The bond is changing. Evolving. Strengthening. And the static…
Funny the things we take for granted. Like silence. Now that the static isn’t buzzing in my head every second, it makes me wonder how I even got used to it in the first place.
“He’s doing it again,” Tristan not-really-whispers to Diego, jerking his head in my direction. “That whole brooding alpha thing where he thinks too hard and forgets he’s in the middle of something.”
I blink, realizing I’ve been standing with my hand on the coffee grinder, lost in thought. “I was just thinking.”
A thin tendril of smoke begins to rise from a pan on the stove.
“Uh-huh,” Tristan says, his dimple making an appearance. “About what? Or should I say, about whom?” He sniffs the air, his nose wrinkling. “And is it just me, or does it smell a little... toasty in here?”
“The gallery break-in,” I lie smoothly. “I’ve got calls to make later.”
Diego and Tristan exchange a look that says they don’t believe me for a second, but they let it slide. Smart of them.
“And Diego’s French toast.” I jerk my chin at the stove. “It’s burning.”
“It’s not burning!” Diego insists, poking at a piece of bread that is definitely starting to blacken at the edges.
There’s a dull sound in the direction of Zoe’s room, and all four of us freeze like deer in headlights. I can’t help it. I feel my heart rate pick up. My senses sharpen.
“Okay, that’s just creepy,” Tristan says, pointing a whisk at me. “Why do you look like you’re about to scale a building to save her from a fire?”
“I don’t,” I growl.
“You kinda do,” Diego agrees, his attention so focused down the hall that he doesn’t seem to notice the smoke is getting thicker.
“So do you,” Dane points out.
And it’s true. We’re all on high alert. Diego’s movements have become slower, more controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to rush. Tristan’s knuckles are tight around the whisk. Dane’s muscles are so tense, his shoulders look like granite. And me? I’m gripping the counter’s edge like it’s the only thing keeping me from sprinting down the hall.
“This is going to be a problem,” I say quietly.
“Ya think?” Tristan mutters. He tries for one of his signature, easy grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a brittle, strained thing that vanishes as quickly as it appears. He scrubs a hand over his face, the picture of a man who has completely run out of jokes.
Before I can respond, Diego, who has been staring down the hallway toward Zoe’s room with an expression of intense worry, speaks up.
“She’s been in there a long time,” he says, his voice tight with anxiety. “It’s too quiet.”
He’s right. There’s been no sound. No movement. The silence from her room is a heavy, unnerving weight.
“Maybe she fell asleep?” Tristan offers, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
My own alpha, which has been simmering with a low-grade possessiveness, begins to stir with a sharper, more intense alarm. What if she’s not okay?
“I’m going to check on her,” Diego says, toast forgotten as he starts moving toward the hallway.
“No,” I say, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll smother her. You’ll just make it worse.”
“So we just do nothing?” he demands, his eyes wide with frustration. “We just wait out here while the silence gets louder and louder? Rett, what if she’s not having a panic attack? What if she’s... planning something?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Planning what?”
“I don’t know!” he says, gesturing wildly. “Packing her bag? What if she’s trying to leave?”
He’s spiraling. But he has a point. We can’t just leave her in there, stewing in her own mortification and plotting an escape.
I look at Tristan. “You go.”
