Page 95 of Savage Surrender

I wake on my stomach with one leg thrown over a pile of pillows and stickiness between my thighs.

My body aches in all the good places, the slow, used-up kind of sore that makes me want to stretch with satisfaction and then not move for another hour. Weller’s knot kept me full until I couldn’t hold my eyes open anymore.

I smile into the blanket.

The nest is perfect. Honey and cedar, blackcurrant and spice, amber, teakwood - every one of them worked into the pillows and blankets. My omega is still half asleep, warm and smug and pleased with herself.

I reach behind me for whoever is supposed to be there.

My hand finds a cold sheet.

The space in front of me is empty too. I lift my head. Pillows, tangled blankets, the dent where somebody slept beside me. No bodies.

Someone is cooking sausage.

My stomach growls so hard it almost hurts. Of course Freddie is making breakfast. Apparently the mountain of pastries he brought home yesterday did not satisfy his need to feed me until I require assistance rolling from room to room.

I push up slowly. The soreness between my legs practically screams, along with the fact that I am naked and mildly disgusting. A shower can wait until after food. I drag one of the blankets around me and step off the mattress.

The den is cool and washed in pale morning light. The balcony doors are closed, the ocean gray beyond the glass, the distant hiss of frying and music too low to make out.

They must be letting me sleep.

Which is sweet. Suspicious, but sweet.

I pull on a shirt from the edge of the nest. It falls to the middle of my thighs and smells like Tristan.

Water runs somewhere down the hall. I follow it to one of the bathrooms and find the door partly open. Steam curls through the gap.

Tristan stands beneath the shower with his back to me, both hands working shampoo through his hair. Foam slides down his shoulders. His eyes are closed, his mouth relaxed in a way it almost never is when he’s thinking.

My libido rears its head, but I tamp it down. Absolutely not. We need food.

Classical music grows clearer as I cross the hall. Strings and piano, soft enough that the ocean still pushes beneath it. Weller stands at the stove with his back to the doorway. He’s fully dressed, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand turning sausages in a pan.

He doesn’t see me.

Watching Weller when he doesn’t know he’s being watched feels unfairly intimate.

Mine.

I could walk up behind him and put my mouth between his shoulder blades. Slide my hand into the front of his pants. See if all that control survives me on my knees while the sausage burns.

My stomach growls again.

Fine. Sausage first.

I look toward the island, expecting Freddie to pop up from the pantry. The counter has been cleaned. Yesterday’s bakery boxes and mess are gone.

They must be working on the cameras. I back away before Weller notices me and check the office, then the lower landing. Both empty.

I return to the den to check the balcony. The balcony is empty.

I turn back toward the nest. A piece of paper sits on the table beside the flowers. I don’t remember it being there last night. Then again, I was busy arguing about the plan for Colleen, getting knotted, and losing consciousness.

The note is folded once.

Sorry, Princess. Do not try to follow us.