“You’re normal again.”
I arch a brow. “Define ‘normal.’”
“Pissed off, mouthy, plotting,” he answers.
“Ah,” I say. “So my baseline.”
A corner of his mouth lifts but he doesn’t say anything else.
We read in the library. He doesn’t read. He watches me read. I pretend not to notice. I let him do it because I can tell it settles him, like counting my breaths is proof I’m still here.
At some point he goes down the hall and murmurs into his comm so low I can’t hear, then comes back and sits a little closer, like whoever he spoke to told him to expect trouble.
By late afternoon, my nerves are stretched tight enough that I could vibrate. And by the time the sun starts to sink and the manor shifts into evening mode — low lighting, doors locked, shadows going soft and gold around the edges — I’m done pretending I don’t feel the tension crackling through the place like exposed wire.
“What happens if they don’t make it back for dinner?” I ask.
Wraith goes still, and I catch him flicking toward Rook’s study.
“Wraith,” I say slowly.
He doesn’t answer.
I stand, planting my hands on my hips. “You aren’t going to tell me?”
Now he looks at me. “They’ll be here soon. We are going to walk you in.”
“We? As in…everyone?” I ask.
“Yes.”
That’s not ominous or anything. “Are they hurt?” I ask, trying to ignore the way my stomach twists.
His jaw works. “They’re breathing.”
“Ronan.”
“They’re fine,” he says finally. “Saint’s annoyed, has a broken wrist, but otherwise he’s fine. Mateo’s loud. Caelum’s feral.”
My stomach twists, wondering about Lysander. “And Ash?”
“Ash is Ash.”
I blow out a breath. “Okay.”
He studies me for a long beat. “You good?”
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, snark fully back in place.
An unbearable moment passes between us. Then, quietly, “No.”
I laugh, sharp, humorless. “Then I’m good.”
He should smirk. Throw back some filthy line. Drag tension to heat and use that to distract me again, like he’s been doing all day.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he steps in. Big and slow. One hand comes up and cups my jaw, thumb brushing under my cheekbone. He leans down. I feel his breath first, then the faintest press of his lips to my forehead.
