She stirs faintly at the sound of my voice, her lashes lifting just enough to meet my gaze. There’s a sleepy weight to her eyes now, like she could drift off mid-breath if I let her.
“Hungry?” Levi asks her, holding up a fork with a bite of something that smells like garlic and butter.
She shakes her head weakly and settles against me again, her cheek pressed to my chest.
I drop my mouth to her hairline, breathing her in. She still smells like us—thick with Alpha scent, the kind of mix that clings to skin for days.
My knot’s still holding her, but there’s no urgency in her movements now. Just small, slow shifts, like her body’s adjusting without her even noticing.
We sit in that quiet, the only sounds the clink of Levi’s fork in the container and the low hum of Simon checking the flow of her IV. She’s drifting, the fever-dream edge fading, and for the first time since this started, I feel the weight of calm settling in the room.
But I also know—the second my knot loosens—she’s going to need more. And judging by the look on Levi’s face as he licks butter from his thumb, none of us is done yet.
It’s been hours. The sun must’ve shifted across the sky outside, but in here it’s just bodies and scent and the slick drag of skin on skin.
Clothes are long gone, kicked into corners or tangled at the foot of the bed. The dishes from earlier are empty on the nightstand, abandoned mid-bite because Wren had decided she wanted someone again, and once she chooses, there’s no stopping it.
Right now, she’s tucked between Simon and Levi, both half-asleep but still draped over her like they’re trying to keep her in place with the weight of their bodies alone. She’s breathing slowly, her hair damp and messy, that faint heat-sweet scent still clinging to her skin but softer than before.
I wipe myself down with one of the towels we’ve been cycling through, scraping up the last of the mess on my stomach. Mycock’s finally softened enough that it doesn’t ache, though I know that’s not going to last—not with her in arm’s reach.
I tug on my boxers, the fabric catching a little on my thighs, and glance over at the bed. She doesn’t even stir. Out cold.
It makes me smile. I’ve never had this much sex in my life, not like this—intense and unrelenting, sure, but also… different. It’s like we’ve all been caught in the same current, pulled under by her heat, and the only way to breathe is to keep touching her.
We take turns drifting off, but she always wakes one of us, and then it’s over again—back in it, back in her, until none of us can tell how much time has passed.
I stretch on my way to the door, my shoulders popping. My legs are pleasantly heavy and sore. I’m halfway down the stairs before I remember why I got up in the first place—water.
The air feels cooler down here, less saturated with heat scent, and I pull in a deep breath. The kitchen’s clean enough now that the renovations are starting to show; it’s finally looking like a place people can eat out of, not just a construction project.
I’m digging through cabinets for glasses when there’s a knock at the front door. It’s sharp, insistent—not the polite little tap you’d give if you thought the person inside was asleep.
My brow pulls down. Who the hell is knocking like that here?
I pad over, still just in my boxers, and open the door.
Norah’s standing there.
It takes me a second to place her because I’ve never seen her outside the flower shop—no apron, no handful of blooms—but then she shifts, and I spot the crate at her feet. Pancake blinks up at me from inside, tail curled tight around his paws.
“Oh,” I say slowly. “So that’s where the cat was.”
Norah’s eyes widen a little at the sight of me, her gaze flicking—quickly, but not quickly enough—over my bare chest and down to my boxers.
“Beau,” she says, and there’s a mix of surprise and something sharper in her voice. She steps inside without asking, like she’s already decided whatever she came here for is too vital for pleasantries. “I’m here to check on Wren.”
Before I can answer, a noise carries down from upstairs—low, breathy, feminine. Then another, higher, unmistakable. The rhythm of it is enough to make my jaw flex. She’s up… and she’s fucking someone.
Norah freezes.
I scratch the back of my neck, feeling the heat rise under my skin. “She’s… occupied.”
“I can hear that,” she says, and there’s a faint flush creeping into her cheeks. She’s trying to keep her voice level, but there’s a stiffness there now.
She holds up a paper bag, like that’ll reset the conversation. “I brought breakfast.”
It’s then that I notice the bag—the smell of baked bread, maybe eggs. My stomach gives a faint growl. “I’ll give it to her,” I say, reaching for it.
