I bite the inside of my cheek. “Nothing. Unless you and Bastion and Ranier are finally ready to stop pretending.” My voice breaks at the end.
Wyatt shakes his head and then pulls his hand back. “I can’t.” He says it like it’s a curse.
I laugh, low and bitter. “Then get out, Whitlock.”
He goes, fast, almost tripping over the pile of laundry at the door. When the click of the handle echoes, I flop back on my nest and the wreckage of my dignity.
My heat ramps up by the hour. I can’t keep down food. I drink three bottles of water and still my tongue is thick and dry. The house goes quiet. At some point, Ranier’s scent stalks the hallway, then fades. I know they’re all aware. Maybe they’re drawing straws for who gets to deal with me, or maybe they’re hiding, waiting for the storm to blow over.
The loneliness is a new kind of cruel. It eats the hours, gnawing the edges of my resolve.
By three in the morning, I’ve peeled off every layer of clothing. My skin is sticky, my hair wet at the nape, my whole body strung tight with wanting. I fight it at first—deep breaths, a cold compress to the forehead, even a session of slow yoga that turns instantly into a disaster because I can’t get through a single pose without thinking about hands, mouths, the way Bastion’s stubble burned against my chin that night in his room.
Eventually, I crack.
I drag myself to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, then stare at my reflection. My eyes are huge, lips swollen, hair tangled in a way that’s less artful than animal. I don’t recognize the person in the mirror, but I know what she needs.
I go back to the nest and bury myself in the hoodies. Bastion’s first, the one with the racing logo and the holes in the cuffs. Then Ranier’s, which still smells faintly like apples and smoke. And then Wyatt’s, which is oversized and soft and makes me want to cry for reasons I don’t understand. I line them up around me, a fortress of denial.
I let my hand wander.
It’s mechanical, at first—a motion learned and practiced, a way to soothe the ache and nothing more. My hand wanders under the tangle of blankets, nimble despite the fever in myjoints. I’m not even thinking, not really. It’s a reflex, like licking a burn or picking at a scab. Just a way to get through the night and prove to myself that I still have some control.
But the instant my fingers find the slick heat between my thighs, I lose the thread. The sensation is tripled, quadrupled, every nerve ending raw and eager, so sharp it feels like a warning. I rub through the pulse of my own arousal, each stroke sending electric aftershocks up my spine, and bite down on the pillow to muffle the animal sounds clawing up my throat. Sweat trickles down my back. My hips buck of their own accord, bucking for friction, for relief. I try to keep it clinical, transactional, but my body wants, and wants, and wants.
I cum in a blinding rush. My whole body locks up and then shudders apart, but the relief is thin and gone in seconds. The ache resets, deeper this time, like the baseline is moving farther and farther from satisfaction. I try again, this time harder, scissoring my legs shut around my hand, grinding against my palm, but it’s like trying to fill a well with a thimble. The climax rips through me—hot, fast, embarrassing in its violence—and then the next round starts before I’ve even caught my breath.
I lose track of time and count. Nothing but the sound of my own panting and the wet, desperate slap of skin matters. I arch my back, curl my toes, and grit my teeth so hard I’m afraid I’ll crack a filling. Each peak is just a prelude to more need, a crueler version of the last. I can’t stop, and I don’t want to stop, and every time I squeeze my eyes shut, I see it: the three of them, watching, waiting, hungry for something I can’t give.
At first, it’s Wyatt’s green eyes, impossibly wide and full of the kind of worry that feels like hope. His hands, gentle and careful, hovering just above my skin as if he’s afraid to break me. For a fleeting second, I imagine him kneeling at the foot of the bed, fingers curled tight around my ankle, holding me open and steady while I shake apart.
I gasp. My whole body flares with need, hotter than before.
Then it’s Ranier—always Ranier—standing off to the side, arms crossed, blue eyes hard as diamonds but mouth twitching with the effort of restraint. I picture him watching, judging, but unable to look away, the scent of his approval thick in the air. I crave it. I crave him. I want to see him lose control, to know that he could, if I asked, but I never do.
Instead I turn my head, press my face to his hoodie in the nest, and sob as I cum again, the sound strangled and helpless.
The third time, it’s Bastion. Blond hair, brown eyes, that cocky half-smile that makes my stomach knot up. He’d laugh if he saw me now, spread out and desperate, my thighs shaking, my hand slick and trembling, but I think he’d like it, too. I think he’d tell me to keep going, to do it again, to do it harder, and I’d obey because I want to make him happy, I want to make all of them happy, even if it means burning myself down to the bone.
I cum and cum until I’m wrung out and sore and feral. My voice is gone, my throat raw, my chest heaving with the effort of it. I don’t know if I’m crying or just leaking sweat and slick and everything else, but the sheets are soaked and so am I. The world goes fuzzy, edges fraying, but my body is still hungry, still opening up around the absence of what I can’t have.
I want them.
I want them more than I want air, more than I want to win the Council’s approval, more than I want to make my parents proud. I want to belong to someone, to be taken and claimed and ruined. I want it so much that it hurts, and the pain is almost better than the pleasure, because at least it’s real.
I reach for Bastion’s hoodie, press it to my face, and inhale deep. The memory of his mouth on mine is enough to tip me over again. This time, I don’t hold back. I let the moan out, wild and unashamed, because nobody is coming for me and I don’t care.
The next orgasm leaves me shaking, spent, but the ache is still there. I roll onto my stomach, grind against the bed, chasing the edge until my thighs cramp and I have to stop. The room smells like me, thick and sweet, and I wonder if anyone else in the house can feel it—if they’re lying awake in their own beds, thinking about what it would be like to come here, to claim me, to end this standoff for good.
But nobody comes.
When the sun is just starting to rise, I pull the hoodies tighter, press my hand between my legs, and let myself cry. It’s not sad, exactly. It’s just the release of pressure, the final, absolute surrender to something I can’t control and never really wanted to.
I fall asleep like that, curled in the middle of the nest with sweat drying on my skin.
I dream of hands, of mouths, of all the things I want and will never have.
When I wake up, it’s still there.
