I watch them for a moment, a strange feeling settling in my chest. Pride, maybe. Relief that we’re finding our footing again, even if it’s shaky. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, something I’m not ready to put into words.
Dane pushes away from the window, coming to stand beside me. “She’s going to be fine,” he says, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. “She won’t run from this.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Dane has always seen more than he says. It’s what makes him such an effective security expert. Nothing escapes his notice.
“About what you said last night,” I finally manage, the words feeling like stones in my mouth. “About her calling my name...”
Dane’s pale eyes meet mine, unflinching. “She did.”
“Are you sure?” I hate the hope in my voice. The need for confirmation. “It could have been any of us.”
“It was you,” he says simply. “She said it clearly. Twice. Wasn’t speaking in tongues.”
Something hot and possessive unfurls in my chest, a sensation so intense I don’t know what to do with it.
I shove the feeling down, locking it away where it can’t do any damage. Where it can’t make me do something stupid, like corner Zoe and demand to know exactly what she was dreaming about. Like press her against a wall and show her how much better reality could be than any dream.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, as much to myself as to Dane. “It was just a dream. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Dane’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes tells me he doesn’t believe me any more than I believe myself.
“So we stick to the plan,” I continue, straightening my shoulders. “Act normal. Don’t mention the dream. Give her space.”
“And the bond? The fact that we couldn’t leave her?”
I don’t have a good answer for that. The bond is strengthening, not weakening. Last night proved that beyond a doubt. Our alphas wouldn’t let us leave her, not when she was distressed. Not even when she was asleep. The pull to stay close to her was so strong it was like fighting against gravity itself.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, which is no answer at all.
Dane nods once, accepting my non-answer with his usual stoicism. “Breakfast first. Then the gallery.”
Right. The gallery. The break-in. The real reason Zoe is here in the first place. With everything that happened last night, I almost forgot about the actual threat. The thieves who targeted her office, stole her files, and left that ugly message.
My jaw tightens. “I’ve got a team working on that. We’ll know more soon.”
In the kitchen, Diego and Tristan have fallen into a familiarrhythm, working side by side to prepare breakfast. Diego is moving with a forced, jerky energy, pulling out pans and ingredients. He’s clearly decided that cooking is the solution. I can already tell this is a bad idea. He’s too distracted, his focus entirely on the closed door down the hallway. Meanwhile, Tristan is whisking eggs with more gusto than necessary, but at least he’s focused on something other than making inappropriate jokes.
I check my watch. It’s been fifteen minutes since we fled Zoe’s room. The shower is running now; I can hear the faint sound of water through the walls. She’s probably trying to delay facing us for as long as possible. I don’t blame her.
“You’re doing it again,” Dane says.
I blink, turning to him. “Doing what?”
“Listening for her. Tracking her movements.” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s the bond.”
“I know what it is,” I snap, irritated at being so transparent. “I’m just... concerned.”
“Mmhmm,” Dane replies, utterly unconvinced.
I move away from him, toward the kitchen, where at least I can be useful. There’s a loud clatter as Diego drops a bowl, followed by a whispered Spanish curse. Tristan, who was supposed to be helping, is just staring at our new high-tech stove like it’s a bomb he’s been asked to defuse.
“What can I do?” I ask Diego, eager to focus on something other than the sound of Zoe’s shower.
“Coffee,” he says, not looking up from where he’s glaring at the spilled flour. “French press, not that instant stuff. Use the good beans.”
I nod, grateful for the task. The process of grinding beans, boiling water, and preparing the French press is soothing. It gives my hands something to do while my mind races.
From the stovetop, I hear a sizzle that sounds a little too aggressive. Diego, lost in his own worried thoughts, is repeatedly prodding the French toast with the edge of his spatula.
