Everything landed at once. The warmth of eight bodies pressed close. The pleasant ache in her muscles, the wet stickiness between her legs. Bite marks on her shoulders. Fingerprint bruises blooming on her hips. Lips swollen from kissing.
"It's almost dawn," Liam said his voice barely above a whisper.
April blinked, trying to surface from the warm haze. “Can we watch?” she asked. “The sunrise. I want to see it end.”
Eight men moved without discussion, rearranging themselves. Someone lifted her, Arthur she thought, cradling her against his chest as he carried her to the massive windows overlooking the city.
They settled around her on the floor, pillows and blankets materializing as they moved. Dante lay back first, making space without a word. His hand reached for her. April shifted toward him on instinct, laying her head against his chest.
A hand stroked her hair. Another held hers. Someone’s thumb traced slow circles on her ankle. All of them touching her, keeping her tethered. Her body hummed, sore and oversensitive, still pulsing low between her legs.
She watched the sky begin to lighten, pink giving way to gold until the sun crested the horizon and flooded the room. The light reached her face first, then her shoulders, then the bare strip of thigh the blanket had missed. She closed her eyes against the brightness and let it press warmth against her skin.
Mateo appeared with champagne. He raised his glass. "To new days."
She drank, champagne cold on her tongue. Then they were kissing her, one at a time. She tasted each of them differently, felt the weight of each mouth. She was too tired to answer with heat, but she felt the care in it and let herself have it.
Her head rested against Dante’s chest. The steady rise and fall beneath her cheek anchored her. Her fingers drifted, idly at first, then slowed when they found the ink along his ribs, dark letters worn soft with time, part of him now. She traced the letters slowly, mapping the grooves. Dante didn’t move. He let her read him with her hands.
“Si vis pacem,” he murmured, the Latin familiar enough to sound right in his mouth. Her fingertip followed the line down. “Para bellum,” he finished.
“What does it mean?”
“If you want peace,” he said, his voice low and even beneath her ear, “prepare for war.”
Her hand stilled for a beat. Then her fingers moved again, slower now.
“You prepared. You knew where you would stop.” His thumb shifted once against her shoulder. “That’s why I follow you.”
He waited.
Her hand slipped flat against his chest, right over the ink. Her weight softened into him. Her breathing evened out, slow and unguarded.
Sleep took her.
The room went silent immediately.
They froze, eight men suddenly very aware of the sound of their breathing. "She's out," Jax murmured.
"Good," Killian said quietly. "She needs it."
"Don't wake her," someone whispered.
They stayed like that for a while, talking in whispers around her sleeping form, adjusting her gently when her head slipped, making sure she stayed comfortable.
Eventually, Arthur stood and carefully lifted her into his arms.
THIRTY
Stay
Liam
Liam hadn't meant to stop outside her door. He told himself he was confirming she'd made it to bed. That someone had made her drink water. That she wasn't already planning the morning.
The door was slightly open. He knocked once, and when nothing came back he stepped inside.
April was on her side, half under the duvet, Arthur's shirt loose around her shoulders with the sleeves unevenly pushed back. The collar had been folded properly at some point. It swallowed her. She laid with one arm stretched across the empty half of the bed, fingers loose against the sheets.
