I stand there for a moment, the weight of the offer settling on my shoulders like a blanket I'm not sure I deserve. Then I walk out without a word, leaving him alone with his broken vehicle and the echo of promises I'm not sure I can keep.
The house feels warmer when I step back inside, filled with the sound of Juniper's laughter and Carlisle's dramatic protests about being cheated at his own game. I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching her. She's got her legs tucked under her, leaning forward as she moves her game piece with the kind of concentration usually reserved for defusing bombs.
She's glowing. Happy. Safe.
Everything I’ve ever wanted for her, even if I'm not the one who can give it to her.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
JUNIPER
The nest calls to me like a siren made of soft things. I stand in the doorway of the walk-in closet, staring at the pile of blankets and pillows I've arranged on the built-in bench like they hold the secret of why my skin feels like it's trying to crawl off my body and start a new life without me.
Felix's sweatshirt is buried in the center, the one I stole this morning while he was showering. It smells like winter mornings and safety, but it's not enough. The nest feels empty, incomplete, like trying to paint a masterpiece with only one color.
You know what's missing,the shadows whisper, dancing along the walls.You know what you need.
"Shut up," I hiss at them, but my hands are already shaking, my thighs clenching involuntarily. The heat building under my skin isn't the gentle warmth of before. It's volcanic, threatening to erupt and take everything with it.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. The suppressants are failing. Or maybe they never had a chance against four scent matches living in the same house, their pheromones seeping into every surface like expensive cologne.
Woods and bourbon and wine and sunshine. Four distinct scents that my omega hindbrain has filed undermine.
But they're not mine. They can't be mine. I have Felix, and Felix has me, and that's how it's always been. That's how it has to stay.
Except...
My eyes drift back to the nest, to the empty spaces that seem to mock me. My body knows what it wants and my heat is getting worse by the minute.
I need their scents. Just their scents. Not them, not their hands or their knots or their stupid handsome concerned faces. Just something that smells like them to make the nest complete, to trick my biology into thinking I have what it wants.
It's theft, technically. But I've stolen worse things for worse reasons.
The hallway is dark and quiet at this hour. Everyone's probably asleep, which makes this either genius or incredibly stupid. The shadows follow me, whispering encouragement and warnings in equal measure.
Sneaky little rabbit,they sing.Stealing from the wolves.
Bane's room is first, because it's closest and because if I'm going to get caught, might as well be by the mountain who looks at me like I hung the moon. His door is unlocked—trusting idiot—and I slip inside quiet as smoke.
His scent hits me hard. Woods and earth and that alpha musk that makes my knees weak. He's snoring softly, but he doesn't stir. The room is sparse, military-neat, everything in its place. I grab a black henley from his dresser, the fabric soft from wear, and clutch it to my chest like a prize.
One down.
Elias's room is next, and it smells like medical soap trying to cover wine and something deeper. He's gone, but it doesn't surprise me the doctor is a night owl. His closet is organized bycolor because of course it fucking is. I snatch a blue button-down that probably costs a pretty penny and add it to my collection. He has six others, he won't miss it.
Archer's room makes my chest ache. There are photos on his nightstand, him with what must be his old unit, all grins and brotherhood before his world went to shit. His scent is everywhere, sunshine and citrus and hope despite everything. He's gone, too, even though I know for a fact he's a morning person, so I can't help but wonder if my soldier boy doesn't sleep soundly. I snatch a worn t-shirt that says AIR FORCE across the front and try not to think about why my eyes are watering.
Carlisle's room is locked.
Of course it fucking is.
But I've picked harder locks with worse tools, and the shadows are practically buzzing as I work the picks I keep hidden in my hair. The lock clicks open after thirty seconds of coaxing, and I ease the door open.
The room is... not what I expected.
It's pristine, everything white and chrome and sharp edges, but there are weapons everywhere. Knives displayed on the walls like art, guns in cases that probably cost more than cars, and what looks like a fucking sword mounted above the bed. It's the room of someone who expects violence at any moment, who's prepared for war even in sleep.
