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I smirk. “Sweet dreams, big guy.”

Then I roll over and fall asleep.

Hard. And happy.

Chapter Nineteen

Rhea

Ithink I’m dreaming again.

Or hallucinating.

Because I’m on my knees. Again.

Sweaty, panting, sticky in places I didn’t even know had sweat glands. And in the dream - or vision, or heat-induced delusion - there are hands.

So. Many. Hands.

Theo’s warm against my hips. Kai’s mouth dragging up my thighs. Ash’s grip bruising my waist like a command. And Lucian… god,Lucian… watching like he wants to ruin me and then draft a six-part war strategy on how to do it better next time.

And me?

I break.

Over and over.

Like a trashy paperback heroine, but significantly more feral.

I wake with a gasp.

Everything is wet. Again. The sheets. My thighs.

My dignity.

I sit up slowly, hair plastered to my face, body aching in thatcongrats, you survived round sevenkind of way. I look around the room like maybe the walls are going to offer moral support, but nope.

Still pristine. Still sterile.

Still screamingchic medical prisonand notcozy omega nest.

I drag myself to the bathroom. Strip. Stumble into the shower. The water is either boiling lava or arctic tundra - no in-between - but I let it hit me anyway.

I brace both hands against the tile and groan like an old radiator.

“God,” I whisper. “Ican’t -”

And then I grab the nozzle.

So. It’s come to this.

We’re officially in handheld-showerhead-on-the-floor territory.

Classy.

I angle the water, press it to my clit, and let the first jolt hit.

My whole body seizes.

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