His skin is light umber and flawless, and his hair is cropped close at the sides with just enough length on top to make you wonder what it would feel like to run your fingers through it.
His lips are full and currently pressed into a hard line, which does nothing to make them less distracting.
He’s wearing a baby blue T-shirt that fits close across his shoulders and chest and goes loose at his lean waist. The color does something genuinely unfair to his complexion.
I bet he has a six-pack. No, an EIGHT pack!
I don’t even bother to shush her. I’m too overwhelmed.
This is the first time I’ve been in a room with all three of them and the scent threatens to undo me. My knees actually consider giving out.
Silas’ honeyed whiskey is heavy in the air and perfectly complemented by Graham’s dark, nutty chocolate, and Saint’s spicy ginger and dark molasses. I perfume so heavily no amount of slick wicking panties feels like enough.
Saint makes a sound low in his throat, not quite a growl and not quite words, before pushing through the doors to the garage. Silas and Graham surround me.
“Don’t let him scare you, little bird.”
Fear is not the emotion I’m feeling, but I don’t say that because both their hands are on me.
“As much as I want to stay here all night and touch you, the store closes at eight.”
I place my forehead on Graham’s chest. “What if I like it here?”
He beams. “That makes me happier than you could know. But I want to get your nest started. Now that you’ve found your scent-sensitive mates, your heat schedule may change. The research suggests it will come earlier than you expect.”
I rub my hand in his soft, floppy curls, before turning to Silas. “What about you, mountain man? Where do you want to be?”
He leans in and kisses me until my body is ablaze. “Anywhere you are. But Graham’s right. We need to get your nest ready.”
We walk into the garage. There are six stalls, but only four are full. At the far end sits a red Jeep Wrangler with an ERFD sticker on the driver’s side window. Saint’s I presume. A black Lotus Eletre, which I immediately know belongs to Graham. Then the Land Rover. And finally, in the spot closest to me, a fucking Rolls Royce. And not one of those old ratty ones you buy at a used car auction. This one is new and perfect and has obviously never been submerged in a lake, rolled down a hill, or set on fire by some crazy ex.
OmegaBox is doing very well, but it’s not doingI’m just gonna pop down the road and buy a Rollsgood. Seriously, what the hell do pharmaceutical scientists and furniture designers make, anyway? I don’t know how much firefighters earn, but I’m confident it’s not Rolls Royce money.
They usher me to the Land Rover. Silas sees me eyeing the Rolls and smirks. “Not today, little bird. We plan on buying a lot of stuff tonight and will need the Rover’s space to haul everything back.”
While Graham and I were unpacking upstairs, Silas and Saint unpacked my other boxes. So the Land Rover’s trunk is now empty and ready for me to stuff it full of pillows and blankets and whatever else the guys deem necessary.
Saint sits stiffly in the back seat, his gaze fixed out the window. Graham climbs in next to him, leaving me space in the front to sit with Silas. Silas hands me in, letting his hands linger a moment on my arm and hip. I try to convince my heart to slow. It doesn’t.
I try to tell myself it’s just his way of helping with my touch starvation. But then he cups my chin and draws my lips to his. His kiss is slow and deliberate, and he smells like whiskey and honey and something that is starting to feel dangerously like home.
He pulls away looking like he's been drugged.
Same.
“You smell so sweet, little bird. I can’t keep my hands off you.”
I swallow. This may be a long, difficult outing.
The ride to the store is relatively short. Graham fills the time by listing all the items he thinks I should consider for my space. Silas listens quietly, only speaking when I ask about color preferences. Graham likes green. Silas likes navy. Saint likes blue, or at least Graham thinks that’s true since it’s the color he usually wears. Saint shrugs, neither confirming nor denying.
The Nesting Corneris a boutique store for omegas located on East Rock’s Main Street. Despite being smaller than the nesting box stores, it’s still quite large with a generous selection of pillows, lamps, bedding, and other items necessary for every omega’s nest.
When we enter the store, I’m overwhelmed by the choices. I’ve been here twice before. Once when I first moved into my apartment, and another a few months after when I realized all the things I failed to buy on my first trip. But coming here with my pack feels different. Surreal.
Huh. My pack. When had I started to think of them that way? I test the words again, quietly, in the back of my head. My pack. My alphas. Graham and Silas make it easy. But Saint is surly and quiet and the only words he's ever said to me in person were "No" and "I can't." Three words. Seven letters between them.
As Graham ushers me toward the bedding area, I peek over at my sullen alpha. His hands are stuffed in his pants pockets. Lips in a hard line. He’s crabby as hell and it hurts me for him. And also makes me want to smack him upside the back of his head.
