I push the beta’s door open, and I make quick work of the bed. The comforter comes first, bundled up in my arms. Then the pillows, all four of them, including the flat one he guards like it's a family heirloom. I snatch a green knitted throw balled up on the floor last.
He'll survive one night without them.
I step back into my room, arms full, then freeze in the doorway.
Elowen is standing at the foot of my bed with a towel in her hands, working it through her damp hair. She's wearing another oversized T-shirt that hits her mid-thigh, her barefeet against the dark hardwood, and she looks up when she hears me come in.
She goes a little still when she sees the pile of blankets in my arms. "Hi."
"Hi." I cross to the bed and drop everything onto the mattress in one soft heap. "Perrin won't miss these."
"Youstolehis blankets?" Her eyes go wide.
"Borrowed," I say with a wink. "Without asking."
She gives me a small smile. Her eyes drop to the pile of blankets, then back up to my face. There's something quietly uncertain in her expression.
She wants them.
But she doesn't know if she's allowed to want them.
"Go ahead," I say simply. “We have a million more pillows and blankets in this house. Perrin will be fine without them.” That’s not entirely true, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Elowen nods, then turns and drops her towel into the hamper right next to the dresser.
I stare at it for a second.
I own a hamper.
I keep forgetting that.
Moving slowly, Elowen makes her way to the bed, touching each pillow. I take the opportunity to pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor. My jeans follow, kicked off and left where they land, leaving me in my briefs as I watch the omega work.
Elowen smiles sweetly as she crawls into the bed. She slips under the comforter, and something happens to her face the moment the fabric settles around her. Her shoulders drop and her eyes go soft.
I swear I can physically see her entire body exhale all at once.
It takes everything in me not to crawl on top of her and kiss the breath out of her to show her how badly I want her here.
But I stay where I am at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching her work.
She reaches for the pile of blankets and starts going through them quietly. The comforter gets smoothed out first, before she picks up the green knitted throw.
Her hand smooths across the fabric once, and her fingers slow. Something in her expression shifts before she sets it aside, placing it carefully at the foot of the bed rather than folding it into the arrangement.
I look at the throw.
I guess it’s not soft enough.
Perrin can have that one back.
Next is the pillows.
Elowen moves one to her side, right along the edge of the bed, then another. She touches each one, sniffing the fabric and testing its softness, before placing them in a very specific spot on her side of the bed.
My father used to do the same thing.
He was meticulous about his nest. Every night without fail, he'd stand at the foot of his bed with his hands on his hips, looking at it the way a painter looks at a canvas. And now, seeing Elowen act the same way,in my bed, does something to me.
