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The last thing I remember is passing out as he cut away my underwear.

No. That’s not true. The last thing I remember is waking up in Augustus’s arms. Him holding me, brushing the hair away from my face.

Him saying, “Kill them.”

I cried against him, and he held me. When I got tired again, feeling the first blush of my heat, he stood. Carried me.

He carried me all the way back here without question. That walk was miles in the cold, but I never once felt it. Not pressed against his chest.

So, I’m not in here because I sleep-walked to his room, following the trail of his scent here. I’m in here because Augustus brought me here. He saved Aurora and me, then carried me all the way back to his home in the Northern territory.

And rather than putting me back in my own room, in the guest quarters, he brought me here.

Once again, without really thinking about it, I’ve continued pulling at the blankets, stepping off the bed to grab throw pillows from the armchair, the chaise. I take another blanket from a recliner, return to the bed, almost feverish in how I’m piling things up.

This is nesting, I know that. But I always thought it was a myth, something people joked about to bully omegas. I’ve never done it before when in heat. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Augustus is near.

That my body thinks he might actually come to me this time.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice that sounds like me but doesn’t feel like mine explains that maybe he will come to us if we build a good spot. Make him comfortable. Make it safe.

Augustus.

I want him to come to me.

I need him to come to me.

A wave of desire rolls through my body, so potent that I suck in a breath through my teeth, my hips rocking of their own accord. Seeking something that’s not here.

That, if we go based on historical data, will not be coming.

Whimpering, whining, I continue with what I was doing, the only relief from wanting to continue my preparation. Pulling on the blankets. Arranging everything just so. It’s feverish, my vision a little hazy, my body almost moving of its own accord.

“Please,” I whisper to nobody, to the universe, to him. My face is hot, eyes hot, entire body damp with need. “Please.”

And just like that, like the moon goddesses have sent an answer to my prayers, the door opens, and Augustus stands there, not quite in the room, but not in the hallway either.

“Mylah,” he rasps, his hand tight on the doorknob, like it’s a tether that will keep him sane. His eyes are concern and lust. Wanting and trepidation. The same push and pull I’ve felt this entire time. “Are you—is there anything you need?”

I say it without thinking, without stopping to take a breath. The answer is the breath. “You.”

He hisses, turns his head to the side like my words are a blow to his jaw. To the door, he says, “I—I can’t—”

“Augustus.” I wonder if me saying his name makes him feel how him saying mine does. Electric. Insane. “You’re my mate, aren’t you?”

He just stares at me. Doesn’t nod or shake his head.

It must be true. Why else would he be here? Why else would he have saved my life three times? What other reason would there be for this to be so hard for him?

If it wasn’t true, wouldn’t he just say so?

I can see on his face the indecision. The fight. How much he wants to step into the room, how much he wants to force himself to leave.

That’s what it’s all about for Augustus—control. He wants to have control over himself, over the chess pieces, his pack. Everything.

I will let him have control. He can take it.

He doesn’t need to take it. It’s always been his.