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His words rattle around in my mind.
Scent-sensitive.
Court her.
Official.
There is one word none of them have said out loud. One that keeps swirling through my thoughts. I won’t let myself focus on it.
I don’t bother replying, either. Instead, I get up and walk over to close my door. Since, apparently, it needs to be locked to keep these assholes away from me and out of my goddamn laundry.
When I get close enough, Ronan’s hand wraps around my upper arm. Over the wing tattoo I got to signify my commitment to our pack. Our family.
I expect him to squeeze, but he just waits until I turn my head. His storm-gray eyes are as solid and still as Archer’s were.
Peaceful. Final.
“This is happening,” he says. “You need to get on board, Declan.”
I look down at where his fingers wrap around the feathers inked into my skin; his own thicker, curling black pattern layered over the top. They were supposed to be permanent symbols, more visible than bites or bonds.
I rip my arm away. “Or what?”
He looks me in the eye, the sheer force of his will indomitable. “Or else.”
chapter
twenty-three
“Your boobs are absurd,” Remi mutters.
I tug her T-shirt up over my chest, sighing. “If I had my own clothes, I might not look so ridiculous.”
She smirks. “Somehow, I don’t think they’ll mind.”
Her eyes trail around her apartment, pointedly flickering to each of the floral arrangements I’ve received over the week. There are three—one from each of the alphas who have professed their intentions toward me.
Archer’s are the simplest—an arrangement of white and pink that came with the very sweetest note attached.
Ronan’s are obviously the most expensive—all rare blooms in vibrant colors. They arrived with a pair of delicate aquamarine earrings.
Theo’s came just this morning. A loud, orange arrangement of tropical flowers, perfect for an Ospreys’ game day. His came with a box of outrageously large donuts.
I swallow hard, ignoring the pang in the chest when I wonder what sorts of flowers or gifts Declan Howard would send. If he deigned to acknowledge my existence.
That seems less likely by the day. He still won’t even join our group chat.
After our impromptu dinner, the rest of the Ash pack created a text thread for us and proceeded to keep in constant contact all week. They wanted to know everything. From my day-to-day plans to my thoughts and feelings about whatever topics came up.
They all texted the same way they spoke in real life. Theo sent the most messages, his focus leaping from one subject to the next with amazing speed.
He was also the most entertaining and relatable. I loved how open and guileless his messages felt. He told me how he felt with an ease I admired, actually. Constantly sharing that he missed me, he was thinking about me, and all sorts of sweet sentiments that turned me to mush.
Archer seemed more focused. He consistently steered our conversations back to me, asking question after question. His tone made me giggle—he typed like he was writing a research paper instead of a text and never used emojis. He was very fond of periods and commas, too.
Then, of course, Ronan. He answered the least out of the four of us, but most of his replies actually left me swooning. He’d certainly mastered the art of the panty-dropping one liner. And he asked me for photos almost every day.
In their own individual ways, they each made me feel desired and cared for. Even during their busiest week in months.
