Page 148 of Run Wild Omega

Iwake up hours later, sandwiched between Wyatt and Miles.

Dylan is sprawled across the foot of the bed, one leg hanging off the mattress, his arm draped over his face. He’s snoring, a faint rumbling sound that vibrates through the sheets.

Wyatt is behind me, his chest pressed flush against my back, his arm locked around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. His breath fans across my neck in warm, even puffs, hitting the mating gland he claimed last night. The gland throbs with a tenderness that makes me shiver every time air touches it.

Miles is in front of me, his forehead resting against mine, our noses almost touching. His glasses are gone, his face relaxed in a way I’ve never seen it. No analytical distance. No calculated precision. Just Miles, asleep and unguarded, one hand curled against my jaw like he fell asleep mid-caress.

I don’t move. I lie there, blinking at the gray morning light filtering through the blinds, and listen to three men breathe.

The bonds resonate in my chest. Three distinct threads woven together. Dylan’s is warm and steady, a campfire glow. Miles’s is cooler, sharper, a mountain stream running over smooth stones. Wyatt’s is low and resonant, the rumble of thunder before a storm.

I can feel them. Not just their presence, but their emotional states. They are content, satisfied, and peaceful.

I press my palm against Miles’s chest. His heartbeat thumps under my hand, and his bond resonates in response, a pulse of recognition that says I know you’re there.

His eyes open, unfocused and blinking. He sees me, and his face changes. A smile curves his mouth.

“Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi.”

“How do you feel?”

I take inventory. My body is a map of the last twenty-four hours. My thighs ache. My hips ache. There are bite marks on my neck, my shoulder, my inner thigh, each one throbbing with the tenderness of broken skin and new bonds. I’m sore in places I didn’t know could be sore.

“I feel like I was hit by a truck,” I say.

He laughs. “The heat broke. Your temperature normalized around three a.m.”

“How would you know? You were…”

“Checking the thermometer every hour.” He shrugs, unembarrassed. “Force of habit.”

“You checked my temperature every hour while I was sleeping?”

“You were sleeping very deeply. It didn’t wake you.”

“Because I was exhausted. Because three men…”

“Tess.” He presses his fingers to my lips. “Don’t finish that sentence. I have a morning brain and limited capacity for arousal before coffee.”

I grin against his fingers. He pulls them away, and I catch his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm.

Behind me, Wyatt stirs. His arm tightens around my waist, and his nose burrows into my neck, right over the mating gland. I gasp at the contact, the nerve endings still raw, and his eyes snap open.

“Sorry,” he mutters, pulling back. “Didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay.”

He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me. His hair is a disaster, his eyes are puffy, and there’s a red scratch down his chest that I definitely made with my fingernails. He looks wrecked. He looks happy.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning.”

“How’s the leg?”

I hadn’t even thought about the leg. I look down at the cast, propped between Miles’s shin and the mattress. It’s fine. Achy, but fine. The rest of my body is so thoroughly ravaged that a broken bone barely registers.