Felix
I twirl pasta around my fork without eating. My gaze keeps drifting toward the hallway that leads to her room.
She hasn’t come out since I walked her there, three hours ago.
“She’s fine,” Silas says, not looking up from his plate.
I blink over at him. “I didn't say anything.”
“You don’t have to.” He keeps eating. “You’ve looked toward the hallway seven times in the last ten minutes. She's an adult. She can handle being by herself."
"Plus, you already left food by her door," Liam says from the couch, fork held loose in his fingers.
The storm throws itself against the big windows again. Glass shivers once, then settles. The world outside is still solid white.
"I know, but—" I push my pasta around. "Maybe I should knock again, just to make sure she knows it's there."
"You literally knocked half an hour ago and stated you were leaving a plate." Silas’s fork clinks against ceramic a little too hard. “Now, whether she ate it or not, it's not our problem.”
I look at him. He’s hunched slightly forward, staring at his food like it insulted him.
“What’s your deal?” I ask.
“I don’t have a deal,” he says.
“Uh-huh.”
The silence stretches. Silas eventually drops his fork onto the plate and sits back. “Actually, there's something I find unsettling,” he says suddenly. “She doesn’t smell like anything.”
I blink. “What?”
“The lawyer,” he says. “No scent. At all. It’s… uncanny. Feels like talking to a mannequin."
“She's just on scent blockers,” Liam says quietly. “Or something similar. Makes sense. Corporate omegas use them all the time.”
Silas snorts. "Right. Can't have the big-shot lawyers smelling like anything human. Might make them relatable."
“It’s just standard,” I say. “Even I know that.”
“Well, standard or not, I don't like it.” His gaze flicks to the hallway, then back to his plate. “Makes it impossible to smell out if she actually gives a damn about Lakeview or if this is just another paycheck to her."
“Maybe that's why lawyers in particular use them so much,” Liam says. “To be unreadable, like poker players.”
Silas doesn’t answer. He stabs another bite of pasta instead.
The storm growls again around the chalet. The lights over the kitchen blink once, then hold.
I set my plate on the coffee table and stand. “I’m just going to—”
“No.”
I look at Silas. “What do you mean, no?”
“She obviously needs space. She has space,” he says. “Let it stay that way.”
“What if she needs something?” I ask. “She's trapped in a house with three strangers. And she was freaking out earlier. Maybe she's scared to ask for anything.”
“Lawyer like that? Nah.” Silas sits back further, crossing his arms over his chest. “She wants something, she'll take it. Trust me.”
