Page 25 of A Pack of Mistletoe
I’ve been trying to fall asleep since midnight. Today was long, and after the panic attack at the house, Ishouldbe exhausted. But this couch has more lumps than a stocking full of coal. It’s so narrow I can’t even roll over without nearly launching myself onto the floor.
Cole wants us out and about tomorrow—some big “pack courting” appearance for the cameras. Great. I suppose I could convince the reporters I look like death because the pack kept me up all nightfucking me senseless.
The thought snags in my omega hindbrain, the one that’s been slowly waking up, and she refuses to let it go.
Harlan’s big hands on my waist. Kai’s fingers tucking my hair behind my ear. Wyatt calling meSugarplumin that lazy Southern drawl. Evander underneath me, Logan behind—
Something loosens in my belly and crawls up my throat. A squeak escapes.
I slap both hands over my mouth. Oh god. That was an omega whine. Small and pathetic, but unmistakable.
I force my breathing steady—slow in through my nose, slow out through my mouth—until the heat fades and my body stops trying to embarrass me.
The clock reads 2:05.
That’s it.
I fling my blankets aside, stand, and pad barefoot to the bedroom door. Kai had offered me a place on the bed again tonight, and this time, I’m taking it. Icannotspend another night on the couch.
I ease the door open, careful with the knob so it doesn’t squeak. The pack bed fills nearly the entire room, a sea of tangled limbs and heavy breathing, with just enough space for the doors to open.
My heart sinks. There’s no spot left next to Kai.
I don’t doubt he saved me one. He probably even fell asleep holding space for me. But somewhere along the way, he must’ve moved. He’s sprawled like a chalk outline, limbs akimbo as if someone dropped him there unconscious. Wyatt’s snuggled in close to him, tucked into the curve of his body like they were made to fit.
Part of me aches to wedge between them. To let Kai, the man I’ve trusted my whole life, and Wyatt, the man I’m just starting to trust, sandwich me into their warmth.
I shove the thought aside. It wouldn’t be fair to wake them.
On the far side of the bed, Logan and Evander are curled toward each other, foreheads pressed, hands clasped between their chests. It’s sweet. Unexpected from Logan. Pure Evander.
And then there’s Harlan.
I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from squeaking. Because he’sawake.
He’s spooning Evander, but his head is turned—watching me. Moonlight slices across his face, catching the gleam in his dark eyes.
He shifts slightly, pressing closer to Evander and opening up a sliver of space between himself and Wyatt. His hand pats the mattress once. Slow. Deliberate. An invitation.
Heat scorches my cheeks.
I seriously consider turning back and suffering through the couch again. But my body remembers every lump, every sore joint, the ache in my hip. I sigh—and crawl forward on hands and knees, as quietly as I can manage.
My breasts sway with each movement, and for once, I regret not wearing a damn bra to bed.
Harlan’s gaze follows me the entire way. Heavy. Steady. Like a palm dragging over bare skin.
His muscles go taut, his fingers flexing against the sheets like he’s holding himself back.
When I finally reach the pillows, I slip under the covers. Harlan lifts them for me in one sharp tug. His hand lingers near my shoulder, just hovering, before he finally turns back to Evander.
A subtle thrust of his hips. A low, guttural laugh from Evander. A hush. A whisper. Then silence.
I’m bracketed on both sides now—Wyatt’s soft snores at my back, Harlan’s quiet presence at my front. I should feel nervous. Or embarrassed. Or maybe turned on.
But mostly? I’m exhausted.
And the mattress—god, the mattress—is a cloud.
