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I wake up early the next morning—so early I can taste dawn on the air, even from inside the house and surrounded by a cocoon of warm arms and legs.
Ridge and Dare cuddle me from either side, their hands resting on my body and their faces buried against my skin. They’re both still dead asleep, breathing deeply, eyelids moving as they dream. I wonder briefly what they’re dreaming of, and if maybe I’m a part of it. They’ve both played host to dreams in my mind too, many of which were more than a little R-rated.
I stretch, dislodging both sleeping men with very little effort. They readjust and continue snoozing as I sit up and rub away the sleep from my eyes.
Archer sits in a cushioned armchair beside the bed, the last man on watch. He dragged the chair in here when we arrived before the battle with the witches, after I revealed that I was worried my magic might hurt one of them while I slept. It surges every now and then, the black marks streaking across my skin, the magic swirling out of me like smoke, ready to hurt any shifter that might get too close.
So every night, my men take turns watching me—partly because of the errant magic, and now partly because of the constant worry that Cleo might invade my mind.
Not that they’d be able to save my life if she did. I have a feeling the next time Cleo gets through, she won’t fail to destroy me.
Archer has a paperback open between his hands and reading glasses perched on his nose. He has gorgeous golden hair, tan skin, vivid green eyes, and a boy-next-door look. When he adds the glasses, he becomes the hot, nerdy guy who makes my heart do little backflips.
He looks at me over the top of his glasses and smiles. “Morning.”
I crawl over Dare’s sleeping body to slide off the mattress, then lean over the chair, hands on both armrests as I kiss Archer. He showered sometime after I fell asleep last night. My wolfish nose can smell the soap on his skin. I feel an insane urge to lick it off, to rub against him and replace that crisp, clean scent with my own. Luckily, I’m too aware that I might have morning breath, so I refrain from any licking.
“Good morning,” I murmur, my lips brushing his one more time before I finally straighten. “Did Trystan ever come to bed?”
A shadow passes over Archer’s face, and he shakes his head. “He came home though. Late, while I was sleeping but before I took over for Ridge. I smelled him in the house when I woke up.”
I reach out and run my fingers through his soft blonde hair. “You look tired.”
“Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. I could sleep for weeks and never come out of this.”
My heart squeezes. With so much going on right now, it’s easy for every day to feel like it lasts a week, but in reality, Malcolm’s death is still so recent. I know it was good for Archer to let some of his sadness out yesterday, but that doesn’t mean he’s done mourning. That’s not how grief works.
And on top of all of that, he’s trying so hard to do right by his pack and take care of everyone. To deal with the witch threat and get people on board with a possible new pack dynamic. If I were him, I’d feel like I was being assailed from all angles at this point. It’s a miracle his eyes are even open.
“You will get through this. All of this,” I say firmly. “But for now, why don’t you try to get a little more rest? I’m awake now. I don’t need you to stand guard over me—I need you to sleep.”
I don’t have to ask him twice. He takes off his glasses and pulls a bookmark from the back of the book to mark his place. Then he shoves the book down between the cushions, where it will wait until he’s on watch again. He pecks me on the lips one more time and crawls over Dare, sprawling out between the two sleeping shifters.
Ridge rolls over, flinging out an arm so that it hangs over the edge of the bed, and Dare flops over, making more room for Archer even in his sleep. Archer lies on his side, his body curved around Dare and his face pillowed on his hands. His eyes flutter shut almost immediately, and it’s like I can just see the tension draining away from him. Within moments, he’s breathing easier, and his face has gone slack with sleep, where the stress can’t reach him.
I stare down at the three of them, a happy ache spreading through my chest. They share the bed well, so comfortable together that it seems like second nature. There was a time not that long ago when all four of my men were waiting for me to choose between them. They put up with one another those first couple weeks thinking that eventually, my wolf would mate with one of them, and they could send the other three wolves packing out the door.
But that day seems so far in the rearview now. None of us could have seen this coming, but somehow, we’ve made it work. We’ve all built our relationships and molded our lives together as if it’s just always been this way. As close as I’ve become to all of them, they’ve become friends with each other too. Brothers, even. I love the bonds they’ve built alongside the one they share with me.
With one last glance, I turn and leave the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind me so as not to disturb them.
The hallway smells like food. Butter. Melted butter. Eggs. Cheese?
My wolf nose is excited to sniff out all the nuances and guess at what awaits me in the kitchen, though I don’t give too much thought as to why I’m smelling food cooking while three of my mates are passed out in the bedroom. Not until I cross the threshold into the kitchen and realize food doesn’t just cook itself.
Trystan, of all the people on this planet, stands over the stove with a spatula, staring intently at a sizzling skillet.
I pause just inside the door, gaping at him. Since when does Trystan cook? Usually it’s Archer or Ridge whipping up our meals while Trystan sits at the table and makes wisecracks about them doing their housewifely duties.
He glances over his shoulder at me and shrugs as if he can read my mind. “Weirdly enough, cooking eggs helped me the morning you woke up after your transition to witch.”
“That’s… good?” I ease further into the room, hoping he’ll keep talking.
“I didn’t realize it at the time,” he adds as he slides the spatula under a perfect, sunny-side up egg, “but having something to do and some way to do something for the people I care about helped me deal. Gave me something to focus on.”
I join him over the stove and look down into the skillet. He’s even seasoned the eggs like he’s an old pro. Nudging him with my shoulder, I grin and say, “I’ll have to buy you an apron. Something kitschy like ‘Kiss the Cook,’ I think.”
“Great idea. Then I could cook for you while wearing the apron and nothing else.” He flashes me one of his patented Trystan smiles, but it doesn’t quite land right, and neither does the joke.
