Page 179 of His Drama Queen

"Wouldn't dream of it."

We talk quietly while the knot holds—about nothing important, everything important. He tells me about Corvus dragging him out of his spiral. I tell him about Robbie reminding me I don't have to accept scraps.

It's intimate in ways that have nothing to do with sex. This is what we needed to build—trust underneath the biology.

When his knot finally starts to recede, the heat begins to curl in my belly again. Not urgent yet, but building.

"Oakley." I turn my head to find him. "Ready?"

"Always." He's already moving, sliding into the nest as Dorian carefully withdraws. The brief emptiness makes me whimper, but Oakley is there immediately, hands gentle on my hips.

"I've got you, sweetheart."

He's gentler than Dorian—sweet kisses trailing down my neck, hands worshipping instead of demanding. We've done this enough times that he knows what I need from him. Not the intensity of claiming, but the softness that comes after.

"Oakley." His name comes out pleading. "Don't tease."

"Not teasing." He kisses my collarbone. "Appreciating. You're so fucking beautiful like this."

His mouth finds my nipple and I arch into it, pleasure sparking through me. He takes his time, lavishing attention on my breasts until I'm writhing and begging.

"Please. Please, Oakley. Need you."

"I know." He finally, finally positions himself. "I've got you."

Where Dorian was intense and demanding, Oakley is reverent. He slides in slowly, groaning at how wet I am, how easy I take him despite the stretch.

"Perfect," he breathes. "You're so perfect."

His rhythm is slower but deeper, each thrust deliberate. He's watching my face, reading my reactions, adjusting his angle until I'm gasping.

"There?" He hits that spot again. "That good?"

"Yes. Right there. Don't stop."

He doesn't. Keeps that perfect angle and pace until I'm climbing toward another orgasm. This one builds slower, sweeter, less violent than the first but consuming.

"That's it." He's encouraging, gentle. "Let go for me, beautiful. I've got you."

I come crying his name, clenching around him in waves. He follows immediately, his knot swelling as he buries himself deep and fills me.

"Love you," he murmurs into my hair as we lock together. "God, I love you so much."

"Love you too." I'm boneless, satisfied, the heat manageable again. "Thank you."

"Always." He kisses my temple. "Anything you need. Always."

The hours blend together—the familiar rhythm of heat and relief we've learned over two previous cycles. Corvus takes his turn with that clinical precision that somehow feels intimate. Dorian claims me again when the heat spikes harder. Back to Oakley when I need gentleness. Round and round through the evening and into night.

Between waves they take care of me without being asked. Water bottles appearing when my throat gets dry. Fruit andprotein bars during the calmer stretches. Cool cloths for my fever. They've learned what I need before I have to say it.

The nest becomes our world. Soft fabrics and tangled limbs and scents all mixed together until I can't tell where one ends and another begins. This is what the lake house should have been—all of us learning each other without the shadow of what happened before.

"You're doing so well," Corvus says during one of the calmer periods on day two. He's propped against the headboard, my head in his lap while he cards fingers through my hair. "Better than the lake house."

"Better nest. Better mindset." I'm exhausted but content, sprawled across Oakley while Dorian dozes beside us. "And you're not all pretending I want to be here."

"Fair criticism." His fingers trace patterns on my scalp. "We were rather insufferable about the whole captivity situation."