My chest tightens, and I rub a fist over my sternum.
Storm follows my gaze. “Go,” he murmurs. “She doesn’t need all of us right now. She needs one of us who doesn’t make her flinch.”
Maverick arches a brow. “And we’re just…letting Atticus win this round, why?”
“It’s not a round,” Conrad mutters.
But he steps aside for me just the same.
I push away from the table, palm thudding against the wood. “I’m not abandoning the board. You guys keep at it.”
“We got this,” Storm says. “We’re occasionally able to do smart things without you. Sometimes people say I’m the smart one. Go. Take care of her. She needs you more than we do.”
He’s right. Damn him.
I cross the short hallway and knock softly on the doorframe.
“Hey,” I say. “You want to get some air?”
She hesitates. That alone makes something inside me twist. Then she nods.
The Tybee deck is quiet, the late afternoon breeze warm against our skin. I open the sliding door for her, watching the way she tenses at the threshold—as if she expects the world to rise up and swallow her for stepping outside.
She looks around warily, then places one bare foot onto the wood planks.
Then the other.
But three steps out, her breath catches. Her pulse flutters visibly in her throat. Her eyes glaze like she’s reliving something she hasn’t spoken aloud.
“I’m not sure I can?—”
“Stop,” I say gently, already reaching for her. I pull her into me, wrapping my arms around her and drawing her tight to my chest. Closing my eyes, I lower my face to her hair and breathe her in.
It’s been too long.
“Right here’s enough. Just breathe, kitten.”
Slowly, muscle by muscle, her body relaxes. She shakes her head like she’s trying to fight her own reaction. “I thought I was ready.”
“Youare,” I say, dropping a kiss on her temple. “You just need a minute.”
I guide her to one of the lounge chairs—worn canvas, big enough for two if you don’t mind touching. I sit first, leaning back, giving her space to decide if she wants me.
It takes only a breath.
Phoenix sinks against me, her knees drawn up, her cheek fitting into the hollow of my shoulder like she’d been molded for it. Zeus curls at our feet, warm and solid.
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I hate that he changed me.”
“He didn’t,” I say. “He scared you. Scars aren’t change—they’re reminders. You’re still you, Phoenix. And you’re still rising.”
Her fingers tighten on my shirt. “I like that.” A few minutes later, “What if he comes back?”
“He won’t,” I promise. Not because I know it for a fact, but because I’ll burn the world down until it’s true. “We’re already closing in. Everything you told us was helpful. Today was the first time we saw the shape of what we’re fighting. We’re going to find him.”
A long silence unfurls.
“Atticus,” she murmurs. “I don’t want to be afraid forever.”
