His laugh vibrates through his chest, into mine, a shared earthquake of amusement.
"Yeah, but it's the fun kind of sore."
"Says the man who's not the one who had Sage rail me to the rim this morning."
"Details."
I want to argue, but my brain is still floating somewhere between the aerial ring and actual consciousness, too pleasure-drunk to form coherent protests. The scent of him fills my lungs with every breath—ember smoke and citrus and cinnamon, mixing with my own cotton candy sweetness in a way that's become familiar over the past couple weeks.
Two weeks and three days since we left Ruthless.
Since Kai killed his father.
Since everything changed.
The nest room around us reflects that change—this massive space on the third floor of our new house, ten minutes from Juilliard, that the guys designated as mine the moment we moved in. Shirts are everywhere. Sage's soft pinks and pastels draped over the back of the velvet couch. Jett's dark teal folded neatly in a basket near the window. Blaze's flame-colored tees scattered across the floor like he just shed them randomly. And Kai's expensive button-downs hanging from hooks on the wall, arranged by color because even in my nest, some order needs to exist.
My dance costumes occupy an entire corner—the performance piece from the audition displayed on a mannequin like art, alongside newer acquisitions for upcoming showcases. Swords are mounted above the bed. My blades—the ones Kai used to kill his father—polished and gleaming and mine again.
This space is ours.
Safe.
Home.
The word still feels foreign.
"I hope that doesn't mean you don't got time for me."
Jett's voice rises from the floor below—quiet as always, but carrying enough weight that it cuts through my post-orgasm haze.
"Cause I've been patiently waiting for this."
A giggle escapes.
High.
Bright.
The manic sound that means my brain is fully back online and processing the absurdity of my current situation.
I tilt my head to look down—which requires some creative neck positioning given how Blaze and I are currently tangled—and find Jett standing at the base of the aerial ring setup. His storm-grey eyes are fixed upward, tracking the way our bodies fit together, and there's something hungry in his expression that sends a fresh wave of heat through my exhausted system.
"Well," I say, and my voice comes out breathier than intended, "I already got railed to the rim by Sage this morning." I tick off on my fingers—one-two—even though they're currently gripping Blaze's shoulders. "And now Blaze just thoroughly wrecked me up here."
Three partners.
Odd number.
Wrong.
My toe twitches—automatic response, seeking the ground that's thirty feet away.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
Need to make it even.
