"I am not your competition," I say quietly.
His brow furrows, but he does not look away.
We hold the gaze for a moment, two Alphas measuring each other in the way our instincts demand. Assessing threats. Evaluating intentions. Determining whether the other can be trusted with something precious.
Finally, Laurent nods.
Slowly. Carefully. The acknowledgment of a man who wants to believe but has been disappointed too many times to offer trust freely.
I accept the nod for what it is. Progress.
Then, just before I step through the doorway, I add one more piece of information. A clarification that needs to be stated now, before misunderstandings can fester and grow into resentments.
"But just to let you both know."
I glance over my shoulder at Knox, who is following behind us with Mae's bag and the creams the nurse provided.
"She is my scent match."
I do not wait for their reactions.
I step into the hallway and begin walking toward the exit, Mae cradled against my chest, her vanilla-and-roses scent wrapping around me like a promise I intend to keep.
Behind me, I hear Knox's sharp inhale and Laurent's muttered curse.
I smirk.
Because I know this is going to be a fun five weeks.
CHAPTER 20
Unwritten Stories
~MABELINE~
Iam far too hot.
The realization arrives before full consciousness does, pulling me from the depths of sleep with the insistent discomfort of a body that is overheating beneath layers it did not consent to. My skin is damp with sweat, my hair is plastered to the back of my neck, and there is a weight pressing against my side that radiates heat like a furnace set to maximum output.
I mutter under my breath, something incoherent about temperature regulation and blanket distribution, trying to shift away from the source of the heat without fully waking up.
I cannot move.
There is an arm draped over my waist. A heavy, muscular, decidedly masculine arm that is anchoring me in place with the casual possessiveness of someone who fell asleep holding on and has no intention of letting go. The weight of it pins me to the mattress, and every time I try to wiggle free, the arm tightens reflexively, pulling me closer to the wall of warmth that is apparently determined to cook me alive.
I pout, eyes still closed, brain still struggling to assemble itself into something resembling functional awareness.
Did I sleepwalk again?
It would not be the first time. I have a history of nocturnal adventures that my brain chooses not to document, wandering through shared spaces in communal housing, rearranging furniture, once memorably ending up in a supply closet hugging a mop like it was a long-lost lover. The shelter staff learned to lock the exterior doors and accept that the Omega in Unit 7 might occasionally be found at 3 a.m. standing in the kitchen staring at the refrigerator with the intensity of someone solving advanced mathematics.
But this does not feel like a supply closet.
And this arm does not feel like a mop.
I force my eyes open.
The first thing I see is a chest.
