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It’s a dream.
Wrapped in the surreal dread of a nightmare.
Because it is perfect. But I don’t know where I am or how I got here.
Moving in a slow daze, I sit up on the huge, fluffy bed underneath me. Didn’t I go to sleep in the guest room? Crammed up against Damon?
Where is he? And why didn’t my alarm go off at five?
I don’t know how, but there’s sunlight streaming into this huge, rounded room. Too strong to be pre-dawn light.
The first thing I notice are the windows. There are eight—tall, narrow, and intricately arched, like something out of a cathedral. They fill the curved wall at my back, offering views of the front yard, backyard, and the horizon.
I’m still in the pack house, my brain peeps. That’s the new front walk I just had installed. And the pool repair supplies are piled out back.
Whichever room I’m now in must be at the very end of the house, because the view is beautiful. Treetops and golden light glowing through them. It filters into the bedroom, highlighting plush ivory linens surrounding me and the soft pink paint adorning the walls.
The rug on the floor provides color. It’s enormous, a pastel image of dozens of different blooms. I see that there’s a coordinating duvet folded into a neat rectangle at the end of the bed I apparently slept in.
It’s hard to say if it’s truly as large as it feels. With so much natural light reflecting off the crisp sheets, my eyes just catalog a sea of softness.
There’s also, I note, a canopy. Or the top part of one, anyway, flowing from the metal frame overhead and back down behind the white iron headboard.
Even without touching anything, I can tell whoever chose all of it selected the very best of the best. Silk thin enough for sunlight to slant through it. The thick, even pile of the rug. Hardwood floors that have been polished to a perfect shine. Someone even sourced molding for the doors and the ceiling to match the pretty windows.
It’s feminine and luxurious in a way I’ve only ever imagined. The more I look, the more I love it. Antique furniture that coordinates without matching. The engraved, scrolly mirror over the vanity. And—when I turn almost all the way around so I’m facing the doors again—a curved corner with three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
I think I’m hyperventilating. Did Cassian and Damon do this? If they did, will Smith be angry? And where are they?
This bed doesn’t have either of their scents and—after sleeping with both on my pillow each night—my Omega doesn’t like it. A whine spills out of my throat, echoing through the big room.
“Remi?”
I jump, squawking as my hands fly out to gather sheets over my nightgown.
Smith stands off to my left, leaning against the curved wall with both of his hands in the pockets of his pants. With all the natural light in here, his blond hair and neutral suit look especially polished and handsome.
Oh my God.
I missed work. I somehow ended up in a new room and my phone didn’t go off, and now I missed work, and Smith is here to fire me or ream me out, or tell me to pack my eight boxes and get out of his?—
“I made this for you,” he says, turning to the desk beside him and picking up… a silver breakfast tray.
My jaw drops.
With clipped footsteps, he brings it over to the bed and sets it on a nightstand within my reach. When I look down at, my jaw unhinges.
There’s a latte. And a flower.
Is it my birthday?
Do they even know my birthday?
No, to both, probably. Especially not this alpha.
I shrink back, overwhelmed by all of the things I don’t understand. Afraid this is some sort of trap. Or a test.
My voice wobbles. “Y-you didn’t have to do that. I can make your coffee before I leave in the mornings. And this room is—it’s too big for just me. I can go back to the guest room. D-did I sleepwalk in here or…?”
