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“Smith?” she calls through the half-open doors of her room. “Is this… right?”
I look down at my own outfit, suddenly questioning the whole plan. Especially the part where I wear shorts.
I’m surprised I even had shorts, let alone the kind you wear for swimming or leisure. This pair is black and shorter than I would normally select. They’re probably Damon’s, actually, but at this point, I have to act like I did all of this on purpose. Even in my own head.
Striding to her door, I linger at the edge and all the air seeps out of my lungs.
Fucking hell.
Mistake.
This was a mistake. Clearly. How on earth did I imagine I could be any sort of gentleman while she’s wearing that?
I picked the bikini out myself, ducking into an upscale women’s boutique between site visits earlier this week. On the model, the ice-blue fabric seemed like a safe choice. I’ve seen her wear the pastel color before.
I’ve forgotten how lovely it looks against her honey-brown skin, though. And I definitely didn’t consider how tempting I would find the long, curling straps tied into bows at her hips and across her bare back.
God, but she’s beautiful. The blue sets off her eyes. Her gold flecks stand out, the cornflower color pops brighter. Silky black hair cascades down her back in loose coils, brushing the feminine slope just above the small of her back. There are two dimples there, teasing, as she turns to frown at me.
One elegant black brow arches. “We’re going swimming?”
I can’t help but smile at her confusion, trying for a shrug. “If we want.”
Her hands go to her hips. “Well, is there a dress code where we’re going?”
We really are alike. Everything about her—the posture, the pout, the question itself—feels relatable to me. Because if someone told me we were going out and then handed me a swimsuit, I would also question their sanity.
“Just throw on one of your more casual dresses,” I tell her. “Sandals are fine, too. Bring a spare change of clothes.”
She nods, instantly snapping into gear. It’s an interesting combination, the way she’s too smart not to ask questions or need to know the plan, but also submissive enough to accept that I have it figured out.
While Remi disappears into her bathroom and the attached closet, I turn to find the door to her nest open for the first time since Cassian’s rut. It was very dark, then, and I was too focused on keeping myself—and the others—in check to properly look around.
What I see now draws me across the room, until I’m standing at the threshold, staring in.
I was supposed to do this with her. I didn’t know it, at the time. When Julian gave our small group a lesson nesting and nest etiquette, I felt sick. Part of me had hoped she wasn’t finished with it yet, so I could help her at least a little bit. I should have known better, though.
“Omega.”
Remi comes rushing out, her hands at the nape of her neck, securing a necklace that matches her new suit and the white sundress over it. Her eyes look wide and nervous as they dash between me and the nest. “Is… something wrong?”
Control.
I’m barely keeping myself together.
Control, control, control.
“Come here,” I say, then remember myself. “Please.”
She swallows visibly, her hands falling to her sides while she floats toward me. Stopping at my side, she peers into the nest and scans the room, searching for the source of my dismay. When she, apparently, finds everything the way she left it, she turns to me.
“Did I do something?—”
“Perfect,” I interject, taking her delicate hands in mine. “Remi, this nest is beautiful.”
And so are you.
Especially when she beams up at me, her eyes lighting with happiness from my compliment. “Y-you like it? I’ve had the idea for ages, but I wasn’t sure…”
