He was quiet for a long moment. “That’s more than anyone’s ever promised me.”
Her chest ached for him. She thought about what he’d told her—about the groupies, the endless tour, the women who’d left notes thanking him for the experience. How many people had just… left? How many times had he woken up to an empty bed?
“Then everyone else was an idiot,” she said firmly. “And I plan to do things differently.”
His hand tightened on hers. When she looked over, his eyes were suspiciously bright.
“Breakfast,” he said, voice rough. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“You cook breakfast?”
“As long as it’s not eggs.”
She laughed and he finally released her hand to sit up. The covers fell away, revealing the expanse of his chest, all that soft silver fur and the surprisingly defined muscles beneath, and she found herself staring again.
“If you keep looking at me like that, breakfast is going to be very delayed.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
His eyes darkened. “Both.”
She grinned, feeling lighter than she had in years. “Then by all means, Thumper. Show me what you’ve got.”
He was out of bed and hauling her over his shoulder before she could react, her shriek of laughter echoing through the small cottage as he carried her towards the kitchen.
This, she thought giddily as she dangled upside down, admiring the view of his back. This was what she’d been looking for. This was what she’d moved nine times trying to find.
Home.
CHAPTER 16
Ben had put his fitted sheet on sideways three times before he realized what he was doing.
He stood at the edge of his bed, chest heaving with frustration, and stared at the chaos he’d created. Pillows—where had all these pillows come from?—were stacked in a precise arc against his headboard. Extra blankets he didn’t remember owning formed soft barriers along the mattress edges. And somehow, inexplicably, one of Sara’s cardigans had found its way into the center of it all, nestled among his sheets like it belonged there.
When did I take that?
He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember acquiring half of these items—the throw blankets in colors he’d never choose, the velvet cushion that smelled faintly of lavender, the cotton quilt with the sunflower pattern that should have been ridiculous but instead made something in his chest purr with satisfaction.
His bed looked like?—
His claws flexed, scoring shallow marks in his palms.
His bed looked like a nest.
The realization hit him like a freight train. He’d seen other rabbit Others do this. He’d watched his cousin spend three delirious weeks building an elaborate structure of blankets and stolen garments before finally claiming his mate. But he’d never experienced the urge himself, not during his wild years and certainly not during his six celibate years. Six mating seasons, and not once had he felt the instinctive pull to prepare a space for someone.
Until now.
He picked up Sara’s cardigan, blue wool worn soft and faded, and brought it to his face. Her scent flooded his senses—vanilla and sugar and that warm female scent that was so utterly addictive. His eyes drifted shut as he breathed her in, his whole body relaxing into the familiarity of it.
Mine.
The word rose up from somewhere deep inside, somewhere he couldn’t control. And for the first time, he didn’t try to fight it.
Last night had changed things. Holding her while she slept, waking up to her warmth pressed against him, watching her laugh as he carried her to the kitchen—something fundamental had shifted in his understanding of what he wanted. Not just sex, though god knew he wanted that. Not just companionship, though she’d become the best part of his days.
He wanted this. The nest. The claiming. The permanent, irrevocable intertwining of their lives.
