The air trapped in my lungs escapes in a single harsh punch.
The room is delightfully him. Vaulted ceilings. Dark wooden beams. The back wall is nothing but glass all the way up to the peak of the roofline, giving the illusion we’re suspended up in the trees. There’s a sleek stone fireplace across the right wall that I know would be perfect on a snowy night. And then there’s his bed, positioned to face the wall of windows. Simple with a rumbled white down comforter and the cognac-colored blanket thrown across the end, but inviting and cozy-looking nonetheless.
That blanket is mine now, an overly confident voice in my head declares.
The haze in my head clears just long enough for me to recall that he hasn’t been sleeping in his bed. Not since I agreed to stay here. He’d been sleeping outside my door instead. Until he wasn’t. Until I let him in.
The memory of that morning blooms behind my eyes, and I can almost feel the weight of him pressed into me and the heat of his hands on my bare skin. It flares through my veins, deepening the restlessness already clawing at me.
I take in another deep lungful of the heady air, and I don’t recognize the sound that escapes me. It’s a mix between a gasp and a whimper, something more animal than human.
Now standing frozen in the center of the room, pulse thudding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips, I try to figure out what I’m supposed to do. I know I need something—something I can’t name—and that it’s close. Close enough to tug at me with invisible hands.
My feet move before my hands can catch up.
The cracked open door of his walk-in closet beckons me like a magnet. It’s spacious by closet standards but still enclosed and dark enough that just stepping inside, that agitated buzz beneath my skin starts to settle. And better yet, the clothes that line each wall of the long, narrow space, are so suffocatingly saturated in Rennick’s scent that my eyes nearly cross when I breathe in.
This.
This is what I need.
There’s no conscious decision. One second I’m standing there, the next I’m gathering things—sweaters, hoodies, T-shirts, anything soft enough to satisfy the frantic pull. Somewhere in the haze, I drift back out into his bedroom and snag the blanket I already called dibs on. Then I take the comforter. Then the sheets. The entire bed ends up in my arms, which is wild since I genuinely can’t remember stripping it.
Each item I collect gets pressed to my cheek, not to just check for softness but also scent. Some carry almost no hint of him and get tossed away like they’re worthless. Others are drenched in him and have my knees nearly buckling.
I’m not fully present for any of it. I keep slipping in and out, catching flashes of what I’m doing only when I manage tobreak through the surface.
At some point, I’m kneeling at the far end of the closet, organizing my loot with painstaking precision and delicate care.Laying shirts just so, fluffing blankets and pillows—where did I get those?—so they create little ridges and walls. It’s like I’ve done this a hundred times before, my hands work with a familiarity that shouldn’t exist within me.
I’m nesting,a distant voice whispers.
Then louder,I’m actually nesting.
Not a just a little or cautiously
Fully. Completely. Out-of-my-mindnesting.
But what I have still doesn’t feel like…enough.
So I run, barefoot and a little frantic, across the hall to my room and grab his clothes Seren had bundled around me this morning. And while I’m here, I hastily rip off my own bedding.Yes, this is right. I need to combine both our scents.The pile ends up being so big, it nearly topples me on the way back. My arms shake under the weight, but I bring it all back to the closet and start weaving it into the existing structure.
Once the last pair of sweats is placed, I find myself standing and stripping off my pants. Left in nothing but one of Rennick’s stolen crew-neck sweaters and my black thong, I dive into the mess of fabric. Tucking beneath the layers of blankets, I pull them over my head and curl on my side around his pillow like it’s my buoy in this storm.
And then, I just…breathe.
The panic that had been chewing at my nerves lets up. The trembling in my bones eases, my chest loosens.
Better. This is better.
The fog lifts just enough for me to revel in the relief.
And then absurdity hits.
I’ve spent almost eight years learning how to help Nightingales through instinct storms and hormone surges. I’ve prided myself on reading their needs before they can voice them, on knowing exactly how to guide and protect them.I also know the two things that calm an omega’s nervous system best: theiralpha’s purr—if they have one—and their nest. Which is why it’s so important they’re given space to build one.
But I never once believed any of that applied to me. How could it? My wolf was locked away. And yet here I am, curled on a closet floor in what is essentially a pile of fucking laundry, while my awakening omega instincts praise me like this is the first thing I’ve ever done right.
It’s almost funny.Almost.
