And with all three of them wrapped around me like a living shield, I finally—finally—fall asleep.
Chapter 32: Kael
Wren drifts under slowly—likea skater easing beneath the surface of a cold lake, inch by inch, waiting to see if the ice will hold.Her breaths stretch out, steady and long, shoulders sinking into my pillow until the last telltale tension unhooks from the cords of her neck.Finn watches that moment the way he watches a breakaway—locked in, praying, refusing to blink.Atlas doesn’t move at all.He could pass for furniture if not for the flex in his jaw every time her breath catches and releases.
When I’m sure she’s down, I touch two fingers to her shoulder in a small promise—here, here, here—then lift my hand and tip my head toward the hallway.
Go.
Finn slides off the mattress without a squeak.Atlas stands with the kind of careful you only see in very big, very dangerous men when they’re near something they don’t want to break.I wait until we’re three steps down the hall before I look back.The lamplight pools at the foot of the bed.The door stays cracked.Her breathing stays even.
The kitchen feels bigger than usual.Maybe it’s the quiet.Maybe it’s the way worry turns every room into distance.I open the upper cabinet and pull down the scotch I keep for nights that ask too much.
Tonight asked.
Atlas finds the heavy tumblers before I ask.Finn hops up on the counter like he always does when he needs to keep himself from pacing a trench in my floor.I pour three fingers each, no ice.We don’t need soft edges right now.
Finn takes a swallow and coughs.“Christ.”
“Good,” I say.“You’ll taste it in the morning.”
Atlas tosses his back like punishment.His throat works; the glass hits the counter with a hollow sound.“Again.”
I pour him another, smaller.“Pace it.”
He gives me a look that says he’ll set his own pace.He doesn’t argue out loud.
We let the first silence sit.Not avoidance—assessment.There’s a difference.I watch the way Finn’s knee bounces, the way he keeps his hands jammed in his hoodie pocket like he’s hiding the tremor he won’t let Wren see.I watch the set of Atlas’s shoulders, the twitch in his cheek, the way his eyes keep cutting toward the hallway even though he can’t see her from here.
They’re both holding too much.So am I.
“Okay,” I say finally, quiet and even.“We need facts.Not theories.Start clean.”
Finn blows out a breath.“Right.Facts.”
I nod.“What do you know—actuallyknow—about Adrian Frost?”
