Page 49

Boone moves ahead, his presence calm and unrushed, letting me set my own pace.

The hallway is lined with more photographs and the occasional painted landscape—each frame a silent witness to years of life lived in these walls.

My fingertips brush lightly along the wainscoting as I follow, counting the doors on the left.

At the third, Boone pauses, glancing back at me with a question in his eyes, his hand resting gently on the doorknob as if waiting for my permission to proceed.

I come to a stop beside him, heart fluttering, and for a moment, all is quiet—just the hush of anticipation.

“Here it is.”

“Here it is,” I parrot, glancing from him to the door and back again, waiting.

He takes a deep breath, then releases it in a whoosh of air. “If you don’t like something, we can change it.”

“Boone, it’s not like it’s my nest or anything,” I reply, giggling.

His head cants to the side. “I love that.”

“Love what?”

“Your laugh,” he returns, practically lighting up inside.

Clearing my throat when the situation becomes too heavy, I nod toward the door. “So, the room.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay. Yes.”

As Boone turns away to push open the door, I can’t stop the small smile that tugs at my lips—unbidden, fragile, but real.

It lingers there, trembling at the edge of my uncertainty, half-hidden and wholly mine.

For a fleeting moment, warmth blooms in my chest, as if hope is testing its roots.

I let the feeling flicker, gentle and secret, before following him inside.

The moment I enter the room, time seems to cease.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, to absorb the dreamlike quality that seems to hang in the air. The room glimmers softly, sunlight sifting through sheer shimmer curtains that catch the light and scatter it in gentle rainbows across the walls.

The windows themselves are tall and arched, draped in layers of whisper-fine fabric that shimmer and pool onto the floor like molten silver and blush pink.

The floor beneath my feet is a cloud—thick plush carpeting in a creamy blush, so soft that I imagine sinking down and losing myself in its embrace.

At the center of the room, commanding attention, is a raised four-poster bed—its wooden posts twined with delicate gold filigree, each corner crowned with silken ribbons. A canopy of translucent fabric tumbles gracefully from the top, surrounding the bed in a private haven of fairy-tale luxury.

The bedding is impossibly fluffy, layers upon layers of downy duvets and satin-trimmed blankets, all in hues of pale pink, lavender, and shimmering ivory.

Pillows—countless, in every imaginable shape and size—spill across the mattress and onto the floor, a riot of soft textures and playful frills.

Some are embroidered with tiny crowns and others with trailing vines of silver thread, as if each one holds a secret wish whispered in the dark.

There is no austerity here, only comfort and warmth—a space spun from childhood daydreams and secret hopes.

For a single, suspended instant, I am a princess in her sanctuary, held aloft by softness and light, surrounded by beauty spun from imagination and care.

The slight smile I’d fought to contain unfurls, the hope in my chest blooming, bright and unabashed, as I step further inside.

“This is ... wow,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the scene in front of me. It’s so rich and beautiful. A lot of thought and care went into this room, that much is certain.

“We’re glad you think so,” Tripp says from behind me.

I turn to look at him over my shoulder, and I can’t help the smile that breaks out across my face. “Any omega would love to have this nest.”

“What about you?” Knox inserts.

I nod enthusiastically. “Definitely me.”

He smirks. “Good. Because this room is yours.”

For a split second, his words hang in the shimmering air, and I freeze.

My mouth falls open, surprise parting my lips as if he’s spoken a dream aloud, one I never dared claim for myself.

The admission—this room is yours—crashes through me, startling and impossibly generous.

It steals the breath from my lungs, leaving me blinking, speechless, marveling at the sight around me with new, uncertain eyes.

Finally, I find my voice, though it comes out soft, incredulous: “Oh, no. This room isn’t mine.”

“The moment we met you, Boone and Tripp started on this room. I came into the game a little late, but I've put as much love into it as they have since then. This room is yours. You’re our omega. Yes, we— I— fucked up, but I plan to rectify that.”

“How?” I ask, cocking a brow.

“By groveling at my omega’s feet, which is where I belong.”

His words land with such sincerity that warmth rises unbidden to my cheeks, a delicate flush blooming just beneath the surface.

I feel it spread—a soft, unmistakable heat feathering across my skin, as if his honesty alone could call forth color where uncertainty once lingered.

Embarrassed and oddly delighted, I duck my head, unable to keep the smile from turning bashful at the edges, my fingers absently twisting together in the hush that follows.

What I don’t say—what I can’t say—is how his words light something wild and golden inside me. I keep my head bowed, but inwardly, delight tangles through my chest, a secret flicker that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with dizzy, sparkling happiness.

Even as I work to steady my breath, a pulse of giddiness thrums beneath my skin, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning outright.

I won’t tell him, not now, not when the moment feels so delicate and new, but I hold his words close, tucking them away like a wish made real—something fragile and precious, all mine.

The moment hangs, golden and weightless, until the guys begin to gather themselves, shifting with a soft rustle of fabric and the faintest creak of floorboards. Knox gives me one last grin—mischief and something gentler flickering in his eyes—before turning toward the hallway.

Tripp lingers an extra heartbeat, as if reluctant to break the spell, his smile warm and encouraging. Together, they drift toward the door, footsteps muffled by the plush carpet, their presence receding like the ebb of a gentle tide.

Just as Boone reaches the threshold, his hand hovering above the polished brass handle, he pauses. For a moment, the light from the hallway halos around him, outlining the quiet strength in his shoulders. He turns back, meeting my gaze with a steady earnestness that anchors me in place.

“If you need anything at all, don’t be afraid to ask,” Boone says, his voice low, gentle, but unwavering.

The words settle between us, a promising lilt to his voice spun in the hush, and with a final reassuring nod, he slips out, leaving the door just a little ajar, as if hope itself has been left behind to linger with me, like he’s waiting for me to make a decision.

Like he’s waiting for me to choose them.