Page 43 of A Murderous Omega

For ten years, I’d been alone. Feral. Dangerous. I’d convinced myself I didn’t need soft things, safe spaces, people who cared—that I didn’t deserve them.

I’d been lying. I needed Conor and Emile like I needed life itself.

I started with sheets—organic cotton that felt like clouds. Then came the layers of blankets. I built the nest up slowly, carefully, each layer positioned exactly right as I created high walls around the edges, a deep protective bowl in the center.

But something was missing.

The fabric smelled like them, yes, but it wasn’t them. It was too new, too perfect. I needed⁠—

I yanked open the door, my breathing ragged. “I need—” My voice cracked. “I need your clothes. Please. I need—” I couldn't finish, couldn't articulate the desperate, clawing desire.

Conor and Emile looked up from where they’d been sprawled on the couch, waiting for me.

“What kind of clothes?” Emile asked gently.

“Old ones. Worn ones. Things that smell like you.” Urgency clawed at me, my omega instincts screaming that the nest wasn’t complete without this. “I need you,” I whimpered.

They moved immediately. Conor reappeared a moment later with an armful of clothes—worn t-shirts, a beloved flannel, and a sweatshirt I could have sworn I’d already stolen from him. Emile added his own to the pile—a soft sweater and the button-down he’d worn to court yesterday.

“Take this too,” Conor said, handing me the shirt he’d been wearing, still warm from his body, saturated with his scent.

Emile pulled off his own shirt and added it to the pile, smiling at me with pride, not indulgence, and I loved that too. “Anything else?”

I clutched the clothes to my chest, breathing in their scents. “This is perfect.”

I retreated into the bedroom and went back to work with renewed purpose. I tucked Conor’s flannel along the edge where I’d rest my head. Emile’s sweater got positioned near the pillows.

I added more—pillows, blankets, my alphas’ worn clothes, layers and layers of softness.

When I finally stepped back, the nest was magnificent. Dark and deep and complex, every layer serving a purpose. My new luxury purchases provided the base, but Conor’s and Emile’s clothes made it home.

Carefully, I hung the fairy lights Emile had helped me pick out. He’d been right about the lighting, damn him. By the time I finished, I’d transformed the room into safety and comfort. My nest was deep enough to disappear into, structured enough to feel protected, and made of dark colors that made me feel hidden and safe.

My nest.

I climbed into the center and pulled a blanket around myself. The scent of my alphas surrounded me from every direction, mixed with my own lilac and vanilla. Safe. Soft. Mine.

Hot tears pressed at my eyes, and I let myself cry, not from pain or fear or rage, but from relief and joy and the overwhelming realization that I had a home, a pack, and more softness and safety and love than I’d ever dreamed possible.

A soft knock at the door broke through my tears. “Lark? Can we come in?”

I wiped my eyes. “Yes.”

They entered carefully, and their awe flowed through the bond before they said anything.

“It’s perfect,” Emile breathed. “You’re perfect.”

They hovered at the edge, waiting. Why were they waiting? Why weren’t they joining me? Tendrils of reassurance floated through the bond, silencing my panic. “Please come in,” I whispered, holding my arms out to them.

They approached like the nest was sacred, and when they climbed in on either side of me, their love hit me through the bond so hard I gasped—devotion, pride, bone-deep satisfaction. They were honored to be here.

Conor’s hand found the tears still wet on my cheeks. “Happy tears?” he asked.

I curled between them, letting myself be vulnerable in a way I’d never allowed before. No knives, no violence, no walls. Just me and my alphas in the nest I made, surrounded by softness and safety.

“I love you,” I said. “Both of you. So much it terrifies me.”

“We love you too, baby,” Conor whispered against my hair.