His eyes snapped open, his heart rate spiking with the hypervigilance that always followed an episode—his body still running hot, nerves scraped raw, every sense cranked to a setting of “everything is too loud and I can smell the neighbor’s breakfast from three houses away.” He could hear the creak ofeach floorboard, and smell who was approaching before they reached the door.
Dante and Orion.
What the hell?
Late afternoon light slanted through Lilac’s faded curtains, painting the small bedroom in shades of amber. Cass was still curled against his side, one hand on Riot’s chest, breathing the slow rhythm of deep sleep. His scent had mellowed from the sharp urgency of active heat into something softer and sweeter, but Riot could feel the next wave building like a pressure in the air.
His own body was a mess of contradictions. Exhausted but wired. Guilty but still wanting. Every time Cass shifted against him, Riot felt that familiar heat stir in his gut, and every time it did, the shame followed right behind it like a debt collector who’d been given a house key.
You almost hurt him. And you’re still getting hard when he moves like someone with the self-control of an unsupervised fifteen-year-old.
He pulled himself away carefully, inch by inch, hyper-aware of each point where they touched. Cass made a soft sound of protest. Riot found his pants on the floor and pulled them on, grimacing at the stiffness in his muscles. He reached the door before they could knock, blocking the entrance with his body. The cool air from outside hit his bare chest and he realized he probably looked like hell—shirtless, scratched up, smelling like sex and heat and rut.
Good. Maybe they’ll take the hint and leave.
“We’re fine,” he said flatly.
“Heard you had an interesting day,” Dante said as he glanced at the scratches. He pushed on Riot’s shoulder and narrowed his eyes when Riot didn’t budge. “Let us in.”
Riot’s jaw tightened. Dante looked the same as always—polished, composed, that Gensyn breeding showing even in casual clothes. The man could probably survive a building collapse and emerge with a pressed collar. But there was something softer about him now, something that had developed over six months of actually having something to protect instead of something to steal. His scent carried Orion’s signature woven through it, deep and permanent and strange.
“Holy shit,” Orion said, his amber eyes going wide. “You actually—”
“He’s sleeping.” Riot kept his voice low, but the warning was clear. “And I’d appreciate if you kept your voice down.”
“We brought supplies.” Dante held up a canvas bag. “Things he’ll need when the next wave hits.”
“And we wanted to make sure you hadn’t broken him,” Orion added. “A Berserker and an Elysian seems like a recipe for disaster.”
The words found something tender and drove straight into it.
“I didn’t break him,” he said through his teeth.
Almost. You almost did.
“No one’s saying—” Dante started.
He heard movement from the bedroom, sheets rustling, a confused sound, then footsteps. Riot turned just as Cass appeared in the bend of the hallway, and both Dante and Orion ducked under his arm to enter.
Cass’s eyes were heavy-lidded, still soft with sleep, and there were marks on his visible collarbone. Marks Riot had put there. He looked thoroughly ruined. He looked like every stupid, reckless decision Riot made in the last several days given physical form and then dressed in his clothing. Riot’s body responded instantly, predictably, a pulse of desire that made him want to cross the room and press Cass back against the doorframe and—
Stop. Jesus Christ, stop.
Then Cass’s gaze found him, and his whole face transformed. The sleepy confusion melted into something bright and relieved, a smile breaking across his features like Riot was the best thing he’d ever seen.
“You’re still here,” Cass said.
Where else would I be?
Then Cass glanced at the intruders. “Oh—hi! Orion and Dante, right? I’m sorry I was so rude before…I think my mind was too warm.”
“It’s okay,” Orion said. “I figured we’d check in and see how you’re doing.”
Cass smiled, genuine and warm. And then he was moving, crossing the room with that unconscious grace, reaching for Orion like it was normal to give hugs to almost strangers wearing only a t-shirt. His arms wrapped around Orion and he tucked his face into Orion’s neck.
Riot’s brain short-circuited.
He watched Cass scent Orion—watched him press close and breathe deep, all sleep-warm and innocent, the black shirt leaving nothing to the imagination. Orion had gone rigid, hands hovering uselessly, a flush crawling up his neck. Two Omegas tangled together, one in heat and pliant, the other fighting instincts that six months of being claimed hadn’t fully tamed.
