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"Chief of surgery," Finn says. "He'll be here soon. She's going to be fine, Piers. He saved her spleen. She needs time." He pauses. "She’ll be here at least four days. Maybe more."

I nod. "What happened to her?"

Leith tells me. By the time he's done I'm aware of a sound in the room that is low and continuous and has been building for approximately thirty seconds before I realize it's coming from me.

"Don't." Finn's words are sharp and quiet at the same time, which is a trick only Finn can manage. "You'll scare her."

I stop. I hadn't even known I was doing it. I look down at her hand in mine. At the chipped polish on her nails and the fragile architecture of her wrist. I tighten my grip on her hand. She doesn't wake. But something in her face shifts, almost imperceptibly, like her body knows something her sleeping mind doesn't yet.

I sit like that for thirty minutes. Maybe more. I don't check my watch. I hold her hand in mine and let the monitors mark time for me while I do something I almost never do—nothing.

Her eyes move first. Rapid, beneath the lids, like she's working something out. Then they open, only a sliver, and close again. Then open fully.

I watch the moment it hits her. It's not subtle. Her body reacts before her mind catches up, that pull recognizing something even through the pain meds and the exhaustion and the complete absence of any context. She tries to sit up, a shrill whine pulling from her throat.

"Shh." I'm already leaning forward, my free hand coming up to her shoulder, gentle but certain. "It's okay. I'm here."

She blinks.

"Your alpha is here," I say.

Her body stills, but not her mind. I can feel the confusion in her, the questions she doesn't have words for yet.

I glance up at Finn and Leith. They're both watching her with an expression I recognize because it’s what my own face would have done if I'd walked in here and felt nothing. If she'd smelled like carefully neutralized soap and clean air, and not like the answer to a question I've been asking for years. That cautious, held stillness of a man looking at something he wants and has no claim to.

Because she isn't theirs. Not the way she's mine. Not the way she’s Beck's. She will be, though. I know it. The way the body knows before the mind gets there. She is meant to be with me. With us.

All of us.

I've been certain about a lot of things in my life. Buildings I bought when no one else would touch them. Partnerships I walked away from before they could fail. Piers Ashford does not second-guess himself. But this is a different kind of certain. It’s deeper. This will work. I'll make it work.

Finn's jaw is tight in that way he has when he's feeling something he hasn't found language for yet. Leith is… Leith. Still, contained, giving nothing away. But there’s a message in that, too. They care about her. That much is already obvious. I don’t know how or why, but they do.

She is looking up at me now, eyes still glassy from the medication. I keep my hand on hers and let her look. Let her take whatever time she needs.

"Rest," I tell her. "We'll figure out everything else when you're better."

twenty

Camelia

The first thing I notice is the beeping. It’s steady and annoying, like someone set an alarm and forgot to turn it off. The second thing is pain. It’s dull but my entire body is throbbing, especially my left side and hip. The third thing is scent. So much scent.

Woodsmoke. Rain on green leaves. Those I know. They’re familiar and wonderful. But it’s the two new ones that have my omega snapping to attention. Crisp citrus, clean and slightly bitter. And another, deeper one, dark amber and sea salt.

Mine.

My eyes flutter open. Four alphas are crowded around my hospital bed like it’s a goddamn throne room. Finn is on my right, holding my hand like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Leith stands behind him, arms crossed, watching everything with that dangerous stillness thing he’s perfected. Then there are the other two.

The one sitting to my left is tall, with nearly black hair that has silver threading through it at the temples. Instead of aging him, it makes him look powerful. His eyes are just as dark, almost black, and they pin me in place with quiet, unmistakable authority. His dark amber and sea salt scent suits him.

The one standing near the end of the bed has broad shoulders, messy dark blond hair, and scrubs that absolutely work for him. His scent is crisp citrus, bergamot and lemon. The surgeon. The one who discovered who I was while I was bleeding on his table.

They’re all looking at me.

My heart stutters. Heat licks low in my belly, a sudden, traitorous flutter that has nothing to do with the pain meds. My scent spikes. I know it does. I can feel it blooming in the air like a fucking neon sign.

“Easy,” the surgeon says, voice low and aiming for professional, but his pupils are already dilating. “You’re okay. You’re in the hospital. You were hit by a car. Your surgery went well, but you need to stay calm.”