Page 31

Lila

I wake up Tuesday morning wrapped in stolen shirts and the lingering heat of dreams I can't quite shake.

The morning light streams through my nest window in golden streaks, but I can barely focus on anything except the way my body feels—warm and restless and humming with a need I'm not ready to name.

My thighs are slick with evidence of whatever my subconscious was doing while I slept, and the scent of green apple and white musk hangs thick in the air around me.

The dreams. God, the dreams.

Dean's hands on my skin. Callum's voice rumbling low and possessive against my throat.

Julian's careful attention focused entirely on me, those dark eyes seeing everything I try to hide.

All three of them surrounding me in my nest, their scents mixing with mine until I couldn't tell where I ended and they began.

I'd woken up reaching for them, my body arching toward touches that weren't there.

Get it together, I tell myself firmly, sitting up and immediately regretting the movement when more slick pools between my thighs. You're supposed to be independent. Not fantasizing about your neighbors.

But that's exactly what this feels like. The beginning stages of heat that I haven't experienced in years—not since before the suppressants, before I learned to chemically manage my biology instead of letting it run wild.

I stumble to the shower, cranking the water as cold as I can stand it, trying to wash away the evidence of my body's betrayal.

But even under the icy spray, I can't stop thinking about the way Julian's voice had dropped when he said my name.

How Dean's scent had intensified when I'd gotten flustered at dinner. The solid comfort of Callum's presence.

This is exactly what you came here to avoid, I remind myself as I towel off with more force than necessary. Pack dynamics. Alpha politics.

But my body doesn't care about my very reasonable concerns. My body wants what it wants, and what it wants is three alphas who look at me like I'm worth choosing instead of just convenient.

By the time I'm dressed in jeans and an oversized sweater, I've managed to convince myself that coffee and normal Tuesday morning activities will restore some semblance of sanity.

I'll tidy the kitchen, maybe read one of Julian's books, definitely not think about the way they'd all gone still when my scent spiked with arousal.

The kitchen feels too small this morning, filled with memories of Dean cooking dinner and the easy way all four of us had moved around each other. I attack the already-clean counters with unnecessary vigor, trying to ignore the way my body keeps responding to phantom traces of their scents.

But when I reach for the vanilla extract, the sweet scent reminds me too much of Dean's toasted marshmallow warmth, and I have to grip the counter as another wave of slick makes my underwear uncomfortably damp.

This isn't just attraction anymore. This is biological inevitability, my omega instincts staging a full-scale rebellion against my attempts to stay unattached.

I'm contemplating whether hiding in my nest with stolen shirts counts as a reasonable coping strategy when there's a soft knock at my front door.

My heart jumps into my throat. Are they checking on me after Sunday night's awkward exit?

I creep to the front window and peer out, expecting to see a familiar truck.

Instead, I see a petite woman with warm brown hair pulled into a loose bun, wearing a floral sundress under a soft gray cardigan.

She's holding a simple bouquet of creamy daisies and pale peach roses tied with burlap twine.

Sadie Penrose. The florist.

Did they send her? Is this some kind of alpha strategy, deploy the nice omega to check on the flustered one?

I open the door with my guard up, trying to look composed despite the fact that I'm still flushed and probably smell like arousal.

"Good morning," Sadie says, her voice carrying warm sincerity. Her scent reaches me immediately—honey soap and fresh lilies, with that underlying omega sweetness that makes my shoulders relax without conscious thought. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Not at all," I say carefully. "What brings you by?"

Sadie's smile turns slightly knowing. "I'll be honest with you—Dean, Callum, and Julian are worried about you. They asked if I'd check in." She pauses, her expression growing more serious. "But I'm not here because they asked me to be. I'm here because omegas look out for each other. Girl to girl."

The admission catches me off guard. I'd been prepared for denial. Instead, she's giving me the truth straight up.

"I'm fine," I say automatically, then immediately regret it when Sadie's eyebrows raise in gentle skepticism.

"Honey," she says with patience, "you smell like someone who's been wrestling with some very complicated feelings. And that's okay. May I come in?"

