Logan shifts in front of me, pulling me tighter against him while his eyes blink open slow and heavy. "That's because it is right. You fit here. With us." His hand slides from my hip to my stomach, spreading wide in a claim that's probably illegal in several states.
Griff laughs quietly behind me, not mocking but soft, like he can't believe I'm real and naked in his arms. "I knew you'd feel it too." He finds the spot beneath my ear with his lips. "The wayyou responded to us, the way you fell apart, it's because you belong here. With all of us. No point denying it now."
My chest tightens because feelings are inconvenient when you're trying to be practical about complicated relationship dynamics. "You guys are going to ruin me," I confess, which is probably the understatement of the century. "Every single one of you. And I'm apparently fine with that."
Xavier growls approval, Logan's mouth finds my shoulder, and Griff's smile presses against my skin. They don't let me go, which is either romantic or a fire hazard.
Wrapped in their arms and their ridiculous alpha confidence, I finally admit the truth that I'm probably theirs now.
God, I'm sore. Every muscle aches with the type of exhaustion that comes from being thoroughly claimed by three alphas who apparently took "making up for lost time" as a personal challenge. It's the good kind of sore, the kind that makes you want to stretch and purr like a very satisfied cat. The claiming marks on my throat throb with a dull ache that sends little memory shivers through me every time I swallow.
Note to self: next time you're in heat, maybe don't do it during a blizzard with three competitive alphas. Actually, scratch that. Definitely do it again. Preferably soon.
I shift slightly to test my mobility, and Griff immediately stirs like he's got some kind of omega movement detection system.
"Morning, sunshine." His voice rumbles against my ear, rough with sleep and unmistakable smugness. "Sleep well?"
I squint at windows where sunlight streams through like an accusatory spotlight asking exactly what we've been up to. "Please tell me it's not actually morning. I feel like I've been hit by a very pleasant truck. Repeatedly. With surgical precision."
"It's almost noon," Logan says without opening his eyes, voice vibrating through the chest I'm using as a pillow. "We've been unconscious for about ten hours."
"Ten hours?" I try to sit up, but three sets of arms tighten around me like I'm trying to escape from prison. "That's probably the most sleep I've gotten since Emma started planning this wedding disaster."
Xavier stirs behind me, blinking those dark eyes slowly while he takes a deep breath, probably cataloging our combined scents like some kind of pheromone expert. He relaxes against me with obvious satisfaction. "The storm stopped."
There's disappointment in his voice because the storm was our excuse, our forced isolation that made this whole situation possible. Without it, we're back to reality where I have to explain to my mother why I'm suddenly sporting three claiming marks and the satisfied glow of someone who's been thoroughly ravaged.
Familiar anxiety knots my stomach. "So people can leave now."
"Hey." Logan tilts my chin up so I'm looking into those storm-gray eyes. "Stop spiraling. We're not going anywhere."
"Speak for yourself." Griff stretches dramatically behind me and nearly elbows me in the process. "I'm thinking Tahiti. Savannah in a bikini, unlimited rum drinks, and zero snow."
"Focus, Romeo," Xavier interrupts, almost smiling. "We need to talk about..."
A sharp knock cuts him off like a record scratch.
"Savannah Marie Hartwell!" Emma's voice booms through the door like a drill sergeant with too much caffeine and zero respect for privacy. "I know you're in there, and I know you're probably naked, but I'm coming in anyway because I need details and I need them NOW!"
Oh shit. Emma. Who has the subtlety of a freight train and the filter of a sailor on shore leave.
"Give us five seconds!" I yelp, scrambling for the sheet like it's going to save me from interrogation.
"You get three!" Emma shouts back.
The guys move with military efficiency that would impress actual soldiers. Griff tosses Logan his shirt while Xavier locates pants with the speed of someone who's clearly done emergency clothing scrambles before. I manage to wrap myself in the comforter just as the door flies open.
Emma stands there wearing her wedding dress from two days ago, which looks like it survived a battle but can probably be fixed with a seamstress still in the resort. Her hair's in a messy bun held up by what appears to be a chopstick. Behind her, the entire matchmaking committee peers around the doorframe like nosy neighbors when someone's getting arrested.
"Well, well, well." Emma's eyes take in the scene: three rumpled alphas, one cocooned omega, and a bed that looks like it hosted a small war. "Somebody had a busy night."
"Emma, I swear to God..." I start, but she's already pushing into the room like she owns it.
"Those are some impressive claiming marks," Beverly Hartwell interrupts, pushing past Emma with her ever-present clipboard. Her gray hair is perfectly styled despite sleeping in a venue chair because the woman probably has a personal hairstylist on retainer. "Very artistic placement."
"Beverly!" I screech, pulling the comforter higher like it's going to protect me from public scrutiny.
"Oh, please." Rose Kim adds from the doorway, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses like she's examining fascinating specimens. "Like we didn't all smell what was happening up here. The pheromones were practically visible. I'm surprised the windows didn't fog."
