Page 98 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“Very.”

Hudson looked down at his laptop, but not quickly enough to hide the smile.

The rest of the morning moved around us. Hudson and Lincoln worked from the study while Sienna took a slow, practical tour of the penthouse, the private elevator, the service corridor, and the terrace that looked out over the Thames. Hudson answered every question as if he’d expected an audit. Lincoln made her coffee.

By lunch, I’d eaten soup, half a roll, three crackers, and a pear because Lincoln had discovered I’d eat more if food appeared beside me without ceremony. Hudson pretended not to notice, which meant he noticed constantly.

By mid-afternoon, Hudson had taken a call on the terrace while Lincoln attempted to assemble a flat-pack side table for my room without looking at the instructions, which went badly enough that Hudson ended his call, glanced at the table, and said, “We could have bought one that didn’t need assembling.”

“But this is the right color.”

Hudson picked the leaflet off the rug, turned it the right way up, and set it back down beside Lincoln’s knee without a word.

“I saw that,” Lincoln said.

I pulled a cushion into my lap and settled in. “Is it always like this?”

“Always,” Lincoln said.

I sat on the sofa with Sienna nearby and watched them. The ache in my chest wasn’t sadness. It was the fear of wanting a thing while standing close enough to smell it.

That evening, after dinner and after London had turned itself into lights beyond the glass, I went to my room to rest.

I woke sometime after midnight with the room dark, the rain whispering against the window, and Hudson’s scarf bunched under my cheek.

My nest smelled of them, not faintly, completely. Lincoln’s hoodie was tucked around my side. Hudson’s scarf lay beneath my face. The blankets held traces of the penthouse, clean laundry and the faint sweetness of omega-safe detergent, but underneath it all were the alphas, whiskey, rain, blackberry and the violet was back.

Desire moved low and fast through me, without the violent need of heat, the pain, or the body taking over because biology had grown tired of negotiations. This was quieter, and worse for being quiet. Want without an excuse.

I lay still, breathing into the scarf.

“No,” I whispered to myself.

My body ignored me.

I rolled onto my back. The sheets slid against my thighs, and slick gathered there, warm and unmistakable. The first real rush of it since the heat.

I pressed my thighs together and stared at the ceiling. I needed a shower. Cold, possibly with holy water.

I grabbed my robe and opened the bedroom door and squeaked seeing Hudson standing in the hallway, with Lincoln beside him.

Hudson wore dark sweatpants and a white T-shirt that fit across his shoulders and chest in a way that made my mouth briefly forget its function. His hair was mussed. Lincoln was shirtless. Broad chest. Silver-dark hair. Rugby shoulders. Soft sweats low on his hips. Beard slightly rumpled, as if he had been running a hand over it while deciding whether to come up.

I clutched my robe closed with both hands. “This corridor has become very crowded.”

Lincoln’s nostrils flared and Hudson’s eyes darkened.

They smelled me.

“Are you all right?” Hudson asked.

“Perfectly.”

Lincoln’s gaze dropped to my hands gripping the robe, then came back to my face. “Mary.”

“I’m going to shower.”

“Now?” Hudson asked.