Four alphas who want me. All of me. The mess and the brilliance and everything in between.
I should be panicking. Should be making lists and plans and contingency strategies. Should be calling Sharon for another emergency meltdown session.
Instead I lie back on my nest. Pull Carlos's flannel tighter around my shoulders. Breathe in their scents.
My omega settles in my chest. Warm. Content.
Home, it whispers. We're home.
Just for today.
Tomorrow I can panic again.
Today I rest. I eat protein. I drink water.
And I try not to think about what it's going to feel like when they finally touch me.
I fail at that last one.
I fail spectacularly.
The knock comes at dinner time.
I've spent the last four hours alternating between staring at my laptop and rearranging my nest. The spreadsheet is done. Has been done since this morning. But I keep opening it, tweaking colors, adjusting formulas. Anything to keep my hands busy.
Anything to stop thinking about Pedro's hands on my body.
"Jess?" Carlos's voice through the door. "Dinner's ready. Nacho made stew."
"Coming."
I look down at myself. Still wearing four different brothers' clothing like some kind of scent-hoarding dragon. I should change. Should put on my own clothes. Should stop acting like a walking advertisement for pack bonding.
I don't change.
The hallway smells like beef and onions and fresh bread. My stomach growls so loud it echoes off the walls.
The kitchen is warm and bright. Nacho stands at the stove, stirring a massive pot with the focus of a man defusing a bomb. Sergio sits at the head of the table, paperwork spread in front of him, pen tucked behind his ear. Carlos is perched on the counter, legs swinging, stealing pieces of bread from a basket Pedro keeps moving out of his reach.
Four alphas.
All of them look up when I enter.
All of them inhale.
I watch their eyes darken. Watch their shoulders tense. Watch their nostrils flare as my scent hits them.
"You smell different," Carlos says. His voice is strained.
"Pedro told me." I hover in the doorway, suddenly unsure. “Maybe four days or less.”
Silence.
Sergio sets down his pen. Nacho stops stirring. Pedro's hand freezes on the bread basket.
Carlos slides off the counter and crosses the kitchen toward me. He stops a foot away, I can see the gold flecks in his blue eyes.
"You're wearing my flannel."
