Wraith is always scanning. Always running mental routes. Today, his eyes never leave me long enough to do a full perimeter check. Like he doesn’t trust the room if I’m not in it.
That’s not protective. That’s combat alert.
The realization slides slow and cold down my spine. “Wraith,” I murmur. “What happened?”
His eyes flick to my mouth, then back to my eyes. He leans forward, forearms on his thighs. That close, I can smell him — smoke, leather, cedar, something deep and male. The kind of scent that feels like being pulled into warmth and held there.
“I told you we’d keep you safe,” he says quietly. “That doesn’t stop because it got harder.”
My heart kicks. “Where are the others?”
“Handling it,” he answers, jaw clenching.
Not helpful. “What’s ‘it’?’”
His jaw flexes, and I can practically hear his teeth grinding from over here.
He’s not going to tell me. Not because he doesn’t want to.
Because hepromised. To Caelum or to himself, it doesn’t matter. “You’re doing the quiet version of lying,” I tell him.
His mouth curves into a slow smile, like he can’t help himself. “Am I?”
“Yes. You do this thing,” I answer.
“What thing?” He asks.
“This thing with your face.”
His brows lift, amused. “My face.”
“Yes.”
“What’s my face doing, little fox?”
“Trying not to flinch,” I say, not bothering to hide the bite in my words.
That knocks the amusement out of him. His eyes darken. For one breath, I see it—the anger. Not at me. Around me.
Then, it’s like a switch is turned off, mask sliding back into place. “You’re safe,” he repeats.
I swallow. “That wasn’t the question.”
“I know,” he says softly. “It’s the answer anyway.”
He stands then, big and unhurried, and offers me his hand. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Lunch.”
I blink. “It’s barely eleven.”
“Then call it brunch,” he says. “Or a snack. Or a worship session. You’re going to eat.”
“Are you actually—”
“Yes,” he says.
