“With us,” Nate says quietly. Not a question.
“With you.” She won’t meet anyone’s eyes. “I’ve been on suppressants ever since. I didn’t... I couldn’t face going through that without—” She stops. Swallows. “Without you.”
Something cracks open in my chest. Ten years. She’s been suppressing her heats for ten years because she couldn’t bear to have one without us.
“Being around your pack again after that long,” Lucas says, his voice rough. “Your body’s been waiting. Suppressants can only hold it back so long.”
Another cramp hits. I see it ripple through her, watch her face drain of color. She grips the edge of the table, knuckles white.
Nate growls—low, protective—and scoops her out of the chair before anyone can react. She yelps, grabbing his shoulders.
“Nate—”
“Bedroom. Now.”
“We haven’t shown her?—”
“Now.”
He’s already moving, carrying her like she weighs nothing, and Lucas and I scramble to follow.
We catch up in the hallway. Nate’s stride is purposeful, eating up ground, and Cara has stopped protesting—she’s curled into his chest, face pressed against his neck, breathing him in. His purr has started again, deeper now, more urgent.
“Not your room,” I call out. “End of the hall.”
He pauses. Looks back at me.
“Trust me,” I say.
Something in my expression must convince him. He changes direction, heading for the closed door at the end of the hallway. The door that’s been shut for years.
I get there first. Put my hand on the knob.
“Close your eyes,” I tell Cara.
She lifts her head from Nate’s shoulder, brow furrowed. “What?”
“Just trust me. Close your eyes.”
She looks at Lucas, who nods. Then at Nate, who’s waiting, patient despite the tension radiating off him.
“Fine.” She closes her eyes. “But if this is a murder room, I’m haunting all of you.”
“Noted.”
I push the door open.
The room looks different than it has in years. We spent the last two days airing it out, washing every piece of bedding, chasing away the dust of a decade. But the bones are the same—big windows with blackout curtains, now pulled open to catch the last of the evening light. The window seat Nate insisted on, piled with cushions for reading. Soft lamps casting warm pools of gold. Built-in shelves lining one wall, stacked with blankets and pillows in creams and pale blues.
Mattresses layered on the floor, big enough for four.
I’ve been sleeping here every night since they left, scent-marking the sheets. Lucas took the pillows. We wanted her to walk in and feel surrounded by us.
Nate carries her inside, and I watch his face as he takes it in—the room he designed, finally being used for its purpose.
“Okay,” I say, my voice catching. “Look.”
Cara opens her eyes.
