the lips one more time and crawls over Dare, sprawling out between the two sleeping shifters.
Ridge rolls over, flinging out an arm so that it hangs over the edge of the bed, and Dare flops over, making more room for Archer even in his sleep. Archer lies on his side, his body curved around Dare and his face pillowed on his hands. His eyes flutter shut almost immediately, and it’s like I can just see the tension draining away from him. Within moments, he’s breathing easier, and his face has gone slack with sleep, where the stress can’t reach him.
I stare down at the three of them, a happy ache spreading through my chest. They share the bed well, so comfortable together that it seems like second nature. There was a time not that long ago when all four of my men were waiting for me to choose between them. They put up with one another those first couple weeks thinking that eventually, my wolf would mate with one of them, and they could send the other three wolves packing out the door.
But that day seems so far in the rearview now. None of us could have seen this coming, but somehow, we’ve made it work. We’ve all built our relationships and molded our lives together as if it’s just always been this way. As close as I’ve become to all of them, they’ve become friends with each other too. Brothers, even. I love the bonds they’ve built alongside the one they share with me.
With one last glance, I turn and leave the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind me so as not to disturb them.
The hallway smells like food. Butter. Melted butter. Eggs. Cheese?
My wolf nose is excited to sniff out all the nuances and guess at what awaits me in the kitchen, though I don’t give too much thought as to why I’m smelling food cooking while three of my mates are passed out in the bedroom. Not until I cross the threshold into the kitchen and realize food doesn’t just cook itself.
Trystan, of all the people on this planet, stands over the stove with a spatula, staring intently at a sizzling skillet.
I pause just inside the door, gaping at him. Since when does Trystan cook? Usually it’s Archer or Ridge whipping up our meals while Trystan sits at the table and makes wisecracks about them doing their housewifely duties.
He glances over his shoulder at me and shrugs as if he can read my mind. “Weirdly enough, cooking eggs helped me the morning you woke up after your transition to witch.”
“That’s… good?” I ease further into the room, hoping he’ll keep talking.
“I didn’t realize it at the time,” he adds as he slides the spatula under a perfect, sunny-side up egg, “but having something to do and some way to do something for the people I care about helped me deal. Gave me something to focus on.”
I join him over the stove and look down into the skillet. He’s even seasoned the eggs like he’s an old pro. Nudging him with my shoulder, I grin and say, “I’ll have to buy you an apron. Something kitschy like ‘Kiss the Cook,’ I think.”
“Great idea. Then I could cook for you while wearing the apron and nothing else.” He flashes me one of his patented Trystan smiles, but it doesn’t quite land right, and neither does the joke.
He must still be upset about what happened at the meeting last night. I assume he’s mainly bothered because it was his pack that so stoutly refused the idea of coming together, but at this point, all I have are assumptions. I wish he would talk to me and get it off his chest before he explodes from an overload of emotions.
I step up fully beside him and reach for a fresh egg, then crack it over the edge of the skillet and let it slither beside the two already cooking. “You know, what happened at the meeting is okay. Merging packs is a big idea. Ambitious. Some people are just going to be really resistant to it at first. We have to keep plugging it until we convince everyone that it’s truly the safest option.”
Trystan shakes his head, his face growing hard as stone. He focuses on the new egg, sliding the runny edges back into place as the hot skillet begins to whiten them. But he doesn’t respond; instead, his jaw clenches so hard I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself.
I