Her hair was a mess, tangled and wild from sleep. Her face was flushed, pink spreading from her cheeks down her neck. Her eyes were wide and glassy, pupils blown so large they'd swallowed the blue.
She wore my shirt and nothing else, the hem barely covering her thighs.
And she was staring at Hastings.
"You canceled a meeting for me?" Her voice was small, confused.
Hastings went rigid. "Presley—"
"You turned a plane around."
"You were going into heat."
"You could have let Etienne take care of me. You didn't have to come back."
"Yes," Hastings said, his voice rough. "I did."
She took a step into the room, then another. Her movements were unsteady, like her legs didn't quite work properly.
I moved toward her, but she held up a hand.
"You said I was perfect," she whispered, her eyes still locked on Hastings.
He didn't deny it. Didn't look away. "You are."
"You said you wanted me."
"I do."
She swayed, and I caught her elbow, steadying her.
Her skin was burning up.
"Presley," I said gently. "You should be in your nest."
"I don't want to be in my nest." Her hand found my chest, fingers curling into my shirt. "I need—" She stopped, her breath hitching. Her hand touched between her legs. Only then did I see the slick running down her thighs. "I need to be filled."
The words hung in the air.
Fritz stood, his glass forgotten on the table.
Hastings crossed the room in three strides, stopping in front of her.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "Because once this starts—"
"I'm sure." She looked up at him, then at Fritz, then at me. "I'm sure about all of you."
I'd been worried about damage control, about her overhearing Hastings' confession and panicking.
But she wasn't panicking.
She was reaching for us.
Choosing us.
"Then let's take care of you, Princesse," I murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Let our pack take care of you."
“Please!”
