Page 20 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“Actually,” is all I get out before the box explodes in a rain of thongs and bras. They land strewn around the bed and floor.

Shit.

Trick slaps his hand over his eyes and coughs awkwardly. I scramble into the room and do my level best—which is pathetic—to collect the items quickly.

He pivots to hide in the bathroom and runs into the doorjamb in his escape.

“Sorry!” I call out. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t even think—”

“Don’t apologize,” he replies. “I shouldn’t have opened it without asking. I assumed kitchen stuff went downstairs.”

I frantically shove everything under the bed. There’s no dresser in here. The closet is massive with built-ins but too far away to hide my unmentionables quickly.

“It’s my fault for trying to disguise it. I should’ve known better,” I reassure him.

When everything is tucked underneath, he still has his hand over his eyes. He’s so tense that his bicep bulges and his back muscles are clearly defined under the crisp black tee. I tap him on the shoulder so he’ll know it’s safe to look. He warily lowers his hand and a grimace escapes.

“Don’t make fun of me,” I mutter.

“I didn’t say a single word.”

“You were thinking very loudly.”

“So you can hear my thoughts now, Isabelle? I don’t think you want to be in my head. Even I don’t want to be in my head.”

“Is the big, strong alpha telling the little ole’ beta he’s scawy?” I coo.

I expect at least a diffusing chuckle for that, he seems to like it when I push him, but his face droops.

Before I can get a word out to apologize, he replies, “Don’t worry about our designations. Worry about living in close proximity to Mason’s sleepwalking. He may decide he likes coming into your room, beta.”

“For the thousandth time,” I tell him. “I can sleep in the living room or in your office. I don’t need much and I’m imposing as it is.”

“And risk red lace to the face during an advertisers’ call? No chance in hell.”

I mirror his smile and let some relief creep in that the chill is receding.

“Is there something wrong with my closet?” he asks.

“I’ll move it all in when you’re gone.”

He grunts but motions me to the double half-doors on the other side of the room.

Lights automatically illuminate the long, narrow closet. There’s way more drawers, shelves, and hanging rods than I need to store my outfits and shoes. I don’t even do pajamas. It never made sense to buy special clothes to sleep in when shirts and underwear are already required daily.

“I need to show you something,” he says.

Trick reaches into the hanging area for long dresses and taps a square embossed into the wood surface. The back of the cabinet splits in half, a door slides to the side into the wall, and yet more lights click on.

“If this is the kidnap and torture room, I’m fine without the extra space.”

“Very funny. I don’t expect you to go in. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. But you should know it’s here since it’s in your room.”

Peering into the space, I find an area no bigger than ten feet square with a sunken soft zone in the center. Around the perimeter, cabinets, cushion blocks in every shape, and a fridge serve the space.

Anxiety and embarrassment flood my body with a traumatizing mix of hormones.

This is a nest.

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