“Stop,” I whisper. “Just... stop this. All of you.”
Rett pauses, the cool cloth halfway to my forehead. “Stop what?”
“This,” I gesture at all of them. “Pretending you’re fine. Pretending nothing’s happening. I can see you’re in pain. I can see the static is back.”
A heavy silence falls over the room. The four of them exchange glances.
“It doesn’t matter,” Rett says finally.
“It doesn’t—” I cut myself off, incredulous. “Of course, it matters! Look at you! All of you!”
“Your recovery is what matters,” Dane says from his position by the door. His voice is flat, but I can see the tension in every line of his body. “The rest is irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant?” I repeat, disbelief coloring my tone. “You’re in agony!”
“It’s manageable,” Rett lies, the strain in his voice betraying him.
I look around at the four of them, these stubborn, ridiculousalphas who are determined to suffer in silence rather than admit they need help. A wave of emotion washes over me.
“This is insane,” I mutter, pushing myself up further against the pillows. The movement makes my head spin, reminding me I’m not fully recovered yet. “You need to... I don’t know, take something. Do something. This can’t be good for you.”
“We’ve lived with it before,” Tristan says, attempting a casual shrug that looks more like a spasm of pain. “We’ll adjust again.”
“But it’s worse now, isn’t it?” I press. “Worse than before?”
None of them answers, which is answer enough.
I sigh, reaching for the glass of water Tristan brought. My hand shakes slightly, and before I can get a firm grip, the glass starts to tilt.
Four pairs of hands move at once, all of them lunging to catch it before it can spill. It’s Diego who gets there first, his large hand steadying mine around the glass.
“I’ve got it,” he says quietly.
Our fingers brush, and for a split second, I swear I feel... something. A ghost of the connection we once shared. A faint, electric tingle that races up my arm.
From the way Diego’s eyes widen slightly, I think he feels it too. But then it’s gone, leaving only the smooth, cool glass between our hands.
He helps me bring the water to my lips, his touch impossibly gentle despite the obvious strain he’s under. I drink deeply, suddenly aware of how thirsty I am.
“Thank you,” I murmur when I’ve had enough.
Diego nods once, taking the glass and stepping back. But I notice he stays closer to the bed now.
“You should eat something,” he says. “I could make you some more soup. Or toast, if you prefer.”
The thought of food makes my stomach turn, but I nod anyway, touched by his concern. “Toast would be good,” I say. “But only if you sit down first. All of you. You look like you’re about to collapse.”
None of them moves. I narrow my eyes, channeling every ounce of my inner stubborn beta.
“I mean it,” I say firmly. “Sit down, or I’m getting out of this bed and making my own damn toast.”
I start to push the covers back, as if I’m really going to follow through on my threat. It’s a bluff. I’m not sure my legs would hold me. But it has the desired effect.
“Alright. Alright,” Rett says. He sinks into the armchair beside the bed. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” I say dryly. I look at the others. “You too.”
Diego hesitates, then perches on the edge of the bed. Tristan drops into the window seat. Dane remains standing, but he does lean against the wall, some of the rigid formality going out of his stance.
