Lena moves to the bed, setting her backpack on the pristine comforter. The zipper rasps as she opens it, pulling out a framed photo of us to set on the nightstand, angling it toward the bed.
The photo shows us together on her sixteenth birthday, standing outside the ice cream shop where I spent half a day’s wages to ensure the milestone counted. In the image, we’re both smiling, both trying to pretend it was enough.
“The kitchen’s stocked, but if you’re hungry now, I can order in.” Rowan pushes off from the wall. “How does Thai sound?”
“Amazing,” Lena replies, already unknotting the trash bag with her clothes and moving toward the dresser with purpose.
“If you want to change anything about the layout,let me know,” Rowan tells her. “The room’s yours to set up however you want.”
“Thank you,” she says again, and I count the third time she’s thanked him in less than ten minutes.
Rowan moves toward the door where I stand. “There are phone chargers in the drawer, extra blankets in the closet, and the thermostat controls are next to the light switch.”
Lena absorbs it all, her head bobbing as she arranges her sparse belongings on top of the dresser. She appears more at home in this room she’s had for mere minutes than she has in our apartment where we’ve lived for years.
Rowan stops beside me in the doorway, close enough that the heat radiating from his body seeps into me without actual contact. “Let’s let her settle in. I’ll show you the rest.”
I nod, my throat too tight for words, and step back to let him lead the way. The debt counter in my head spins faster with each step, calculating a sum we can never repay with money alone.
Rowan takes the trash bag from my hand and the backpack from my shoulder in a smooth, proprietary motion. He carries them down the hallway past Lena’s room, past a guest bathroom, past what must be a linen closet, to a set of double doors at the end.
As soon as he pushes open the door on the right, his scent floods out, concentrated Alpha pheromones sweeping around me. This isn’t another guest bedroom. This ishisprivate space.
A king-size bed dominates the far wall, its dark sheets still rumpled from last night. Nightstands bracket it on either side, with pendant lights hanging from the ceiling above. A dresser stands against the opposite wall, its surface cleared of any personal items.
Rowan crosses to the dresser and sets my bag beside it, the placement deliberate. Not on the bed, where it might suggest temporary storage. Not in a closet, where it might be hidden away. Right here, visible, next to his things, and my shoulders relax.
This arrangement, I understand. It cuts straight through the fog of uncertainty about what Rowan gets out of letting us stay here. Lena gets her own room, and Rowan gets me in his bed every night.
“You coming in?” he asks, though the question carries no doubt about the answer.
My feet carry me forward, crossing the line between hallway and bedroom, between resistance and acceptance. Thicker carpet cushions my shoes as his pheromones slip into my lungs to take up residence there.
Rowan’s closet door stands open, revealing clothing arranged by color and type, shirts transitioning from light to dark, pants hanging.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Rowan indicates another door. “Use whatever you like.”
I slip past him to investigate the bathroom, fingers trailing along cool marble countertops. The spotless glass walls of the shower offer an unobstructed view of the inside, and a sleek white bathtub sits beside it. If we wanted to, Rowan could take a bath and watch me shower at the same time.
Soft footsteps pad up behind me, and his body warms my back. “Done being mad at me?”
I study the double sinks, trying to figure out which one Rowan prefers. “Still deciding.”
An amused sound comes from him as his lips graze the side of my neck above the collar of my turtleneck. “Don’t hold grudges, precious.”
Fingers hook the fabric, tugging it down, and he freezes when his fingertips meet plastic instead of skin.
My eyes lift to the mirror over the nearest sink to see Rowan’s pupils dilating at the sight of the nape guard, his nostrils flaring as he inhales my scent.
“It looks good on you,” he purrs. “Can’t wait to bite down on it while I’m inside you.”
Despite my exhaustion and the chaos of the past twenty-four hours, my dick twitches at the words.
My hand rises to touch the plastic guard. “This isn’t an invitation.”
His mouth curves into a dangerous smile. “Everything about you is an invitation, precious. The guard just gives me a target.”
The words settle low in my stomach with an anticipation I’m too tired to examine right now. Rowan’s hands find the hem of my shirt, tugging upward with gentle insistence.
