For the first time all day, the hum in my body feels… manageable.
When I’m done, she plucks theInvisirafrom the nightstand and presses it into my palm. “Now,” she says, like I’m a stubborn child she’s finally coaxed into taking medicine.
I take it with the last of my water. The pill slides down with a chalky bitterness that clings to the back of my tongue.
It doesn’t take long—ten minutes, maybe—before the room starts to blur at the edges. The knot low in my stomach loosens into something softer, less demanding.
Norah helps me settle deeper into the nest we’ve built, adjusting the blankets until I’m cocooned.
“I’ll take Pancake with me for the night,” she says, her voice quiet now. “I’ve got some flowers that need refrigeration anyway. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
I manage something that’s probably “thanks,” though it comes out more like a sigh.
She squeezes my shoulder, warm and steady, and her voice follows me down into the dark as the drowsiness pulls me under.
Warm hands on my hips, firm but careful. A low voice telling me I’m his, that I smell like the only thing he’s ever wanted—the heat in my belly pulses in time with the rhythm of his breath on my neck.
My body arches into him, not caring who he is or why it matters, only knowing that he fits. That I’m not empty anymore.
The dream shifts—his teeth graze the soft curve of my shoulder, right where the bond mark would go. My skin prickles, my heart hammering in my chest as my body gives in, pressing closer, tilting my neck without thought.
It’s not just want—it’sneed. A need so deep it’s almost pain.
Somewhere in the fog of it, I think his voice sounds like Beau’s.
That’s when I wake.
My eyes fly open to darkness, my body slick with sweat, the sheets twisted and damp around my legs. My lungs pull in air too quickly, like I’ve been running.
The faint tang of the cedar quilt Norah tucked around me is still there, but under it—stronger, heavier—isme. My own scent, hotter and sweeter than I’ve ever smelled it, fills every breath.
I sit up too fast, the room spinning for a second. My pulse is everywhere—in my throat, between my legs, in the tips of my fingers. I feel raw. Unmoored.
The suppressants should’ve worked by now. I glance at my phone on the nightstand, thumbing it awake.
9:02 p.m.
Not even three hours since I swallowed thatInvisira.
“Fuck.” My voice is hoarse, cracked around the edges.
I press the heel of my hand between my thighs, trying to will the ache away. It only makes it worse. The pressure there is constant, insistent, like my body’s already halfway to begging.
I need todosomething. To get up, to drink water, to distract myself.
But when I swing my legs off the bed, I catch sight of the shirt draped over the back of the chair in the corner.
Beau’s Henley.
The one he left behind earlier. Dark gray, worn soft from too many washes, faintly rumpled where I folded it without thinking.
Even from here, I cansmellit.
My pulse stutters. I tell myself it’s a bad idea. A stupid idea. That this is exactly how the worst decisions of my life have started.
But I’m already moving, stripping out of the thin lounge pants I’d changed into, pulling my tank over my head. The cool air makes me shiver, but the moment my fingers close around that shirt, warmth floods me again.
I bring it to my face.
