Ford’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t buy it.
Beck mutters something about water and disappears into the kitchen. Which leaves me standing in the middle of the living room like a malfunctioning Roomba, clutching the hem of my sweatshirt. My hands won’t stop shaking.
“You wanna sit?” Ford asks softly, like he’s trying not to break me in half.
I nod, lowering onto the couch that smells faintly of Hayes. Dripping honey and cool cotton sheets that have been freshly washed. It guts me a little. Where is he?
And then,slam.
The door bangs open as if the universe heard me.
Hayes’s gaze finds mine. “Lo?—”
I stand so quickly that my back screams. There he is. My Hayes. My Beta. Looking like a Wall Street wolf who justmurdered his tie in the car. His hair’s a mess, his shirt is rumpled, and his eyes are blazing wildly.
Three strides. That’s all it takes. And then his hands are on me. Warm, solid, cupping my face, checking for cracks.
“Are you okay?”
“I—” My throat does this horrible hitch thing. “I think so.”
He doesn’t buy it. His thumb traces my cheek like I might disappear if he blinks.
“What happened?”
Before I can answer, Beck does it for me. “She got another set of texts. From Dylan.”
Hayes goes still. Statue still. His jaw clenches once, twice, chewing on murder.
“Show me,” he says icily.
“My phone’s dead,” I whisper.
“Then tell me.”
I swallow, heat stinging my eyes. “It was photos. Of me. Of us. Of my home on fire…”
Silence. The kind that presses down on you like a weighted blanket.
“He started it?” Ford demands. “Dylan is in town?”
Beck’s already pulling his phone out, muttering something that sounds similar to every swear word in the English language.
“Nash,” he barks when the line clicks. “Yeah, it’s me. Get to Hayes’s place. Now.” He listens for a beat, jaw grinding. “Because we’ve got a situation. And bring your goddamn lights this time.”
Click. Phone down. Beck looks like he wants to throw it through the wall.
I sink back down onto the couch, knees tucked up, trying to fold myself so small the world forgets about me for five minutes.
Spoiler alert: It doesn’t work.
Ford’s pacing now, big strides across the room, muttering curses. Hayes hasn’t moved, though. Still crouched in front of me, hands gentle but shaking, holding back a hurricane.
“Lo,” he says, softer now. “I need you to breathe for me, okay?”
I try. I really do. But then Ford stops mid-stride and turns to Hayes.
“Where the hell were you, anyway?” he demands. “I tried calling as soon as Beck texted me?—”
