Which is exactly the kind of lie a man tells right before he throws up.
27
JUNE
Sunlight streams through the curtains, pulling me slowly from sleep. I stretch beneath the covers, my body pleasantly heavy, limbs loose and relaxed in a way I haven’t experienced in years. The bed is empty beside me, but the sheets still hold traces of warmth, of scent, of the man who held me through the night.
Seth.
I smile at the ceiling, remembering last night at the book club with Sophia and the girls, which somehow turned into a book club with Seth awkwardly perched on the edge of the couch, looking as if he’d rather be wrestling an actual bull than discussing the romantic entanglements of fictional characters.
“That’s not how any of this works,” he’d muttered at one point, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “No Alpha would ever say that. It’s ridiculous.”
The room had gone quiet for a beat, then erupted in giggles and questions and demands that he explain exactly what he meant. By the end of the night, Seth was being asked to rate fictional Alphas on a scale of one to ten.
He’d been mortified.
It was incredible.
Carter and Kai hadn’t made it home by the time we crawled into bed. I remember Seth pulling me against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek, his arm heavy and warm across my waist. I was asleep within minutes.
All week we’ve been sharing the bed, the four of us tangled together in various configurations. They take turns on who gets which position, and there’s an entire unspoken hierarchy about what constitutes the best spots. Kai insists being in front is superior. Carter claims being behind is the real prize. Seth just wants to be wherever he can wrap himself around me most completely.
Their dedication to the sleeping arrangement is oddly endearing.
I push myself up, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress, and that’s when I spot the folded note on my bedside table.
My heart stutters, then picks up speed. For days now, I’ve been waking up to these little gifts of words, carefully crafted, left where I’ll find them. Carter’s poetry.
I eagerly snatch the paper up, unfolding it with trembling fingers.
When the world goes quiet and the stars blink out,
When the weight of tomorrow makes you want to shout,
Remember you are my dawn,
The light I reach for when the dark feels too long.
I’ve wandered through storms and slept under rain,
I’ve buried my heart to outrun the pain,
But you, wild girl, with your laugh like a song,
You make me believe I can finally belong.
Tears prick my eyes. I read it again, then a third time, letting each word sink into my bones. He writes as if he can see inside my soul, as if he knows exactly what I need to hear before I even know I need to hear it.
I rise from the bed and cross to my chest of drawers, pulling open the top drawer. Inside sits a small wooden box I found at a thrift store, its surface worn smooth with age. I lift the lid and add Carter’s latest poem to the growing collection inside.
Just reading them sometimes makes everything in the world seem less stressful.
I close the box gently and grab some clothes before heading into the bathroom. The shower is hot and soothing, washing away the last traces of sleep, but it does nothing to calm the anxiety that’s been building in my stomach for days.
Today is the final day of the rodeo and when Kai rides Brutus.
The thought tightens my chest.
