The hallway is cold, a drafty corridor that connects the bedrooms to the living area. The house is still, the kind of heavy silence that only exists in the deepest part of the night.
I shuffle into the kitchen, the moonlight filtering through the window over the sink painting the countertops in shades of silver and blue.
I fill a glass from the tap, the water shockingly cold. As I take a sip, a noise cuts through the quiet. A scuffle. A scratch against the side of the house.
I freeze, the glass halfway to my lips.
Probably the raccoon.
There’s a fat, bandit-masked creature that’s been frequenting the back porch lately, eyeing the trash bins with professional interest. I’ve been leaving him scraps, a peace offering to keep him from ripping the bags open.
Setting the glass down, I grab the heavy metal flashlight from the utility drawer and move to the back door. I can see through the glass that it’s started to snow, fat flakes drifting down and sticking to the deck railing.
I pour a little water into a ceramic saucer, grab my snow boots from the rack, and shove my feet into them. I don’t bother with a coat; I’ll only be a second.
Unlocking the door, I ease it open. The cold air hits me like a slap, waking up the rest of my senses. I step out onto the deck, flashlight beam cutting through the swirling flakes.
“Here, little guy,” I whisper, heading toward the corner of the house where the noise came from. “I’ve got some?—”
The beam of light hits something that isn’t a raccoon.
It hits a pair of boots. Then a pair of trousers shoved down around ankles. Then, as I lift the beam in horrified, slow-motion realization, I see skin.
A lot of it. Three distinct male forms, crowded around a smaller, feminine figure pinned against the rough siding of the house.
Norah.
She’s braced against the wood, her head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure.
Jude is in front of her, his hands gripping her hips, his face buried in her neck. Ryker is behind her, one hand in her hair. And Dorian… Dorian is beside them, whispering something in her ear that makes her shudder visibly.
They are moving in a rhythm that is ancient and primal, completely oblivious to the snow falling around them or the light suddenly shining on their entangled bodies.
The sight sears itself into my retinas. My brain shorts out.
“Holy shit!” I yelp, the flashlight beam jerking wildly as I stumble back. “I am so sorry!”
I don’t wait for a reaction. I don’t wait to see if they stop or if they turn around. I spin on my heel, nearly tripping over my own boots, and scramble back into the house.
I slam the door shut and lock it, leaning back against the wood as if it could keep out the utter humiliation currently burning through my veins.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Oh my god.”
I just saw my brother having sex. I just saw all three of them having sex. With Norah.
I groan, sliding down until I hit the floor. This is hardly the first time—I’ve walked in on Norah before, usually in compromising positions in various rooms of this house.
I mean, I’m happy for her, truly. She found her pack, and they adore her. But damn, that woman has a libido that does not adhere to a schedule.
And Jude… that is my brother. That is the man who I helped with his math homework and who taught me how to drive a stick shift.
Another shudder runs through me.
I haul myself up and grab my glass of water, taking a long gulp to try to wash away the image. It doesn’t work.
A few minutes pass, the silence in the kitchen now thick with awkward anticipation. Then the back door clicks open.
I stiffen, staring resolutely at the refrigerator magnets.
