That space was sacred to an omega. Private. Safe. Not somewhere she would bring someone casually.
Part of me was pleased. More than pleased, if I was honest. It meant she trusted him. Trusted us. The bond between them was forming quickly, exactly the way it should. Exactly the way I wanted.
But the selfish part of me felt something sharp twist beneath my ribs. I wanted to be the one in that room. The one holding her. The thought hit me so hard it made my stomach turn.
Disgusted with myself, I turned around before my alpha did something stupid. I took the stairs back down. Fast. By the time I reached the back door, I didn’t trust myself to stay in the house.
I went to the workshop instead. Stayed there for hours working the sanding block back and forth over a table leg until my arms and back ached. Long enough that the sun had set by the time I finally looked up from the half-finished table on my workbench. Long enough that the others had given up on me cooking dinner and ordered delivery instead.
Probably for the best.
Four days later, the jealousy still hasn’t completely faded. That’s inconvenient. Because every other instinct I have says I should be celebrating.
Graham and Lark have barely come out of that nest since. Not literally, of course. They both work too much for that. Lark spends most of her day glued to a laptop, and Graham spends long hours on his research at the university. But every night, without fail, he ends up upstairs with her. In the nest.
Earlier this afternoon I watched him drag a string of twinkle lights behind him up the stairs. I leaned against the kitchen counter and just shook my head.
Makes sense. We didn’t pick any of that up during the trip toThe Nesting Corner. At the time it didn’t seem important. Apparently it is now.
The nest has been slowly evolving over the last four days. Or at least I think it has. I haven’t been invited in. Pillows, blankets, lights, gauzy fabric whose purpose I've stopped trying to figure out. Graham carries them upstairs with a big smile on his face.
Our omega seems pleased with the improvements. And that should make me happy. Some moments it does. Watching the two of them together. How easily they fit. How naturally Lark reaches for him. It’s proof that this pack might actually work. Other moments, not so much.
Jealousy is a stubborn thing. For four days I’ve swung between two extremes. Pure, unfiltered satisfaction that our omega is bonding with one of us. And pure, unfiltered frustration that it isn’t me.
Neither feeling is something a pack leader should admit to. Both are true, anyway.
I push away from the counter and glance toward the stairs. Enough is enough. Four days is plenty of time for Graham to monopolize the nest. My patience has limits. If this pack is going to function the way it should, we need time together. Real time. Which means it’s time I took control of the situation.
Not just for me. Forallof us. We’ll take turns courting her properly, the way an omega deserves. But first, we start as a pack. Including Saint, whether he's ready to admit he wants to or not.
Decision made, I push away from the counter and head for the living room.
“House,” I say.
A small light flickers to life on the wall panel.
“Announce: pack meeting in ten minutes.”
A neutral female voice echoes through the house a moment later. “Pack meeting in ten minutes.” The announcement repeats in each room, faintly bouncing down the hallways and up the staircase.
I make my way into the family room and settle onto the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me. From here I can see the hallway and the stairs. It gives me a clear view of whoever arrives first.
Predictably, it’s Graham. He comes down, Lark beside him, their fingers loosely tangled. His head is bent as he whispers something that makes her giggle.
I resist the urge to growl. Barely.
Four days.
Lark notices me first and smiles. Graham finally glances up and clears his throat, though he doesn’t let go of her hand. Jealousy nudges at the edge of my patience. I ignore it.
A moment later Saint walks in. His arm is finally out of the sling, per doctor’s orders, though he still holds it close to his body, protecting it out of habit. His eyes move immediately to the pair standing across the room.
More specifically, to their hands. Something flashes across his face, gone almost before it fully forms. But I catch it. Jealousy.
Me too, buddy. Me too.
Saint’s gaze lifts a second later, his expression settling back into the careful neutral mask he's been wearing lately.
