Page 20 of Nesting With My Three Alphas (Hollow Haven #1)

Jonah

T he storm rolled in just after midnight, and I knew immediately it was going to be a bad one.

Not just because of the thunder that shook the windows or the lightning that turned the night into strobing day, but because of the way Charlie stirred restlessly in her sleep, her small body responding to atmospheric pressure changes the way some people responded to earthquakes.

And because of the scent drifting through the thin walls from next door. Kit's usual vanilla-and-honey sweetness spiked with sharp notes of anxiety and something else. Something that made my alpha instincts sit up and take notice.

Fear.

I lay in my bed, listening to the rain pound against the windows and trying to ignore the way Kit's distress was affecting me.

It wasn't my place to comfort her. We'd shared one perfect afternoon building nests and planting gardens, but that didn't give me the right to assume she wanted my help dealing with whatever demons storms brought up for her.

But God, I wanted to help.

Another crack of thunder made the house shudder, and I heard a soft sound from next door that might have been a whimper. My hands clenched into fists, every protective instinct I possessed screaming at me to go to her.

But Kit still had carefully placed boundaries and the last thing she needed was me to steamroll over them.

She was learning to trust us, learning to trust herself.

Whatever lingered in her past that still haunted her was slowly starting to fade, and I wanted to be the light that chased the last of those shadows away. When she was ready to let me.

The storm intensified, bringing with it the kind of driving rain that turned windows into rivers and made even the most solid house feel fragile. I'd been through dozens of storms like this, but something about tonight felt different. More urgent.

Maybe it was the way Kit's scent kept shifting, anxiety spiking and then calming, like she was fighting some internal battle.

Maybe it was the memory of how peaceful she'd looked in her nest, surrounded by our care.

Or maybe it was just that I was falling for her harder and faster than I'd thought possible, and the idea of her suffering alone was more than I could handle.

I was debating whether checking on her would be welcome or invasive when I heard Charlie's bedroom door creak open.

"Dad?" Her voice was small in the darkness. "The storm's really loud."

"I know, buttercup." I sat up, automatically opening my arms as Charlie padded over to my bed. "Want to sleep in here tonight?"

"Yeah." Charlie climbed under the covers, pressing close to my side the way she had when she was smaller. "Is Kit okay? She smells scared."

Charlie's scent sensitivity had always been sharper than most kids her age, a trait she'd inherited from her mother.

"I think she might be," I said carefully. "Storms can be hard for people sometimes."

"Like how they're hard for you?"

I looked down at my daughter, surprised by her perceptiveness. "How do you know storms are hard for me?"

"Because you get tense and check all the windows like fifty times. And you smell worried." Charlie settled more comfortably against my side. "Mom used to smell scared during storms too. Before she got really sick."

The mention of Sarah brought the familiar ache, but it was gentler now. Less sharp-edged grief and more wistful sadness.

"Your mom had some bad experiences during storms when she was younger," I said quietly. "Sometimes when you've been hurt during certain weather, your body remembers even when your brain knows you're safe."

"Is that what's happening to Kit?"

Probably. Kit's anxiety tonight felt too specific, too targeted to be just about weather.

"Maybe. And if it is, the best thing we can do is let her know she's not alone."

"Should we go check on her?"

"I don't think so, buttercup. She might need to work through this on her own."

Even as I said it, I wasn't sure I believed it. Every instinct I possessed was telling me to go to Kit, to offer comfort and protection whether she wanted it or not. But respect for her autonomy had to come first, even when it went against every alpha impulse I had.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed immediately by thunder so loud it seemed to shake the foundation. Charlie flinched against my side, and from next door came a sound that was definitely not my imagination. A soft cry of distress that made my chest tight with sympathy.

"Dad," Charlie said quietly, "I think Kit needs us."

I think so too.

But before I could decide what to do about it, I heard footsteps outside. Quick, purposeful movement across the wet grass between our houses. Through my bedroom window, I could see a figure with a flashlight approaching Kit's back door.

Reed.

Of course. Reed wouldn't hesitate the way I was hesitating. He'd hear Kit in distress and go straight to the source, consequences be damned.

I watched through the rain-streaked glass as Reed knocked softly at Kit's door, saw the way she opened it immediately like she'd been waiting for someone to come. Even from this distance, I could see the relief in her posture as she let him inside.

"Reed's with her now," I told Charlie, trying to keep the complicated mix of emotions out of my voice.

"Good. Reed's good at fixing things when they're broken."

The phrase hit me harder than it should have. Was that how Charlie saw Kit? As something broken that needed fixing?

Or was that how I saw her?

"Kit's not broken, buttercup," I said quietly. "She's just... learning to trust again."

"Same thing, kinda. Mom used to say that trust was like a broken bone. It could heal stronger than before, but it took time and the right kind of care."

Sarah had been wise about things like that, understanding instinctively that healing couldn't be rushed or forced. Sometimes it surprised me how much Charlie remembered about her Mom, but it was impossible not to really. We all told her stories so often that she sometimes remembered them as if she’d been there as well.

We lay in the dark, listening to the storm rage outside while I wrestled with my own instincts.

Part of me wanted to march over there and insert myself into whatever comfort Reed was providing.

But a bigger part, the part that had learned hard lessons about respecting boundaries, knew that Kit needed to choose her own path to healing.

