"Yes. In Prague you lied to yourself with more confidence."
"I was not lying. I was medically uninformed."
Gregor's brow furrowed.
Maeve pointed at him with the burp cloth. "Don't say anything. I'm vulnerable and overheated."
"Different how?" I pressed. "You're flushed, irritable, and you smell like a fancy bakery in a lightning storm. You've stolen three of Artem's shirts this week. Yesterday you yelled at your pillows because they weren’t soft enough."
"It wasn’t soft enough!"
“You’re nesting.”
“Because I was annoyed that my pillow made my ear ache.”
"No, because you're in heat."
"I—" She stopped. A violent cramp rolled through her and she gasped, doubling over, her hands gripping the marble edge of the island. "Oh, God."
The scent of her slick hit the kitchen like a wave. My vision actually blurred for a second. Gregor made a sound that wasn't quite human and gripped the back of her stool with both hands.
"Oh God," Maeve whimpered again. "Mary!"
"Finally," I rasped.
Mary appeared in the doorway, took one breath of the air, and went pale. "Oh. Oh wow. That's—" She waved a hand in front of her nose. "It smells like a liquor store exploded in a bakery during a thunderstorm."
"Take Mac," Artem said. He'd materialized from his office, which meant he'd smelled Maeve from across the house. His eyes were already black. "East wing. The cook prepares his food. No one else."
Mary, despite standing in front of a feral Pakhan, looked offended. "Excuse me? I make the best ramen on the East Coast."
"The heir to the Bratva is not ready for ramen."
"He could suck them through his lips. Ramen is a theoretical concept."
"East wing. Now." Artem looked at Fergus. "You too. Guard duty."
Fergus yipped once and trotted after Mary, who was already retreating with Mac clutched to her chest. Luckily, she decided that arguing with three alphas who could go into a rut was above her pay grade.
Artem scooped Maeve off the stool and headed for the stairs with her gripped in his arms. Gregor and I followed.
Two days later, the master bedroom looked like a crime scene.
The nest took up the center of the bed. There was a carefully constructed fortress of stolen clothing and strategic blankets. My favorite cashmere sweaters. Gregor's heavy flannels. Artem's shirts, which were now being used as pillowcases. The curtains were drawn. The lights were dim. The remnants of a twenty-four pack of bottled water and a basket of high-calorie snacks sat on the nightstand.
Maeve had spent the first day still trying to deny she was in heat.
She'd denied it while stealing Artem's shirt directly off his body.
She denied it to Mary when she told her she was going back to Boston once it was over.
She'd denied it while ordering Gregor to bring her the "good blanket, not the one that's scratchy."
She'd denied it while burying her face in my sweater and making a sound that nearly put me through the wall.
"This is just nesting," she'd insisted, kneeling in the middle of the bed with wild hair and flushed cheeks, surrounded by our clothes like a dragon who'd raided a department store.
"Nesting happens during heat," Artem had said carefully.
