I slip out of bed, pulling on a robe over my sleep shorts and tank top. I try my best to be silent as I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen, keeping to the wall. The penthouse is dark except for a faint glow coming from up ahead.
When I round the corner, I freeze.
Diego is on the floor, on his hands and knees, surrounded by shards of broken glass. A puddle of water is spreading across the marble tiles. He’s trying to push himself up, but his arms are trembling so badly he can barely support his own weight. And his face is contorted in a grimace of pure agony.
“Diego!” I rush forward, heedless of the glass.
His head jerks up at the sound of my voice, and the look in his eyes stops me in my tracks. There’s pain there, yes, but also shame. Humiliation at being caught like this.
“It’s alright, cariño. You can go back to bed,” he says, his voice a raw, strained whisper. “I’m fine. Just dropped a glass.”
“You’re not fine,” I say, stepping carefully around the glass to reach him. “Let me help you.”
I crouch beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his pupils are dilated, nearly swallowing the warm brown of his irises.
“The static?” I ask softly.
He closes his eyes, a small, jerky nod his only response.
“How long has it been this bad?” I ask, sliding my arm around his waist, trying to help him up.
“It’s not—” he starts, but the lie dies on his lips as another wave of pain hits him. His entire body goes rigid, a strangled sound escaping his throat. “Fuck,” he gasps when it passes. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say, my heart twisting at the sight of his suffering. “Come on, let’s get you to the couch.”
Together, we manage to get him to his feet, though he leans heavily against me, his usual strength gone. I guide him toward the living room, his steps unsteady.
We’re halfway there when the lights suddenly come on. I blink against the sudden glare, and when my vision clears, I see the other three alphas standing at the far end of the living room.
They look terrible. All of them.
“What happened?” Rett asks, his voice rough with both concern and what sounds like his own pain.
“He fell,” I say simply. “He needs to sit down.”
They move then, all three of them coming forward to help. Dane takes Diego’s other side, his large frame easily supporting his brother’s weight. Tristan hurries ahead to clear the way, moving the coffee table and arranging pillows on the couch. Rett hovers close, his eyes never leaving Diego’s face.
“I’m fine,” Diego insists weakly as Dane and I lower him onto the couch. “Just a bad... moment.”
“Bullshit,” Tristan growls. “You’re not fine. None of us is fine.” He runs a hand through his curls, gripping the roots tight for a second.
I look from one to the other, really seeing them for the first time in weeks. They’ve gotten better at hiding it, at functioning through the pain, but it’s still there. The static is eating them alive.
“It hasn’t eased up. Has it.” I say, this time directing the words to all of them.
None of them answers immediately.
“It’s been... difficult,” Dane finally replies.
“Difficult?” I repeat. “Diego just collapsed! That’s not difficult, that’s dangerous!”
“We’re managing,” Rett says, but the strain in his voice betrays the lie.
“Managing?” I shake my head, anger rising. “Is that what you call this? Taking just enough painkillers to function during the day, then suffering in silence all night?”
Another exchange of glances. Another unspoken agreement.
“We didn’t want to worry you,” Diego says softly from the couch. He looks marginally better now that he’s sitting down, but his face is still ashen, his hands trembling where they rest on his knees.
