“—although if it does, you might want to invest in spare pants—”
“Auren.”
He’s still laughing.
I turn and walk away with as much dignity as I can manage, which is approximately none.
Behind me, Auren’s laughter echoes down the hallway.
Somewhere upstairs, she’s finally breathing easy—and the rest of us may never recover.
Chapter 18
Bree
I’m still catching my breath, tucked between them, when the giggle escapes.
I can’t help it. The absurdity of it all—the intensity, the way my body still hums with pleasure, and the sudden thought that—
“I wonder if the guys actually felt that,” I say, trying to sound casual and failing completely.
Wes looks down at the mess he made on my stomach, his expression somewhere between satisfied and mortified. “Oh god.”
Stellan chuckles, low and warm against my back. “They definitely did.”
My face heats. “All of them?”
“Every single one.” Stellan’s voice carries amusement and certainty. “The bond doesn’t discriminate. They felt exactly what you felt.”
“Fuck,” Wes mutters, but he’s grinning.
I should probably feel embarrassed. Instead, I feel… powerful. Like I just claimed something that was always mine.
“I need a shower,” I announce, suddenly very aware of the state I’m in.
Wes shifts, starting to move. “I’ll—”
“Stay,” I say softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Both of you. Rest. I’ll be back.”
I slip out of bed, grabbing one of Wes’s shirts from the floor—oversized and soft—and pull it on before padding toward the bathroom.
The bathroom is almost obscenely nice. All marble and gold fixtures, a shower big enough for ten people, towels so soft they feel like clouds. I turn on the water and don’t wait for it to warm—I step under the spray immediately.
The heat hits my skin and I gasp.
A year. I haven’t showered in a year.
The Void didn’t have water. Didn’t have soap or warmth or anything clean. Just endless darkness and Ethos’s voice and the slow elimination of everything I was.
I stand there, letting the water pour over me, and something breaks open in my chest.
A sound escapes—half sob, half laugh. My knees buckle and I catch myself against the tile, water streaming over my face, into my mouth. I taste salt. Tears, I think, but I’m not sure. Everything is water now. Everything is warm.
I press my forehead against the cool tile and just breathe. Let the water run. Let myself feel it—all of it. The relief. The grief. The impossible truth that I’m here, I’m out, I’m still alive enough to break.
I wash my hair. Once. Twice. Three times. Watch the water run dark at first, then clearer. Scrub my skin until it’s pink and raw and new. The soap smells like lavender and something green, and I use too much of it, not caring, just needing to feel clean.
My hands shake as I work the conditioner through my hair. A year of nothing, and now this. Hot water. Soap. The simple luxury of being able to wash away what touched me.
