“It’s because when we were in college,” Tristan interrupts, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “and we were dead broke, the only thing left in the apartment was a bottle of cheap blue curaçao and some stale bread. He tried to make ‘blue French toast.’ He spent the rest of the night throwing up a color not found in nature.”
Rett’s glare is so intense it could probably melt steel. “Thank you for that contribution.”
“You’re welcome,” Tristan grins. “I live to serve.”
I add ‘NO BLUE FOOD’ to the list, fighting a smile.
“Okay,” I say, tapping the pen against the fancy paper. “I think we’re ready for Operation: Feed the Almas.”
“Almas?” Diego asks, a soft smile playing on his lips.
“Souls,” I clarify with a shrug. “Seems more fitting than ‘alphas’ right now. You all look half-starved for a decent bagel.”
Tristan clutches his chest dramatically. “She sees into our very souls. I’m swooning.”
I just roll my eyes, but as we all start moving toward the door, a chaotic, disorganized team on a mission for carbs, I catch Diego staring at the blackened pancake remains. I slow my steps to fall in beside him, bumping his arm gently with my shoulder.
“Next time, I’ll help you make them properly,” I offer. “With a non-demonic stove.”
His face lights up with a smile so warm it could melt butter (if they had any). “I’d like that.”
Something warm settles in my chest. Maybe this arrangement won’t be a complete disaster after all. At the very least, we might avoid burning down the penthouse.
And honestly? After the events of last night, I’ll take any win I can get.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rett
The SUV glides through downtown Sweetwater, Dane’s hands loose on the wheel as he navigates the morning traffic. I watch Zoe in the rearview mirror, her eyes bright with animation as she argues with Tristan about cereal.
“That brand is just a dessert masquerading as breakfast,” she insists, counting off on her fingers. “Sugar, artificial colors, more sugar, and those marshmallows are basically candy.”
“That’s exactly why they’re superior,” Tristan counters, his dimple making an appearance as he grins. “Breakfast should be fun. Life is too short for bran flakes.”
“I’m not saying we need to eat cardboard,” Zoe laughs, “but there’s a middle ground between ‘sad diet food’ and ‘rainbow sugar bombs.’“
The sound of her laughter does something to my chest. Makes something inside me warm and tighten. A feeling that’s not entirely unpleasant.
It’s been less than twelve hours since her scream tore through the penthouse. Less than eight since Dane’s quiet revelation in the darkness: “You were calling for Rett. In your dream.” The wordshave been circling in my head ever since, stoking a possessive heat that refuses to die down.
Me. She called for me.
I shift in my seat, grateful for the concealing bulk of the center console. My body’s reaction to that knowledge is immediate and inconvenient.
“—right, Rett?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at her reflection while lost in thought. Three pairs of eyes are now watching me expectantly.
“Sorry, what?” I ask.
“I was just telling Zoe more about your infamous blue French toast incident,” Tristan says, grinning.
I scowl at him. “I was hoping we’d agreed never to mention that again.”
“No, you commanded us never to mention it again,” Tristan corrects cheerfully. “But see, the thing about trauma is that talking about it is therapeutic.”
“Your trauma?” I ask dryly.
