Chapter 182: Reid
Madeline wins by four points.
Barely. But still.
Jake studies the board like he can will a different ending into it, then schools his face and offers his hand across the tiles. “Good game,” he says, polite as a press conference.
She shakes, trying not to beam. The team hoots and heckles. I catch it—the quick flash in Jake’s eyes he doesn’t mean to show anyone. Want. Pride. Mine too.
I clear my throat and stand. “All right. Tomorrow’s a day. We’ve got test runs on the boat if the harbor’s decent, and it would be good for SWMRI to volunteer our help to clean up town after the storm. Branches, tarps, whatever needs doing.” I look around the room. Candlelight, damp hair, blankets everywhere. “So—sleep. Or at least pretend.”
Groans. A few salutes.
“Sleeping arrangements still good?” I ask. “Anyone want a room upstairs instead of the couch?”
Madeline rubs her small hands over her eyes. “The room was warm with a bunch of blankets.”
“Giant L forever,” Finn decrees, already burrowing into the couch like a sea lion.
“Ditto,” Liam says, stretching out. Charlie thumbs up without moving. Sloane doesn’t even take her earbud out—just lifts a hand: fine.
Madeline blinks at me through the low light. “If it’s okay, I’ll go upstairs again.”
“No problem,” I say, and Jake nods. “Go.”
We make a slow circuit, checking water, candles, windows. “You good?” to each of them. We get the same sleepy nods back. They put a movie on the tablet as a background noise, though looking at their faces, I know they'll be asleep within minutes. I kill two candles, leave two burning.
“Night,” I call. We take the stairs.
We don’t split.
We go where she is.
She’s in my room when we step in—bare feet, my T-shirt, hair in a loose bun that’s half fallen apart. She’s already dug into the bag Charlie brought earlier. Jeans half-open, she thumbs the button, slides denim over her hips with a sleepy wiggle and steps out. Small cotton shorts next—soft, pale, nothing—she doesn’t hurry, not even a little, like she wants us to look.
We do.
Jake’s breath goes rough beside me, a quiet sound like a swallowed curse.
She glances up through her lashes, all soft and angelic and wrecking. “These okay?” she asks, like there’s any world where they wouldn’t be.
“Perfect,” Jake says, voice gone low.
“More than,” I add, because honesty’s the only thing left in my throat.
She tugs the shorts into place and comes toward the bed, drowsy, pliant, glowing with candle-sheen on her skin. Feral wakes in my chest on instinct—drag her close, bury my face in her neck, tell the night to mind its business. I hold myself still. Barely.
“Big day tomorrow,” I remind, mostly for me.
She smiles, small and sleepy. “Then you should tell me to sleep.”
“Is that what you want?” I ask.
She bites her lip, looks between us, and shakes her head.
I can’t help it—I smirk and tug my shirt over my head. Jake follows, quiet, the cotton rasping over skin in the candlelight. Her eyes go wide, mouth parting just enough to feed something low and hungry in my chest.
We step in—me from the foot of the bed, Jake from the side—like we’re circling prey. Except there’s nothing prey about her. She’s bright with it. Willing. Electric, even with the power out.
She reaches first.
One hand flattens on my stomach, fingers splaying as she traces down over my abs, pausing at the sharp line of my hip. The other hand finds Jake, skimming across him like she’s learning a map. It’s obscene how small her hands look on us; how pale and soft next to the darker lines, the harsher edges we’re made of.
Jake breathes out—a quiet, choked sound—and I feel it answer in me, heat pulling tight low in my spine.
“Careful,” I say, not because I want her to stop, but because I need the leash of the word. “You know what you’re doing to us?”
She nods, eyes on her hands, lashes lowering. “I think so.”
“Say what you want,” I tell her. The storm paws at the window; wax puddles at the candle base. Her braid’s half unraveled; my shirt hangs off one shoulder, exposing the delicate line of her collarbone. Every detail is an invitation.
She swallows. “Not sleep.”
Jake’s mouth tilts. “Good answer.”
We close that last inch. I bracket her knee with mine; Jake plants a palm beside her hip. Her thumbs hook under the edge of both our waistbands like she might test how far she can push before we come apart.
“Rules,” I murmur, because even feral needs a frame. “You say stop, we stop. You change your mind, we stand down. And you already know we won't take you until we have you all to ourselves for hours. You okay with that?”
She meets my eyes—clear, steady. “Yes.”
Jake’s knuckles ghost the underside of her jaw, coaxing her chin up. I let my hand glide over her thigh, the cotton of those tiny shorts warm from her skin. She shivers—eager, not afraid—and the sound Jake makes is all hunger.
“Look at us,” I say.
She does. God help me, she does. And then both of her hands are exploring again—dragging lower across our obliques, curving in, testing the lines carved there like she’s memorizing them. I feel my self-control shear a notch.
“Slow,” I remind myself out loud. It doesn’t sound convincing.
“Sure,” Jake says, wrecked and amused. “Slow.”
Her breath hitches. She leans in and presses a kiss to my sternum—soft, barely there—then turns and gives Jake the same, sweet and devastating. The room tilts. The storm could rise again and Itear the roof off and I’d still be right here.
I curl my fingers at her waist, anchoring. “You’re sure?” I ask once more, because I have to.
She smiles, small and certain, and slides those small, pale hands down again—claiming, choosing. “I’m sure.”