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forty-eight
Remi wakes me up just before dawn.
She likes to do that, doesn’t she?
I can feel how early it is before I even open my eyes. That might have pissed me off, two months ago, but, now, I just lower my face into the sweet-scented curls grazing my chin and smile to myself.
My girl.
I move to hold her more securely, feeling unfamiliar aches in my lower back and abdominals. My half-awake mind stumbles over yesterday’s conditioning routine, our practice, our game?—
Oh holy fuck.
The night comes rushing back to me in a blur. The fight, the fog that came over me like a red mist. The rut.
God, no. I rutted her all night. In every position. If I’m sore, how battered is she?
My eyes fly open. I jerk upright, almost knocking her flat onto her back as I shift to put us chest-to-chest. She’s naked but covered in a fuzzy blanket I’ve never seen before. The fact that it’s soaked in her scent keeps me somewhat calm while I scan over her body, looking for injuries.
There are bruises. Around her arms and at her hips mostly. But still, they’re bruises. And I put them there.
A pained sound sticks in my throat while I bend to brush my lips over a patch of marks clustered at the top of her thigh. She shifts, blinking awake.
“Mmm,” she hums. “Bear?”
She doesn’t sound angry. Her voice is sweet and dreamy, full of relief and a little hint of teasing. “Or is it still my alpha down there?”
Her alpha.
I guess I really am, now. I’ve rutted her. Taken her. And judging by the way she’s acting right now? She… liked it?
My arms constrict, a shaky breath sloughing out of my lungs while I tug her closer. “Butterfly. Jesus, I’m so sorry. How long was I gone?”
Remi hums, stretching lightly within the cage of my biceps. “All night,” she murmurs, tilting her head back to peer over at the gray light just barely touching the window strips above us.
That’s when I realize—we aren’t in our bed. We’re inside her nest.
And it’s fucking beautiful.
“Look,” she whispers. “It’s sunrise.”
Yeah, it is. Outside—and in here, too.
Because my girl made our nest to resemble the early-morning view we’ve always shared.
The domed ceiling is a perfect meld of soft pastels. Blended ombre paint creates a smooth effect, blurring the colors from pale pastels to brilliant bright pink, tangerine, and yellow. Her nest cushions match, the colors ranging from the very lightest on one side to the dark, more vibrant hues on the other. Gold accents glint in the weak sunshine coming through the strips of skylight arranged in a sunburst over our heads.
“Rems,” I whisper, looking around. “Baby, did you make us a sunrise nest?”
Her smile is the genuine, guileless one I love so much. She nods, bouncing excitedly while she sits up. “I did the paint! And I picked all these cushions to match. Do you like it?”
Do I like it?
Even after finding Remi and remedying my Alpha Apathy, I couldn’t picture myself getting truly excited about a nest. I’m not a person who “gets” decor or aesthetics the way Smith and Damon do.
I should have known this woman would find a way to make this feel like mine, though. Ours.
