting like this for days, caught in a cycle that never seems to settle. Rearranging. Adjusting positions. Pulling things out to put them right back in the same spot again. Her omega instincts are loud right now, driving her every move, guiding her toward something I can’t see, touch, or fix when she gets frustrated. I wish I could help her through this part. WishI could help her make her nest perfect, but that’s not my role in this.
All I can do is stay close, leave more things where she can find them, and fight the urge to sink my canines into her neck before she’s ready.
“Are you going to come to the pack combat training session?”
Rhosyn’s question pulls me from my looping thoughts.
“Only if Noa is up for leaving the house,” I reply, scrubbing a hand down my face.
Given the looming threat of the dark coven and the chance Cathal won’t let sleeping dogs lie, we’ve decided to open combat training to anyone in the pack willing to step onto the mat. It’s something usually left to pack enforcers, but we’re abandoning that mentality moving forward. Which is a change I’ve been long overdue to make. Lowri Craddock trained her pack in combat beyond the confines of hierarchical stereotypes. They trained as equals—alpha, beta, omega, it never mattered—and the late Alpha built something strong because of it. The way Cerys and the rest of the Craddock females move in this world, confident, capable, prepared, is proof of this. It’s my responsibility as Alpha to make sure everyone under my protection knows how to defend themselves, not because I expect them to fight if it comes to it, but because no one should ever be left to feel helpless or weak.
Rhosyn claps her hand on my arm, squeezing it in silent support before she turns away and calls over her shoulder, “I think Rook is leading this lesson. Which should be interesting.”
I keep to the edges,arms folded across my chest, boots set firm in the ground as I observe.
The clearing we’ve chosen for training sits off a ways from the lodge. Padded mats have been laid out evenly across the open space and the pristine white snow that blanketed the earth days ago is long gone, trampled beyond repair—stained with mud and packed-down slush from the pack’s shoes and paws.
Twenty, maybe thirty of my pack are here today, split into clusters or pairs that rotate turns on each mat. The enforcers who aren’t on border patrol are in attendance, acting as spar partners or stepping in as guides when someone’s form falters or their technique needs adjusting. A few of Amara’s witches have come today too, mostly the younger ones, whose breed of magic isn’t of the defensive variety, or they just want to learn to better protect themselves.
Half of the pack members sparring are in human form, learning how to fight without relying on their claws and teeth. The other half are wolves, a blur of fur and contained animalistic aggression. I think it’s important they become competent fighters in both forms so they’re able to defend themselves no matter what shape they’re in when or if the moment arises.
Fiona—the electric orange-haired omega—catches my eye. She came to training with a few of her friends, which tells me they understand the threat looming. They’re precisely the demographic the dark coven is collecting like sport and then breaking for money. Fiona spars with one of the she-wolves who was personally trained by Lowri Craddock. The alpha female is a patient teacher and knows exactly how to apply pressure without actually hurting anyone. When the mock assault comes, Fiona hesitates, freezing in place, just long enough for it to cost her. When she’s pulled into a restraining hold, she panics and fights it hard, burning through too much energy too fast.
I drop my arms and step closer, voice cutting through the noise of the clearing. “Stop trying to muscle your way out. You’ll never win against someone bigger or stronger that way—you’llonly exhaust yourself. Drop your weight. Use leverage against them. Once their balance faulters, break free and run like hell.”
Fiona’s round cheeks flush pink, but she nods.
The pair reset and the alpha charges again. This time when the hold comes, Fiona doesn’t thrash against it. She listens to my coaching, using leverage instead of brute force. Her hips shift, her elbow strikes when it matters, and she manages to slip free in a much smoother and controlled move.
The second she’s free, the panting omega looks to me. Not triumphantly. Not cocky. She just needs to know she did good.
Pack Alpha approval matters to wolves, but I refuse to let it become currency—or worse, a measure of worth. I grew up watching my father dangle his praise before people, keeping it just out of reach, until they contorted themselves to his liking. Even then, he still only fed them crumbs.
That ends with me.
