"Good thing we're done here," Arthur growls softly against my ear.
"So take me home."
38
Beth
The four of us spill into the apartment like we're being chased.
The door clicks shut. Mason's mouth is on mine before I get a full breath.
I grab the front of his shirt with both hands and pull until there's no gap left. He tastes like champagne and cedar, and the sound I make into his mouth is something I will deny under oath.
His hands frame my face. Thumbs against my jaw. He's thorough about it. Deliberate. Like he's had this planned since dessert.
My knees stop cooperating.
When we break apart I'm panting and he's looking at me like I just told him he won the lottery, which is flattering, but I don't get to see it long because Knox turns me by the shoulder.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers curling into my hair, and the kiss he gives me is different. Slower. Deeper. Eucalyptus and amberwood flooding everything, and I press into him, chasing it.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His pupils are enormous.
Arthur steps in behind me and his lips find the curve of my neck and my head drops back against his shoulder. Rosemary and bourbon and cigar leaf, and my body just stops being solid. His mouth moves to the spot below my ear and I reach back, fingers threading into his hair.
"You have been killing me all night," he murmurs against my skin. "Your dress... Yourscent."
"You should try being on the inside of it," I manage. "The dress."
Mason's hand finds my hip. Knox's thumb is still moving along the back of my neck. Arthur's lips haven't left my throat, and three scents layer over mine until the air in the apartment is something new.
My hindbrain goes:Alpha. Alpha. Alpha.
And then, underneath that, louder and more urgent:Nest.
The thought cuts through everything like a fire alarm at a concert.
My body goes rigid.
"Beth?" Mason says.
I step out of the center of them. It takes enormous physical effort, like I'm a metal pulling against an industrial magnet, and the omega whine that comes out of me is completely involuntary. They step toward me at once.
"I'm fine," I say, holding up a hand. My voice is wrecked. "I just— I need—"
I look toward the hallway. Toward my bedroom.
Nest. Nest. Nest.
It's not a thought anymore. It's a drumbeat. It's the only thing my brain is willing to process and it is getting louder by the second and I am going to have this conversation while it happens, apparently.
"I need things," I say.
Mason blinks. "Things."
"Comfortable things. Blankets. Pillows. Soft— just, soft things. Everything soft you can find." I gesture vaguely at the apartment. "That throw on the couch. The cushions on the reading chair. The wool blanket on the top shelf of the linen closet—not the scratchy one, the other one. The good one."
"The good blanket," Knox repeats.
