I don’t know how long I lie there, drifting between awareness and somewhere warm and softer, when I hear the bedroom door push open.
My wolf perks up immediately.
Mate.
Two seconds later, embarrassment slams into me. He can’t see me like this. He can’t. I’m not ready. I don’t even fully understand why this is happening to me now, and if he walks in?—
He’s going to think I’ve lost my damn mind.
His steady footsteps move toward the closet door. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for something I’m nowhere near prepared for.
There’s faint rustling right outside the door, then a gentle knock is followed closely by his velvet-wrapped gravel voice.
“Noa? Sweet one, are you in there?”
I turn to stone beneath the layers of blankets and swallow—the noise is loud in my ears.
“Y-yes,” I manage, voice cracking after an awkward stretch of silence. Perfect. I sound guilty as hell, like I’m thirteen and just got caught doing something I shouldn’t.
“Can I come in?”
I don’t know if I should laugh or cry at the absurdity of the question. Huffing, I attempt to sound casual as I tell him, “It’syourcloset, Ren. You don’t have to ask for permission,” I know instantly that I fail.
But if he hears the wobble in it too, he doesn’t comment on it. “Okay,” he replies easily, instead. “But I’m asking anyway.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and draw in another breath of his scent from the pillow, like I’m fortifying myself for whatever comes next. My wolf is practically vibrating with delight at the idea of him joining us. My human half…not so much. She’s busy drowning in equal parts shame and panic.
Is this really my nest?I think, horrified.
I’ve seen omegas build better ones with two throw blankets and a prayer.
This looks like I dumped out my laundry hamper and got bored halfway through folding.
I fight my way out of the spiral as best I can, and mumble, “You can come in.”
The door is softly pushed open. His weight shifts on the hardwood, making it creak.
I wait for him to move farther into the dark space, but he stays put.
After what feels like an awkward eternity, curiosity gets the better of me, and I tug the blankets down my face until just my eyes peek out.
He hasn’t stepped fully inside. He’s crouched in the doorway, backlit by the sun pouring through his bedroom windows.There’s just enough light for me to make out his face. He watches me like I’m something tender to be revered instead of the hot mess I feel like. It’s a look that has my heart faltering painfully.
“Hi,” I whisper, instantly hating how small I sound.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “That looks like a pretty cozy setup you got there.” His voice is gentle, void of any mockery or confusion. There’s only that patient understanding that makesme ache in places I didn’t know were fragile. “Did you make a nest out of things that smell like me, baby?”
My entire body goes rigid, as if bracing for judgment or irritation for tearing through his belongings before going and making myself at home in his closet. Once again, it doesn’t come.
“Maybe,” I manage to rasp. “I don’t…I don’t know…” My words trail off,hands shaking under the blankets. At this point, I’m almost positive my body is actively rewiring itself as we speak,and I’m just trapped inside it, scrambling to keep up. “I guess it’s a nest. I think. It’s a pretty shitty one, if so.”
Rennick’s head shakes once, immediate refusal. “I think it’s a wonderful nest, omega.”Something in my chest does a ridiculous little swoop at that—my designation uttered like a term of endearment instead of a label. “I love that you chosehere.My closet. My space. That it felt safe to you.”
My wolf preens so hard at his praise I swear I can taste the sugary sweetness of it in my teeth. My human half is more reserved in its response with a deliciously warm flutter behind my ribs.
“It helps that it smells really good in here,”I mumble into the pillow, tightening my grip on it. Even to my own ears, my admission is a little dazed-sounding. “I don’t know what is happening to me. I’m being steamrolled by instincts and impulses I’ve never had to deal with, and honestly? I’m pretty sure it’s all your fault.”
“My fault?” He repeats it with a flicker of humor now, and I scowl at him over the edge of my knit blanket, daring him to keep it up.