There's something about her tone, understanding without being pushy that makes it impossible to say no. I step back and let her into my entryway.

"Your reading chair looks perfect there," she says, moving toward the kitchen and setting the bouquet on my counter like she's done it a hundred times before. "Good natural light. Very smart placement."

The casual way she ignores the tension radiating off me and just talks about normal things helps my pulse slow from frantic to merely elevated.

"Thank you," I manage. "For the flowers. They're beautiful."

"Fresh from this morning's shipment," Sadie says, arranging the stems with efficient grace. "Sometimes you need flowers for no reason except that Tuesday mornings can be hard."

The simple statement hits deeper than it should, acknowledging something I hadn't even realized I was feeling.

"Dean, Callum, and Julian care about you," Sadie continues, turning to face me with her hands folded. "They care a lot, actually. But they're alphas. They're idiots sometimes about how to show it without overwhelming someone." She pauses. "But this isn't about them today. This is about you."

The way she says it. Like my feelings matter independently of what three attractive alphas might want, makes my throat tight with unexpected emotion.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I came here to be alone, to figure out who I am without... complications. And now."

"Now you've met three men who make you feel things you weren't planning to feel," Sadie finishes gently. "And you're not sure if that's good or terrifying."

"Both," I say with a laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Definitely both."

Sadie nods like this makes perfect sense. "Do you have any girlfriends? People you can talk through this kind of thing with?"

The question makes me realize how truly alone I've been. "No. I left everyone behind in LA, and..." I swallow hard. "None of them called to check on me. Just my agent asking about contract details."

The words hang in the air like an admission of something I hadn't wanted to acknowledge.

Sadie's expression shifts to something fierce and protective. She steps closer and pulls me into a warm hug.

"You don't need friends like that, sweetheart," she says firmly. "You need friends who'll bring you flowers for no reason and watch trashy movies until your brain melts."

The offer is so normal, so completely unrelated to alpha attention or any of the complicated things consuming my thoughts, that I have to blink back tears.

"That sounds perfect," I manage.

"Good." Sadie's smile returns, bright and genuine.

"Because I have a proposition for you. There's a vintage cinema in Pine Valley that's doing a 2000s romantic comedy marathon this afternoon.

Perfect for someone who might want to watch a movie without worrying about being recognized.

" She pauses, studying my face with understanding.

"No alphas, no decisions, just you, me, Ryan Gosling, and a bucket of salty carbs. Sound good?"

The description makes me laugh for real this time, surprised and relieved. When was the last time someone offered me something that was just fun?

"I would love that," I say, meaning it more than the simple words can convey.

"Perfect." Sadie claps her hands together with obvious satisfaction. "We'll leave around noon. Wear something comfortable and prepare to judge early 2000s hairstyles with appropriate ruthlessness."

The next hour passes in a blur of gentle activity.

Sadie helps me choose an outfit—comfortable jeans and a soft blue t-shirt.

She braids my hair in a simple style that gets it out of my face.

Most importantly, she fills my kitchen with easy conversation that has nothing to do with complicated feelings.

We talk about the town, about her flower shop, about the ridiculous number of people who think roses solve every relationship problem. She tells me about growing up here, about leaving for college and coming back because she missed the mountains.

"The thing about Honeyridge Falls," she says, "is that everyone knows everyone, but most people are decent enough to mind their own business unless you need help."

"Good to know," I say.

"Though I should warn you," Sadie adds with a grin, "Maeve Bennett has officially adopted you, which means you're going to be fed whether you want to be or not."

As we're heading toward the door, a memory hits me without warning. The faint trace of cedar and sawdust from Callum's flannel, now tucked safely in my nest upstairs. The memory sends warmth racing through my system.

My body responds immediately—a rush of slick that makes me press my thighs together, a spike in my scent that I try desperately to control.

Not now, I think frantically.

But Sadie catches the change, her nose wrinkling slightly as she picks up the sweet, interested edge to my usual green apple and white musk. She follows my gaze toward the stairs, then looks back at me with understanding that makes my cheeks burn.