“You made us… pajamas?” Forsythe drawls, drawing my attention to him.
“And matching ones at that,” Courtland says happily.
“I did.” My nose wrinkles. God, this was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have-
“This is fucking awesome,” Courtland practically crows and when I look at him, he’s tugged his t-shirt over his head and, oh my god, he’s shirtless. In my little cabana standing a few feet away from what amounts to a nest that I built for them. Myomega purrs, and just the flash of all the warm tattooed skin has me clenching my thighs together. Fuck. This was a bad idea.
I spin back around, face flushing eyes squeezing closed as I try to get my omega instincts under control.
“This is the Ashbourne tartan,” Forsythe states.
“It is.”
“Did you make some for yourself, bubbles?” Grieves asks, low and deep.
I keep my eyes closed, as I shake my head. “I did.” So presumptuous of me. So very… I shouldn’t have done it, but I’d been unable to stop myself. Gotten wrapped up in the idea of us matching and being a pack and before I knew it I’d sewed some for myself. But I’d determined not to wear them. Tonight isn’t about me, it's about them. About Piers. About reminding them thattheyare a pack.
A hand slides onto my shoulder, squeezes gently. “Go put them on, killer,” Thayer says so close to my ear I canfeelthe words.
I shiver, even as heat blooms low in my belly. I give a quick nod, then scurry away from him, from them, and into the bathroom, shutting the door on the masculine chuckles that chase me.
I drag my feet swapping my clothes, giving the pack plenty of time to do the same. The last thing I need is to see any more of them in any state of undress tonight. I pull on the wide necked oversized cream colored sweatshirt, arranging it so it dips off one shoulder, showing the strap of the tartan bralette I have on under it. Then I swap out my leggings for a pair of tartan shorts, and pull on my favorite pair of soft, cozy thigh high socks, ensuring that my scarred skin is completely covered. I let down my bun and then scrape my hair back into a new one, that is somehow messier than the first.
There’s a soft knock on the door. “You planning on coming out anytime soon, bubbles?”
A quick glance in the mirror and then I’m pulling the door open and staring up at Grieves, who's hovering just on the threshold, like he’d had his ear pressed to the wood. I smile up at him, before skimming my eyes down over his body, taking in my work, checking the fit. For Grieves, I made a pair of navy blue joggers, with the tartan fabric on the cuffs and running up the side seams. He has on a sleeveless hooded navy sweatshirt, with a tartan lining. On the left side of the hoodie, I embroidered ‘Bruiser’ in silver thread. His bulky tattooed arms are on display, and I’m only now realizing that might have been a mistake, because I want nothing more than to reach out and run my fingers over all that muscle, all that skin.
He’s running his gaze over me just as intently, his eyes weirdly soft and hungry. “You look delicious, bubbles,” He grits out, reaching forward to tug me out of the bathroom and into the main living space where the rest of his pack is waiting.
All of them in clothes that I made for them.
It sets something alight in me. Something grasping and possessive. Like I’ve claimed them somehow by putting them in clothing I’ve stitched together.
And maybe I have.
I’ve only ever made clothes for people I care about, people I love, that I’ve claimed as my family, if they weren’t already my blood.
My mom. Ginny. Haven. The Calloway pack. Myself. And now them.
The Royal Ashbourne Pack.
For a moment I just take them in, pride roaring through my veins as I check the garments, the way each of them fits perfectly. Which is damn hard to do without having actual measurements.
Forsythe is in a pair of plaid pajama pants, with a navy long sleeve t-shirt and a robe draped over his shoulders with the same plaid used on the lapels and the lining. ‘His highness’ flashes in silver from his chest.
Court is in a pair of basketball style shorts, navy with the Tartan piping along the sides, and a hooded shirt the same as Grieves’ with ‘pretty boy’ in silver thread. Thay looks freaking delicious in his tight navy long sleeved shirt, tartan on the collar and the cuffs. ‘Professor’isembroidered over his heart and he’s wearing the same style joggers as Grieves has.
And then there’s Piers. Sweet, gorgeous Piers, looking a little uncertain wearing the Ashbourne plaid pants and a long sleeved t-shirt that matches Thayer’s. Embroidered over his heart is the word‘dimples’.
“Jesus, pix,” Court says, licking his lips hungrily. His green eyes snag on the skin of my thighs, a part of me only Thayer has seen, I realize. “Did you have to make yourself the tiniest pair of shorts?”
I grimace, tugging self-consciously on the hem of them, like that will magically make more fabric appear. It doesn’t, by the way.
“I only had a little of the tartan left,” I mutter, glancing away from him. “I already had to special order it, there wasn’t a hope of getting more in time. I can put on-”
“No.” Forsythe cuts off that thought. “No, you look… gorgeous,cor mea. We just… have to talk our alphas down from hunting every single person who is going to see you like this and ripping out their eyeballs…”
A surprised giggle bursts from me. “I hate to tell you this, but that would be something like two million people.”
