Wraith's blue eyes search mine before he gives a small nod. He doesn't look thrilled, but he accepts my decision.
"Really?" Whiskey perks up like a giant excited golden retriever. "I mean, cool. Totally cool. We'll just hang out. No big deal." He glances around the loft, clearly wondering where to put himself in the small space.
"There's a chair by the desk," I offer, gesturing to the corner. "And the couch has room."
Plague claims the desk chair immediately, crossing one long leg over the other. Whiskey hesitates before dropping himself onto one end of the couch, leaving plenty of space as if he's trying not to take up too much room. An impossible task, given his size.
Wraith and I return to the nest, me sitting cross-legged in the center while he stands there, his arms hanging at his sides as he glances around the room with clear wariness. The four of us look at each other, none quite sure how to proceed with this impromptu gathering.
"So..." Whiskey breaks the silence, of course. "Anyone else feeling really fucking weird about this?"
Despite everything, I manage to laugh. "Yes. Definitely weird."
"I mean, a week ago none of us knew you existed," Whiskey continues, warming to his topic. "Now you're in Wraith's cave—which, by the way, none of us have ever been invited to before—and we're all just sitting around like it's normal."
"This is far from normal," Plague agrees, his eyes flicking toward the nest where I sit. I don't miss the way his gaze lingers on me. "Though I suppose normal was never on the table once we started sharing dreams."
"Yeah, about that," I say, seizing the opening. "How exactly does that work? The dream sharing?"
Plague and Whiskey exchange a glance that suggests they don't know how it works, either.
"We're not entirely sure," Plague admits, looking back to me. "But I'm sure there's an explanation beyondmagic, no matter what this one thinks." He jerks his head toward Whiskey.
“Are you mates?” I ask, pulling one of the softer blankets into my lap, fingers working the plush fabric like a cat without conscious thought. That would explain their shared intuition, maybe.
"No," they both say firmly at the exact same time. Although I don't miss the way Whiskey glances at Plague, who sharply averts his gaze in obvious discomfort.
Interesting. But I decide to change the subject before another alpha argument kicks off. "What did you see? In the dreams?" I ask.
Whiskey sighs and sits forward, bracing his muscled forearms on his knees. "You. In the maintenance tunnels. Your hair was different—more red, less brown. But it was definitely you. And your scent was everywhere. Honeysuckle and…"
"Summer rain," Plague supplies quietly. When Whiskey and I both look at him, he shrugs. "That's the undertone beneath the honeysuckle. Rain on grass at the end of a warm, sunny day."
Whiskey rakes a hand through his brown hair. No wonder it's always tousled. He can't keep his hands off it. "It started a few days ago, when we came home. Like watching the same movie from slightly different angles, I guess. But the core was the same. You in the tunnels, always just out of reach."
All our phones buzz simultaneously.
Wraith is the first to check, his body going rigid as he reads the message. Whiskey mutters something under his breath. Plague is unreadable as always.
I pull out my phone, dread pooling in my stomach as I check the group chat.
THANE
Valek is skulking around near where the loft entrance was. I can't hear much, but be careful.
My heart lurches. “He knows something's off,” I whisper.
“Or he's just exploring,” Plague offers, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "Valek seems like the type to investigate every inch of new territory."
"Like a fucking predator," Whiskey mutters.
Wraith turns the volume up on the TV, filling the loft with more noise. He signs to Plague, who nods in response.
"You're right," Plague says. "We should minimize movement in and out of the loft until he loses interest."
"I don't mind being stuck up here," Whiskey says with a grin. His attempt to whisper is a complete failure and Wraith gives him a look that could peel paint off the wall.
"Heminds," Plague says mildly.
