Mason is mated.
Mason is mated to Judah.
Mason has been mated this entire time and I never knew.
A sound escapes me—half laugh, half sob—and I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until stars burst across my vision.
“Phoenix?”
Mason’s voice, thin and ragged, cuts through my spiral. I look up.
He’s watching me from the center of the nest, gray eyes fever-bright above flushed cheekbones. Atticus sits on the edge of the bed beside him, one hand resting lightly on Mason’s back and rubbing in circles.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, pushing myself back to my feet. My knees wobble but hold. “Just needed a second.”
Mason doesn’t look convinced. His throat works as he swallows, and I watch a fresh sheen of sweat break out across his forehead.
I can already sense him building up to some grand apology that I really don’t want from him right now.
Honestly, I have no idea what I want from him right now.
“I’ll give you guys a minute,” Atticus says, rising from the bed.
He crosses to me, movements unhurried despite the tension thrumming through the room. When he reaches the door, he pauses, cups my face in both hands, and presses a kiss to my forehead that’s so tender it makes my chest ache.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he murmurs against my skin. “Just yell if you need anything.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking softly behind him, and I’m alone with Mason.
Mason just watches me, like any second he expects me to start screaming at him.
Pull yourself together, Phoenix.
Whatever I’m feeling right now—the hurt, the confusion, the bone-deep sense of betrayal—none of it matters. Mason is in heat. Mason is vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen him before. Mason needs me to be the steady one for once, instead of the other way around.
My wounded pride will still be there in a few days.
I cross to the bed and settle onto the edge of the mattress, close enough to touch but not quite touching. Mason tracks my movements with those fever-bright eyes, his body curling instinctively toward me even as his expression remains guarded.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Phoenix, I’m so sorry, I should have told you?—“
“Shush.” I press my fingers against his lips, silencing whatever apology he’s about to offer. “Just shut your face and scoot back.”
I help him maneuver into the center of the bed. He sinks back into the nest without further argument, his body going loose and pliant against the pile of scented blankets. I watch him burrow into the fabric, pressing his face against a pillow that still carries traces of my vanilla-citrus from earlier, and something in my chest clenches painfully.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Three days ago, Mason was the one arranging my nest. Scenting my pillows. Managing my crisis with quiet competence while I thrashed and whined and demanded things I didn’t deserve. Now our roles have reversed, and the asymmetry feels like cosmic retribution for every time I took his caretaking for granted.
So I do for him exactly what he did for me.
I adjust the blankets, smoothing them into a cocoon around his trembling body. I bring the water bottles closer to the bed, arranging them within easy reach. I find a washcloth in the attached bathroom and dampen it with cool water.
When I press the cloth against his burning forehead, Mason makes a sound that sounds too damn close to an orgasm.
Nope. Stop it, brain. We are so not going there right now.
His hand finds mine and grips hard, urging me to lie down beside him.
I stretch out beside him on the bed, close enough that I feel his body heat radiating even through our clothes, but not quite close enough to touch.
