Page 34 of Pack Frenzy
Morning sneaks in like it’s breaking and entering with a bird shouting like it’s a car alarm.
I surface slowly. The clock on the dresser reads 9:42. I stretch, and my body answers with that satisfying heavy-limbs feeling. There’s a low, warm pull low in my belly that has me yearning for things I shouldn’t.
Climbing out of bed, I put the white robe back on and crack the door open, but the house is quiet.
Outside my door lay my clothes from yesterday, washed and folded.
I stare at it for longer than I should.
One of them touched my underwear. My throat does something stupid and tight. I pick up the bundle, run my thumb over the perfect fold. Who the hell folds underwear so neatly?
Someone who thinks you might stay whispers a voice I don’t trust. Had to have been Eli. I don’t see Cassian or Rowan folding underwear. The gesture that Eli took to take such care of my clothes has me pulling the bundle inside the bedroom before I do something ridiculous like cry over laundry.
And I need a shower before I get dressed, as my skin feels tacky. Not to mention, I don’t want them smelling the musk from me masturbating last night.
The shower blasts too hot when I crank it on. I twist the tap down, then farther, until the spray turns brisk enough to bite. Cold is honest. Cold doesn’t lie. Cold reminds me that this is temporary.
After I towel off and pull on the clean crop top and jeans, I feel…upright. Not fixed, not new. Just me, minus the grit in my eyes and the sand in my joints. I run my fingers through damp hair, shove it into a messy knot, and follow the smell of breakfast.
The kitchen is a whole mood with soft music playing low and Eli at the stove with a spatula in black sweats and a white ribbed tank, bare feet planted like a line cook. He’s mid-omelet flip, wrist neat, no drama. Rowan’s at the island with a newspaper; he’s already murdered with half the crossword inked. He sips tea and hums under his breath like he’s negotiating with the clues.
“Good morning,” Rowan says, warm enough that my shoulders forget to be up by my ears.
“Debatable.” I sniff the air. “What’s the bribe?”
Eli glances over, eyes quick, mouth curving at the edges. “Spinach, mushrooms, sharp cheddar. Also, there’s salsa.”
“That last part is a shame, it’s not homemade,” I deadpan, and he huffs a quiet laugh like I handed him a gold star.
He plates an omelet. Steam curls up, carrying butter and pepper, and my stomach does thefeed melurch. He gestures at the stool across from Rowan. “Sit. Coffee?”
“Yes,” I say, alarming both of us with the speed. “Please.”
Rowan tears his attention off the crossword. “‘Mythical horse with wings, six letters’?”
“Pegasi,” I say, then make a face. “Plural, rude. Should bePegasus; they’ll settle for wrong.”
He blinks, then smiles, surprised and pleased. “She’s right. Cross down confirms it.”
Eli slides a mug into my hands along with a matching porcelain set of sugar and cream dispensers. “Cassian’s still dead to the world. Want to do the honors?”
“You mean go poke the dragon?” I wrap my fingers around the mug, and even adding sugar and cream, it’s too hot to try and sip right now. “Sure.”
“If he throws something, tell him he has to clean it,” Eli says mildly, flipping the next omelet. “He hates cold eggs, so tell him to hurry his ass up.”
Rowan marks another box on the crossword puzzle.
I take one glorious bite of one of the omelets lined up on a warming plate, eggs soft, cheese sharp, and nearly moan. “If I die this month, bury me with Eli’s spatula.”
“No way. This is being buried with me and you’ll never pry it from my cold, dead hands,” he says, and I hear the smile he doesn’t show.
I leave the mug on the counter and pad down the hall. Cassian’s door is cracked an inch, and I knock.
There’s no answer, so I call lightly, “Breakfast.”
Nothing.
I knock again, knuckles louder. “Cassian?”