Even if that path didn't include me.

"Dad?" Charlie's voice was getting drowsy. "Do you think Kit will stay? Like, forever?"

God, I hope so.

"I don't know, buttercup. That's up to her."

"I think she will. She's got the right smell for staying."

I wasn't sure what that meant in Charlie's seven-year-old logic, but something about it felt true.

The storm continued for another hour, gradually losing intensity as it moved east toward the coast. By the time the thunder became distant rumbles, Charlie was asleep against my side, and the scent from next door had calmed to something closer to Kit's normal vanilla-and-honey baseline.

She was okay. Reed had helped her through whatever crisis the storm had triggered.

Reed had always been first to act, and usually that made him our best defense against whatever problems life threw at us. Tonight, it made me feel like I'd failed at something I wasn't sure I had the right to want.

When I finally fell asleep, it was to dream of storms and walls and a woman who smelled like vanilla but kept just out of reach.

The next morning dawned clear and crisp, with the kind of crystalline light that only came after big storms. I woke to find Charlie still curled against my side and the sound of voices from Kit's backyard.

Reed's low rumble and Kit's lighter tones, discussing what sounded like storm damage assessment.

Of course Reed was still there. Probably making sure she had everything she needed, fixing whatever the storm had broken.

Doing what I should have done.

"Morning, Dad." Charlie stretched and yawned. "Storm's over."

"Looks like it."

"Can we go see if Kit's okay? And maybe help clean up before school?"

The eagerness in Charlie's voice made it clear that refusing wasn't really an option. Besides, it was the neighborly thing to do. The fact that I was burning with curiosity about what had happened last night was completely secondary.

Keep telling yourself that.

We dressed quickly and headed outside, where the aftermath of the storm was evident in scattered branches, overturned planters, and the general debris that always followed severe weather. Kit's backyard had fared better than most. Reed must have secured anything that might have become a projectile.

"Good morning," Kit called when she saw us, her smile warm but careful. "Everyone sleep okay despite the excitement?"

She looked tired but not traumatized, her usual careful composure firmly in place.

But I could see the signs now that I was looking for them.

The way she held her coffee mug like a shield, the slight tremor in her hands when she thought no one was watching, the brightness in her voice that sounded more like armor than genuine cheer.

Whatever had happened last night, she'd processed it and locked it away behind walls that were becoming frustratingly familiar.

"We did fine," I said, noting the way Reed was hovering protectively nearby. His protectiveness wasn't triumphant. It looked like it had cost him sleep too, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he'd spent the night on high alert. "How about you? That was a pretty intense storm."

"Oh, you know. Just one of those things you have to get through." Kit's voice was deliberately light, but I caught the way her knuckles went white around her mug. "Reed was kind enough to check on me when the power went out."

When the power went out? So that's what had brought Reed over. Practical concern about Kit managing without electricity, not the distress I'd been hearing through the walls.

Except I could see in Reed's expression that it had been more than that. He'd felt the same compulsion to help.

The difference was, he'd acted on it.

"Well," I said, forcing my voice to stay level, "I'm glad you weren't alone."

"Me too." Kit's eyes met mine briefly before skittering away. "These mountain storms are... intense."

"They take some getting used to," I agreed. "But you handled it well."

Did she, though? There were shadows under her eyes that suggested she hadn't slept much, and her scent still carried faint traces of anxiety beneath the determined normalcy she was projecting.

"Dad," Charlie said, apparently tired of adult conversation, "can we help clean up? I'm really good at picking up sticks."

"Of course, buttercup." I was grateful for the distraction, for something practical to focus on instead of the complicated dynamics swirling between the three adults.

We spent the next hour working together to clear storm debris, falling into an easy rhythm that felt almost domestic.

Kit and Reed moved around each other with the careful awareness of people who'd shared space during crisis, while Charlie provided running commentary on the storm's impact and theories about where various pieces of debris might have originated.

It should have been comfortable. Should have felt like the natural progression of neighbors helping neighbors.

Instead, it felt like I was watching something I wasn't quite part of.

By the time we finished cleaning up, the sun was shining, making it hard to believe we'd been in the middle of a serious storm just hours earlier.

Kit insisted on making breakfast for everyone, bustling around her kitchen with the kind of determined cheerfulness that suggested she was working hard to maintain normalcy.

"This is really good," Reed said, accepting a second helping of french toast.

"Thank you. It's my grandmother's recipe. Comfort food for difficult days."

Comfort food for difficult days. The implication that last night qualified as difficult confirmed what I'd suspected.

"Kit," I said carefully, "if you ever need anything during storms, or any other time, you know you can call, right? Charlie and I are right next door."

Something flickered across her face. Gratitude, maybe, or regret.

"I know," she said quietly. "Thank you. Both of you."

But even as she said it, I could see her rebuilding the walls that had come down during the storm.

She was pulling back into herself, the way she always did after vulnerability.

Quiet, composed, unreachable. Not because she didn't trust us, I was beginning to understand.

Because she didn't trust herself to need anyone.

The walls between us were paper-thin, and somehow still impossible to breach.

And maybe that was okay. Maybe trust, like Charlie's broken bone analogy, took time and the right kind of care.

I just had to figure out how to provide that care without pushing too hard.

Even if it meant watching from the sidelines while other people offered the comfort I wanted to give.