Page 62 of Pack Me Up

Hunter edges closer, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes wide and dark. “You smell so fucking good like this.”

Cody sets the pedals down with a clatter and gives Colton a look. “She’ll need water,” he says, and Colton nods, vanishing toward the kitchenette.

Saint is the anchor in the room, every molecule of him drawn tight. “Fox, get her a cold rag.” He looks at me, softer now. “You’ve got this. Just breathe.”

I want to snarl at him, or maybe kiss him, or maybe both. Instead, I grip the neck of the guitar until my knuckles go white, riding out the next wave of cramps.

Fox returns with a damp cloth and presses it against my forehead.

Hunter glances up at Saint, who’s now standing behind the couch, arms crossed, jaw locked. “We should take her to her nest,” Fox says. “She needs a safe place.”

My skin prickles at the thought. My parents’ words try to penetrate my brain but the hormones push them out.

Saint picks me up bridal style, and I snuggle into his neck. His scent of mahogany, cracked pepper, and leather floods my nose, making me drip slick.

The walk to the stairwell is a blur, bodies flanking me on every side. Colton and Cody bracket the rear, Fox and Hunter ahead, and Saint’s hands never leave me.

Saint is about to enter my nest when my omega freezes up, and I release a screeching whine.

All of them freeze immediately and look at me.

“What do you need, honey?” Saint asks.

“You can’t come in. Put me down,” I demand.

All five of them stare at me like I’m crazy, but do as I ask.

I stand in the doorway, not sure what to do.

My legs move on their own, and I collapse onto the bed, hugging the pillow to my face. The scent of clean linen and a hint of Saint’s leather wraps around me. It’s not enough, but it’s something.

“Wait,” I say, surprised by my own desperation. “Give me your shirts.”

None of them hesitates. They peel them off with one smooth motion. The sight of their chests, broad and mapped with old scars, makes my heart stutter. Saint gathers them up, then tosses the shirts to the foot of the bed and retreats, watching me through the doorway.

The heat doesn’t stop, but the edge of panic recedes. I burrow into the bed, clutching the shirts to my chest, letting the scent and the safety settle around me. The ache is still there, but it’s manageable, for now.

I strip off my jeans and crawl under the covers, layering the shirts on top like a blanket. My mind races, and every nerve ending is alive, but I’m not afraid.

I don’t know how long I lose to the blur of nesting. In the lucid moments, I clutch Saint’s shirt to my chest, twist it into knots, drag it over the flushed skin of my face and neck just for another hit of his scent. When that’s not enough, I grope blindly for the other shirts. I build a barricade of fabric and sweat and musky scents, then burrow under it like the world will drown me if I surface.

It isn’t enough.

The ache grows teeth, gnawing my insides raw. At the height of it, I’m sure I’m dying. I writhe on the bed, sobbing intothe shirts, curling in and out of myself until every nerve feels like it’s caught fire. My body is not my own; it belongs to the pheromones and the instincts and the siren call of alphas just outside the door.

I don’t know how long I’m like this before the knock comes. Three sharp raps, deliberate, then silence. I freeze, every muscle locking down.

Fox’s voice, muffled but gentle. “Britt? We’re here if you need anything.”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

There’s a shuffle, then a second knock—softer this time, a suggestion rather than a command. Saint’s voice, low and resonant: “Invite us in, omega.”

The word slaps me awake. I pop up out of the bed and look at them.

They’re all there, arrayed in a semicircle with Saint at the center, massive and unyielding, the twins to his left, hands tucked into opposite pockets, mirrored stares locked on me, Fox to his right, and Hunter at the edge, all nerves and kinetic energy, foot tapping against the wood.

The heat in my face is nothing compared to the flare between my thighs. I almost collapse, but Saint’s expression anchors me to the doorway.