Chapter 41: Wren
Iwake up inside acathedral made of breathing.
The first thing I register is weight: a forearm heavy across my waist, a thigh braced against mine, a palm cupping my knee like it’s a fragile thing someone taught him not to squeeze.
The second thing is the couch.
It shouldn’t be comfortable.It’s too short for more than one person to sleep on, and yet somehow three men turned themselves into furniture around me and made it feel like a bed.
My cheeks tip into a smile before my eyes even open.
I lift my lashes slowly.
Finn is behind me, nose tucked into my hair, breath a steady warm rhythm against the nape of my neck.At some point in the night, he worked his arm beneath me and it’s there now, protective and possessive without trying to be either.One of his hands is splayed over my stomach, fingers curved just enough to say stay.Atlas is in front of me, half on the couch, half on the floor, massive frame contorted into a position that should be illegal and yet he looks...peaceful.His hand is the palm cupping my knee, thumb resting in the hollow there like it belongs.Kael sits on the rug with his back to the coffee table, long legs stretched out, head tipped back against the cushion near my hip.His eyes are closed.His mouth is relaxed.One of his fingers hooks loosely through a belt loop of my jeans like a tether he didn’t mean to tie.
No one warned me that safety looks like this.
I go very still and let my mind take a picture I can keep for the bad hours.
Finn breathes in, slow, a sigh that says awake before it says words.He doesn’t move his arm; he shifts his palm on my stomach like he’s easing a weight off my ribs.“Hi,” he whispers, voice sleep-rough and ridiculously tender.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
Atlas’s eyes open next—dark and clear immediately, like he never sleeps all the way.He reads the room in less than a second: my face, Finn’s arm, Kael’s half-hooked finger, the windows, the door.His gaze returns to me and softens enough that I feel it, a temperature change against my skin.“You okay?”he asks.
“I am,” I say, surprised by how true that is.
Kael doesn’t open his eyes.He speaks anyway, voice low.“Good.”
I stroke my thumb over the back of Atlas’s hand where it rests on my knee.His breath hitches almost imperceptibly.Finn’s fingers spread a fraction on my stomach, an unconscious claim.Kael’s hook loosens but doesn’t leave.
If I breathe too hard, I might cry.
Not because I’m overwhelmed—though I am.
Because I didn’t know I could feel this way and not be afraid of it.
