He wipes at my cheeks with his thumb, patient and careful.
“Your hair is a matted mess,” he adds lightly. “But I have something that can help.”
“You do?” I ask.
He smiles. “Come here.”
He kisses my forehead, then takes my hand and leads me out of the bathroom.
That’s when I see them.
Jude and Ryker are sitting on the edge of the bed now, both awake.
Jude’s hair sticks up in every direction, eyes still a little unfocused as he looks at me. Ryker’s gaze snaps to me immediately, sharp and assessing, scanning me like he’s checking for damage.
A flash of heat curls low in my belly at the sight of them.
They’re marked, too. Bite marks along shoulders and chests. Scratches I recognize without thinking. Evidence of how much I took and how much they gave back.
It was a lot of damn sex.
“Are you okay?” Ryker asks, already halfway to standing.
I nod, tightening my grip on Dorian’s hand. “Yeah. I am.”
Their shoulders relax at the same time.
And just like that, I know. I’m exactly where I need to be.
I stand there wrapped in a towel, still a little unsteady, still very aware of my own body in a way that feels both intimate and awkward now that my head is clear. The three of them watch me like I might vanish if they blink too long.
The first thing that slips out of my mouth is ridiculous.
“I stink,” I say.
It's a reflex. A sudden awareness of myself layered in scent and sweat and something deeper that clings to my skin.
Heat aftermath. Too much time tangled together. I wrinkle my nose instinctively.
Jude lets out a soft laugh. Not mocking. Warm. He pushes himself fully upright on the bed, elbows resting on his knees, and smiles at me like I just said something charming instead of mortifying.
“You really don’t,” he says. “You smell like you.”
My face heats immediately. I feel it spread from my cheeks down my neck, lighting up every bite mark like a spotlight.
I glance away, suddenly fascinated by a wrinkle in the carpet.
Dorian clears his throat. “Actually,” he says, and I hear the faint rustle of plastic, “I brought something.”
He steps closer and sets a small overnight bag on the dresser. Unzips it. When he pulls the bottles out, my breath catches.
My shampoo.
My conditioner.
The exact ones I buy. The scent I’ve loved for years. Something small and familiar and unmistakably mine.
“You remembered,” I say, a little stupidly.
