"Tessa," Daniel groaned, pushing himself off the wall. He took a staggering step forward, drawn by the gravity of the moment, his large hands flexing at his sides as if remembering the feel of my skin.
"I don't want to be the victim anymore," I told them, my voice vibrating with the truth of it. "I don't want to receive safety. I want to take it, to overwrite the memory of you watching me fall apart."
I walked right up to Anders. I was close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes, close enough to smell the sweat beneath the expensive cologne and the heat radiating from his broad chest. I reached out and took his hand, the hand that had signed my lucrative contracts, the hand that had wiped my fevered skin with a warm cloth only hours ago.
I placed it flat against my heart, over my bare breast.
His breath hitched, stopping completely. His hand was trembling, hot and rough against my skin, calloused from stress rather than labor, but strong.
"Feel that," I ordered to him, to all of them. "It’s beating. I’m alive. I’m right here."
I looked over my shoulder at the others, catching Simon's awe and Daniel's hunger.
"I'm rewriting the ending," I told them, letting the heat in my eyes mirror the fire in the hearth. "Don't just watch. Take me."
I pressed into Anders’ hand, pushing my breast against his palm, hard.
"Fill the void," I demanded, the words raw and aching, tearing down the last wall between us. "Fill it until there's no room left for the ghosts."
SEVENTEEN
Daniel
The silence that followed her command wasn't the empty, terrifying vacuum of the auditorium. It was the charged, heavy silence of an intake of breath before a prayer.
Tessa stood before us, naked and glorious. The firelight licked up her legs, casting long, dancing shadows against her pale skin, illuminating the flush that started at her chest and rose to her hairline. She was shaking, but not with withdrawal. She was vibrating with the sheer, nuclear force of the heat spike.
"Fill the void," she had said.
It was an order. A plea. And it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.
"Down," I rumbled.
I didn't think about the word before I said it. It bypassed my brain and resonated straight from my chest, deep and low, the kind of sub-bass frequency that you feel in your teeth.
Tessa didn't hesitate. Her knees, already weak from the chemical overload, buckled.
I caught her.
I didn't catch her like a falling object; I caught her like a falling star. My hands, massive and broad, swept out andwrapped around her waist, taking her weight before she could hit the hardwood. The heat of her skin burned through the flannel of my shirt, searing the imprint of her ribs against my forearms.
"The rug," I told the others, my voice thick. "We need the rug. Soft pile."
It was a dynamic term.Soft Pile.It meant safety, a crush of bodies, and a tangle of limbs. It was an instinctual formation for a pack that needed to ground a frantic Omega, but we had never been a pack before. We were just three broken men and the woman we had failed.
But tonight, the broken pieces were magnetizing.
I lowered her onto the thick wool rug in front of the hearth. The fire was roaring now, throwing out enough heat to make the air shimmer, smelling of cedar and sap.
Tessa landed on her back, her hair fanning out like a dark halo. She looked up at us, three giants looming in the firelight, and for the first time, she didn't flinch. Her nostrils flared, taking in the cocktail of our scents.
"Crowd me," she whispered, her hands reaching up, grasping at the air, grasping at us. "Don't leave any space."
Anders moved first, driven by that same desperate efficiency he applied to everything. He stripped off his ruined dress shirt, popping buttons that skittered across the floor like hail. His chest was pale and broad, dusted with golden hair, muscles jumping with tension. He moved behind her head, sitting against the base of the sofa, and slid his hands under her shoulders, lifting her upper body so she was cradled between his legs, resting back against his chest.
"I have her anchor," Anders breathed, his voice tight, his nose burying itself in her hair. He wrapped his arms around her upper chest, locking her to him, becoming the structural integrity she needed.
Simon dropped to his knees on her left. He didn't take his eyes off her face. He looked like a man starving to death at a banquet, terrified that the food might vanish if he blinked.
