He was the most thorough. He marked both sides of my neck, his scarred jaw rough against my sensitive skin, his exhales unsteady against me. Then my wrists, his fingers wrapped around them like I might shatter. Then he did what the others hadn't—he brushed his jaw against my temple, my hairline, scent-marking me in places that felt impossibly intimate. His scent—ozone and river water and cold steel—settled over me like armor.
By the time he finished, I was trembling. My knees felt weak, my skin oversensitive, every nerve ending alive and singing. I could smell all three of them on me now—pine and honey and ozone, woodsmoke and whiskey and steel—all of it tangled together with my own apple cider sweetness until we smelled like one thing. One pack.
"Now you smell like us." Harper's words were thick with satisfaction, his hand finding my hip again, anchoring me. "Like pack."
I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down to my level. "Now take me inside. I want to add your gifts to my nest. And then..." I smiled, letting the heat show in my expression. "I'm going to steal all your shirts."
Remy laughed, bright and delighted, his whole body relaxing with relief. "Nesting?"
"Nesting." I confirmed, already reaching for Harper's collar. "You three are going to help me. That's an order."
We went inside, all four of us, and I led them up to my nest. Harper set the moonshine box on the shelf beside Marguerite's tarot cards. Remy leaned his guitar in the corner, within easy reach. Silas hesitated with the drawing, looking around for the right spot.
Gumbo was already there, curled in his usual corner by the door. He watched Silas approach with those ancient yellow eyes, his tail twitching once.
Silas crouched down, showing Gumbo the drawing, holding it steady so the gator could see. "For her." He said quietly, his scarred fingers gentle on the paper's edge. "To protect. Like you do."
Gumbo studied the drawing for a long moment. Then he slow-blinked—deliberately, unmistakably—and turned away. Silas placed the drawing on the low shelf near Gumbo's corner, propping it against the wall where I could see it from the nest.
"He approved." I breathed, wonder softening every syllable, one hand pressed to my chest where my heart raced.
"He's her family." Silas straightened, warmth flickering in his expression. "Had to ask permission." Then they helped me nest. Harper donated his flannel without being asked, shrugging it off and handing it over with a look that made my toes curl. Remy contributed the soft henley he was wearing under his jacket, pulling it over his head with a grin that promised mischief. Silas simply removed his outer shirt and held it out, his gaze intent on mine.
I arranged them in my nest, weaving their scents through my pillows and blankets until everything smelled like pack. Like home. Like mine.
When I finally settled into the center, surrounded by their shirts and their gifts and their scents, I let out a sound I'd never made before—a long, low purr of contentment that seemed to come from somewhere deep in my chest.
All three of them went still, their gazes darkening.
"That sound." Remy's words came out strained, his hands fisted at his sides. "Chère, that sound is going to kill me."
"Good." I stretched out in my nest, letting them see how happy I was, how content. "Now come here. All of you. I want to fall asleep surrounded by my Alphas."
They came to me—Harper behind, Remy in front, Silas at the edge guarding the door. Just like before. Just like it should be.
I purred again, softer this time, and let myself drift.
Courted. Claimed. Pack.
Finally, finally home.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Artemis
Iwoke to the sound of Silas choking.
Not on anything physical—on air, on memory, on something I couldn't see. His body had gone rigid beside me, every muscle locked tight, his breathing shallow and ragged. In the dim morning light filtering through the curtains, I could see sweat beading on his forehead, his hands fisting in the sheets hard enough to turn his scarred knuckles white.
Harper and Remy had left hours ago—Harper to the distillery to check on a batch that needed monitoring, Remy to help a friend move some equipment across town. I'd barely registered their goodbyes, just mumbled something into my pillow and burrowed deeper into the nest. Harper had pressed a kiss to my temple, his beard scratching softly. Remy had whispered something in French that made me smile even half-asleep.
Silas had still been sleeping then, curled on his side at the edge of the bed like he was used to keeping watch even in his dreams. I'd thought nothing of it—he always slept light, always positioned himself between me and the door.
Now I understood why.
His lips were moving, forming words I couldn't hear. His whole body jerked, muscles twitching like he was trying to run, to fight, to do what his sleeping mind wouldn't let him finish. A low sound escaped his throat—not quite a moan, not quite a growl. Wounded. Broken.
"Silas." I kept my voice low, careful not to touch him yet. I'd read enough about PTSD to know that waking someone mid-nightmare could go badly—could trigger a violent response, could trap them deeper in the memory. "Silas, you're safe. You're here with me."
