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It would have to be one hell of a contraption to keep me covered while also blending into this dress, but she has a point. Plus, Mrs. Fleming is basically magic. The day after I mentioned not having anything appropriate for the guys’ annual charity gala, two stunning evening gowns appeared on the back of my closet doors. I’m sure, once I choose one, the correct undergarments will somehow end up there as well.
Part of me is ashamed to admit how quickly I’ve gotten used to this sort of pampering. After years of completely taking care of myself, it should feel odd to let these alphas dote on me. But, in the two weeks since I moved in, their attention has started to feel natural.
I thought it would be difficult to balance so many men, but it’s been pretty seamless so far. Theo and I like movie marathons—evenings spent on the couch with unholy piles of junk food. Most of the time, we don’t finish watching the movie. We end up all over each other instead.
The mornings are Ronan’s time. We usually have our coffee together before he either hauls me into his lap or carries me to his study, where I work on marketing stuff for the team while he does literally everything else.
I mean, seriously. The man is brilliant and tireless and impressively aloof. You’d never know, while he’s hammering whoever is at the other end of the phone, that I’m propped on his lap with his fingers strumming my panties.
Archer’s claimed my afternoons. He gets home from the Ospreys’ facility around three and usually shows up at my doors shortly after, carrying an afternoon snack and whatever research he’s currently immersed in.
Officially, we spend the three hours before dinner reading. Unofficially? Archer makes it his personal mission to treat my touch starvation with massages, cuddling, and an endless stream of kisses.
… And then there’s Declan.
Who has made avoiding me into another sport he excels at.
We haven’t spoken since he rushed me off the field. As one day of silence lapsed into three, then five, now nearly fifteen… it’s clear that whatever insanity led him to stake a claim to me that day was stupid territorial alpha nonsense and had nothing at all to do with actually wanting me.
Which is fine because the others all want me plenty.
There’s a knock on my door and I spring up to answer, bringing Remi with me. She laughs. “Uh, Meg? You don’t have clothes on.”
I glance down at my white cropped tank top and the matching high-waisted panties. It’s about as close as I get to actually dressing around here these days, but I don’t want to tell her that. I’m still trying to be sensitive to the fact that I somehow found a pack when she’s the one who’s always wanted one.
“Good call. I’ll throw a robe on and text you later?” I half-lie.
Her smirk tells me she doesn’t buy my line about the robe for a second. “Mm hmm. Tell Archer hi from me.”
She clicks off and I see she’s right—it’s after three, so the alpha at my door should be my sexy doctor. The warm scents of bourbon and ginger clouding the air confirm her assumption.
While I hurry to the double doors, I do one last check around my suite. The space turned out beautifully. Sheer white curtains on flat gold rods; a modern oriental-style rug in ivories and charcoals; mirrored mercury glass tables; a matte gold-and-white desk; an enormous bed trimmed with dove linens and framed by a dark gray velvet headboard that takes up half the wall.
And Archer’s favorite spot—the double-width chaise chair tucked among the corner of blank bookshelves.
He snuggles me into it every day, holding me against his side while late-afternoon sun slants over the lounger. It’s become our little ritual—a slice of the peace and quiet we both crave.
He looks particularly good today, wearing one of his white button-downs rolled up to the elbows. The contrast against his rich brown skin is striking, and the way he wears it shows off the thin lines tattooed on his left arm.
Theo explained the significance of their tattoos to me one night. They each have one on their left arm, a different pattern for each man. Like his personality, Theo’s is the most chaotic—a dizzying mix of bold tribal patterns.
Ronan has the thick, black curls that resemble smoke. His is the largest, the piece extending from the middle of his chest to the tips of his fingers. I happen to know the sensual curves also continue all the way to the muscles stacked around his thighs…
I’ve never seen Declan’s tattoo up close and personal, but plenty of magazines have immortalized it in print. A series of shaded feathers start on his left shoulder and extend down to his elbow. Like an angel wing. Or an osprey’s, maybe; though I’ll probably never know what goes on in that guy’s head.
True to his nature, Archer’s ink is the subtlest. It took me a couple of weeks to figure out that the branch-like lines aren’t a grid or some sort of geometry—they’re meant to be a map of his veins. Leave it to our doctor to use his pack tattoo as some sort of anatomy lesson.
Arch flashes a shy smile as white as his shirt. “Hi, sweetheart.”
I stretch up to kiss his cheek. “Hey! Remi says hi, too. She was just on the phone.”
I’m still not used to how much my moods affect Archer, but it’s undeniable; he brightens when he hears the happiness in my voice. “Did you extend our invitation to the gala? We’d all love to meet her.”
I try not to pout while I shake my head. “She has to work. But maybe I can make us all dinner soon?”
He loops an arm around my waist and tows me toward our lounge chair. “Excellent idea. I’ll do the grocery shopping and help you cook. Just tell me which night and what Remi likes to eat.”
A familiar ache spreads through my chest. The feeling that I could never deserve this man and all of his kindness. I tuck my face into his chest to hide the emotion welling in my eyes. “Okay. Thank you.”
