When the clock on my phone clicks past 1:30, I give up on pretending to sleep and wander down the hall to Piper’s suite. Her light is still on. You’d think being mobbed by fans and then forcibly ejected from a recording studio would be enough to sedate a pop star, but Piper is still awake. I can hear through her door the playback from today’s session that she’s listening to over and over again. Every few minutes, she skips back ten seconds, like she’s looking for something she left behind.
I hover a second before I knock, soft enough that she could ignore me if she wants.
“Nolan?” she calls. Her voice is low, guarded.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
There’s a beat, then the door opens a crack. Her hair’s down, face bare of makeup for the first time today. She’s wrapped in a massive fuzzy sweatshirt.
She steps aside, and I follow her in. The suite is huge and smells like cherry lip balm and the faintest trace of vanilla. A small mountain of pillows and blankets form a nest on the bed, surrounded by candles glowing softly to light up the room. And a tablet shines bright on the comforter, frozen at the chorus of her new single.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, immediately regretting the banality.
Piper pulls her sweatshirt tight. “Can’t turn my brain off. I keep running today on repeat. Sorry, that’s dumb.”
“It’s not dumb.” I cross to the window to double-check the lock out of habit, and catch her reflection watching me. “It was a lot, even for you. Crowd swarms never happen at Reverie Rest.”
She sits on the edge of the bed and hugs her knees. “I’ve been mobbed before. But it was never like…” Her voice trails off. She fiddles with the hem of her sleeve.
I finish for her. “Like they wanted to eat you alive?”
She laughs, sharp and surprised. “Exactly. It just felt different. And?—”
“And?” I ask, but I won’t push further if she doesn’t want to talk about it.
Piper glances up at me. “It felt like our pack was under attack.”
Our pack.
She says it without irony or hesitation.
I let my walls down, too. “It did. And it’s been eating me alive all night.”
Piper rises off the bed and touches a hand to my forearm. We’re never close like this, so lightly intimate, but everything has changed since the gala fundraiser. “Me too. But we’re safe now, right?”
I don’t want to scare her. Or lie to her. “Yes.” There’s something more going on, behind the scenes by some unknown factor pulling strings, but without direct evidence, I can’t confirm it. So I don’t tell Piper my assumptions.
“Good.” Piper tilts her head, studying me. “Did you ever think you’d be doing this? Running security for a singer and a prince running from fans?”
I shake my head. “I figured I’d be guarding state secrets, or maybe some arms dealer’s brat. But honestly? I’d pick this, every time.”
She blinks, surprised. “Even after today?”
“Especially after today.” My voice comes out softer than intended. “Piper, you—” I stop myself, because the list of things I want to say is longer than my resume. “You’re not like other clients. I care. And that care started long before I realized you were my scent-matched omega.”
She swallows hard. “It did?”
I nod. “Yes.”
Her chest rises and falls as we hold each other’s gaze. The room suddenly feels too hot and too small. I move my hands to my sides so I don’t accidentally act on this tension.
Then something shifts in her eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
She hesitates, then blurts, “Were you scared?”
I want to say no, but that’s not the game we’re playing tonight. “Terrified,” I admit. “Not of the fans. Of losing you.”
