She drifts. I don’t. When she jolts through another bad dream, my hand is already there at her sternum, gentle pressure,my mouth at her temple, anchoring. She settles immediately, trusting the weight more than the dream.
I hold her until the white-noise hush and the ocean’s steady pull become the only sounds left. I watch the bruise rise at her ribs and I memorize the way her breath evens, and I file away the truth I already knew: safe before happy, every time. And this—her choosing me half-asleep, fully awake where it counts—this is what I answer to.
13
Phoenix
Somethingwarm and sandpapery is working my toes like a chew toy.
“Zeus,” I croak.
He answers with a happy huff and another swipe, tail thumping a soft drumbeat against the blanket. I start to laugh but pain flares instead. My skull pulses like someone’s playing timpani inside it, and the base of my neck burns, a needle-hot puncture that feels small and mean.
I blink hard, and the room comes into focus in pieces. Soft lamplight. The scent of vanilla. White-noise hush like distant rain. The bed isn’t the thin cot of the ship; it’s a real mattress that cups my spine. I’m in a T-shirt that isn’t mine and soft cotton shorts that don’t ride or pinch. There’s a folded blanket at my knees that smells like Zeus.
And there are four men in a half-circle around the bed in high-end office chairs—sleek, low-back, wheels muted—each angled just so, each of them with a tablet in his hands, each pretending not to watch me sleep.
I push myself up on my elbows. The world tilts, then rights itself.
“Are you…” My throat scrapes. “Are you seriously holding a vigil like I’m a museum exhibit?”
Maverick’s mouth kicks first. “It’s more of a very expensive neighborhood watch,” he says, cutting his eyes to Con. “Wanted to make sure you were good after last night’s activities. Morning, firebird.”
“Jealousy is unbecoming,” Con says mildly.
“Afternoon,” Atticus corrects without looking up, then looks up anyway. His eyes rake over me, ticking off each item—bandage, pupils, color of my skin. He softens by a millimeter. “How’s your head?”
“Like I tried to head-butt a truck, and the truck won.” I rub my temples, then hiss when my fingers skim the tender spot at the base of my skull. The pain is sharp, knotted, localized—like a bee sting that learned how to swear and knotted like a bitch. I find a small strip of medical tape there. “What is this?”
Conrad sits forward an inch. “You took a hit.” Not untrue. Not the answer I’m looking for though, and I can tell because he’s fidgeting a little.
Zeus nuzzles into me and collapses across my ankles, sighing the world’s most dramatic sigh. His rear leg is casted; bright tape circles it with a vet’s careful signature. The sight punches something low in my chest. I drop a hand to his head. He moans like I’ve absolved him of a crime and noses under my palm.
“Good boy,” I whisper, and swallow around the sudden tightness in my throat. “You did so good.”
Storm has the far chair, angled like a sentry by the door. He hasn’t put his tablet down, but he also hasn’t looked at it in a full minute. His gaze stays on me, steady, assessing in the way that means he’s counting every breath. Mine.
I take stock. Clean sheets. Dimmer switch on the lamp. Glass of water within reach and the cap already cracked. The small basket on the dresser is filled with a new toothbrush, Chapstick, hair tie and the remote control for the TV. A hoodie hangs in the open closet, along with several other pieces of comfortable-looking clothing. My heart, which has been jogging since the ship, eases to a walk.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re in a safe house,” Atticus says, and every muscle relaxes even further. “Tybee Island.”
A safe house. An island.Safe.
“Where’d you find a safe house?”
Storm tips his chin toward the doorway. “It’s my father’s.”
“Ah.” I sit up a little straighter and the room swims, then settles. “And the peanut gallery in ergonomic chairs is… what, the security feature I dreamt about in a nightmare once?”
Maverick grins. “Atmosphere.”
Conrad’s tablet goes dark, like the device sensed the shift in his attention. He sets it on the nightstand and reaches for my water, offering it without crowding. “Sip.”
I take it. The first swallow tastes like metal and lemon. The second goes down clean. I lean back against the headboard. Zeusadjusts with me, adapting, one heavy paw over my ankle as if he wants to hold me in place.
Movement at the door draws my eye. A man stands there—older than us by twenty years, maybe more, broad-shouldered, eyes cut from the same quiet stone as Storm’s. His hair is threaded with silver at the temples. He carries himself like a man who has decided who he is and that he isn’t changing for anyone.
