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I shake my head.
As I slowly trail them up, I always keep at least three steps between us, painfully aware that I’m in their house. A dangerous thing for an omega who has her heat coming up in the not too distant future, and who is not eager to see it through with any alpha.
If I stay, I’ll crave nothing more than something soft I can make into a nest to ride out my heat with an alpha.Anyalpha. And if that were to happen, they might not be so eager to let me leave after.
Kylian—whose back I’m following—glances over his shoulder as if he can sense my rising doubt.
“You’re safe,” he says.
From physical assault, maybe.
But from biology? Both mine and theirs? No omega or alpha can ignore those urges for long.
I nod but don’t respond.
The room they show me is on the first floor, a sprawling silver-and-peach-colored space. It’s not a color combination I’d have put together, but the peach softens the silver, and the silver makes the space luxe and elegant.
A cream boucle window seat peeks between the partially closed drapes. I have never literallyachedwith the need to crawl onto that soft-looking seat with my sketchpad and spend hours drawing the world below.
“For the guests we never have.” Kylian’s back is leaning on the wall beside a closed door that must be a closet. His eyes have been on me while I was busy absorbing this room’s beauty. I’ve felt it, even if I pretended to myself I didn’t.
I’ve seen more beautiful rooms. Rooms full of antiques and decorated by award-winning interior designers.
But this?
“It’s nice,” I say politely.
Big, fat liar. You abso-fucking-lutely love it.
If this room wasn’t situated in a home belonging to three alphas, I think I would quite like it to be mine forever. My eyes snag on a closed set of white double doors.
“The bathroom,” Kylian says when he notices where I’m looking. “You’ll find anything you might need in there. Toothbrush, toothpaste, shower stuff. Go wild.”
I nod my thanks. As soon as they leave, I’ll be diving into the shower to scrub Lawrence’s scent off me.
Cian crosses the room to a white, distressed wood dresser. Someone hung a large flat-screen TV on the wall above it and prettied it up by framing it with a vintage silver picture frame.
Stop loving this room, Everleigh. Seriously, stop.
Cian picks up a white remote from the top of the dresser and turns to show it to me. “You have all the channels here.”
Turning the TV on, Cian quickly flicks through the channels as if to prove he wasn’t lying. They have all the channels and then some.
I curl my bare toes in the room’s plush pale gray carpet. My gaze bounces between the bathroom I’m desperate to use, the delicate-looking silver chandelier, and that boucle window seat I need to touch.
And the closet.
But not the bed. I have no interest in the bed.
“She’s my world.” Lawrence’s voice sends a jolt through me.
My eyes jerk to the TV. Lawrence is standing in his mahogany and leather office, shoulders slumped, brow furrowed, and lips flat. I try not to focus on the desk directly behind him, but my knuckles still throb. If devastation had a face, it would look like Lawrence Wentworth.
Staring right at the camera, he says, “Everleigh, if you can hear me, come—”
Click.
I blink.
