Chapter 65
Kara
They surge inside like they were holding their breath. Blake immediately dives for the center of the bed—sprawls out like a starfish, grinning. "Called it."
"You didn't call anything, you just moved faster." Cole rolls his eyes but smiles as he takes the left side.
Asher closes the door behind him—doesn't lock it, I notice—and moves to the right side. More controlled. Measured.
"Clothes stay on." I point at each of them in turn. "All of you. No stripping down to boxers or whatever you normally do."
"Yes ma'am." Three voices in unison.
They're still wearing the casual clothes from after dinner—Blake in a black henley and jeans, Asher in a gray sweater and dark slacks, Cole in a soft blue hoodie and joggers.
I crawl onto the bed, intending to stay on the very edge.
Blake immediately wraps an arm around my waist, pulls me into the center. "Nope. You're in the middle where it's warm."
I'm about to protest when Asher settles behind me, one arm draping over my hip. Cole takes the space by my feet—because the queen-size bed isn't built for four adult werewolves.
"Cole, you're going to fall off," I mumble.
"I'll be fine." His hand wraps around my ankle. Gentle but firm. "Not letting go."
Their scents hit me all at once:
Asher's cold ebony wood and tobacco smoke from behind—deep, authoritative, wrapping around my shoulders like a heavy cloak.
Blake's gunpowder and leather from my front—sharp, wild, invasive in the best way.
Cole's mint and ozone from below—crisp, clean, cutting through the heavier scents.
My white musk and first snow responds automatically. Unfurls like incense smoke. Mingles with theirs until the room smells like a winter forest after a lightning strike.
"Your scent," Blake murmurs against my hair. "God, Kara. It's like... peace. You know that?"
I don't know what to say to that. So I close my eyes.
Pretend I don't notice their hearts pounding.
Pretend my body isn't heating up where we touch.
Pretend this isn't exactly what I've wanted—secretly, desperately—for ten years.
---
Deep in the night, I wake to stillness.
Or what should be stillness.
But I can tell none of them are actually asleep. Their breathing is wrong. Too controlled. Too measured. Humans—and wolves pretending to be human—don't breathe that evenly when they're actually unconscious.
Blake's exhales are hot against the back of my neck. Every few seconds, his chest expands—like he's trying to inhale as much of my scent as possible without making it obvious.
Asher's hand on my hip trembles. Just slightly. His fingers twitch every time I shift.
Cole's grip on my ankle borders on bruising. His thumb traces slow circles on my skin—probably unconscious movement, but it sends heat straight up my leg.
Their scents are thick now. Overwhelming.
Asher's ebony smoke coils around me from behind like possession. It's gotten heavier, darker—tinged with something raw. Want.
Blake's gunpowder leather invades every breath I take. Mixed with his elevated heart rate, it feels like standing too close to a fire. Dangerous. Consuming.
Cole's mint and ozone climbs from my legs upward—cold and intoxicating. It makes my skin prickle, hypersensitive.
My white musk flares in response. Sweetens. Too much. Like vanilla frosting melting in the heat.
Oh God. They can smell it. They know I'm aroused.
Through the mind link—which I shouldn't be able to hear because we're not fully mated yet, but somehow I do—Blake's voice scrapes raw and desperate:
"Her scent... fuck, I'm losing it."
Asher's mental command is strained: "Control yourself. She trusts us enough to let us stay. Don't ruin it."
Cole sounds wrecked: "But her body's calling us—you both feel it, right? Her response?"
"Shut UP, Cole!" Blake's mental snarl is vicious. "You're making it worse!"
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. They think I'm asleep. Just keep pretending. Don't move.
But then I shift—unconsciously, automatically—trying to get more comfortable.
My ass grinds directly against Blake's erection.
Shit.
He goes rigid behind me. Every muscle locks. His fist clenches in the sheets beside my head—I hear fabric tear slightly.
Asher's hand tightens on my hip, his own hardness pressing against my lower back through his slacks.
Cole buries his face in the pillow, mint scent spiking with pure desperation.
We're all combusting. Slowly. In this too-small bed.
But none of them move. None of them take advantage.
Blake's breathing is ragged in my ear, but his arm around my waist stays loose. Gentle.
Asher's fingers tremble on my hip, but he doesn't let them wander lower.
Cole's grip on my ankle is almost painful, but he doesn't climb up the bed to get closer.
They're giving me space. Even though it's killing them.
Even though I can feel exactly how much they want me.
And that—that—makes my chest crack open.
Makes my wolf whimper with something that isn't quite arousal. Something deeper.
Trust.
---
When morning light finally creeps through the curtains—what passes for light in the polar darkness—I wake to three pairs of eyes staring at me.
Not creepy staring. More like... reverent. Like I'm a miracle they can't quite believe is real.
"How long have you been awake?" My voice is rough with sleep.
Blake grins. Unrepentant. "Couple hours."
"You've been watching me sleep for two hours?" I try to sound outraged. It comes out amused instead.
"You're beautiful when you sleep," Cole says simply. Like it's the most obvious fact in the world.
"Also you snore," Blake adds.
"I do not—"
Before I can finish the sentence, Blake flips me onto my back. Cages me beneath him, hands planted on either side of my head. His grin is pure wickedness.
"Merry Christmas, Baby."
Then his mouth crashes into mine.
Not gentle. Not asking permission. Devouring.
His tongue forces past my teeth, hot and demanding. Tangles with mine, strokes the roof of my mouth. One hand moves to grip the back of my skull—fingers threading through my hair, pulling just hard enough to sting.
His thumb finds that spot behind my ear—the one that makes my wolf's ears metaphorically flatten with submission—and presses.
Heat detonates low in my belly. My back arches off the bed involuntarily, pressing my breasts against his chest.
I gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound, groans low in his throat.
When he finally pulls back, I'm panting. My lips feel swollen, sensitive. Claimed.
"My turn." Asher's voice is dark honey and smoke.
His hand cups my jaw—firm but not rough—and turns my face toward him. His pale blue eyes have gone mostly gold now. Wolf rising.
His kiss is different. Deeper. More methodical. Like he's mapping every inch of my mouth for future reference.
His tongue is everywhere—stroking, tasting, demanding. The kiss goes on and on, stealing my breath, until black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
His free hand slides to my throat. Not choking—just resting there. Covering my scent gland. His thumb presses over my pulse point.
The message is clear: Mine. You're mine.
I should be scared. Should push him away.
Instead, I arch into him. Desperate for more contact.
When he finally releases my mouth, I'm gasping like I've been underwater.
"My turn." Cole's voice is quieter. But no less intense.
He doesn't grab. Doesn't demand. Instead, he leans in slowly—gives me time to pull away if I want.
I don't want to.
His kiss starts soft. Gentle. Feather-light touches of his lips against my forehead. My closed eyelids. The tip of my nose. The corners of my mouth.
Then—finally—he kisses me properly. Slow and thorough, like we have all the time in the world.