"What if I'm ready now?"
"You're not." His voice is gentle but firm. "You're exhausted and overwhelmed and your omega is in pre-heat. Tomorrow. We'll talk tomorrow. When you've had sleep and food and time to process." He starts to close the door, then stops. "But Jess?"
"Yeah?"
"We meant what we said. All of it. You're safe here. You're wanted here. And nothing that happens, nothing you decide, will change that. Okay?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He pulls the door closed with a soft click.
I sit in the silence, heart pounding, mind spinning with possibilities I'm not ready to examine.
The rest has to wait until you're ready to hear it.
I'm not sure I'll ever be ready.
But lying here in the Negrorio house, surrounded by their scents, I can't help wondering what it would feel like to stop running.
To stay.
To let myself want something that terrifies me.
My omega settles in my chest, warm and content for the first time since I presented three weeks ago.
Home,it whispers.We're home.
I pull the quilt up to my chin, burrowing into the warmth, breathing in the faint scents that cling to the fabric. How many omegas have stayed in this room? How many have been courted by this pack?
Or am I the first?
Tomorrow, I'll panic. But tonight, I sleep.
I dream about staying.
13
JESSICA
Iwake up to the sound of someone murdering a song.
That's the only way to describe it. Someone in this house is singing, and they're doing it very badly, very loudly, and with the kind of enthusiastic commitment usually reserved for drunk karaoke.
"??I would walk five hundred miles??"
Oh no.
I sit up in the unfamiliar bed, my brain taking a moment to catch up. Guest room. Pack house. Four alphas sleeping under the same roof as me. My flooded bedroom. Carlos's kiss against my doorframe. All of it crashes back like a wave.
"??And I would walk five hundred more??"
The voice is coming from downstairs. Male. Confident. Completely tone-deaf.
I throw off the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My feet hit the cool hardwood floor. Carlos's henley hangs to mid-thigh, the soft fabric smelling like sandalwood and sawdust and him. I should probably put on pants. I should definitely put on pants.
I don't put on pants.
Instead, I pad toward the door in bare feet, following the sound of what can only be described as auditory assault.
