Page 12 of A Nest of Maple & Mist

“No,” he said, his massive, callused palm sliding along my back in soothing strokes. “What’s on your mind? I watched you cut up the same trunk for an hour.”

I ignored the fact that he had been creeping on me from the shadows for a full hour. My chest heaved with a slow breath, my head falling into the crook of his neck where his scent was the strongest.

“It’s her. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but after what you said about the possible scent match and how potent her golden maple unravels me… I just. It’s too good to be true. Too good to wish for.”

I’d told both Shane and Jason last night that Mia Birch was my sweet girl, the regular from the coffee shop I told them about not long after we got together. Both looked pleased, but we were all quiet as we ran through scenarios in our heads.

For me, I never trusted anything that was too good to be true, because that always meant it was. If I allowed myself to believe that we could have Mia, and that she would want us in return, it would blow up spectacularly in all our faces.

Unfortunately, I found it impossible to banish the thoughts.

“Baby,” Jason whispered, his Apex tone coating his words. “You are allowed to want things. You are deserving of having those things. Thinking of a happy future does not mean you will not have it. Do you understand me?”

Sometimes I needed the reminder. The world wasn’t out to get me, even if most of my childhood made me believe anything but. My lashes fluttered as I felt my dimples bloom against my cheeks with my slow smile.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good boy,” he praised, kissing the corner of my mouth and making my stomach swoop in that delicious way. “Why don’t I help you run this last section of line and then we can return to our omega?”

Oh. I liked the sound of that. Jason and Shane always called me their beta, and the possessiveness made me feel nothing but safe and loved.

Someone sweet and beautiful and perfect.

I dared to dream.

“Ours?”

“Yes. I think so. If she’ll have us.”

“She will,” I said, daring to believe in fate.

FIVE

MIA

My neck ached, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I developed a hump along my back. I’d spent the last four hours hunched over my ancient laptop. The S key stuck, and the space bar decided when it did and didn’t want to work.

After hitting send on my seventh email that day, I shut the lid, blinking away the remnants of blue light that still stung in the back of my eyes. My fingers felt like lead as I clenched my fists, trying to get the blood flowing again.

As soon as I said goodbye to Fern, I crawled into bed, researching Northeast Property Management. Their website looked legitimate, with hundreds of positive reviews. It didn’t take long for me to find their contact information.

I combed through the paperwork I’d signed days after I turned eighteen, highlighting any clause that might be helpful. I sent off email after email. Some cold, others downright pathetic. I cited parts of the contract that held them accountable for the property’s maintenance and threatened them with lawyers I definitely didn’t have and certainly couldn’t afford.

By the time I left my second voicemail, I was less than composed, sobbing and sniffling through the phone. I hated myself for letting them affect me, and even more for allowing them to see how they’d broken me.

“Human!” I screamed through snot and tears. “Let me speak to a fucking person you fucking fuck. That house isn’t an asset. It’s the place where my dad taught me how to sear a steak and where my mom baked bread on Sundays.”

I was hanging on by a thread.

Umbra hadn’t left my side, curling up beside me and snoring as I fell apart.

I ended the call, tossing my phone aside. Shaking, I ran the back of my hand along my nose. A bed of silk cradled me as I fell backward into the plush pillows, staring up at the wooden trusses across the ceiling.

What was I going to do? I didn’t dare to imagine how much it’d cost to restore my house. Even if Northeast reimbursed what I paid them, it’d never be enough. My fingers dug into the space between eyes.

The job I had taken at the bookstore didn’t offer much, but it was exactly what I wanted. At least for now. All it needed to do was cover basic expenses. I never planned for it to support things like mold removal, or roof repairs, or broken windows.

When I’d gotten my English degree, I always hoped to write my own stories—glorious adventures with friends and lovers. The bookstore was merely a necessity in the interim. It was hard to think about writing worlds like that when my own was in shambles.