Page 24 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

Her eyes flicked to mine as she made a sound that was half protest, half need. And I wanted my teeth in her neck so badly I tasted blood where I’d bitten my cheek.

Not tonight. I’d never claim an omega unless she chose us with a clear head, a steady voice, and no heat dragging through her veins like a hook. I wouldn’t take a mark from pain.

Hudson stepped beside us. “She needs water and sugar before anything else.”

Mary’s shoulder dropped. “I need orgasms.”

“You also need water and sugar,” he said. “Drink up.”

“How tedious to always be correct.”

Hudson walked away. “It has burdened me for years.”

I helped her upright as she took a swig of the water. She swayed toward me, and I let her, keeping my hold careful. “Nest or sofa?”

“I didn’t agree to nesting.”

“Of course not. I meant to say bed.”

“Then, whichever one allows this appalling conversation to end the fastest.”

“Bed, it is.”

She took two steps toward the bed, looked at the garments already on there, then glanced at the cushions on the chair by the window and rushed to get them. “This isn’t me nest building. They’re needed for comfort.”

Hudson nodded solemnly. “Of course.”

“I like soft things, that’s all.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Exactly. So this isn’t nesting.”

Two hours later, Mary was on the bed in the middle of a structure that involved three pillows, two cushions, all the clothes we wore yesterday, shirts, my sweater, our robes, two hotel towels, and the spare blanket she bought with her.

She was also hissing at us to stop touching her nest.

“Your elbow,” she snapped.

I froze with my elbow six inches from a pillow. “My elbow is in the air.”

“If you fall it will touch my nest.”

“I thought it was a bed.” I smiled at this impossible, fever-bright omega who had spent the last two hours rearranging everything we owned while insisting she wasn’t nesting.

She breathed through her nose as she glared at me.

“Brat.” I pressed my fist to my mouth and turned away.

Hudson stood at the foot of the bed with a tray of room-service sandwiches, muffins, water bottles, and orange juice. He was wearing a pair of loose pajama bottoms, nothing on top, and Mary was staring at his chest.

“You need to eat. And I have more pain medication for you.”

The first hour was pain management. We had called reception for extra blankets, more water, juice, food, and a medical kit. The staff had sent everything up with impressive speed. I had held Mary through three cramps, each worse than the last, while she cursed into my shoulder and accused her uterus of organized crime.

Throughout it all there had been nesting denial.

Chapter 5