Page 78 of Do You Even Hex, Bro?
Rowan's phone buzzes. He checks the message. “Micah's on his way. He felt it, too, but I texted him what happened.”
"Good." I lean against the doorframe, listening for any sound from the living room. All I hear is Regina's steady breathing, slower now. She might even be sleeping. "She needs all of us right now."
Even if she doesn't want to.
Chapter
Twenty
REGINA
Shit. How long have I been asleep?
The living room is dim, with only a single lamp lighting the space. It’s an ugly as fuck lamp, too. Something feels off. The cushions around me have multiplied, and there's a literal mountain of blankets tucked around my body.
What the hell?
I sit up slowly, pushing aside what has to be at least three new fuzzy throws that weren't here before. The conversation pit has been transformed into what can only be described as a nest. There are pillows arranged in a perfect circle around me, blankets layered with care, even a couple of hoodies tucked strategically near my head that smell faintly of laundry soap and the pack. Gingerbread, earth and bourbon, old books, and the beach.
Did these four giant idiots seriously build a nest around me while I was sleeping?
At least the fucked up side of my face was against a pillow, and I don’t tend to move much when I sleep.
The house is quiet, but I know they're nearby. I can feel them somehow, like a subtle awareness humming just beneath my skin. Another point for the whole "mate" theory, I guess, although I'm not ready to admit that out loud.
A cramping sensation low in my abdomen makes me wince. Great timing, universe. I stand up carefully, making my way to the bathroom attached to the living room. My suspicions are confirmed within minutes.
"Fuck," I mutter, staring at the unmistakable evidence in my pants. My period. Of course it would start now, when I'm already magically depleted and living with four male shifters who can probably smell every hormonal shift in my body.
Hopefully blood doesn't have the same effect on wolves as sharks.
This really couldn't get any worse.
The cramps intensify, a familiar dull ache blooming across my lower back. I somehow resist the urge to groan. I haven't had cramps this bad in forever. Must be a side effect of running on fumes.
Thankfully, Sean's shopping spree included every feminine product known to mankind. I grab what I need and take care of business, then splash cold water on my face without looking in the mirror. I couldn't focus through the pain enough to put on the glamour right now if I tried.
When I return to the living room, I find a pair of oversized gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt with the fraternityletters—LT, stylized with slash marks behind them—stitched on the front folded neatly on the couch. They weren't there when I went to the bathroom, but I'm beyond questioning the wolves' stealthy movements at this point. I pick them up, catching the warm, gingerbread scent clinging to the fabric.
Micah's.
I check to make sure no one's looking before bringing the soft fabric to my face and huffing it like a rockstar snorts coke off a stripper's ass.
Once I accept the fact that I've truly sunk to never before seen lows, I take them back to the bathroom, slipping out of my jeans and into the sweatpants. They're ridiculously large, hanging low on my hips even after I pull the drawstring as tight as it will go, and I have to roll up the legs several times. But they're soft and comfortable and smell faintly like cinnamon and sugar and something distinctly male.
I notice a bottle of ibuprofen that's magically appeared on the edge of the sink, another gift from the shopping expedition. I take two tablets, swallowing them with water from the tap, then steel myself to face the world outside.
As I step back into the living room, I hear movement in the hallway—the subtle shift of weight, a floorboard creaking slightly. Someone's lurking just around the corner.
"You can come out," I call, trying to keep my voice light as I keep my face carefully turned away. "I know you're there."
Micah slinks into view, a sheepish grin on his face. His glasses sit slightly askew on the bridge of his nose, which I notice for the first time is slightly crooked, no doubt from fights.
"Sorry," he says, rubbing the back of his head. Must be why his brown hair is tousled. It’s one of his nervous tics, and he has a few. "Didn't want to disturb you. How are you feeling?"
I consider lying, but what's the point? "I've felt better."
His eyes drift to the clothes I’m wearing, and his expression shifts to something almost... possessive. "Those look good on you. Way better than they do on me."
