"You're a menace," I informed him, poking his chest with one finger, but I was smiling too, something warm and sweet unfurling in my chest at this—this easy morning intimacy, this pile of tangled limbs and shared warmth. This was what I'd always wanted. What I'd been afraid to want.
Behind me, Harper stirred, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me closer against his broad chest. "Too early for talking," he rumbled, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet, his beard scratching pleasantly against my shoulder.
"It's almost nine," Silas pointed out, his voice dry as dust.
"Like I said," Harper muttered, pressing his face into my hair and inhaling deeply, his massive frame curling around me like a protective shell. "Too early."
Remy chose that moment to wake up—or rather, to make his wakefulness known. He'd probably been conscious for at least a few minutes, based on the way his hand had been slowly migrating from my waist toward more interesting territory.
"I agree with Harper," he said, his voice sleep-rough and honey-sweet, his amber eyes still closed but his dimple already making an appearance. "Way too early. We should stay in bed all day. I volunteer as tribute."
"You volunteer for everything that involves staying horizontal," I said, catching his wandering hand before it could reach its destination, lacing our fingers together instead.
"Can you blame me?" He cracked one eye open, amber bright with mischief, his lips curving into that devastating smile. "Have you seen the company I'm keeping?"
"Flatterer," I accused, rolling my eyes even as warmth bloomed in my chest, but I kissed him anyway—soft and lazy and tasting of sleep.
"Truth-teller," he corrected against my lips, his free hand coming up to cup my jaw, thumb stroking over my cheekbone. "There's a difference, chere." We probably would have stayedthere all morning—four bodies tangled together in a nest that smelled like pine and honey and rain and home—but my stomach chose that moment to growl. Loudly.
Harper huffed a laugh against my shoulder, his chest vibrating with it. "Breakfast," he announced, already shifting to extract himself from the pile, the mattress dipping with his considerable weight.
"Nooo," Remy whined, making grabby hands as Harper stood, his golden curls a disaster, his expression tragic. "Come back. You're warm."
"I'll make pancakes," Harper said, his deep voice carrying that hint of a smile he rarely showed, and just like that, Remy was vertical, practically bouncing toward the edge of the bed.
"Why didn't you lead with that?" Remy demanded, scrambling to his feet with an enthusiasm that seemed impossible for someone who'd been half-asleep thirty seconds ago. "Pancakes. Yes. I'm in. Let's go."
Silas shook his head slowly, watching Remy disappear through the bedroom door, something soft in his usually guarded expression. "He's like a golden retriever," he observed, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear.
"With better hair," I agreed, stretching luxuriously before sitting up, feeling pleasantly sore in ways that had nothing to do with heat and everything to do with the three Alphas who'd spent the last week learning exactly what made me purr. "Come on. If we don't hurry, he'll eat all the bacon."
Breakfast was chaos in the best possible way.
Harper stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with the focused precision he brought to everything, his massive frame somehow not looking out of place in my tiny kitchen. Remy was perched on the counter—despite being told at least three times to get down—stealing bites of bacon and providing running commentary on Harper's technique.
"You're flipping too early," Remy said, gesturing with a strip of bacon, grease dripping onto his bare chest because of course he hadn't bothered to put on a shirt. "You gotta wait for the bubbles, mon ami. The bubbles are key."
"I've been making pancakes longer than you've been playing guitar," Harper said flatly, not looking up from the griddle, his gray eyes focused on the golden circles forming.
"And yet," Remy continued, utterly undeterred, his amber eyes dancing with mischief, "the bubbles. I'm just saying."
"You're just saying because you like hearing yourself talk," Silas said from his spot at the table, where he was methodically setting out plates and silverware with military precision, each utensil perfectly aligned.
"Guilty," Remy admitted cheerfully, taking another bite of bacon, his dimple flashing. "But it's a nice voice, don't you think? Very melodious. Musical, even."
"I think it's too early for this much talking," Harper muttered, but there was no heat in it, and when he passed Remy to grab the syrup, he pressed a quick kiss to the top of those golden curls—so fast and casual that if I'd blinked, I would have missed it.
Remy's whole face went soft for a moment, his easy charm slipping to reveal something younger and more vulnerable underneath. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual bright grin, but I'd seen it. I tucked the memory away somewhere safe, somewhere I could take it out and examine later when I needed proof that this was real.
I was sitting at the table with Silas, Gumbo's massive head in my lap—he'd apparently decided that if the Alphas were going to be permanent fixtures, he might as well use them as an excuse to get extra attention during mealtimes.
"After breakfast," I said, scratching behind his eye ridges, watching the morning light play across the kitchen, "I want to do readings for all of you."
Three sets of eyes turned to me—gray, amber, pale ice.
"Readings?" Harper asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he slid a stack of pancakes onto a serving plate, his movements pausing mid-motion.
"Tarot," I clarified, accepting the plate he handed me with a grateful smile. "I've done them for myself, for the situation with the developers, but I haven't done individual readings for any of you. And if we're going to be a pack—a real pack—I want to know what the cards say about each of you. About us."
