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“We’ve got you covered.” Clint’s already moving past me into his room, pulling open the closet. Inside, there’s a pile of blankets; some fleece, some knitted, one that looks like it’s been chewed by a dog.

He lets me grab what I want, while he grabs pillows from the bed and carries them into my room, tossing them onto the floor in a loose cluster. Briggs follows, carrying the comforter from his bed and spreading it over the pile.

I watch them work. My cramps pulse low and steady, building pressure that makes me want to curl into something warm.

“Come here,” Clint says, not looking up from where he’s arranging a fleece blanket. “You don’t have to do anything. Just lie down, and tell us if it feels right.”

I step forward, my bare feet sinking into the softness. The pile is plushier than I expected, uneven but welcoming. I lower myself into the center, and immediately my body relaxes, like the instinct Briggs mentioned is already kicking in.

Tripp crouches beside me, tucking a pillow under my head. His fingers brush my cheek, and I catch the edge of his scent, sharper now up close. “Better?”

I nod, the motion making my hair shift against the pillow. “Yeah. I think so.”

Briggs settles on the other side, legs crossed, his light brown hair falling forward as he adjusts a corner of the blanket. “We’ll stay close, but this is your space.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

Autumn

I don't remember falling asleep. One moment, I'm lying in the center of the makeshift nest, surrounded by mismatched blankets and pillows with the scent of three alphas wrapped around me. The next, I'm waking up with my skin on fire.

I gasp, eyes snapping open. The room is dim, moonlight filtering through the window, and I'm drenched. Sweat coats my neck, my chest, the curve of my thighs. My top clings to me like a second skin, and between my legs, there's a wetness that has nothing to do with sweat.

A whine escapes my throat before I can stop it.

"Shh. I've got you."

Clint's voice. Rough with sleep. His arm tightens around my waist. I'm curled against his chest, I realize, my back pressed to the warm solid wall of him. His coffee and vanilla scent is thick, and it makes my head spin.

"I'm—" My voice cracks. "It's⁠—"

"I know." His lips brush the shell of my ear. "You're in heat, Darling. It's okay. We're here."

I turn in his arms, and there he is. Caramel eyes catching the light, brown hair tousled. He's shirtless. I can see the line of his collarbone, the dusting of hair on his chest, and my mouth goes dry.

"Clint." His name comes out broken.

He cups my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone. "You're burning up. Let me help."

I nod, frantic because my body is screaming for something I don't fully understand. The ache between my legs is hollow and desperate, my slick already soaking through my shorts.

Clint shifts, propping himself on one elbow. Behind him, I catch movement; Briggs and Tripp stir on the other side of the nest, but Clint's focus is entirely on me.

"Let's get this off you," he murmurs, fingers finding the hem of my tank top. "You'll feel better."

He lifts it slowly, giving me time to stop him. I don't. I arch my back, letting him pull the damp fabric over my head. The air hits my skin and I shiver, but it's not from the cold, it's from need.

Clint's gaze drops to my bare chest. My nipples are peaked, hard, and I watch his pupils dilate.

"Fuck, Autumn,” he groans, his voice gravelly. "You're beautiful."

His hand cups my breast, thumb brushing across the nipple, and I gasp. The sensation shoots straight to my core. He does it again, circling, teasing. I moan, pressing into his touch.

"More," I beg.