Page 110 of Tangled In Tinsel & Knots
I’m finally landing.
18
HANNAH
I’m lying in the huge bed in what I’ve started calling my nest, and I can’t stop moving.
Every position feels wrong, uncomfortable. My body won’t settle, relax, or let me rest even though exhaustion is pulling at my bones.
The room is dim, just moonlight streaming through the windows and casting silver patterns across the mountains of blankets and pillows I’ve arranged and rearranged at least a dozen times tonight. The soft glow illuminates the careful creation I’ve created—pillows stacked, blankets folded and layered, my clothes sorted and organized on the chair in the corner by color and fabric weight.
I’ve been doing this for the past hour. Nesting like my life depends on getting every single item positioned exactly right. Which, according to every Omega biology book I’ve ever reluctantly read, means my heat is close. Very, very close.
I drag another pillow closer and hug it to my chest, burying my face in the soft fabric and inhaling deeply. It smells likethe laundry detergent the guys use, but underneath that is the faint trace of their scents that have permeated everything in this house.
I shut my eyes and try to will my body to calm down and let me sleep for just a few hours so I can function tomorrow for the parade.
But nothing works.
My heart is racing, pulse thundering in my ears like drums. There’s this restlessness crawling under my skin, a buzzing energy that won’t dissipate. My body temperature keeps fluctuating. One moment I’m throwing blankets off because I’m burning up, and the next I’m pulling them back because I’m inexplicably cold.
And I know exactly what’s causing all of this.
Tonight at the ice rink. Watching Chris, Noel, and Kane protect me without hesitation. Seeing them take down those men, no fear, just pure lethal precision and deadly intent. That was hero protector stuff right there. The kind of thing you read about in romance novels and watch in action movies but never think you’ll actually experience in real life.
And God help me, it’s turning me on in ways I didn’t know were possible.
I shouldn’t find violence attractive. I know that logically, intellectually, violence is bad. Fighting is problematic. I should be disturbed or upset or traumatized by what I witnessed. But watching my Alphas defend me and seeing them go absolutely feral when those men threatened me, it did something to my body that I can’t undo. Flipped some primal switch deep in my hindbrain that recognizes strong protectors and screamsMine.
Every time I close my eyes, I see it playing out again like a movie on repeat.
My thighs clench together involuntarily, seeking friction and relief from the ache that’s been building steadily all evening and has now reached a fever pitch.
I toss the pillow aside in frustration and sit up, running both hands through my hair and tugging slightly, hoping the small sting will distract me. It doesn’t work. This is getting completely out of control.
I have to calm down and get myself together because tomorrow is the parade. And I absolutely cannot go into full heat in the middle of downtown Whispering Grove while I’m supposed to be managing everything.
That cannot happen. I won’t allow it. So I climb out of bed, my oversized sleep shirt falling to mid-thigh, and head toward my door. My legs are shaky, and there’s a slight tremor in my hands when I reach for the doorknob.
The house is completely quiet, everyone else asleep. It has to be past midnight by now, maybe closer to one in the morning.
A cold drink will help shock my system. And the spa, yes, the jets and the warm water. That will relax me enough to sleep. Hot water always helps, right? Relaxes muscles, calms nerves, helps me think clearly.
I sneak down the hallway as quietly as possible, testing each floorboard before putting my full weight down, avoiding the particularly creaky one near the bathroom that sounds like a dying animal when you step on it. The living room is dark except for the dying embers in the stone fireplace casting a faint orange glow across the furniture. The Christmas tree lights are off, but moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminates the ornaments.
In the kitchen, I grab a cold Dr Pepper from the fridge and pop it open. The fizz is loud in the quiet house, and I wince, freezing for a moment to make sure I didn’t wake anyone.
Nothing. No sounds from upstairs.
I take a long drink of the cold, sweet soda, even though logic says caffeine before bed is a terrible idea. Yet it tastes incredible.
Then I head to the spa room on this level, offering a silent thank-you to whoever designed this house for putting it down here instead of upstairs where I might wake the guys. The last thing I need is them sensing my pre-heat getting worse and trying to help when I need to control myself long enough to get through tomorrow. One more day of keeping it together. Of staying professional and focused and in control with absolutely no signs of pre-heat affecting my ability to do my job.
I push open the spa room door and flip on the low ambient lighting. The room is beautiful, something I haven’t had much chance to appreciate since moving in. All natural stone and wood, carefully designed to feel like a luxurious mountain retreat. The large circular tub is sunk into the floor, surrounded by smooth stone tiles. There are small shelves built into the walls, holding candles—though I don’t light them—and the frosted windows let in enough moonlight to create a peaceful atmosphere.
I turn on the faucet and adjust the temperature until it’s perfect and hot enough to relax muscles but not so scalding that it’s uncomfortable. The sound of rushing water fills the space, oddly soothing.
While the tub fills, I grab a fresh, fluffy towel from the built-in cupboard and set it on the wooden bench nearby where I can easily reach it later.
